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| Selection from Blood Tide |
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Sam Wallace had never been a fan of condominiums. He was not a man to have his
life regimented by people whose calling was monitoring the behavior of others. By any standards, Paradise Towers was nondescript. Even the majestic waterfall tumbling over artificial rocks near the front entrance failed to inspire the tired looking building. The parking lot confirmed his suspicions. Signs were posted everywhere. “Trespassing on covered space forbidden.” “Trespassing vehicles will be removed at trespassers expense.” “Residents may park only in their assigned areas. No exceptions.” He pulled into a parking slot just outside what appeared to be the office, being careful to stay within the white lines. “Henry, you wait here. I'll be right back.” Henry tilted his head and cocked his ears the way he did when he wasn't sure he could believe Sam. He hopped onto the console between the two front seats, gave Sam a quick buss on the nose, and began his vigil. Sam searched the directory outside the office. It contained a number for each resident with a buzzer next to the number. The list was alphabetical but he saw nothing for “Office.” The door was locked and he tried knocking. No luck. Maybe that wasn't the office. Better not linger too long. He'd probably already been spotted and taken for a trespasser. Trying not to look too suspicious, he headed back toward his car. Henry had taken over the driver's seat. A few yards away an elderly man was loading his car, a Lincoln Town Car that Sam figured to be about seven or eight years old, parked in spot number 351. “Hi there,” Sam said, approaching the car. The man poked his head out from the back seat, where he was hanging clothes on a bar. He wore a Siesta Key T-shirt, khaki shorts, and one sandal. The other sat on the pavement. Perspiration rolled down his face and he looked annoyed. He eyed Sam but said nothing. Sam pointed in the general direction of the building. “Can you tell me where the office is?” “You're lookin' at it,” the man said and resumed rummaging about the back seat. Sam nodded toward the door he had just come from. “Yeah, I thought that was it, but how do I get in?” The head popped out again. “What do you mean, how do you get in?” “Well, is there a number I dial on the phone or something?” “Course. You don't think you just walk in?” He studied Sam for a moment like it was the first time he'd really seen him. “Is the office listed on the directory?” Sam asked. “Sure is.” The old fart's attitude was beginning to piss him off. “Well, I couldn't find it.” “It's there.” “Yeah, well, I guess I missed it. I was looking alphabetically, you know, under O?” “It's not under O. It's under C for condominium office.” The man walked past Sam and placed himself in front of Sam's car. “That your car?” “Yeah?” “You're parked in Ed Turner's space.” “Sorry. Thanks for telling me. Where should I park?” “Visitors' area out back.” He pointed to an area about a hundred yards from the office. Sam looked at all the empty spaces in front of the office door. “None of these, huh? I'm only going to be in there about five or ten minutes.” He looked around the parking lot. His car and the Lincoln were the only ones in sight. “Think Ed Turner'll be back soon?” “Nope. He's up north.” Sam started to speak but the man held up his hand. “Rules are rules. I live here, and I'm chairman of the parking committee. My job is to enforce the parking rules. No exceptions.” Sam shrugged. Now he knew who wrote the copy for the signs. He climbed into his car and nudged Henry aside. Henry licked Sam's ear and bounded into the back seat. By the time he walked back to the office from the visitors' area, Sam was drenched. The temperature had soared to the high eighties. Couldn’t leave Henry parked there more than a couple of minutes. “My name is Sam Wallace,” he said to the woman in the office. “Mr. Foy, Jack Foy in 411 gave you my name and told you I'd be occupying his apartment for a while?” The woman was about the same age as the parking lot vigilante. Her white hair was cropped close and the wrap around sunglasses she wore covered half her face. She looked Sam over, then leaned across the counter toward him as if looking for something. “Mr. Foy said that you have a dog.” She spat the words out slowly, her face puckered up as if some foul odor had seeped into the room. “Yes, I do, and Mr. Foy told me that dogs were OK here.” “Only if they're