Getting Old Will Haunt You

by Rita Lakin

  The big guy (she will find out soon is Manny) breaks the silence and asks in his usual charming manner, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Ida giggles as Hy pulls himself out of his stupor, and waves his arms at her; eyes popping, as if what? To tell her to get out of here? To not say that she knows him? To not admit why she’s here? To beg for mercy? Hy speechless? So not like him.

  He will find no compassion in Ida. Hy knows what his neighbor thinks of him. She can guess at his terrified thoughts. He will dejectedly recall his recent mean trick at the pool back home, where he took their photo, put it on Facebook, and made fools of Gladdy’s girls. He will wonder how she found him, and who sent her?

  Ida registers his groan. He’s figured it out. There’s only one answer. Lola. But Lola doesn’t like Ida. But she is one of Gladdy’s girls. Lola hired Ida! Heaven help him. He’s a dead duck.

  Now he worries. Is Lola with her? Where’s Gladdy? Waiting outside? In a state of panic he peers out the dirty window, through the dirt stains, but sees no furious women pacing.

  Hy desperately makes a stab at an explanation of some kind. He has no idea what words will come out of his mouth. His mind is on remote. ‘Ida, hi. Meet Manny and Dolly-Ann Bloom former childhood friends. From my old neighborhood in New York.’ He ties their names together; would it fool Ida into thinking they are a married couple?

  Manny chortles; unable to resist, ‘Yeah, our good pal, Hy, from the ’hood. Haha.’

  Hy throws him a dirty look. Manny comes up with a fake choking act.

  Trying to ignore him doesn’t work. Hy can only manage a weak smile. No choice, but to babble on. ‘And this is Ida Franz, my neighbor in Fort Lauderdale.’ Knowing that he is digging his grave deeper.

  ‘Who just happens to be in Miami today,’ says Manny at his nastiest. ‘And this total stranger shows up at my specific address. Amazing she happens to know our unwelcome visitor. What a coincidence.’ Manny is thrilled; Hy is about to get nailed.

  The woman, Dolly-Ann, watches, bewildered, and braces for trouble. Ida guesses her thoughts. Why is this woman here? Who is she? Hy is scared silly of her. This is not good.

  Ida almost feels sorry for Hy. What a pathetic cover-up. She studies the woman with the frilly dress and the cutesy curls. Even with the chubby face, there is a dimple hidden there. Ohmigod! She is what this is all about. He is involved with this woman somehow. Dolly-Ann; what a silly name. Nice try, Hy, entwining the guy’s name with hers. He better be her husband or else.

  Dolly-Ann speaks. She, of the school of I-cannot-tell-a-lie, ‘Manny is my brother. I came down from New York to visit him and help him make a big decision in his life. Our old school friend, Hy, came to help me … help him.’

  Wrong, kiddo. She can read guilt in Hy’s eyes. Can’t fool Ida. ‘What a coincidence. I also came, to help out a friend.’

  Hy is sweating. She bets his male deodorant is failing him.

  Ida continues, with relish. ‘My dear friend, Lola Binder, wanted me to help find her husband. Since he didn’t tell her where he was going, nor did he call or text, what was the poor lady to think? She thought he was a missing person. Isn’t that funny?’

  Hy collapses down onto the crummy bench. Outed!

  Ida adds, with a touch of evil, ‘His worried wife didn’t want to call the police, so she called me instead.’

  Ida smiles. Hy is doomed. His life as he’s lived it so far is over.

  Although Manny is enjoying the downfall of his childhood enemy, he’s bored. He doesn’t need to see the chump being led out of here with a ring in his nose. Just let him leave, already. He zigzags through his junk, heads for the door and calls out gaily, ‘Gonna head out for a cigarette, and fill my lungs with cancerous smoke.’ He waves, ‘Later.’ He knows how much his sister hates his smoking. He enjoys rubbing it in that he will not quit.

  With that, Manny maneuvers his way around Ida, exchanging lethal expressions, and closes the door.

  Dolly-Ann barely notices, since her eyes are fastened on Hy.

  Outside, Manny spots an unfamiliar white truck on the street in front of the RV park entrance. He lights up and strolls over, curious. There is a man seated behind the wheel reading a book.

