Geezer Paradise (5 page)

             
I gave Sofie my telephone number.  "If he acts up again call me right away.  I'll be here in less than an hour."

             
"Thanks guys, you're the best," Sofie said, and blew us a kiss at us, but I thought the kiss was directed more at me than at Willey.  

             
"Goodnight, Sofie," we said, and let ourselves out.  As we walked to the Wrangler Willey said, "I think she has her eye on you, Barney.  You better be careful or you'll end up a married man.

             
"Ha," was all I had to say to that.

              The next morning I decided to make another attempt at making some money to pay overdue bills.  Spying on Stevens would have to keep for another day.  Besides, we had no idea how to go about spying.  We couldn't just walk into Flaherty's office and announce that we were there to spy on Stevens, and would you please tell us his whereabouts? 

             
Instead, I decided to use the morning to research an article for the Tampa Sun.  I have a good friend at the Sun, John Goodman.  I met him at a convention we attended many years ago when we were both cub reporters.  Now he's an editor with a big fancy office.  He agreed to publish any articles I sent him as long as they were worth being published.  Since then I've been sending him my work and getting about half of it published--and getting paid.  That helps me get by.  I grabbed my camera and notebook and Called Willey on the phone. 

             
"I'm going to Clearwater Beach to research an article." I said.  "Want to come along for the ride, or do you have something else to do?" 

             
"I was going to spend the day answering my fan mail," Willey said.  "But I'll go along just to make sure you don't get lost."

             
"You're too good to me.  Meet me at the Wrangler."

             
We jumped into the Wrangler and drove down 19A to Clearwater, turned onto 60 West, and headed for the causeway to Clearwater Beach.  Clearwater Beach is a barrier island in the Gulf of Mexico.  The causeway that runs to it from the mainland starts off as a raised bridge that lets the boat traffic on the Intracoastal Waterway pass through underneath.  Then it comes back down to the water and continues as a man made causeway over to the island of Clearwater Beach.  There are turnoffs along the causeway that let you pull over and park on the grass under the palm trees.  A strip of sand serves as a beach on both sides of the causeway.  You can park there for free and fish or launch your kayak, or just sit and enjoy the view.  Since it's the Intracoastal, it's shallow and the bottom is too mucky for swimming.  I like to go there sometimes and just watch the people. 

             
As we came off the causeway we passed the marina where some expensive boats sat idly at dock.  "I've never seen any of those boats move," I said to Willey.  "I guess the people who own them are so busy working to pay for them that they don't have time to sail them." 

             
We hit the traffic circle on the island and passed a large hole in the ground that used to be a hotel that my late wife and I stayed at while on vacation many years ago.  They had torn down the hotel and were going to build high rise condos there.  A lot of coastal Florida was being torn down to make room for more condos.  I guess it's progress.  We went off the rotary onto to Gulfview Boulevard, the beach road bordering the Gulf.  We drove down Gulfview a few blocks and then I took a left onto the back streets.  I wasn't going to pay those exaggerated parking fees on the main drag. 

             
We found a place to park on a street that ran parallel to Gulfview, and were walking back to the beach road when I spotted a homeless woman sitting on the ground on the shady side of a dumpster.  She had her back against a wall and was talking to herself in the manner of most of the homeless . . . and myself.  It's difficult to wrap our minds around being homeless, even though the best of us are only a misstep away from it.  It's especially disturbing when we come upon a woman in that situation.  I always try to help those less fortunate than I am, but lately it's been hard to find people less fortunate than I am.  She qualified. 

             
She wore her long, gray hair in a ponytail, which gave her the odd effect of looking like a wrinkled young girl.  But the ponytail went well with her bicycle shorts.  I figured I'd do my civic duty and drop a fiver on her.  She looked up as I came near her with the five in my hand.

             
"I don't do that anymore," she said.

             
I told her I was glad to hear it, and held out the five.  She reached out and grabbed it faster than any frog's tongue ever zapped a mosquito.  I waited a beat but there was no thanks coming.  Then she slapped herself in the face! 

             
"Are you alright?" I asked.

             
"'Course I'm alright," she said.  Then she slapped herself in the face again. 

             
"Well," I said, "it's just . . ."   She mumbled something I couldn't understand.  I put my hand up and cupped my ear to let her know I couldn't hear her.  She motioned me closer with her finger.  I leaned in close to hear what she wanted to tell me.                                                                                                                                        "You're a dufus," she said, and then she slapped me!  Willey doubled up laughing.  The old lady cackled like a hen laying an egg--then she slapped herself.  I tried to look indignant but I couldn't pull it off.  I had to smile.

             
"She sure got you good," Willey said as we walked away.

             
We walked up to Gulfview Boulevard where I could get some good pictures of the beach and its royal blue cabanas.  I took a half-dozen shots, and then we walked down to the boat-ride docks.  There I got some good shots of the new pirate ship,
The Bluebeard
.  A pirate wearing a three cornered hat and an eye patch lumbered up to us.  "Avast ye matees," he roared.  "Will ye be going out to sea with us today?"

             
"Not today," I said.  "Maybe tomorrow." 

             
"We might all be dead tomorrow," the pirate countered.

             
Willey said, "In that case, don't wait for us."  I wondered if the pirate knew something we didn't. 

             
"Arrrrg," the one-eyed pirate growled, "I'll be keepin' me good eye peeled for ye.  I don't like waitin' round fer me crew when it's time to shove off."  Then he lumbered over to a young couple on the dock.  "Arrrrg," he roared at them. 

