by R. P. Gannon
When the Night Stalker hadda’ leave the shadows an cross an open space, he tried ta duck-walk like they do in the movies, but his creaky old joints jest wouldn’t let em. And the damp night air weren’t helpin’ his asthma any, either. The best he could do was walk bent over. Everything depended on this mission. It were the answer ta all his problems—a ticket ta the good life. And he had ta admit, he got a thrill outt’a doin’ it. If Mary hadn’t a told him these Barney and Willey guys was holdin’ up the sale of the park, he never woulda’ knowed. It was then that it came ta him. It was so simple—jest plant the bomb and let it do its job.
He crouched behind McGee’s trailer, and pulled out some’a the white
foundation blocks that ran around under the trailer. It weren’t hard, they weren’t
ce’mented together, jest stacked up on top’a each other to make it look like a foundation.
He made a openin’ jest big enough fer him to crawl through. Then he took the bomb outta’ his backpack, and a roll of duct tape. And under the trailer he went, crawlin’ on his stomach, his white beard draggin’ in the dirt. It weren’t easy for a man his age. He crawled until he found a good place ta plant the bomb. Then he ripped tape from the roll and taped the bomb ta the underside of the floor overhead. It was hard goin’, what with the headroom bein’ only ‘bout two foot high. When the job was finished, he crawled back outside. He took a red crayon outta his pocket an’ wrote, The Night Stalker on the side of the trailer. Then he picked up his backpack an’ stepped over the foundation blocks that were scattered across the grass.
It were important that the blocks stayed right where they were fer the plan to work. An after he got ridd’a McGee, he’d git ridd’a McGee’s buddy, Willey, next door. Then he’d finally git his reward. He moved off inta the shadows again and headed fer the park’s rear gate, where he come in. Now all he had ta do was wait. The Night Stalker was pooped. He was goin’ home and straight ta bed.
****
I knew it was time to face the Electric Company. The last couple of overdue notices had been quite nasty. You can only ignore their notices for so long. They’re not supposed to shut off your electricity. That would mean no air conditioning. In South Florida, in August, that could be deadly. But they keep sending those notices. I drove down 19A and turned into the Citrus Bay Electric Company’s parking lot. I parked and went inside. I had my checkbook in my pocket and the overdue notice in my hand. I walked up to the reception desk, gave my name, and sat down to wait my turn. I was hoping they would let me pay half of what I owed. I looked around at my fellow debtors. They were a sorry looking lot. The worst part was, most of them were better dressed than I was.
When I finally got into the office there was a boney, old woman waiting for me behind a desk. The nameplate told me her name was Agatha. She motioned me to a chair. I sat down and waited while she read my rap sheet.
“I see you’ve had trouble paying your bill in the past, Mister McGee.” She had a smoker’s voice. “And, as you know, you’re payments are in arrears at the present time.”
“Well, sometimes it’s hard trying to live on a pension,” I whined.
“That may be true,” Mister McGee, but that isn’t the Electric Company’s fault, is it?”
“No, I suppose not,” I said. “But I can pay half of the bill today, and the rest of it in two weeks when I get my check. Then I’ll be almost caught up.”
“No Mister Mc Gee. Then you’ll owe half of your last bill and the next bill on top of that.” Then she proceeded to stare me down. She didn’t know who she was dealing with. I’ve stared down the best of them. It turned into a Mexican Standoff. Then she threw me a curve ball. She put her tongue under her lower plate and pushed it up so it sat on her lower lip. It distracted me so much I forgot my list of excuses. She wasn’t playing fair. I was about to plead for more time, when she slid her lower plate back and popped her top plate onto her lower lip. I almost cracked.
She returned her teeth to their proper place and said, “Mister McGee, you’ve been making partial payments for almost a year and you keep falling further behind,” she said.