  Manny knocks on the door; his stomach is reminding him he is hungry. ‘You open for business?’

  The guy shrugs. ‘No, the hour of lunch is over.’

  ‘So why are you still parked here?’

  ‘I wait for someone.’

  Manny reads the Spanish words on the truck side. He says aloud, ‘Emmanuel? That your name?’

  Julio puts down the book. ‘No. I am Julio. It is name of my grandfather. He was the original owner of this meal on wheels. I inherit from him.’

  Julio climbs out of the truck and stands next to Manny. They shake hands.

  ‘Well, my name is Manny, named Manuel at birth. Close, huh?’ Manny offers Julio a cigarette. He shakes his head no.

  ‘Si. Same name is in Spanish.’

  ‘Mine, I think came from the Bible. I inherited my gramp’s biz. He was in linoleum and rugs. My father took over, and then he expected me to keep it in the family. I was a failure as a salesman. I got to hate all those damn samples. And the people who came in to buy were so picky, so annoying. The business ended with foreclosure.’ He lights another cigarette. ‘You like what you do?’

  ‘Si, I am happy in my work. I enjoy being outdoors and I like the people and cooking. In Cuba, I was chef. In America, I am immigrant. I am chef in my truck.’

  ‘Not able to get a chef job in American restaurants, huh? That piss you off?’

  ‘No. Living in free country is worth it.’

  Both are quiet for a few moments.

  Julio continues. ‘They called us Maralitos. We left through that Cuban port. My family arrives in U.S. May of 1980. We escape Cuba on raft. I am five years old.’

  ‘Tough, huh?’

  ‘Si, very bad. But I am happy in America, place where no one putting you in jail for reason of politics.’

  ‘Wanna hear about bad times? Mine. Where I was in December, 1944. They called it the Battle of the Bulge. Fought for my country. I parachuted into a nest of Nazis and ended up in a POW camp.’

  ‘What is POW?’

  ‘Prison of War. Treated very, very bad.’

  ‘Si, yo comprendo. Understand. Holding onto raft in terrible, rough sea. Followed by hungry sharks hoping that family might drown at any moment. Or, if caught, sent back. To poverty and no happiness.’

  Manny is interested. He really wants to hear about it. ‘Was it worth it, such a hard way to get here?’

  ‘Si. Yes, very worth it. For you to fight?’

  ‘I came home, barely alive. Sick with years of bad nightmares. Not able to work. Depended on my wife to take care of us. Made me bitter.’ He pauses, thinking. ‘Yes, it was worth it. This is my country. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in the world.’

  Manny is suddenly startled. ‘Hey, this is some heavy conversation for two strangers. Who are you waiting for, anyway?’

  ‘A woman, a most strange one. She tells me she is looking for her friend’s husband, to take him home where he belongs.’

  Manny gets it. ‘She’s in my trailer. This buttinsky husband came here to help my sister force me into some dump of a retirement home.’

  Julio doesn’t recognize what a buttinski is, but he is curious about the man’s sudden anger. ‘You don’t like retirement home?’

  ‘You ever visited one? I did. A good pal of mine, a buddy I fought with side-by-side, ended up in this Happy Trails Retirement Home for the Aged and I went to see him.

  ‘I thought being a prisoner in the war was the pits. This “retirement home” was worse; my idea of hell on earth. Men in dreary hallways sitting in wheelchairs, drooling. Filthy nightshirts for clothing. The residents being ignored. Grown men sobbing. The place smelled of … I can hardly tell you how bad it was. Totally dark and depressing, patients just lying there, doing nothing waiting for Dea
th in every corner. I’d rather drop dead in a gutter then go into one of them dives.’

  He lights another cigarette with the end of the one he’s been smoking.

  They are quiet for a few moments. Julio says, ‘Manuel, I need to run an errand. Will you ride with me? It won’t take long. And besides, I have one warm burrito for you if you are still hungry.’

  ‘You’re on,’ says Manny as he jumps into the passenger seat. Anything rather than go back to the group in his trailer.

  Julio is about to get in also. ‘But we should tell them …?’

  Manny interrupts. ‘Nah, they’ll be at it for hours. Let’s just go.’

  Julio gets into the truck and starts the motor.

