by Bill H Myers
Mango Motel
A Mango Bob and Walker Adventure
by
Bill Myers
www.mangobob.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.
Copyright © 2019 Bill Myers. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Version 2019.09.20
Chapter One
“Where’s the gun?”
I was handcuffed to a table and had been asked the same question at least ten times in the past hour. Each time, I answered the same way. “I don't know anything about a gun. What's this about?”
I'd been walking back to my RV a little before midnight when two police cars rolled up. One stopped in front of me, one behind.
The cop in the car behind me got out and shouted, “Get down on the ground!”
I wasn't sure he was speaking to me so I turned toward his voice. That was a mistake. He pulled his gun and aimed it at my chest. He repeated the command. “Down on the ground!”
This time, I didn't hesitate. I dropped to the hard concrete, lay on my belly and spread my arms.
While the cop kept his gun aimed at me, the one from the other car rushed over and cuffed me. I knew better than to struggle. I also knew to keep my mouth shut.
They yanked me up off the ground and shoved me into the backseat of the car in front. Before they closed the door, I asked, “What's this about? Why am I being arrested?”
Instead of answering, the cop who was closest pulled out a small card from his pocket and said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”
He put the card away. “Do you understand?”
I nodded and repeated the question I had asked before. “What's this about? Why am I being arrested?”
The cop smiled. “They'll tell you downtown.”
The youngish looking officer said nothing as he drove me across town to the Saint Augustine police station. Inside, he handed me off to a man I assumed to be a detective. Unlike the cop who brought me in, he wasn't wearing a uniform. He was in slacks, a white shirt with a skinny tie, and an unbuttoned sport jacket.
The detective led me into a small room, sat me down in front of a metal table, and chained the cuffs to an eye bolt in the center of it. They weren't taking any chances of me getting away.
Without saying a word, he left the room, leaving me alone. Across the table, on the far wall, a large mirrored window reflected my image. I was pretty sure it was one-way glass. There'd be people on the other side watching me.
The security camera in the corner would likely record audio and video of everything that happened in the room. I reminded myself to act innocent.
Twenty minutes later, the same detective who had chained me to the table came in and sat across from me. His first words were, “Where's the gun?”
I shook my head. “I don't know why you're asking me about a gun. I haven't touched one in years. What's this about?”
Instead of answering my question, the detective repeated his. “Where's the gun?”
I shook my head again. “I'm not answering any questions until I know what this is about. Tell me why I was picked up. Tell me why you're asking about a gun.”
He frowned. “Don't play dumb. You know why we're asking. You know what you did. Save yourself some trouble and tell me what you did with it.”
We were back to the same question. One that I couldn't answer. Not without knowing why it was being asked. I crossed my arms and repeated what I had said earlier. “I'm not answering any questions until I know what this is about. Tell me why I was brought in. Tell me why you're asking about a gun.”
He didn't answer. He stared at me for a few minutes, waiting for me to say something. When he realized I wasn't going to talk, he got up and left the room.
Fifteen minutes later, a second detective came in and took a seat across from me. He looked to be about fifty wearing a rumpled white shirt with a thin, black clip-on tie. He looked tired. I could see it in his eyes and, later on, hear it in his voice.
After introducing himself as Detective Booker, which I thought was a good name for someone in his line of work, he asked if I would like something to drink. I was thirsty, but I planned to pass on the refreshments until I found out how long I'd be in the station.
“No, I don't need a drink. I won't be staying long.”
He smiled then re-read me my rights. When he was done, he asked if I understood them. It was the second time I'd had my rights read that night. “Yeah, I understand.”
Before I was put in the cop car earlier that evening, I'd been frisked and they had taken my wallet. It was now sitting on the table in front of me. The detective opened it and pointed to my driver's license.
“Mr. Walker, you're here because there was a shooting. We have an eye witness who saw you go into the room with a gun and saw you come back out after he heard a shot.
“Our witness did the right thing. He called 9-1-1 and stayed at the scene to be interviewed. He told us everything and that's why we picked you up. You were the guy with the gun.
“But that's not all. When we searched the room, we found physical evidence that clearly shows you were there. Probably buying or selling drugs.
“So we know what you did. That's a done deal. The only thing we don't know is what you did with the gun. You want to tell me?”
I shook my head. “I didn't shoot anyone and there is no gun.”
The detective crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He sat there looking at me; then leaned forward and said, “Look, we know you ditched it. If some kid finds it and hurts himself or uses it in a crime, it'll be on you. You don't want that. So tell us what you did with it.”
I couldn't tell him anything. It was true that I had been near the room in question. But I hadn't carried a gun and hadn't shot anyone. They had the wrong guy, but I didn't have an alibi. I was there when it happened. I'd been walking away from the scene of the crime when they picked me up.