“I understand,” I said, “But I …” She popped both plates together onto her bottom lip. The effect was so startling my mind went blank. I couldn’t think. Knowing I was out-matched, I reached for my checkbook and wrote a check for the full amount. It wouldn’t leave me with much to live on for the next two weeks, but I just couldn’t take any more. I had heard stories about elderly people living on peanut butter sandwiches for weeks at a time. If they could do it, I could do it, too. And if I suffered a little brain damage because of it, nobody would notice the difference.
I handed her the check. “There you are,” I said. As I got up to leave she asked, “Are you married, Mister McGee?”
“Yes,” I said, a little too loud. “Two months now. Still on our honeymoon.”
I got out of there as fast as my arthritic legs could carry me.
When I got home the house was warm, but the air conditioning was running full speed. I bent down to feel the air coming out of the floor vent—warm as spit. Another bill I didn’t need. The day was heating up quickly. I went around back and listened to the unit. The blower fan was working but the compressor was silent. Willey came over to find out what was wrong.
“The compressor isn’t running, Barney.”
“I know. It’s the same problem I had before.”
“You need am new unit,” Willey opined. The heating and cooling systems are inside the same unit.
“Do you have three thousand bucks you can lend me?” I asked.
Willey said, “If I had three thousand bucks I wouldn’t talk to you.” Then Willey bent down and pushed a button. The compressor roared to life. I was saved. Willey looked past me. “Who took your foundation apart?”
A half-dozen of my foundation blocks were scattered across the lawn. “The Night Stalker” was scribbled in red crayon on the side or the house! “Who the hell did that?” I asked.
Willey went over and squatted down to peer through the opening in the blocks. “Something’s stuck to your floor,” he said.
“What’s stuck to my floor?” I knelt down and looked through the opening. Sure enough, there was something there. Willey scurried through the opening and crawled toward whatever it was.
I heard Willey say, “Holy Shit.” He had my attention.
“What? What is it?” I heard a ripping sound and then Willey was crawling back towards me with the thing in his hand. He handed it out to me and I stood there speechless. “It’s a bomb,” I finally said. It was four sticks of dynamite wrapped with duct tape, with a hunk of gray putty on top. There were wires coming out of the putty that were connected to a small black box that was taped underneath it all.
“It was duct taped to the floor right under where your bed is,” Willey said. “If that thing went off last night you’d be nothing but a grease spot.”
I had to sit down, so I sat on top of the air conditioning unit. “What if it goes off now,” I asked, my hands shaking. Willey squinted at the bomb. Suddenly he grabbed the wires and pulled them out of the gray putty. I jumped.
“There,” he said. “That thing’s safe as a kitten now.” I sat there sputtering, trying to catch my breath.
“That gray stuff is called plastique,” Willey said. “That sets off the whole shebang. They’d probably use a cell phone to trigger it. You’re damn lucky we found it or you’d be in the obit page tomorrow.” He wasn’t helping my nerves any.
Willey took the bomb away from me and said, “Come on, Barney. Let’s go to my house until we figure out who did this, but I’m pretty sure Flaherty was behind it.” I didn’t say anything as Willey took me by the arm and walked me over to his house.
Willey’s house is just like mine, a bedroom in the back, then a bathroom off the hall leading to the kitchen/dining area, and the living room in front. It has the same carport on the right side and the same Florida Room on the left (a Florida room is
what we call a sun-room up north.)
We sat at Willey’s kitchen table. Willey took two beers out of the fridge and popped one for me. I guess he figured I was shaking too hard to do it myself.
“You’re the first person I’ve known to have a bomb planted under his house,” Willey cackled. I gave him the evil eye. The bomb was sitting in the middle of the table.
“Should we call the police?” I asked. Willey and I looked at each other for a second, then we both shook our heads. “No,” I said. “I guess that’s not a good idea, not since we broke in.” But how are we going to live here if somebody is putting bombs under our houses? Do you think Flaherty is behind it?”
“I can’t think of anybody else who wants us dead, can you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“You know, Barney, I’ve been thinking about buying a gun. I think Mary has the right idea. We should be able to protect ourselves. What do you think?”
“I think if you get a gun I’ll move to the other side of the park.”
