by Ward Parker
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely chagrined. “I’m just trying to understand the environment of the murder scene.”
“Condos filled with old retirees. If that wasn’t obvious to you. I have to go.”
She got in her car and after a few engine shudders, she drove off, leaving the reporter standing there.
8
Florida Man Investigates Monsters
Matt thought Missy had a kind of hippy, folksy way about her that would have been inviting if not for her hard edges. And she was beautiful. Her long, brunette hair had a few strands of gray. He liked that she didn’t try to hide the fact. She had a slender face with delicate features, a bit of an elfish upturn at the tip of her nose, and narrow, though sensuous, lips.
There was definitely a toughness to her, he thought. He had seen the pepper spray in her hand when she got in her car and dismissed him. And she was stonewalling him for a reason. He could understand why she’d be protective of the communities where her patients lived. But he was talking about murders, not parking violations.
He strolled over to the Seaweed Manor gate and knocked on the door of the guard booth. A short Hispanic woman answered. She smiled as if he had brought her a present. He introduced himself and asked general questions about if anything suspicious had been going on.
“The police already talked to me,” she said, happy to continue the conversation. “I said there ain’t never anything suspicious here because everything’s too damn weird.”
“Um, in what way?”
“These old folks party like there’s no tomorrow. No matter what shift I’m working, there’s music blaring and drunk and stoned oldsters wandering about, playing frisbee on the beach, skinny-dipping in the pool, hitting golf balls into the ocean. Usually the police come here for noise complaints, not murder investigations.”
“You ever notice young people here?”
“Only when their grandkids are visiting. Though, between you and me,” her voice dropped to a loud whisper, “a couple folks here—and I don’t know who they are—sell pot and pills and stuff, so they get a lot of younger visitors.”
Matt figured the guard actually did know who the drug dealers were but didn’t want to upset the apple cart. And if the mayor’s daughter had been clubbing before she was killed, there was certainly a possibility she had been here to buy drugs.
He thanked the guard and went next door to Squid Tower. A concrete wall separated the two properties, but there was a narrow gap where the wall had crumbled away. It was partially hidden by a cocoplum hedge, but a footpath worn into the grass indicated many feet had used it. Matt decided not to. He didn’t want to look like a trespasser. Instead, he entered through the gate.
The property was immaculate at Squid Tower with carefully manicured tropical landscaping and not a single beer bottle on the ground, unlike next door. The gate guard was an older, dark-skinned woman named Philomena with a gold tooth and braided hair. She spoke in a melodious Caribbean accent.
“Yeah, there’s weird happenings all the time here,” she said to Matt after the introductions. “But I don’t see them myself, because I work the day shift. And this place is dead during the day.”
She snickered at some private joke.
“What kind of weird stuff?” Matt asked.
“The folks here are old. Really old,” she said, snickering some more.
“And?”
“Man, I can’t say bad things about the people who live here.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just want to know if you’ve seen anything suspicious.”
“No. Most of the residents here sleep all day.” Philomena gave a knowing wink, which was uncomfortably close to a promiscuous leer.
This woman really wants to tell me something, Matt thought. She just needs permission.
“They sleep all day?” Matt asked. “I thought seniors got up really early in the morning and went to bed early at night.”
“Not these seniors.”
“What are they, vampires or something?”
Philomena’s face brightened. “If they are, you didn’t hear it from me,” she said, smiling.
“‘If they are?’ But vampires don’t exist.” Matt, of course, suspected otherwise.
“I’m just a gate guard. What do I know? But I’ve got eyes and ears and so do the other guards. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Do you think residents here are responsible for any murders? There was a young woman found on the beach nearby, drained of blood.”
“I heard. The police questioned me.”
“Well? What do you think? I don’t care what you told the police, I want to know what you really think. Off the record, do you believe someone here did it?”
“C’mon, I work for these people, you know? But I’ll say this: You better think twice about wandering around here at night.”
Vampires, Matt thought. I knew it!
Matt drove to the office to file some stories when he almost ran into the riding lawn mower. It was cruising along northbound I-95 in the center lane at five miles per hour. Which actually was a rapid clip for the rear-engine style of mower. It was causing constant near-collisions as cars whipped into the adjacent lanes rather than be stuck in the long line of brake lights behind it. It was still rush hour, after all. Driving the mower was a man, a naked man. He drank from a twenty-four-ounce can of beer, even though it was not yet 9:00 a.m.
Matt maneuvered his pickup truck into the lane to the right of the man’s lane and slowed down until he matched the speed of the mower. This caused more brake lights and dangerous swerving by the cars behind him. Surprisingly few people honked their horns at him, disproving the notion that South Florida was full of crazy people. Matt rolled down his window and took a picture of the spectacle with his phone.
“Good morning, sir,” he shouted to the naked lawnmower driver. “What is your name?”
“Lance Jenkins,” the man shouted back. “And good morning to you, too.”
Matt wrote down the name in his reporter’s notebook propped against the steering wheel.
“Why are you driving your lawnmower on I-95?”
