Geezer Paradise (2 page)

             
I was going back inside when Homer Branson came shuffling by.  Homer is the park's pain in the ass.  Well, one of them, anyway.  Homer looks to be about a hundred and ten years old, and he'd probably live another hundred years just so he could harass people.  He wears a straw hat and holds his pants up under his armpits with suspenders.  No matter where you go you'll always find a Homer.  They're the people who are always sticking their noses into everybody else's business, even if it's something as simple as feeding a bird.  And as for the birds, forgetting how to fend for themselves in the wild, why did he think they were mooching food from people anyway?  Because there is no more wild.  We've used it all up.

             
"You're not supposed to feed them you know," Homer chastised.  "They won't be able to survive in the wild."  There it was.  The same old self-righteous claptrap.  It's like they spend their lives looking for something to complain about.

             
"Well, I just had a hot dog left over," I said.  "I didn't want to waste it."

             
"If the animal rights people found out about this you'd be in a lot of trouble," Homer threatened.

             
"Right you are, Homer.  Thanks for setting me straight."  Homer shuffled off up the street to harass somebody else.  Earlier, when I had been out in my carport dumping the trash, I noticed a stray dog wandering through the park.  With any luck that dog would find Homer and bite him on his scrawny ass.  Homer could tell
that
to the animal rights people.  They would probably give the dog a medal for hazardous duty--but then they'd have to give the poor animal a shot so it wouldn’t come down with rabies.

             
I was about to go back inside when I heard the tractor roar to life on the farm that boarders the park.  The people in the park rave about the fresh vegetables they buy from Thomas the farmer.  Thomas is Mary's cousin, too.  Thomas, Willey, and Mary, are all what we call, "Crackers."  That simply means their families have been here for generations.  Thomas is an old geezer with a long white beard.  The problem is that old tractor of his belches out clouds of blue smoke that drift across the park, and nearly chokes us all to death.  Why doesn't Homer complain about that? 

             
I went inside and sat down.  I put my feet up on the coffee table, and sighed.  I was worried about what Willey wanted to do.  I was afraid he might try to break-in to Flaherty's offices alone and get himself into a world of trouble.  I also started to wonder if it might be worth a try.  Would it really give us a chance to save our homes?  Maybe.  Or maybe it would just be a dangerous waste of time.  I didn't want to find out.

              Later that evening I got a call from Willey.  He wanted me to meet him at eight at Jack's Restaurant where he works as a pontoon operator.  He wanted to tell me something, but he didn't want to tell me over the phone.  Maybe he thought the FBI or the KGB was tuning in to his every phone call.  I humored him and told him I'd be there. 

             
Jack's is the haunt of the boating class.  It sits on a small island twenty yards offshore. Willey ferries the customers to and from the island on a pontoon boat that seats twelve.  There's an earthen causeway around back of the restaurant for deliveries, but it's overgrown and hard to see.  Besides, it seems more exotic if the customers think they can only get there by boat.

             
I got there just as the hundreds of tiny white lights that were strung around the restaurant's outdoor deck were being turned on.  Then the big cupola on the roof lit up, light streaming out of its windows.  The place was not without charm, no wonder it was so popular.  I parked in the lot and rang the bell on the dock.  Seconds later I saw Willey put-putting towards me with the boat.  I jumped aboard so he wouldn't have to tie up.  We were the only two on board.  

             
"I got your message," I said.  "What's up?"

             
"There's a friend of mine I want you to meet," Willey said.  "His name's Eduardo.  He's a bartender here and he's been telling me an interesting story about one of his customers."

             
"What about his customer?"                                                                                                         "I'll let him tell you himself," he said. We reached the restaurant's outdoor deck and Willey tied up the boat.  "Grab a table," he said.  "I'll be right back."  The bar and restaurant were full, but there were only a few people on the outdoor deck.  They were loud and having a great time.  I picked a table far away from them so we could talk.  The table was near the long wharf where they tie the boats up.  There were three boats I would call, yachts.  The rest were runabouts. 