  Manny asks, ‘About that burrito?’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Friends of Robert. Fishing Pals Forever

  We are not deterred. Next stop on our list, The Italian Guys Fishing and Gun Club, out near some pier, near what is called ‘Old Town’. We were told Robert’s buddies play cards here.

  We enter a dimly lit seedy bar, smelling of rancid beer and macho sweat. The floor is covered with pistachio peanut shells, as if these were the days of the early 90s when that was considered hip for bars. It looks dirty and unhealthy. And slippery. The bar stools are half full, with obvious boozers, half of them leaning on the bar itself, to hold themselves up.

  The bartender, forty-ish, who looks like a boxer who went too many rounds, takes one squinty look at us and guesses we are not drinkers. He winks at his clients, indicating that we’re a funny sight. See the old ladies? What are they doing here? Why do I think this lug never liked his parents? The kind of kid who ran away from home?

  Sophie and Bella behave as if they want to flee. The guy looks ferocious and they cower.

  ‘Can I help you gals?’ he asks, with a cheerful smirk, making a joke to entertain his barflies. ‘Lost your way? This is not the Elderly Ladies Knitting Club.’

  He gets a few soggy laughs, as he towels dry his liquor glasses.

  ‘Ha ha.’ I give him sarcasm in return. ‘Oh, so clever. You should get a career as a stand-up comic.’ Not a great comeback, but the beer smell is making me nauseous.

  He growls, ‘Wadda ya looking for?’ He no longer hides his attitude.

  ‘We’re looking for the fishing and gun club.’

  ‘Back room,’ he points. ‘Hunters and fishermen are you? Or should I say fish dames.’ Some more weak laughter from the imbibers, or maybe they should be called drunks.

  Evvie is about to take him on. My sister likes a good verbal battle. I grab her arm and motion for her not to bother. Not worth the effort.

  We walk through the bar, our feet smooshing nuts, trying to ignore the hideous collection of huge stuffed animals on every wall, from wretched deer to humongous bear, and dozens of photos of gigantic fish being weighed by smiling fishermen. The stagnant odor of beer follows along with us, choking us with its fumes.

  I stop suddenly as I am drawn to a framed photograph on the wall. It reminds me of the one at Strand, Smythe and Love. Three different fishermen near a boat, each holding up a large caught fish. The photo is much older than the one in the lawyer’s office.

  I turn to our unfriendly bartender. ‘Isn’t that …?’

  ‘Yup,’ he says, as he adds a shot of liquor into someone’s beer. ‘That’s my old buddy, Ernie Hemingway and two of his fishing buddies. A good client years ago.’

  I bet he’s lying. Hemingway died in 1961. This guy probably wasn’t even born yet.

  The girls rush over to look at the photo. I recognize Hemingway from pictures I’ve seen in magazines over the years, but Bella speaks from recent experience.

  Bella points eagerly to the rugged white-haired, white-bearded man standing in the middle between two other men, wearing his famous fishing outfit. ‘See, he looks just like I said.’

  Sophie shushes her. This is definitely not a place to discuss ghosts.

  We walk on quickly. Sophie can’t resist her idea of a joke. She calls out to the mean bartender, ‘You ought to pick up those nuts off the floor.’ She points at the guys at the bar. ‘Those nuts will be on the floor soon, too.’

  With that silly attempt at sarcasm ignored, we lead delicate Bella holding her nose to the smell and shutting her eyes to the dead animals, as we hurry her into the back room.

  It’s a smallish nondescript room. Here we find four men playing pinochle. The guys, who might be in their fifties or older, look like billboard ads of men who are outdoorsmen. They are as rugged-looking as their clothes. Each one wears a red flannel shirt, navy blue down vest, navy blue jeans and black rubber boots.

  Chips and dips, beers and smokes are at their elbows. The odor of stale beer has followed us.

  I quickly fill them in; how we got their names as friends of Robert Strand. They introduce themselves as Tony, Clipper, Vito and Donny; and yes, Robby was their best friend.

  We brace ourselves for the usual, ‘So, you old ladies are PIs, wow, you gotta be kidding,’ routine when I go through the rigmarole of who we are and why we’re here. But to our surprise, the guys are delighted to meet us. Perhaps their being slightly drunk and totally involved in their card game helped ease the intros. We’re met with: ‘Any friends of Robby’s, and the nice Wassingers,’ etc.