“I got a dentist appointment,” the man answered.
“But why a lawnmower? Don’t you have a car?”
“Because I’m drunk and I don’t want to get a DUI.”
Matt was pretty sure the man’s logic was flawed and that there were many tickets in Mr. Jenkins’ immediate future.
“Forgive me if I’m being too personal,” Matt shouted, “but why are you going to your dental appointment naked?”
The man looked down at his lap and seemed surprised to find he was, indeed, naked.
“No comment.”
Matt decided to drop his follow-up question about why Mr. Jenkins was going to his appointment drunk. Besides, the flashing lights of Florida state troopers had erupted behind them and Matt knew his interview was over.
It took the two black-and-brown Highway Patrol cars a few miles to cajole and escort Mr. Jenkins across two lanes of traffic and then to stop on the shoulder. Matt pulled over ahead of them and walked back to witness the arrest and ask for statements from the troopers.
“It’s just another Tuesday morning in South Florida,” one of them said.
Matt managed to get from Mr. Jenkins the name of his dentist. He called the office to let them know their patient wouldn’t be arriving for his appointment and they were actually very lucky this was the case. Then he drove to the newsroom to file this classic Drunk-Florida-Man-Does-Something-Criminally-Stupid story.
Matt liked to quip that he worked the Florida Man beat. But bizarre tales of idiocy occupied only a small portion of his time. He specialized in crime reporting. The problem was, aside from the latest string of murders, Jellyfish Beach didn’t have much crime. Normally, there were just the usual burglaries and petty theft. He spent a lot of his time stuck in county commission meetings or ribbon-cuttings at shopping centers as well as reporting politicians-bribed-by-devel
oper stories.
When he wasn’t stuck with those assignments, he pursued his Quixotic passion: trying to get someone else to believe South Florida’s spicy melting pot culture was peppered with monsters. That the place attracting all the freaks too weird for the rest of the country also attracted those too strange for reality itself.
And he was convinced there were monsters right here in Jellyfish Beach.
Now, Matt thought, comes the difficult part: a visit at night. If there were vampires at Squid Tower, now would be the time to observe them. Then again, would he be able to tell that a vampire was a vampire? Or, on the other hand, would he end up as a vampire’s dinner?
He drove past the community around 8:00 p.m. There were some people (or vampires) walking around, but keeping with the flow of traffic at thirty-five miles an hour was too fast to observe them. A mile or so down A1A, he parked at a small strip center with a convenience store and ice cream shop. Then he walked along the paved pathway that ran beside the road.
He passed other condominium buildings bathed in exterior lights, but there wasn’t anyone out and about. When he reached Squid Tower, it was a different story. The pickleball courts were crowded with seniors in tennis whites barely whiter than the players’ complexions, save for two African-American doubles partners who nevertheless appeared unusually pale.
A shuffleboard court further back in the property had a few occupants. A group of residents chatted beside the building. Cars streamed out from the gate. The place was positively hopping compared to the dead zone he had visited during the day.
Matt walked up to the guardhouse with exaggerated confidence to lend himself some authority. He knocked on the glass door that faced the inbound traffic lanes. The guard wore a uniform, had slicked-back dark hair, and his head shape was vaguely Neanderthal-like. He appeared to be in his forties or early-fifties.
The guard opened the door, surprised that someone had approached him on foot.
“Hi, my name is Matt Rosen.” Matt smiled and offered his hand. “Have you worked here long?”
The guard shook his hand with a limp grip. “Not long. How can I help you?” He had a Long Island accent.
“I just have a few questions.”
“Are you here to visit someone specific?” the guard asked, suspiciously. “I’m not supposed to chit-chat while I’m on duty.”
“I’m a reporter for the Jellyfish Beach Journal. I’m looking into the murders on the beach,” Matt said. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?”
“The cops already questioned me. I haven’t seen squat.”
“Any odd stuff about the residents here?” Matt gave a reassuring grin.
The guard looked even more suspicious now. “Like what?”
“I spoke to the day guard today. I think Philomena is her name? She had a lot to say about this place.”
The guard visibly relaxed. “Yeah, she’s worked here a long time.”
“I’m sorry, what was your name?” Matt asked.
“Bernie Burdine. But don’t quote me in any article.”
“Of course not. This is just background. So you’ve got a bunch of night birds living here, it seems.”
“Yeah. When I was hired, I thought I’d have nothing to do and could focus on writing songs. But it turns out this is the busiest shift.”
“But why?” Matt asked. “Most seniors go to bed early. Why is this crew so different?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Philomena said these folks are really old. Like inhumanly old.”
“She’s from Martinique. They tend to exaggerate a lot.”
“C’mon, Mr. Burdine. This is totally off the record. You can trust me.”
Headlights flooded Matt as a car pulled up to the gate. He stepped onto the platform of the gatehouse to get out of the way. Bernie stuck his head out to search for the proper decal on the windshield, waved nervously, and reached inside the booth for the switch that opened the gate.