I was innocent, but I couldn't tell them why I had been there. Too many people would get hurt.
But there was no way a witness saw me go into the room with a gun. It hadn't happened. When the witness recanted, I'd be home free.
But I was wrong. Things only got worse.
Chapter Two
Seven Days Earlier.
It was Saturday morning and I was waiting for my psychic, sometimes psychotic, friend Abby to call me. She had texted earlier in the week about me meeting her in St. Augustine for something she was working on.
She hadn't gone into detail. Just that she'd be calling and I should be ready to roll. That's the way Abby is. Short on details, long on deception.
I knew going in she wouldn't be telling me much about whatever we would be doing. But I figured it had something to do with Boris, our friend in Key West. Some say he was once the head of the Russian Mafia's southern branch. I didn't know if it was true or not. It wasn't something I was going to ask him.
I'd helped him out of a mess several months earlier, and he w
as very appreciative. Money and support, any time I wanted it, even if I didn't ask for it. He was quite generous when he wanted to be.
I was pretty lucky when it came to my financial situation and didn't need his money. I'd gotten a solid severance package when I was laid off from my corporate job and received an unexpected windfall shortly thereafter.
My wife, or I should say ex-wife, filed for divorce the same day I lost my job. She got the house, her car, and half our savings. I got the other half and my freedom.
Needing a place to live, I bought a thirteen-year-old motorhome, drove it to Florida and have been calling it home ever since. Thirty-five and living in an RV, just me and my cat. A big orange bobtail named Mango Bob.
The cat wasn’t my idea. A woman I was seeing was moving into a new apartment and asked me to take care of her cat until she got settled in. She had promised it would be “Just for a few days.”
She’d said as soon as she got settled in, she'd come back for the cat.
But she never did. I didn’t want to take him to the shelter so I ended up with him, instead of the woman. It was probably for the best.
After a rough start, Mango Bob and I learned to tolerate each other. He learned that life in the motorhome wasn't so bad. He had someone to feed him, clean his litter box, and on occasion entertain him. He's learned to enjoy the trips we take together and seems to look forward to seeing new places as we travel and camp. Our travels have mostly been in Florida, making new friends and a few enemies along the way.
One of those new friends is Abby, and, as I said, I was waiting for her call.
I'd been up since daybreak, thinking she'd call early. It would be a long drive in the RV to Saint Augustine and I wanted to be on the road before the traffic got too crazy.
It was nearly ten in the morning before I heard from her. Instead of calling, she sent a text with a cryptic message. “Calling in 5. Pick up.”
I wasn't sure why she'd sent a text. It would have been easier to just call. A text wasn't necessary. But Abby is strange that way, so I waited for her to dial my number.
Had I known then how the call would change my life, I'm not sure I would have answered.
Chapter Three
Five minutes after getting the text, my phone chimed with an incoming call, caller ID “unknown”. I expected as much. Abby prefers to use a burner phone; she doesn't like to leave a trail. I answered on the second ring. “This is Walker.”
She hated it when I answered that way. She said giving my name out before I knew who was calling was a mistake. She said you never knew who was on the other line and if you gave out your name first, you might be locked into talking to someone you'd rather not.
Still, knowing it was her calling, I answered, “This is Walker.'
I expected the voice on the other end to chide me about using my name, but that didn’t happen. The voice, clearly not Abby, said, “Walker, I hope you don't mind me calling. I spoke to Abby about it and she said you wouldn't. I hope that's true.”
Abby hadn't told me who would be calling. She just said answer the phone, and I did, assuming it would be her. But it wasn't.
The caller's voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it. It was the voice of an older woman, one that I'd heard before. But it wasn't someone who I'd had long conversations with. She had a slight European accent but spoke clearly with perfect English.
I didn't want to embarrass myself or the caller by asking who she was, so I just said, “Abby said I should expect a call. She didn't say who'd be calling though.”
The caller hesitated for a moment then said, “Walker, I apologize. I thought she would have told you it would be me calling. But it appears she hasn't. I'm Marissa. Marissa Chesnokov, Katrina's mother. Boris's wife.”
I'd only spoken to Marissa once before. And only briefly. Kat had introduced us when I was visiting Boris at home. My impression was she was well educated, polite, yet not afraid to share her feelings or opinions. I was lucky she approved of my then relationship with Kat, her daughter. It could have been trouble if she hadn't.
That relationship with Kat had gone nowhere. I had been her boy toy for a couple of weeks but not much longer. She had since moved on, but we were still friends. As such, my first thought when Marissa introduced herself was something bad had happened to Kat. Or Boris.
“Is everything okay? With Katrina? Boris? You?”
She didn't hesitate with her answer. “Oh, they're both fine. Katrina is in Daytona, hanging out with a race car driver. Boris is out on his boat, doing whatever he and his buddies do when they're out on the water.