             
I think he was a real pirate because I could smell rum on his breath. 

             
We walked around a bit and I took more pictures.  I asked Willey to remind me to stop
at the Chamber of Commerce to pick up some of their leaflets.  They're always good for information about an area.  On the way back to the Wrangler I noticed the homeless woman had gone.  She was probably off slapping someone-- probably herself.  We swung by the Chamber of Commerce to pick up the literature about the Beach.  I parked, and Willey and I went in.  It was just like any other Chamber of Commerce office, very neat--and empty.  An older woman went behind the counter as asked what she could do for us.  I told her I was writing a newspaper article about the Beach, and I needed information.  She was impressed and gave me several brochures about Clearwater Beach's history, going back to the Seminole Indians. 

             
We left there and drove over the high bridge to Sand Key Island.  Sand Key has a State Park on it, but the rest of the long, narrow island is covered with expensive homes and condos.  The beach at Sand Key Park isn't as crowded as Clearwater Beach, and it's cheaper to park there.  I got some good beach shots there, too, and then we headed home.  I was ready to write the article. 

             
When I got home I put all of my information about Clearwater Beach and Sand Key State Park on my laptop and started to write.  I wrote about the beaches and the amenities, about the restaurants and the shops, the hotels, the boat rides, the laid back feeling, and the natural beauty of the place.  Around noon I was ready to send it off.  I attached the article to an e-mail and sent it to John at the Tampa Sun.  It didn't take long for John to e-mail me back.  He said he couldn't use the article because he had recently published one like it.  He suggested articles on places such as Weeki Wachee Springs, Sarasota, or Cassadaga, the community of palm readers and clairvoyants up above Disney World.  With the price of gasoline being what it is, a trip to Cassadaga was out of the question, so I decided to look into Weeki Wachee, that was only about a twenty minute ride up the coast.  I spent an hour on the computer searching everything I could find on the place, and started some preliminary writing.  Then I was finished for the day.  I went out to my carport and watched the residents roll by on their golf carts. 

             
I was sitting there wondering if things would work out for us, so we could stay here and not have to move, when Willey came hurrying over looking agitated.  "Mary just called," he said.  "The coroner said it wasn't Freddy's heart.  He was smothered to death!  He was murdered, Barney.  Those bastards murdered Freddy."

             
I was speechless.  Then I remembered the speeding car that almost ran me down.  It wasn't a drunk driver, someone was sent to kill me!  My feet grew cold.  I didn't want to tell Willey about it, he was already overexcited.               

             
"Those bastards," I said.  "What are we going to do?  We can't just wait for them to come after us, too." 

             
"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Barney.  We have to stop them or we'll be next."

             
"Shouldn't we tell the police?" I asked.

             
"The police can't babysit us day and night, Barney.  And, besides, the police will think we're crazy if we tell them we think Flaherty might try to kill us.  They probably think Freddy was killed by a burglar who thought nobody was home."

             
Willey was right, we were in danger from this lunatic, but who would believe us.  We had to do something--but what?

Chapter Three

AT EIGHT O'CLOCK that night Willey and I had decided what to do about Flaherty, we were going to break into his offices!  It was either that or wait until the killer came to kill us in our sleep, like he did to Freddy.  I was more than a little nervous about it, but if I didn't go, Willy would go alone.  I couldn't let that happen, Willey could screw up a soup sandwich. 

             
Willey came to my place wearing dark, grubby, clothes.  I was dressed the same way.  Willey thought we would attract less attention that way.  He figured nobody pays attention to grubby old men.  I hoped he was right, but my stomach wasn't so sure--it was doing flip-flops. 

             
"Do you really think being dressed this way will make us less noticeable?" I asked. 

             
"Of course.  If you're a grubby old man you can stand on a street corner talking to yourself all day long and nobody will pay any attention to you.  But let some guy under fifty do the same thing and they'll call an ambulance, and a cop with a drug sniffing dog." 

             
I said, "I'm going to need a drink or two before we do this."  Willey agreed.  We decided we would stop into a small bar where nobody knew us.  That was easy, since neither one of us drank any place but at home.  It was the only place we could afford to drink.  We climbed into my Wrangler.  I noticed the soft top was getting worn in places.  Like me, it had seen better days.  I would have to patch it up with duct tape.  If I ever got home again.

              By nine o'clock we were standing in Bertha's Bar & Grill in Clearwater, just up the street from Flaherty's offices.  It was more bar than grill.  A dark place with a group of regulars at the bar watching a ballgame and raising a ruckus.  A cloud of politically incorrect smoke hung in the air.  In the background Frank Sinatra sang elevator music off key.  Bertha was a battleship that cruised back and forth behind the bar.  She had a voice any drill instructor would kill for.  It was just what we needed.  I went up to the bar and asked Bertha for two drafts.  Willey came up behind me and ordered two shots of bourbon.

             
"We're going to need a little something to settle our nerves," he said.  Willey pushed my money back to me and said, "You can't afford it."

             
"Thanks, Willey.  I owe you one." 

             
"Forget it.  Besides, this is my caper."  His caper?  He must be watching too much television.  I looked up above the bar at an oil portrait of Albert Einstein.

             
"Look at that," I said.

             
Willey looked up and said, "I wonder if Einstein posed for that."  Bertha put our drinks on the bar.