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

by R. P. Gannon

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s us.”

  The old guy put his hand up to his ear and said, “What did you say?” Willey reached over and caught the swinging hearing aid. He handed it to the desk clerk.

  “Where the hell was that?” the ancient clerk asked. “I’ve been looking for that all day.”

  Each part of this country has its own ambiance. In Los Angeles you’ll see young winos standing on the corner drinking out of brown paper bags. They’ll be wearing dirty T-shirts with holes in them, but their hair will be frosted. They’re waiting to be discovered. In Florida you’ll see people standing on the corner hoping they won’t pee their pants before they can find a restroom.

  We signed the register under our phony names. We had left Snydely and Oscar out in the Wrangler. The old guy turned and took a key from the board behind him. Been waitin’ for you fellers. I was about ready to give up on ya.” He handed me the key.

  “We got a late start,” I said just to make conversation.

  “You’re paid up for two days. Hope you enjoy your stay.” We thanked him and went back outside. I had parked out of view of the office. We didn’t want anybody to see Snydely, or Oscar, for that matter. Our unit was around back. Perfect, that way the desk clerk wouldn’t see us coming and going.

  The room looked like the office, fifties furniture and wood paneling. There were two single beds and two of what they call day beds. We unpacked our backpacks and put our stuff into the two small chests of drawers.

  It was getting on to eight o’clock and we were getting hungry again. “How about getting some sandwiches?” I asked. Everybody liked the idea. Two ham and cheese, a meatball sub without sauce for Oscar, and a steak and mushroom for me—two Cokes, white milk for Oscar, and a root beer.

  “Be right back,” I said, and went out to find a sub shop. I didn’t want to ask directions from the old guy at the desk, so I drove out of the parking lot and turned left toward Miami. I found a sub shop about a quarter mile away—Caesars Pizza & subs. I pulled into the parking lot and went inside. Caesar was a large man with a dark complexion, a bushy mustache, and a gun in a shoulder holster. I guessed he had been robbed a few times. I ordered the sandwiches and went to the cooler for the drinks. Caesar was wrapping the sandwiches when a large dark skinned woman came out of the kitchen and started screaming at Caesar in Spanish. She had a gun strapped on her hip. Caesar screamed back at her in Spanish, and she went back into the kitchen.

  Caesar shook his head and handed me the bag. “That will be twenty-four, twenty-five.” Just then the woman came out of the kitchen again. This time she carried a large knife. She started screaming again and threw the knife at Caesar. Caesar ducked. I was on the floor. The knife stuck into the wall just above Caesar’s head.

  “Ay, carumba,” he screamed, and went off into another tirade in Spanish. I put two tens and a five down on the counter, grabbed the bag of sandwiches and drinks, and got out of there. I didn’t want to be a witness to any trouble. I was pulling out of the parking lot when I heard gunshots. I goosed the gas and flew like a thief into the blue velvet Florida night. I hoped I had gotten the drinks right, I didn’t want to have to go back there again.

  Around nine the next morning we went out looking for a coffee shop. We didn’t have to get Snydely to the deposition until ten. We drove by Caesar’s Subs & Pizza. There was a black wreath on the door, right above the closed sign. I wondered if the wreath was for Caesar, or the woman—or both. We stopped at a doughnut shop for coffee and donuts and a half-hour later we drove into downtown Miami.

  Miami was a lot like New York, but with palm trees, a lot hotter, and cleaner—but the traffic was just as bad. Willey was the navigator, reading Eduardo’s directions and looking for street signs, while I was busy trying not to get hit by the worst drivers I had ever seen—and I was from Boston. We finally arrived at the address Eduardo had given us. It was a ten story glass building with a guard station at the entrance to the underground garage. I pulled up to the guard station and said, “We’re here for a deposition for Mister Snydely.” The guard asked for I D’s. We handed him our licenses. He looked us over and did a double take when he saw Oscar.

  “Family pet,” I said.

  He nodded and wrote down our license plate on a clipboard. “Go down and around to the back of the garage,” he said. “Park near the elevators and go up to the second floor. They’ll take it from there.” We thanked him and he lifted the gate arm to let us in. We parked and hid our guns under the seat.