“This call is not about either of them. It's about me. I need a favor and I don't want Boris to know about it. Before I tell you what it is, I want to know how you're doing. Abby told us about the accident. It sounded awful. We were all worried you might not pull through.
“She told me today that your recovery has gone well. We know she was at your side in the hospital and then stayed with you for a month to help you sort things out. She's a good person.”
It was true Abby had taken care of me after the wreck, but whether she was a good person or not depended on your definition of “good”. If you crossed her, she could make your life miserable.
But if she liked you, she'd treat you fairly, and might even go out of her way when you needed help. I counted myself as one who considered her a good person. There would be others who wouldn’t agree.
Marissa interrupted my thoughts. “I trust you are doing well?”
It was a question I had asked myself many times since the accident. I had suffered a concussion and was still having some side effects. There were two that concerned me the most. One was the occasional inability to remember familiar words. Easy ones like sedative and glacier.
Forgetting words was worrisome, but I could deal with it. I rarely had long conversations with anyone and when I did, the words that I'd forgotten rarely came up.
What bothered me most was the double vision. It would come on randomly and when it did, I wouldn't be able to see well enough to read or recognize faces. My vision would be perfect for days, but then, out of nowhere, things would go out of focus. It would be anywhere from a few minutes to sometimes an hour before I could see clearly again.
So far, the blurry vision hadn't been a big problem. It seemed to come on mostly when I was exposed to bright fluorescent lights. The kind they have in Walmart and other big box stores.
I'd be okay for a while, then start to feel like I was walking downhill, and soon after, everything would go out of focus.
If I were pushing a shopping cart, I could hang on to it until I could see again. But if I didn't have a cart, I'd have to find a place to sit. My doctor had warned me I'd sometimes get double vision and not to worry about it unless it lasted more than a few minutes.
I didn't know how long he considered a few minutes but if it were more than ten, I was already in trouble. I should have talked to him about it. But I hadn’t. The episodes were getting further and further apart. I figured they'd soon go away. It wasn't a big problem. At least not yet.
But I was a little worried about driving long distances. If my vision went while I was behind the wheel of my motorhome, rolling down the highway at sixty-five, it could be bad. Not being able to see well enough to keep an eight-ton vehicle in between the white lines could have deadly results.
So far, it hadn't been a problem. But I hadn't been driving much, preferring to stay close to home—the small strip of concrete where my motorhome was parked.
I was thinking about this when Marissa asked, “So, are you well enough to travel?”
Without hesitation, I said, “Yes.”
Chapter Four
I was still on the phone with Marissa Chesnokov, the wife of a suspected mob boss. She had asked if I was well enough to travel, and I told her I was.
Satisfied with my answer, she said, “Walker, I need to ask you a favor. But before I do, it's something that Boris can not find out about. If he
does, it might mean a few people get hurt. Not you but other people. People you don't want to know.
“So before I tell you more, would you be willing to do something for me without Boris finding out about it? If you don't think you can or should, I'll understand.”
She paused and I took the opportunity to ask, “If Boris finds out about this, will I become his enemy?”
He was a powerful man and I suspected his associates didn't take kindly to those who chose to undermine or deceive him. I didn't want to give him a reason for me to meet those associates. But I wanted to help Marissa if I could, so I waited for her answer.
“Boris won't be upset with you. He might be upset with me but not you. And if you're successful with what I'm going to ask, he'll be quite impressed. If you fail, he'll respect that you at least tried.
“Either way, I plan to tell him everything after this runs its course. I'll paint you as the knight who agreed to help a damsel in distress.”
Since it sounded like I would be in the clear no matter what, I said, “I'm in. Tell me what you need me to do.”
“Good, I was hoping you'd say that. But if after you hear what I'm about to ask, if you want to change your mind I'll understand.”
She paused, giving me time to respond. Since it seemed like she was waiting for my answer, I said, “That sounds fair.”
I heard her take a deep breath, then, “I need you to find a man before others do. He's the son of a close friend, Anastasia Raines.
“She and I grew up together in the old country and after Boris and I moved to Florida, she followed. We're like sisters, and together we learned about living in this new country. I see her almost every day, and we talk about what's going on in our lives. Mostly about our children, the weather, and our aches and pains.
“She has a thirty-year-old son, just a few years younger than you. He lives with her and has done so on and off for most of his life. When her husband passed two years ago, he moved in with her full time.
“The kid is bright but not sure what he wants to do in life. Right now, he mostly plays video games. It's not that he doesn't want to work; it's just that he has a hard time keeping a job. He's been hired for many jobs in Key West, and soon after fired from those same jobs. He blames it on his bosses. He says they always have it out for him. They make him work more than he wants to and they get upset if he doesn't show up on time or misses a few days.
