Geezer Paradise (11 page)

             
"She's mine," he hissed.

             
"Huh?"

             
"She's mine, you can't have her."  He lifted his right hand, which held one of the nastiest looking carving knifes I'd ever seen.  He must have swiped it from the kitchen.  Don't they watch these old coots?  He started shuffling towards me, holding the knife over his head, ready to stab me.  I took off in the opposite direction.  He kept up with me even though he was shuffling, but I wasn't exactly running, either.  He chased me all the way down a long corridor.  The old guy had a mean shuffle, and he didn't show any signs of slowing down.  Maybe he'd get tired soon . . . I hoped.  We turned the corner and I saw a glassed-in office at the end of the corridor.  A nurse was sitting in it.  She was busy writing and hadn't seen us yet.  I looked around for a way out.  There was a sign over a door that said, Exit.
 
I headed for it.  I pushed the door open and found myself in a short hallway with a metal door at the end.  I turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the fresh night air.  Free at last.

             
Then I noticed the chain link fence and the locked gate.  There was no way out.  In the middle of the yard there was a huge trash compactor.  I stood staring at it until the door behind me swung open and the geezer with the knife came out after me.  I climbed up the iron rungs to the top of the compactor.  I had nowhere else to go.  The old guy started climbing up right after me.  As he reached the top I started to walk backwards.  When the roof of the compactor ended I fell backwards into a sea of trash.  I seemed to be spending a lot of time in garbage lately--were the cosmos trying to tell me something?  I stood up and worked my way through the garbage to the far end.  When I looked back my attacker was half-way through the trash and headed my way.  I threw my right leg over the side and found something to step on.  Then I threw my other leg over and started searching for something else to put my foot on so I could climb down. 

             
My foot found something, but when I stepped on it there was a loud, clicking, sound, and the compactor roared to life.  The trash under the psycho's feet started going down, and he started to drop down with it.  I searched frantically with my foot but I couldn't find the switch to shut it off.  I looked over the side but saw only darkness.  The old man was going under fast.  I reached my hand out to help him, but he swiped at me with the knife and I had to pull back.

             
As he went under he hissed a final, "She's mine," at me. 

             
"Okay," I said.  "She's yours."  He smiled, and then he was gone.  Again I searched for the shut-off switch without any luck . . . it was nowhere to be found. 

             
The compactor finally fell silent.  There was nothing more I could do.  He was gone, squished into a bundle of garbage the size of a bale of hay.  I felt bad for him, but it wasn't my fault . . . was it?  Of course, if I hadn't broken in . . . well, he was gone now and there wasn't anything I could do about it.  I had to get back to the pontoon.  I slowly climbed down from the compactor and tried the steel door.  It was locked on the inside. 

             
I went to the fence and started to climb to the top.  Suddenly I was very tired.  The twisted wire at the top of the fence gave me a bad time, but I managed to get over and down.  I made my way back to the boat. 

             
"How'd it go?" Willey asked when I showed up at the water's edge.  I showed him the note book and said, "Smooth as glass. Couldn't have been better."  I figured what Willey didn't know couldn't hurt him--or me. 

             
"What was that noise I heard?" Willey asked. 

             
"Noise, what noise?  I didn't hear anything except the air conditioning units on the roof."  Willey shrugged and started the boat.  We backed out into the Intracoastal.  Then Willey turned the boat toward home and we disappeared into the warm Florida night. 

              We sat at Willey's kitchen table the next morning going through Hattie's note book. 

             
"Listen to this," I said, "Flaherty's Project Managers have a dinner meeting on the second Tuesday of each month at Ransom's Restaurant in Largo.  After dinner, around eight-thirty, Flaherty's lawyer, Snydely, and Senator Buckland go out into the parking lot and sit in Snydely's Lincoln.  Snydely hands Buckland an envelope and Buckland puts it into his inside coat pocket.  I know this because I have watched them from inside the restaurant."

             
I said, "So it isn't Stevens who makes the bribes, it's that lawyer Snydely. Willey, if we could get pictures of a bribe going down we could stop Flaherty in his tracks.  Wouldn't that be nice?  Maybe Eduardo will even pay us to take pictures of it.  I could use a zoom lens and not need a flash if the light is good enough.  They wouldn't even know they were being photographed.  That would pay us another four hundred bucks apiece.  Ask Eduardo about that when you give him the notebook today.  And tell him Hattie wants her daughter to stay away.  She doesn't want her to get involved.  And ask him when we're going to get paid for last night.  I sure could use that money."  I could see my money problems disappearing as long as Eduardo had work for us. 

             
"The second Tuesday in August is the day after tomorrow," Willey said.  "I'll ask Eduardo and let you know."

Chapter Seven

THE NEXT DAY Willey and Oscar were improving their minds
by watching a game show when the TV screen suddenly went black. 

             
"Damn," Willey said.  "It's the picture tube.  It's not worth replacing.  I'll have to buy another TV.  You want to come to the mall with me, Barney?" 

             
In my opinion there's nothing worth watching on TV except The History Channel, A&E, and The Weather Channel. 

             
"Why don't you forget about the TV and read more?" I asked.  Willey looked at me like I had two heads.

             
"Do you want to come or not?" Willey asked.  "I can always take the bus." 

