R.P. Gannon - Barney, Willey and Oscar 01 - Geezer Paradise

by R. P. Gannon

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “I’m okay. I just want to get out of here so I can get some sleep.” An hour later Willey got to see the doctor. He checked Willey out and told him to take it easy for a couple of days and he’d be fine. We got back into the Wrangler and headed back to the swamp. Oscar was asleep in the back seat. It was the middle of the night when we returned to the swamp. We started paddling our way towards the chickee. I hoped the chickee was still there, it had been years Willey last saw it. I didn’t want to sleep on the ground. We were bone tired. Oscar was sound asleep in the front of the raft.

  It was a small chickee with a thatched roof, about ten feet by twelve feet. The Indians had lived in chickees similar to the one we were gliding towards. It was sitting on one of the few areas of ground that was a couple of feet above the surface of the water. It must have been what they call a hammock. There were a dozen or so trees on it. They would give us some protection from the sun come midday. The chickee floor was raised the traditional couple of feet above the ground, but that’s where the similarities ended. It was built of wood and the walls were screened in from a few feet above the floor, with a screen door in the front.

  The bug spray was still doing its job. The Seminoles didn’t have any protection from the mosquitoes except the smudge fires they lit up-wind. They would throw green leaves onto the fire and the smoke would drift their way. I guess they hadn’t been warned about the dangers of second hand smoke. We beached the raft and tied it off, then we went to look inside our new home. It was empty except for a few empty beer cans.

  “It’s just like I remembered it,” Willey said. “Only smaller.” Twenty minutes later we were all moved in. We had three sleeping bags on the floor, one for Oscar. We even had three collapsible lawn chairs and some plastic crates to use as tables. We couldn’t use oil lamps for fear the light could be seen at a distance. Instead, we got around by using pen lights. We had canned and packaged food we could eat cold, and gallons of drinking water. Finally, we climbed into our sleeping bags.

  I lay there listening to the swamp sounds. I couldn’t sleep, adrenaline was keeping me wired. I wondered if saving my house was worth getting this involved with criminals, and putting myself into so much danger. The money was tempting of course, but was the money worth being on the run, being chased by murderers who wanted to kill us?

  I said, “Hey, Willey, are you awake?”

  Willey was half asleep, “I am now,” he groused.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “I’m thinking maybe we aren’t cut out for this spy business. Everything we do turns out wrong.”

  “We did okay at the nursing home,” he said.

  “Well, ah, yeah, that was alright,” I lied. “But tonight didn’t work out at all. What do you think?”

  “I think if you’d shut your pie hole I could get some sleep.” So much for Willey’s opinion.

  Around 5:am Willey woke me up. “Barney, somebody’s outside. I can hear them moving around out there.”

  “Out where?’

  “Out in back.”

  “Do you think it’s Flaherty’s people?”

  “I don’t know,” Willey said. “But I’m not going to stay here and wait for them to come to get me.” It was still dark. I grabbed my gun. Willey woke Oscar up and took his hand. We crawled on our hands and knees to the door and stuck our heads up to see if anybody was out there—no one in sight. I slowly open the screen door and we crawled out. Once we were down the stairs we trotted, crouched over, into the dense brush. It didn’t take me long to realized we should have taken the bug spray. We squatted there in the bushes, looking around. Nothing was moving.

  Maybe they were waiting until morning before they ambushed us. The sky was overcast now, and the swamp was steaming. Then it started to rain. I looked around for someplace to hide. There was a pine tree off to our left. I nudged Willey and pointed. We ran to the tree and crawled under. There was a dry blanket of pine needles on the ground and the mosquitoes weren’t as bad there. Oscar laid down on the pine needles and went to sleep. Willey and I sat there and listened. Once in a while we could hear somebody moving around in the brush, and then, nothing. We heard the screen door on the chickee slam shut … then it slammed shut again. There were two of them and they weren’t afraid to make noise.