  “Be a good boy, Oscar, until we get back,” I said. We got onto the elevator. When the elevator doors opened on the second floor we were face to face with two armed guards. They asked our names and we had to show our licenses again.

  I saw Hattie the bookkeeper from the nursing home, sitting in the hallway. She must have been there for a deposition, too. She looked much better than the last time I saw her, almost pretty. I waved, and she smiled and waved back. They told Willey and me to come back in about an hour. The guards took Snydely down the hall. He looked like a man going to the gallows.

  Willey and I found our way back to the Wrangler. Oscar was waiting patiently. I took him in tow and we all walked back to the guard station. The guard told us we could leave the Wrangler there until we were ready to leave. Then we went off to see Miami. There was a little café with an outdoor seating area across the street. We went to the crosswalk, crossed, and walked back to the café.

  Somebody said, “Look, it’s the Mayor.” They were referring to Oscar. Must have been an unpopular mayor. We took a table near the street and sat under a large, sun blocking, umbrella. There were a few floor fans that moved the air, and it was comfortable, despite the broiling heat. We sat and watched the traffic race by. I noticed the men were wearing guayaberas, those white, pleated shirts that Cuban men wear outside of their pants. They couldn’t hide the bulge at the small of the back, where their guns were holstered. The women, I guessed, carried their guns in their purses.

  The waitress came over and gave us menus. She was a young Latina with smiling eyes. She ogled Oscar a bit and took our orders. Willey ordered a café con leche. I ordered a coffee with cream for myself and a bottle of water for Oscar. When the waitress left, I asked Willey, “What was that you ordered?”

  Willey said, “I ordered coffee with cream same as you, only I ordered in Spanish.”

  “When did you learn to speak Spanish?”

  “I’m a man of the world,” Willey said.

  I said, “Well, with your hair dyed dark brown like that you look Spanish, and I think you ordered yourself a Cuban coffee. That stuff will curl your hair.”

  “I like strong coffee,” Willey said. “Besides, my hair is already curly.” The waitress came back with our drinks. I noticed that Willey’s cup was smaller than mine, and his coffee was the color of mud. Willey poured all his cream into his coffee. It didn’t help much. He took a sip and his eyes got wide.

  “Yikes,” he said. “If I drink this I’ll be awake for three days.” I took his coffee and poured it into a nearby potted palm. Then I poured half of my coffee into his cup.

  “Thanks,” Willey said.

  “You’re welcome, Jose.”

  We left the restaurant and started to walk. We turned off the main street and soon we came to an area of single family homes. They were big, expensive houses in an area that seemed tranquil and safe—then a car exploded at the curb. The blast shook us. A ball of black smoke and flames rose up into the air. We stood there with our mouths open. Oscar was hiding behind me.

  A man showed up behind us. He must have come out of one of the nearby houses. “Don’t pay any attention to that,” he said. “It happens all the time. It’s just one drug lord blowing up another drug lord’s car.”

  “It happens all the time?” I asked?”

  “Yeah, it’s safer if you walk down the middle of the street. But watch out for the cars. They drive like maniacs.” As he walked away I noticed the shoulder holster he was wear
ing.

  A man with a dark complexion came running down the street screaming something in Spanish. He stood in front of the burning car and shook his fists … the drug lord. I was amazed at the way he was dressed, exactly the way Eduardo was dressed the first time I saw him at Frank’s, right down to the gold chains.

  “You know what they call Miami now?” Willey asked. When I didn’t answer, he said, “They call it six gun city, because you see women with kids in the supermarkets and they have a six gun strapped to their hip.”

  I said, “I think we should go back to get Snydely now.” We turned around and made tracks out of there. We were early getting back and had to wait fifteen minutes for Snydely to appear.

  Snydely was an ashen color when they gave him back to us.

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask,” he said. “Do you two still have your guns?”

  “Sure, they’re in the Wrangler,” Willey said.

  “I hope you know how to use them because I have a feeling Senator Buckland is going to know about this before we get back to the house—if he doesn’t know about it already.”