             
I looked to the west.  The sun was just setting over the Gulf, a bright peach glow on the horizon, and banks of pink and purple clouds overhead.  Small boats with their running lights on moved up and down the Intracoastal. 

             
Willey came back with a swarthy youth in his twenties trailing behind him. 

             
"Barney, this is Eduardo."  I stood up and shook Eduardo's hand. 

             
"Glad to meet you, Eduardo," I said.  Eduardo was wearing pointy, black patent leather shoes, tight black pants, a wide black belt with silver studs, and a large, ornate silver belt buckle.  He wore his purple shirt open almost to the navel, showing off his collection of gold chains.  He had a pencil thin, black mustache and three gold studs in each ear.  His long, glossy, black hair was pulled back tightly to his head and tied into a ponytail in the back. 

             
Eduardo was a grease fire waiting to happen.  They sat down and Willey said, "Eduardo, tell Barney what you told me." 

             
"Well, you know," Eduardo said, "I got this guy who comes in here almost every night.  And after he gets a few drinks in him he starts crying in his beer.  You know, like he's looking for somebody to listen to his problems.  I used to pretend like I was listening.  Then, the other night he's going on about how his boss is making him do stuff he doesn't want to do, you know?  And later that night he's so shit-faced he's hanging onto the bar, and he says,
'I didn't want to hurt nobody.' 
I don't think he even knew I was there.  It's almost like he's talking to himself.  So the next time he comes in I start to listen to what he's saying.  I find out he works for a big construction company called, Flaherty Construction that builds condos."

             
Flaherty!  That caught my attention!  Eduardo continued, "And this guy, he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, you know?  So his boss tells him he either does what he's told to do or he'll get his ass turned over to the cops."

             
Why don't you tell this to the police?" I asked. 

             
Eduardo looked uncomfortable.  "I don't tell nothin' to the cops, man.  I ain't no squealer.  I'm just telling you because Willey wants me to."

             
"Don't you see, Barney?" Willey said.  "He's telling us this guy who works for Flaherty is being forced to do stuff.  Stuff like, maybe taking care of trouble makers like Freddy."    

             
Eduardo got up to leave.  "I gotta get back to work, see ya."  Just as Eduardo stood up a woman came up to him.  She was an older woman, kind of long and lean with salt and pepper hair, smooth olive skin and dark Mediterranean eyes.  I couldn't take my eyes off her.  Could she be Eduardo's mother?  When Eduardo saw her his face lit up, smiling from ear to ear. 

             
"Hi, Eduardo," the woman said.  "I hope I'm not intruding." 

             
"You're not intruding," Eduardo said.  He kissed her on the cheek.  "Willey, Barney, this is my grandmother, Sofie."

             
Being gentlemen we both stood up.  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sofie," I said and held out my hand.  She was one good looking grandmother.  She gave me a big smile.  I smiled right back at her.

             
"The pleasure is mine," Sofie said, and gave my hand a squeeze.  When she leaned over the table to take Willey's hand, her linen jacket opened in the front just enough for me to see the shoulder holster she was wearing.  She had a gun!  Why would Eduardo's grandmother be packing heat?  Did she live in a dangerous neighborhood?

             
"See you later," Eduardo said, as he and Sofie headed toward the restaurant.

             
I waited until they couldn't hear what we were saying.  Then I said, "Willey, Eduardo's grandmother was carrying a gun.  I saw it when she leaned over the table to shake your hand."

             
"No kidding?" Willey said.  "Well, that's not so unusual these days.  We all have to protect ourselves, with crime being what it is.  Especially women.  But anyway, Barney, the guy Eduardo's talking about, his name is Stevens, Mike Stevens.  He drives a big red boat of a Cadillac, and uses Flaherty's cabin cruiser to take clients out to Caladesi Island to party every weekend.  He'll be going out there tomorrow.  I say we follow him around a little bit and see what he's up to." 