  Soon we could hear our things being moved around. They were looking for the film I took at Ransoms. For a half-hour hour they knocked around looking for the camera. They could look all they wanted—the camera’s card was in my pocket. Finally, Willey laid down on the pine needles, I stretched out too. No need to sit up all night.

  When I woke up the sun was shining. The rain had stopped and the swamp was hazy. I nudged Willey awake. We sat and listened. They were still at it. “These guys never give up,” I said. I crawled out from under the tree and peered through the bushes at the chickee. I couldn’t see anybody, but our things were still being moved around. Were they on their hands and knees?

  Then a furry little head with a black mask popped up and looked around. It was a raccoon. Then another furry head popped up.

  “Damn,” I said. “We stayed up all night because of raccoons.” We went up to the chickee and opened the door. The raccoons scurried out. We went inside and found a mess of crackers all over the floor. We weren’t about to start cleaning up, so we straightened out our sleeping bags and spent the next four hours making up for lost sleep. So far, camping out wasn’t much fun.

  Chapter Nine

  ****

  JOHN FLAHERTY SAT at his desk with his head in his hands. He picked up the half- empty bottle of rum in front of him and took a swig. How could Snydely be so stupid? Didn’t he know you hand over a bribe in a men’s room, or a closet, or a private home? Not in the parking lot of a restaurant in full view of the world. The moron! He was supposed to be a pro, a smooth operator. He was useless.

  Now Buckland will be blackmailed, and the idiot hasn’t got the sense to pay the blackmailer off. He’ll end up spilling the beans during one of his coke fueled stupors. There was no way to reach him, he wouldn’t take any of Flaherty’s calls.

  Not only that, the attorney General thinks Flaherty killed his old man—thinks he had somebody shove the old fool into a trash compactor and squashed him. How insane was that?

  Now Snydely was a liability. If they question him he’ll turn state’s evidence to save his own skin. He’d gladly throw Flaherty under the bus. He would have to tell Stevens to arrange an accident for Snydely, and this time he’d better do it right, not like the sloppy job he did with the accountant, Harriet. He knew it was just a matter of time until she started flapping her gums to the Attorney General, too.

  And why couldn’t Stevens take care of those old dimwits that were giving him this headache? That’s what his job was, not hanging over the bar at Frank’s. To top it off, while Flaherty’s whole world was crashing down around him, all his dim-witted wife could think of was her next big party, so she could hobnob with her uppity friends.

  Flaherty grabbed the bottle of rum again, but then he put it down. There wasn’t enough booze in the whole world to solve his problems. He let his head fall onto his desktop with a thud, and passed out.

  ****

  The morning light was tinted green as it shone through the treetops. We ate some crackers and drank some water as a sort of makeshift breakfast. But what we really wanted was coffee. Oscar was still asleep. We were obsessing about coffee when a young couple walked by the chickee and waved hello to us.

  We were stunned. We were supposed to be in the middle of a vast swamp where no one could find us. We had the good manners to wave back, but where had they come from? As we pondered this, a pack of Boy Scouts came trooping by. They wished us a good morning also. We nodded and smiled until they were out of sight, then Willey and I jumped up and ran outside. There, right by the side of the chickee was a bicycle trail.

  “What the hell,” I said. Wille
y just shrugged. We walked the trail in the direction the people were coming from. A minute later we came to a busy road. Across the road was a K-Mart and a strip mall.

  “So much for hiding in a swamp,” I said.

  “Well,” Willey said, “it’s been a while since I was last here. You know how fast things change. I seem to remember train tracks running by the chickee, but no trains ever came by. I guess they made it into that bicycle trail.”

  “When were you last here?” I asked.

  Willey looked up at the tree tops and said, “Let’s see. I’d say it was about fifty years or so. But maybe it’s still a good place to hide, Barney. Nobody knows us here. To them we’re just campers. But right now, I’m heading for that sign across the street.” I looked where he was pointing. A sign said, Tom’s Diner … coffee!