  “You think the FBI will rat you out?” I asked.

  “I think Buckland has connections,” Snydely said. “If he was able to trace you through your cell phone records he’ll also know when they’re ready to prosecute him, and who will be testifying. Just keep your eyes open.” We all piled into the Wrangler and hit the road. We were going back to the safe house in Palm Harbor. We turned left and headed back towards Alligator Alley. We needed gas so I pulled into a gas station. It was self service. I had just gotten out of the Jeep and removed the gas cap when a red Cadillac came wheeling in behind us. I saw right away it was Stevens behind the wheel. I pulled my gun out of my pocket and yelled for Willey. Stevens came to a screeching halt in front of us, threw his car door open, and fell out flat on his face—gun in hand. He still had his left arm in a sling. Mary got him good. When he looked up he saw me and Willey pointing our guns at him. As drunk as he was he still had enough sense to drop his gun. I scooped it up and stuck it into my waistband.

  “I’m going to kill you two,” he said with slurred speech.

  “Sure you are,” Willey said. “Right after we turn you over to the cops.”

  Willey took out his cell phone and called Eduardo. He told Eduardo where we were, and what was happening. Eduardo told us to hold on to Stevens until the FBI showed up. We propped Stevens up against the fender of his car. A few minutes later a police car pulled into the lot. Before the cops could get out, an unmarked car pulled in alongside them. Two men in suits got out and talked to them. The cruiser pulled out and the agents came over to us. One was a short, young Cuban, the other one was an older man who looked like he was ready for retirement.

  The Cuban agent said, “I see you’ve captured Stevens.”

  “It wasn’t hard,” I said. “He’s legless. He said he was going to kill us.” I handed him Stevens’ gun. “The only way he could kill us would be to breathe on us,” I said. The agent chuckled. They cuffed Stevens and poured him into the backseat. We watched them drive off. I looked over at Snydely, he was shaking. There was a Diner nearby. I said, “Willey, try to get some coffee and a little food into Snydely while I finish gassing up. I’ll wait for you at the pump.” After Stevens’ attack I didn’t want to leave the car out of my site. They knew where we were. Willey went off to the Diner with Snydely. Snydely was walking stiff legged.

  When they came back Snydely looked a little better. We put him in the back seat with Oscar and hit the road again. When I looked in the rear view mirror, Oscar was standing on the seat with his arm around Snydely’s shoulders. Snydely didn’t seem to mind. Willey took out his cell phone and called Eduardo again to tell him the Feds had taken Stevens into custody, and we were heading back to the safe house in Palm Harbor.

  When Willey put the cell phone back in his pocket he said, “Eduardo wants us to drive back by a different route, and he wants us to go back to Tarpon Springs instead of Palm Harbor. He says there’s a chance Stevens followed us all the way here from the safe house. He said it might be too dangerous to go back there.”

  I said, “I don’t think Stevens had to follow us. I think Snydely is right, Buckland knew when and where the deposition would take place. Stevens was here waiting for us.”

  “Lovely,” Snydely said from the back seat.

  “We’ll go home on the Tamami Trail instead of Alligator Alley,” I said. “We’ll stay on it all the way to Naples. From there it’s a straight run up to Tarpon Springs.”

  “You da boss,” Willey said. We headed south to Eighth Street in the heart of the Cuban district. Eighth turns into Callee Ocho, and then into the Tamiami Trail, and runs parallel to Alligator Alley through the Everglades to the west coast. We were headed back to Sofie’s.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE TAMIAMI TRAIL was a slower, more scenic road than Alligator Alley, but the wide expanses of saw grass were still daunting. Once in a while we saw an alligator or two. An occasional flock of Snowy Egrets would take flight and circle the area. The best part was it was daytime. Only the occasional bug splattering on the windshield. I had to wonder how the Seminoles were able to survive in this wilderness. Between the heat, the alligators, the snakes, and the bugs, they must have had their hands full. It couldn’t have been a fun place to live. I turned on the radio and settled in for the long ride. At the top of the hour the news came on. I was only half listening when I heard the name, John Flaherty. Willey beat me to the volume knob.