twenty pounds or under,” she said with a little smile. “Oh, well that's why he said dogs are OK. Mine's eighteen.” He didn't think she did a very good job concealing her disappointment. “We'll have to weigh him before you move in,” she said. Jim had given him a very good deal on the condo, but he was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. “OK, I'll bring him in.” “One other thing,” the woman said. Her eyes narrowed and Sam braced himself. “You should know that we've had some problems with Mr. Foy.” “Oh?” “Mr. Foy plays his phonograph after ten o'clock at night. There have been a number of complaints from other units.” She took a step back and waited. Phonograph? Sam thought of mild mannered Jack Foy, sitting by his CD player at night listening to his classical music. “Does he play it loudly?” “Apparently loud enough so his neighbors have complained.” “Hmm.” Sam wasn't sure where this was going. “Do you have a rule about playing music after ten?” “Our rule says eleven, but most of our residents have retired by ten and feel that Mr. Foy has been most inconsiderate. I know there's talk of bringing him before the executive board.” He glanced at her name plate. “Well, Ms. Bunting, I'm not sure what all that has to do with me, but thank you for telling me.” “It's Mrs. Bunting. I'm telling you this so you'll be aware of the situation and be a good neighbor yourself. I just thought you should know, that's all.” She returned to her post. Fun place, Sam thought as he thanked Mrs. Bunting again and promised to be a good neighbor. “Uh, which one is Mr. Foy's parking space?” Mrs. Bunting pointed out the window in the general vicinity of Ed Turner's spot. “Right out there,” she said. “Four eleven.” Four eleven turned out to be two spaces away from the absent Ed Turner. Sam retrieved his car from the visitors' limbo and pulled into his space, disappointed that his friend with the Lincoln was gone. |
Henry, who had spread out on the passenger seat, eyed Sam. Sam knew the look. Henry suspected something was up. They sat, eyeing at each other. Neither blinked. Sam was worried. Henry was off his eating schedule. They'd both been nibbling junk food all the way down from Boston. He checked the pretzel bag in the back seat. Nearly empty. Henry flattened his face on the seat and peered up at Sam. “OK, you little shit, we're both in trouble if you've been pigging out behind my back. Pull in your stomach and let's go.” They headed for the office and the waiting Mrs. Bunting. Sam checked Henry, strutting along in the cocky way he had of walking like he owned the joint, his rear end, swaying side to side. He definitely looked bigger. “Henry, I think you have porked up since we left,” he said, fearing the worst. Mrs. Bunting was ready with the scale when they entered. Henry spotted her and wagged his tail. He stood up on his hind legs, rested his paws on her legs, and licked her hand. She recoiled and Henry tumbled to the floor. Sam tugged his leash and sat him down, while Mrs. Bunting scrubbed her hand with a towel. “Can you get him on the scale?” she asked, keeping her distance. “Sure,” Sam said and guided Henry onto the scale. Henry squirmed, sniffed around the scale, and tugged on his leash in the direction of Mrs. Bunting. Sam held him firmly. “He likes you,” he said to Mrs. Bunting. “Come on, Henry. Sit.” Henry settled onto the scale and began nibbling at something in his crotch. Mrs. Bunting edged over and she and Sam watched the spinning numbers on the scale. When they stopped, the needle pointed to nineteen and a half pounds. Henry jumped off and cocked his head toward Sam. “Nice going, buddy,” Sam said and picked him up. “He just made it,” Mrs. Bunting said, graciously accepting defeat. “I knew he would,” Sam lied. Mrs. Bunting softened and gave him a little half smile. “Welcome to Paradise Towers. Here are your keys. You get two of them. Here is a copy of our rules and regulations. Please read them carefully.” Sam took the keys and his copy of the rules and regulations. He flipped to the back—thirty-eight pages. Riding up in the elevator, Sam felt the rigors of the grueling three day drive from Boston to Sarasota. He’d suffered through a steady diet of fast food joints with names like Denny's, Burpee’s, Wendy's, Stukey's, Hardee’s, Arby's, Sonny's. Couldn’t remember which, but why do they all sound like baby talk? Henry had had a hamburger and french fries, so he was good for the night. Sam made a note to get them both on a more civilized diet starting tomorrow. He did have a bottle