  The Diner was probably there the last time Willey was here. It was straight out of the fifties. All red leather and chrome. The ham and eggs were just right and the coffee hit the spot. I was feeling much better after we ate. We sat there for a while watching the old folks who live on pensions scoop up the left over sugar packs and butter pats, and shove them into their pockets. You wouldn’t believe what goes on in the All You Can Eat restaurants. I guess they have to make ends meet somehow.

  All in all, wherever we were, it was a nice little place, and it was far away from Flaherty. Maybe Willey was right, maybe we could stay here for a while. On the way out of the Diner I spotted a bowl of bananas. I bought one and a Styrofoam cup of orange juice to go, for Oscar. After we paid the bill we walked along the strip mall looking for a cell phone store. We needed to buy a cell phone charger that would plug into the Wrangler’s cigarette lighter. We found a phone store and bought a charger. I wondered if the Wrangler was still where we left it at the edge of the swamp. We walked back to the chickee, but when we opened the door Oscar was gone.

  “Oscar,” Willey called … nothing. Willey called again, louder. And then we heard it, “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ee, ee, ee, ee.” We looked up. Oscar was up in the treetops, swinging from branch to branch. He was in his ancestral surroundings and loving it. Come down here you little ape,” Willey yelled. “Ee, ee, ee, ee, came back.

  “Well, he’ll come down when he’s hungry, “I said. We sat on the steps of the chickee and worked out a plan. We would paddle back through the swamp to the Wrangler, deflate the raft and store it behind the back seat. Then we’d drive back to the strip mall and park there across the street from the bicycle path. We would call Eduardo and set up a way to get the camera card to him.

  Then we would leave the Wrangler in the mall parking lot until dark, then drive it down the bicycle path to the chickee, and hide it in the dense undergrowth. In the meantime we sat on the chickee’s steps and waved at the people going by. At three in the afternoon the heat became oppressive. The traffic on the trail slowed down then—just a few rail thin joggers with death wishes trotting by. We had to wait an hour for Oscar to come down from the trees. We grabbed him, gave him his banana and orange juice, and put him into the raft. I thought about the alligators and shoved my gun into my pocket. Then I sprayed myself with bug spray. Willey said he didn’t need any. We got into the raft and shoved off to get the Wrangler.

  As we came around a turn in the waterway Willey pointed out a small, wooden shack on the shore. It wasn’t much bigger than an outhouse.

  “That’s new,” Willey said. I guessed there wasn’t too much development going on around there. We made a few more turns around the waterway and came to a wide spot with a sandbar in the middle. There were two large alligators sunning themselves on the sandbar. A small flock of snowy egrets were standing on the opposite shore, keeping a wary eye on the big lizards. We hugged the shore as we passed. The swamp was an interesting place. I knew it looked just the same as it had a hundred years ago, except for the floating beer cans.

  The Wrangler was right where we left it. We deflated the raft and stored it behind the rear seat. Then we got into the Wrangler and headed for the highway. Willey plugged his cell phone into the cigarette lighter to charge it.

  When we got back to the strip mall across from the bike trail, we parked in the lot. Willey called Eduardo and told him we had the pictures of Flaherty’s lawyer handing a bribe to Senator Buckland. We didn’t tell him we were outed. Eduardo gave Willey his address at work and told him to overnight the card to him. He said we should relax until we heard from him. We didn’t tell him we were hiding in a swamp, or that Flaherty’s goons were gunning for us. If we did we’d have to tell him how badly the photo shoot had gone, and how I’d messed up and hit the flash by mistake. We didn’t want him to think we were amateurs, which of course, we were.

  Willey called Frank’s and told them he had to go out of town for an emergency, and he didn’t know when he’s be back. He apologized for not being able to give them a notice. After that he called Mary Dixon to find out how things were going at the park.