A grimy silver Lexus with New York plates rolled slowly through. It stopped before the gate arm and the driver’s window slid down.
“Don’t drop the gate arm on my car, okay moron?” the driver said, a toad-like man with a huge nose and vestiges of white hair surrounding a bald dome.
“Of course not, Mr. Schwartz,” Bernie said.
The old man looked at Matt in his awkward perch outside the gatehouse. His expression was malign.
“Is this your drug dealer?” the driver asked.
“No, this is my . . . cousin Matt,” Bernie replied.
The driver laughed, a phlegmy bark. “Stupid runs in the family.”
The car’s engine revved as it sputtered past the gate with a belch of burnt-oil smoke. Matt made a note of the car and its vanity license plate: “Snowbyrd.”
“Nice fellow,” Matt said.
Bernie shook his head. “Mr. Schwartz. He’s constantly busting my chops. I think he wants to . . .”
“To what?”
“Nothing.”
“Has this guy ever threatened you?” Matt asked.
“He wants to get me fired. Or worse.”
“Bernie, let me cut to the chase. Have you ever heard any rumors, or seen any evidence, that vampires live here?”
Bernie’s eyes popped open along with his mouth. Then his mouth closed. He had appeared close to giving an honest answer before discretion took over.
“I’m not supposed to talk about the residents,” he said.
“I understand. Mind if I take a walk around the grounds?”
“Sorry, man, but you can’t. Only residents and their guests.”
“I’ll be your guest,” Matt said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s much safer if you come back during the day. Trust me.”
Matt accepted defeat and thanked Bernie before walking back to his car.
Another non-denial about vampires.
9
Life on the Graveyard Shift
After the reporter left, there was the customary lull between the rush of cars leaving after the vampires woke up and when they returned as the night waned. Bernie stared at the dark façade of Squid Tower looming over the guardhouse. Most of the condos had their accordion hurricane shutters closed, covering the windows.
In perennially warm South Florida, if you needed to remember what season it was, look at the condos along the beach. If the hurricane shutters were closed, that meant it was May through October when the snowbirds were up north. The few with shutters open were the homes of permanent residents.
There’s a rule of nature: When the weather starts getting nippy in New York, New England, Quebec, and other points of the Great White North, the entire elderly population is stirred by some primal urge and flocks southbound across the Mason-Dixon Line, eventually arriving at the gates of the thousands of trailer parks, subdivisions, and condominium complexes along both coasts and the vast interior of the Sunshine State. Then, you’ll see the shutters cranked open everywhere.
Unless a building was occupied by vampires. They, of course, aren’t impressed by the beautiful Florida sunshine.
Bernie didn’t have anything against snowbirds in general. He wasn’t surprised old vampires migrated to Florida in the winter or lived there year-round. When you’re old it’s no fun to slosh around in snow and slush, and he supposed it was no different for folks who happened to be elderly when they became vampires. But trying to navigate the over-crowded roads during tourist season with confused eighty-year-old drivers was bad enough. Imagine trying to avoid fender-benders with 800-year-olds.
Bernie still had difficulty processing the fact that vampires actually existed, and were not all young and sexy like those in the movies. There were plenty who glided about on mobility scooters, had hair growing out of their ears, and complained about the blood being too spicy from the Latino landscaper they just fed upon. He learned the age you were when you were turned is the age you’ll remain forever, no matter how many years of AARP dues you
’ll have to pay.
Bernie didn’t move to Florida because he was old. He came looking for a better life. After failing to break into the New York music scene as a lounge singer, and then getting fired from his job at Pete’s Piano and Organ Emporium in Glen Cove, Long Island, Bernie moved here, thinking, as so many people do, that somehow life would be easier in Florida, as well as cheaper and warmer. He believed his shortcomings would matter less outside of the Big Apple, such as his voice’s tendency to break like he was going through puberty, or his sloping forehead, wide nose, and other features the mean girls in high school called Neanderthal-like.
He was wrong. His shortcomings did matter. He couldn’t get a single gig at the piano lounges in the big resorts. He played at some Italian and Greek restaurants and the occasional senior center. There the clientele of oldsters and tourists weren’t as discriminating, as long as he sang their favorite songs. He even dusted off his guitar and learned a bunch of Jimmy Buffett tunes. He managed to get some work in the tourist seafood joints, mostly for tips.
In the meantime, he had to support himself with a real job. He wanted one with privacy and plenty of time for practicing, so he first got hired as a drawbridge tender. Not only was the pay lousy, but he had a bad habit of lowering the bridge before the boats got all the way through. It only took a few sailboats with broken mainmasts and one sunken cabin cruiser before his boss told him he should look for a job that was a little less demanding.
He thought he found one, an easy gig involving no stress and very little actual work. He answered a listing for a company that provided security for condominium associations. The owner, a German dude named Rudy, seemed only moderately sleazy and promised Bernie he would pass the state exam and get his security guard license without a problem. Not long afterwards, Bernie ended up here at Squid Tower. On the graveyard shift.
And the stress-free existence he had imagined turned into a constant battle for his job. And his life.