  Then I have to explain what we’ve heard so far about Robby’s death: words, words, words … They half listen, half pay attention, mostly they’re intent on their game. And their smokes and beer.

  Then I say the usual thing, only because that’s what people say, and I mean it, ‘We’re sorry about your loss.’

  The game slows down a bit with, ‘Yeah, Robby was a great guy, good pinochle player and most of all a super fishing buddy. Especially when it comes to marlins.’

  That was the opening I was looking for. Do they believe his death was an accident?

  Tony comments. ‘Hard not to believe with the marlin ready to attack. Poor guy, trying to win an award, and the award kills him!’

  Vito says, ‘I ask myself, would it have happened if we had been with him?’

  Clipper adds, ‘Weird thing, that. We were supposed to be with him that day.’

  I suddenly get a chill. This is something that grabs my attention. ‘What do you mean? You were meant to be fishing with him?’

  These guys take turns talking, but their eyes and hands never leave their cards.

  Donny starts, ‘Darn tootin’ – we were all supposed to go, planned for it for weeks, packed our gear the night before, already shoved it in the rear of our truck and we were ready to pile in as well …’

  Clipper takes over, ‘Then, we all get the same texts right that minute, from our buddy, Robby: “Sorry guys, fishing trip is cancelled …”’

  Tony is next, ‘“Something came up …”.’

  Vito continues it, ‘“Maybe we can try again another week …”?’

  Donny completes it, ‘“I’m awfully sorry, guys. Better luck, next time …”’

  Clipper sums up, ‘So we played cards, instead.’

  Something is ringing in my head. Something important. I finally dig it out of my mind and I ask, ‘Why do you think Robert sent that text and canceled all of you? After all, he did go out fishing that day?’

  The guys ponder that for a moment or two.

  Donny suggests, ‘Maybe he felt lucky and wanted to catch the big one, himself.’

  Evvie asks, ‘Would he do that? Was that typical of him? It seems selfish.’

  A chorus of four shakes their heads. ‘Nah. Never,’ says Vito. ‘We were surprised he did that. We’ve all been trying for the big prize for the largest fish and, for us, it was all in fun. We placed bets to see who’d win. Hey, we knew none of us would get it. Too bloody much competition.’

  Bella tries to get in a word. ‘We were talking to …’ Sophie’s hand closes over her mouth. There will be no mention of ghosts with these guys.

  I say over her head, ‘We were told there was a selfie.’

 
The men think about it for a moment, and then their hands reach into their pockets. Four phones are brought out. At last. One by one they are handed to us.

  Donny says, ‘I wish it never happened, but there’s no doubt, it was a hell of a weird accident.’

  They all show the same photo and now we finally look at what everyone has seen. The image no one wanted us to see. The ‘selfie’. A gigantic marlin attacking Robert with its terrifying deadly snout bearing down on him. At the moment of his death.

  Evvie and I are upset. It seems like it happened the way everyone has said.

  Vito is in awe. ‘He took a pic of himself getting killed. That’s really something!’

  Tony adds, ‘It went viral on the Internet.’

  They guys allow tears to fall.

  Bella, puzzled as usual, ‘Besides, dead, he was sick, too? What’s viral?’ She’s asked this question before.

  Sophie, forever patient, ‘Later Bella, honey, later when we get back to the hotel. I’ll tell you about selfies and viral, too.’ Bella smiles gratefully.

  Clipper has the final words, ‘What a freaky way to go.’

  Silence. The cards are ignored. These guys are thinking of their lost friend. And so are we.

  I’m almost letting myself get excited. I say it slowly; almost it’s as if I’m working it through while I say it. ‘Maybe Robby was surprised that you didn’t show up.’

  Clipper speaks for all of them. ‘Huh? We were surprised when he went alone. He almost always fished with us. He didn’t like to fish alone. We were good buddies; we liked fishing together.’

  I’m positive now. ‘Maybe he didn’t send those texts. Maybe someone else did?’

  Evvie is getting excited also, ‘Someone who wanted him dead.’

  The men stare at us, in shock.

  Sophie adds, ‘Someone who had a motive.’