  “Where the hell have you two been?” she asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Willey said, as if we were hiding out with 007. We assured Mary that we were alright and promised to keep in touch. Willey asked Mary to call us if anything happened at the park. She said she would. We left Oscar in the Wrangler with the windows half way up so the little devil couldn’t escape, and went into a UPS store to buy a padded envelope. Then we overnighted the card to Eduardo. We did a little food shopping and picked up some beer. Then we drove around the area, checking it out. It was a sleepy little Florida town. The downtown was a short street of two story buildings, and the rest was residential. We stopped at a barbeque place and stuffed ourselves. Even Oscar was licking his chops. After dark we drove down the trail back to the chickee. We put the few groceries we had bought away. Which means we put them on the floor with the rest of the stuff. We had pretty much cleaned the crackers off the floor, pretty much. Neither Willey or I was very good at housekeeping. I ran the Wrangler into some high bushes behind the chickee to hide it.

  We sat on our lawn chairs inside the chickee and drank beer. Willey went on about what it was like to grow up in Florida in the nineteen-fifties. It sounded like a paradise, but then, the past always seems better than the present, mostly because we had lived through it and had come out on the other side alive. Oscar was behaving himself, sipping his beer, but he couldn’t figure out why we didn’t have a toilet. We finally just took his shorts off and put him outside. After a while he got the meaning of, “roughing it.” Around ten-thirty that night we all got tired and climbed into our sleeping bags. The beer put me right to sleep.

  ****

  The Night Stalker crouched in the shadows of the Polski’s trailer. He was carryin’ a bag full’a’ snakes. There was a night light lit on in the kitchen. That meant the Polski was still living there. The Molotov cocktail didn’t work. But McGee’s old Wrangler was nowheres in sight. He must’a gave up an skedalled outt’a there. But that Polski was still hangin’ in. The Night Stalker crept from one winder ta the next till he found one that wuz open. He set the pillercase full’a snakes down an pulled out a jackknife. Then he stood up an slashed the winder screen. Now all he hadd’a do was dump the snakes inside the house. It weren’t easy ketchin’ all them snakes. Fer all the Night Stalker knew, some’a them snakes might be poisonous. He carefully dumped the snakes inside the house an sank back inta the shadows. He took out his red crayon an’ wrote on the side a the trailer, The Night Stalker. If this didn’t work, he’d try the dead chicken. That would do it.

  ****

  In the wee hours of the morning, when all the creepy, crawly, swamp critters were asleep, we were awakened by a loud thud that shook the floor of the chickee. We all woke up with a start.

  “What the hell was that?” Willey yelled.

  I said, “I don’t know what it is, but it’s laying right beside me.” Then the thing started to snore. We got up and took out our penlights. It was an unconscious man about thirty, with shaggy hair and shabby clothes. He smelled of whisky.
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br />   “It’s a homeless person,” I said. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m going back to sleep,” Willey said, and he crawled back into his sleeping bag.

  “What if he’s dangerous?”

  “Search him. If he doesn’t have a weapon let him sleep it off.” I searched him … nothing. Oscar was already asleep. I moved my sleeping bag away from the intruder and tried to get back to sleep. I tossed and turned until somewhere around 3:am, then I fell back to sleep. When I woke up again it was nine thirty. The stranger was still asleep. We fed Oscar and put him outside to play in the trees, while Willey and I headed for the diner. After we got our coffee and ordered our breakfast, I asked Willey, “What are we going to do with the bum?”

  “Damned if I know. We’ll just have to wait until he wakes up and go from there. Maybe he’ll just move on.”

  After breakfast we walked back to the chickee and looked down at the man on the floor.

  “Judging by the way he hit the floor last night I’d say he’d been drinking heavily,” I said. “He’ll probably sleep all day if we don’t wake him up.” We crouched down and I shook the man. He didn’t wake up. I shook him harder … nothing.

  “Damn,” Willey said. “We’ll have to put a bomb under him to wake him up.” We couldn’t wait all day. Oscar had come back by then. I said ,“Willey, take Oscar outside.”

  “Why do you want him outside?”

  “Because animals have much more sensitive ears than we do.” Willey gave me a look, but took Oscar outside anyway. When they were far enough away I took a long look at the bike trail to make sure nobody was around. Then I took out my gun and shot a hole in the floor. The sleeping man sat bolt upright. “What the hell was that?” he yelled. His bloodshot eyes were wide open.