             
I could just picture Willey trying to convince a bus driver to let him carry a TV onto the bus.  "Yeah, I'll go," I said.  "What about Oscar?"

             
"He can wait in the Jeep.  We won't be there very long."  We all got into my Wrangler and headed for the mall.  We found a place to park in the shade, rolled the windows up halfway and locked the doors.  We left Oscar with a cold bottle of water.  The sun was almost down and the heat of the day was dissipating.  Oscar would be alright until we got back. 

             
We went into the mall and found a department store that sold TVs.  They had TVs with screens as big as beds, and with prices to match.  Those things must throw off enough radiation to cook your eyeballs while you're watching Dancing With The Stars.   It wasn't long before a salesman descended on us.  He wore a checkered suit coat with checkered pants, and a comb over.   Why are salesmen always fashion challenged? 

             
"May I help you gentlemen?"

             
"Yes," Willey said.  "I need a new TV."  The salesman showed us the models that were within Willey's price range.  Willey decide on a large portable model.  When we got to the desk to write up the sale, the trouble started. 

             
The salesman said, "This model comes with a one year warranty.  If you would like to add a year onto the warranty, it will only cost forty-five dollars." 

             
"Only one year?" Willey groused.  "My old TV lasted twelve years.  Do you think your TV will only last for a year?" 

             
"Of course not," the salesman said.  "It should last you for many years to come."

             
"Then why don't you guarantee them for many years to come?"  Willey asked. 

             
The salesman's smile faded.  "I can give you an extended warranty that will cover the set for three years for only a hundred and thirty-five dollars."  

             
Willey bristled, "You mean I have to pay all that money for a set that lasts only three years and one month before it conks out, and then I'm left holding the bag?"  I had to agree with Willey, this warranty thing was a scam.

             
"If your TVs are well made you should be able to guarantee them for at least a dozen years," Willey said.

             
The salesman stiffened.  "If the set was guaranteed for twelve years it would be more expensive."

             
"It's already more expensive," Willey said.  "Would I have to pay a thousand dollars to stretch the warranty out to cover the average lifespan of a TV?"

             
The salesman's manner changed abruptly.  "Just a minute, Sir," he said, with some condescension in his voice.  "Let me talk to the manager."   The salesman walked into the backroom.  We waited for a while, but he didn't return. 

             
"Where did you buy you're last TV?" I asked. 

             
"Bought it from a second hand furniture store." 

             
"Why don't you do that now?" I asked.

             
"That sounds like a good idea.  Let's get out of here."  We turned and bumped into two mall cops.  One was a tall, skinny kid.  The other was an older man with an unfortunate nose, and a limp.  I was fairly certain the older man acquired the ruined nose while sitting on a barstool.  The limp most likely came from arthritis, caused by putting wet change into his pocket.  They were dressed like Canadian Mounties, but they were less than impressive. 

             
"Excuse us, Sirs," the kid said.  "We have orders to escort you gentlemen out of the store."

             
"What?" Willey said.  "Escort my ass!"

             
I prodded Willey in the ribs.  "Let's go." 

             
"No," Willey protested.  "First that salesman tries to cheat me and now they're throwing me out.  Whatever happened to, 'The customer is always right?'"

             
"It went out with the buggy whip," I said.  "Now let's get out of here before this thing escalates."  I took Willey by the arm and tried to lead him towards the door, but he dragged his feet.

             
"Follow us, Gramps," red nose said to Willey. 

             
"Who are you calling gramps, you old fart?"

             
The old guy put his hand on his radio.  "We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way.  It's up to you."  He must have watched a lot of television.

             
"We're leaving," I said.  The old guy nodded and they walked ahead of us.  When we reached the exit they watched us walk out into the mall. 

             
"Well, that’s a hell of a thing," Willey said.  "They won't get any more of my business."

             
"I don't think that will drive them into bankruptcy.  Besides, what would happen if we got arrested and were brought before the same judge we had the last time we got arrested?" 

             
"I didn't think of that, Barney.  Let's go to the second hand furniture store.  Maybe we should have gone there in the first place."  I agreed.

              That evening Willey called me from work.  "The photo session is on for tomorrow night," he said.  And I have our checks from Eduardo.  But they're made out to, 'Bearer.'  What does that mean?"

             
"It means anybody can cash them, so don't lose them."

             
"What do you think I am," Willey asked.  "A moron?"  

             
"Do you really want me to answer that?"  I hung up.  At this rate we'd be rolling in money in no time.  I did wonder why the checks were not made out in our names.  Maybe because we were undercover agents.  Is this how 007 started?

              I drove into town the next morning to pick up some high speed film.  If I was going to shoot at night without a flash I would need it.  I parked in the free parking lot next to the museum, and walked across the street to cash my honest to goodness spy check at the First Third Bank.  Citrus Bay is a laid back little town with mostly one story buildings in the downtown area.  You could cross the street there without checking on your life insurance policy first.  There are a number of good restaurants, a few local bars, and some upscale shops.  Not to mention a small museum and an art gallery.  I guess you would call the place, quaint.  The town had started out as a trading post on the coastal shipping root in the Gulf over a hundred years ago, and has retained its small town feel ever since. 

             
My next stop was at Sammy's Gun and Tackle shop.  I had decided if the black murder car tried to run me down again I was going to fight back.  Sammy had a good selection of used guns.