“Too bad you don’t have a dog,” Willey said. “It could bark and let you know when somebody’s messing around outside your house.”
“You know they don’t allow dogs in the park,” I said.
Willey said, “They would if you told them it could save your life.” I couldn’t believe what he was saying.
“If I tell them somebody is planting bombs under my house they’ll run me out of here on a rail.”
“How about you get a small dog and keep it in the house.”
“Wouldn’t the neighbors hear it barking, even from inside the house?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Willey said. I felt like a fish in a barrel, just waiting for somebody to shoot me.
Willey jumped to his feet. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Come on lets go,” and he headed for the door. I followed him. We jumped into the Wrangler.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To see my cousin, Opal,” Willey said.
“Why?”
“Cause we’re going to borrow Oscar.”
“Who’s Oscar?”
Willey was playing with the radio. “Oscar’s her monkey.”
“Huh?”
“Well, actually he’s a chimp, but everybody calls him a monkey.”
I guess that explained it.
We started off just as the daily fifteen minute summer downpour was beginning. In the summer months the clouds roll in from the Gulf and pile up until mid-afternoon. Then we have a fifteen minute cloudburst, followed by the sun again. Up north they call them cloudbursts. Down here they call them frog stranglers. Florida thunder storms are unlike any others. The rain doesn’t just come pelting down. First it comes roaring in from one side, then it shifts and roars in from the other side—and then it swirls around in circles just to show off.
Florida is also the lightning capital of the world, and it puts on a free show every afternoon in the summer.
Willey said, “Head north on 19 and I’ll tell you where to turn off.” For a minute we drove in silence, listening to the rain on the soft top.
“Are you going to tell me why we’re getting a monkey?” I asked.
“He’s not just a monkey,” Willey said. “He’s a watch-monkey. If anything is moving around outside, he starts chattering like … well, like a monkey. The best part is he doesn’t have to go outside like a dog. He’s toilet trained. He squats on the toilet seat and does his business. Even flushes it himself.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“No,” Willey said. “You can see for yourself.”
“I don’t want to see it.”
Fifteen minutes later the rain was just ending when we pulled up in front of a small, run down house on a dirt road. Willey got out. “I’ll be right back,” he said and headed to the sagging front porch. There was a rusting old Plymouth up on blocks on the side of the house. It was complimented by a rusting old washing machine, and piles of stuff. The house sat in a sea of knee-high weeds. And, of course, there was a satellite dish on the roof. There was no doubt in my mind that the house could contain a monkey. I sat there and wondered about Willey’s mental health.
Five minutes later the screen door opened and Willey came out holding a three foot tall monkey by the hand. A large woman came out behind them. She had a face that could stop a speeding freight train. That would be cousin opal. She handed Willey a plastic bag, filled I guessed with the little animal’s clothes. The monkey was wearing faded red shorts—I guessed he didn’t have a tail—with red suspenders, and red sneakers. His mother color coordinated his clothes. The woman waved to me and I waved back.
“Bye, bye, Oscar baby,” the woman said to the monkey. “Momma’s gonna’ miss you, sweetness.” I figured she really liked the little guy. Willey opened the Wrangler door and the monkey jumped into the back seat. I looked back and said, “Hello, Oscar.” Oscar gave me a big monkey smile. I smiled back, but I thought he looked a little crazy. “Does he bite?” I asked.
“Naw, he’s as tame as a kitten,” Willey said. I thought that was a good thing, since he had big teeth. Willey waved goodbye to Opal and we headed back to 19.
“Why does your cousin have a monkey?” I asked.
“It was her late husband, Earl’s, monkey. Opal likes to go out to bingo three nights a week. Opal got Oscar to keep Earl company. They would watch television together and drink beer. That reminds me, stop somewhere so we can pick up some beer.” I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone, where nothing was real. We were almost home when Oscar started chattering and holding his crotch.
“He has to pee,” Willey announced. “Pull into that rest stop up ahead.” I pulled up to the restrooms and we all got out. Willey said, “Barney, take Oscar and find an empty stall for him. I have to go myself,” and off he went.