  The announcer went on, “… were reports today that John Flaherty had gone missing. The owner of one of Florida’s largest construction companies was reported missing early this morning by his wife, who hasn’t seen him since he went out to buy a loaf of bread two days ago. In a related matter, police have issued a warrant for Flaherty’s arrest. So far the charge has not been made public. The police say they are working in conjunction with the Attorney’s General’s Office.”

  “Sounds like he went on the lam,” Willey said. “Things must be heating up.” The newscaster continued, “Also today, Senator Buckland tried to push a bill through the Senate that would provide fifty million dollars to purchase wooden bows and arrows for Samoans living in Alaska. Shortly afterward the Senator was escorted from the chamber by his handlers.”

  That was good news. If Flaherty was in hiding there was a good chance his company would put a hold on its projects—one of them being turning our park into a parking lot. And it sounded like Senator Buckland was being sat on. The ride went much smoother after that. When we reached Indian country we started to see small stores by the side of the road, called Trading Posts. Then there were the alligator wrestling attractions. Tourists were filing in to see real alligators up close. At the airboat rides we parked and watched the boats full of tourists fly through the saw grass, the airplane propeller at their backs pushing them on at high speed. As always in the Everglades, the sun reflected the bright green of the bushes onto the jet black water below.

  We continued on the final leg of our trip through the River of Grass. As we came to another Trading Post, which were really just tourist trap gift shops, Willey said, “Barney, pull in there. I want to get a postcard to send to Mary.” I parked and we all climbed out. The sign said, “Billy Bowlegs Trading Post.” It looked like it could have been around for a hundred years. Trees had grown tall around it and it had a front porch with a railing that was hand carved.

  Billy Bowlegs had been a Seminole Chief who lived about a hundred and seventy years ago. He had raised banana trees in his village and was proud of them—until the Calvary came in and knocked them down. Billy and his band of Indians retaliated by attacking and killing a group of Calvery. That started another of the three Seminole Wars. I took Oscar by the hand and we went inside to look around. Snydely got out and walked around to stretch his legs.

  The entire store was packed to the rafters with every kind of goods you would expect to fi
nd in an old time general store. Judging from the thick layer of dust that covered everything, it had been there for a long time. Behind the counter stood a withered, sun browned old Indian wearing a silk top hat. He had to be the owner. While Willey looked at the postcards I went up to the counter and said, “Hello.”

  “Good day white man, the Indian replied. The old codger was really playing it up.

  “You must be Billy Bowlegs,” I said.

  “Chief Billy Bowlegs the fifth,” the old man corrected.

  “Have you lived here all your life?”

  “Not yet. I’m still alive.” The old guy was a character. “He looked over at Oscar and said, nice monkey. Him make good soup.” I felt Oscar grip my hand a little tighter. Could Oscar understand what the old guy was saying? Or was it just the way the old Indian was looking at him that made him nervous?

  “Not really,” I said. “His name is Oscar and he can’t even boil water let alone make soup.”

  The old geezer grinned at me. He said, “You look just like a soldier I met during the third war.” He was talking about the Third Seminole War between the Seminoles and the U.S. Calvary. That was a long time ago. This guy was old, but not that old.

  “So I remind you of that soldier, Huh? He must have been a good looking devil.” The old man reached under the counter and came up with a scalp—minus the rest of the soldier. It was the real thing. It was pinned down to an ancient block of wood, and there was piece of forehead still attached to it. I was at a loss for words.

  The old Indian said, “He ain’t so good looking since I took this from him.

  I backed away from the counter and found Willey. “Let’s go.” I said. “I want to get home before dark.” I grabbed Oscar’s hand before he became soup and we waited outside. When Willey came out I said, “That old bastard wanted to make soup out of Oscar.”

  Willey said, “Did he give you the recipe?”

  Snydely picked Oscar up in his arms and climbed into the back seat with him. We got back on the road and finally we turned north toward Tampa. I looked in the rear view mirror. Snydely and Oscar were sound asleep, side by side. Snydely had his arm around Oscar.