             
"What do you think we'll find out by following him?" I asked.                          

             
"Maybe who he talks to and who he's making payoffs to.  Maybe we'll see him handing over envelopes to city officials.  We might even be able to take some pictures." 

             
Willey looked around.  "The pontoon's filling up," he said.  "I'll be right back."  I sat there and considered what Eduardo had said.  I didn't think he had any reason to lie to us, and if what he said was accurate it did seem suspicious.  Willey was right, we should check it out.

             
Tomorrow we would go to Caladesi Island.  Maybe it wasn't too late to save the park after all.  That night I slept better than I had in a long time.  I dreamed of Eduardo's sexy, gun-toting grandma, Sofie.  There's something about a woman who carries a gun that turns me on.  So I'm a sick puppy--so sue me.

              Caladesi is a barrier island off the Gulf coast of Tampa.  It was originally part of Honeymoon Island to the north, but in the 1920's a hurricane cut the island in half.  They called the newly created lower half, Caladesi, and the waterway between the two islands is called Hurricane Pass.

             
It was a warm, sunny morning as Willey and I drove across the Dunedin causeway to Honeymoon Island.  Honeymoon Island and Caladesi Island are now State Parks.  It cost eight dollars per car to enter Honeymoon Island State Park with my Wrangler.  I drove to the ferry dock and parked.  We carried our equipment with us, a camera for me and binoculars for Willey.  The fare to take the ferry across hurricane pass to Caladesi was nine dollars each, and we were only allowed to stay on the island for four hours.  I guess the boating crowd doesn't want the riff-raff hanging around too long.  We boarded the ferry and made the short trip to Caladesi.  We got off on the dock and followed the crowd up a slight rise to the Cafe Caladesi.  We found a small table near the edge of the deck overlooking the marina.  There must have been fifty to sixty boats tied up there. 

             
The view from the deck was perfect for what we wanted.  I was wearing a straw hat with a wide brim that I wear when I go fishing.  The Florida sun can be blistering.  Willey refused to wear a hat, even though this guy Stevens might recognize him from Frank's.  Willey can be as stubborn as a mule at times.  He was checking out the boats with binoculars, I had a Nikon from my newspaper days.   

             
Do you know the name of Flaherty's boat?" I asked.   

             
"No, but I'll know Stevens when I see him."

             
I looked around at the people.  There were a lot of what they call the "Beautiful People" there.  A few minutes later, Willey said, "There he goes.  He's heading out into the Intracoastal."  A large, white, cabin cruiser, with a red stripe running down the side, was moving through the marina channel.  There looked to be about eight people on board.  We watched as the boat turned into the Intracoastal and disappeared behind the mangrove trees.  After a minute went by I said, "They're not coming out.  They must have dropped anchor there for privacy." 

             
Willey was already up and moving.  I grabbed my camera and took off after him. We walked down the grassy area that bordered the water's edge until we thought we were lined up with where they had anchored the boat.  Then we started through the thick brush toward the water.  When we reached the mangrove trees we could hear them.  They had music playing and we could hear women laughing. 

             
"Sounds like they're having a good time," Willey said.  "Let's get closer and you can take some pictures.  I'd like to know who Stevens is hanging around with out there."  The dry ground ended where the mangrove trees started.  Mangrove trees grow in the water with their roots sticking out of the trees above the waterline, then turning down like knees into the water and muck below.  We had to move from tree to tree, holding onto the trunks, stepping on the knees of the roots.  The mosquitoes swarmed over us biting every inch of exposed skin, and a lot that wasn't exposed.  They weren't what the locals call Swamp Angles, those were found farther south.  But they weren’t those anemic mites we call mosquitoes up north, either.  The mosquitoes couldn't decide whether to eat me there or take me home to the family.  Willey, however, didn't seem to have any problem with them.  Maybe the bugs didn't like old Cracker blood.  It was slow going but we finally reached the open water and the mosquitoes let up.