“Wait,” I said. But it was too late. Willey was already through the door. I felt like an idiot holding the monkey’s hand. But the people took to Oscar and smiled at him. The little ham smiled his monkey smile back at them. I took Oscar into the men’s room and opened a stall door for him. He jumped onto the toilet seat, pulled his shorts down and squatted. I closed the door to give him some privacy, although I didn’t think it mattered to Oscar.
A man walked by and said, “Mister, that’s one ugly kid you got there.”
“He takes after his mother,” I said.
When we got back to Willey’s place, Willey sat Oscar down in a recliner and turned the TV on for him. Then Willey opened a beer for him. Soon Oscar was watching a raucous game show and smiling from ear to ear.
“What does he eat?” I asked.
“Mostly vegetables and fruit, but he’ll chomp down on a cheese burger if he can get one. He won’t be any trouble at all, you’ll see. In the meantime you can stay here, Barney, until things calm down. You can sleep on the pull-out couch.
That way there will be three of us keeping our eyes and ears open.”
I had parked my Wrangler in Willey’s carport so we could keep an eye on it. I went over to my place to pick up my shaving gear and some clothes. When I got back to Willey’s place, Willey was watching the game show with Oscar, and grinning like a monkey himself. They were on the same wavelength. I wondered if Oscar had fleas—I wondered if Willey had fleas. I missed my little tin house already.
Later, Willey asked me to drive him to work because Julio was out sick. Willey doesn’t have a car so he carpools with Julio, who works the same hours as Willey.
“Do we have to take Oscar with us?” I asked.
“No, he’s fine watching TV. Just give him a banana when you get back, and he’ll be happy.” I dropped Willey off at Frank’s, and when I got back to Willey’s place Oscar was out cold in front of the blaring TV. The end table held three empty beer cans. Evidently, Oscar could open the refrigerator and pop open his own beer cans. I was starting to wonder about Oscar’s abilities as a watch-monkey. I went back to my place to get Randy Wayne White’s book and settled down in Willey’s Florida Room t
o read. I must have fallen asleep, because before I knew it the clock said midnight—time to pick Willey up. I closed the book and pulled myself out of the chair. Oscar was still asleep in his chair. I left him there and went to pick Willey up.
When we got home Oscar was still out cold in his chair. “Are you sure he’s a watch monkey?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s a crackerjack house guard. Opal swears by him.”
“Are you sure she doesn’t swear at him?”
Later that night I was asleep on Willey’s fold-out couch. I woke up and saw Oscar staggering towards the refrigerator in pursuit of more beer. It was the middle of the night. How much beer could a three foot tall monkey drink? I got out of bed and followed Oscar on his boozy trip to the kitchen. Oscar pulled the refrigerator door open, and I slammed it shut. “You’ve had enough beer for one night,” I told him.
Oscar looked up at me and tried to focus his bloodshot eyes. I knew he couldn’t remember who I was. Then Oscar pulled the refrigerator open again, and I slammed it shut again.
Oscar screeched, “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ee, ee, ee, ee, and bit me on the leg. That sent me hopping around the kitchen, holding my leg and swearing. While I was busy doing that, the little ape opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of beer. Then he ran into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Cute.
“I’ll get you, you little rodent,” I yelled at the bathroom door. From the bathroom came, Eee, eee, eee. Then I heard a beer can pop open. I climbed back into my couch-bed and rubbed my leg. “Go ahead,” I yelled. “Knock yourself out. See if I care.” The bedroom door open opened and Willey came shuffling out.
“What the hell is going on out here?”
“That little rodent bit me when I tried to stop him from getting more beer,”
Willey smiled, then he started to cackle. “Hee, hee, hee,” and went back to bed.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” I yelled at the bedroom door.
I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. I wanted to go back to my own house, where there were no drunken monkeys. I wanted my life to be peaceful again. A week ago all I had to worry about was being evicted. Now I had somebody trying to kill me to, and I would probably still get evicted.