of Absolut and some vermouth in his suitcase. He looked forward to sitting on the terrace and taking in the view Jack raved about. “Let me tell you something, Sam. You sit there with the breeze off the bay caressing you, feast your eyes on that beautiful blue-green water and watch the boats cruise up and down the Intracoastal. That's pure heaven, man. Cure whatever ails you.” He wasn’t sure about that. But the martini and Jim's terrace couldn't hurt. He lugged his suitcases to 411, covering a distance worthy of a cab ride. Cooking smells filled the corridor, the pungent odor of sausage, garlic, and spaghetti sauce from behind one door, and the smoky, charred smell of hot dogs drifting out from another. Henry checked out each door. Sam let him linger long enough for a few sniffs before hustling him along. The powder blue carpeting and shiny green wallpaper adorned with seashells and fish weren't his style, but heck, they were in Florida. “What do you think of the joint?” he asked Henry, who ignored him and waddled straight ahead like he knew where he was going. Jim's unit was a big improvement over the corridor. Two bedrooms, two baths, tastefully furnished living room, and a decent sized dining area. He checked out the kitchen while Henry disappeared around a corner, exploring. The kitchen was a pleasant surprise. Large by condo standards and efficiently laid out. There wasn't much in Jim's refrigerator. Two opened cans of beer, and a partially eaten ham sandwich sat on a shelf. He opened the sliders to check out Jim's blue-green water, stepped out onto the terrace, looked toward the bay, and stared into the concrete walls of another condo. He looked down at a small army of workers hammering, scraping, drilling, polishing, each energetically contributing his bit to the obliteration of Jack's view. His friend was not going to be happy. The only thing he could see other than the unfinished walls of the new building was the dust rising in thick brownish clouds. At least an inch had settled on the railing of the balcony. Anyway, it didn’t make a lot of difference. The sweat was already running down his face. Welcome to Florida. Jack warned him it would be brutally hot in September, but it was OK. Since being released from Whatley at the end of the term, he’d had three months to clear up the loose ends of his career and marriage before leaving for Florida. The timing was good. Jack was a good friend. “I can’t get away this year, and I don’t want to rent the place, so you might as well use it,” He told Sam. “Stay as long as you want.” Back inside the apartment he turned on the air conditioning and made himself an extra dry martini on the rocks. He let the first sip linger in his mouth for a moment, before allowing it to slide smoothly down his throat. He exhaled and closed his eyes. The martini was doing its work. He went into the master bedroom, collapsed onto the bed and sipped his drink. Henry was already curled up in the other bed. Sam had mixed feelings about the air conditioning blasting away at him. He welcomed the relief from the cauldron of heat that hit him when he entered the condo, but being a New Englander, he resented having to survive on artificial air in a sealed capsule. A gaunt looking man stared at him from across the room. He sat up quickly, nearly spilling his drink. The man in the mirror did the same. “Jesus,” he muttered. The man looking back at him was at least sixty. He was only forty-three. The man's eyes were gray and cloudy. His were blue. The figure in the mirror couldn’t be Sam Wallace. He wasn't into bragging about himself, but he knew who he was, and he sure wasn't the cadaver staring back at him. He put the drink down, closed his eyes, and flopped back on the pillow. He thought of the stickers he used to see on cars. “Shit Happens.” Nice pithy little two words that tell you problems come up, you roll with them, and move on. He could deal with his marriage to Lisa being over. He still belonged to that vast majority who believes that love isn’t something you kid about. But the love between Lisa and him had dwindled and finally disappeared. Divorce was best for both of them. But Jorgenson? That lard ass with the bad breath? His career at Whatley College was another matter. He would miss it, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. He knew he’d been living on borrowed time ever since Cramer, who was born wearing a blue suit and a rule book in his hand, became department chair. Oh well. What was it Scarlett said? Tomorrow is another day. |