The person on the other line said a few more things and waited for an answer.
“Sure, I’ll be there. No problem.” She made plane reservations over the internet.
“I’m coming, Andy,” Gramma called out the back door. “I’ll get the paddles and life jackets out of the garage. We’ll drive over to Turtle Creek and give these kayaks a workout.” Almost as an afterthought, she said, “And Doo-Doo’s not the father. I swear, if those puppies come out with brown curly hair . . .”
At Turtle Creek with the Gators
The sun was shining across the creek, creating long shadows of grasses and mangrove trees. Its lazy movement belied what lay beneath the waters.
Kayakers floated quietly across the glassy creek surface, enjoying the tranquil waters.
From his plastic craft, Andy pointed to an island where a Common Cooter turtle was basking on a log, unimpressed with the kayaks or the paddlers inside them. The creature took no notice, not even when Gramma slowed down to get a photograph.
Paddling slowly past the dock, Gramma and Andy noticed manatees lounging in the warmer water.
The manatees were waiting for people to come by and hand feed them something good to eat or let them drink from their bottled water.
In particular, a cow and her calf were rolling on their backs, lounging patiently for a handout. Slowly, the mother turned upright, prodding her offspring to do the same.
“We’re not allowed to feed them,” Gramma said. “It’s against the law. They're such sweet creatures. You don’t have to worry about them when you’re in the water. If they get close, they won’t harm you. They’re gentle and they’re careful not to bother anyone.”
Paddling further out on the creek, both Gramma and Andy at the same time, spotted a different creature, one not known for being gentle.
A vigilant alligator rested his long, broad snout on the muddy bank. He watched for a few seconds then, without encouragement from the kayakers, propelled himself deep into the water, straight for them.
The deadly, sharp-toothed creature disappeared deep into the murky liquid.
“Gramma,” Andy said nervously. “Gator at nine o’clock. What if it comes near our boats?”
“I saw him. No worries. They never bother kayakers, sweetie. That’s well known. Unless, of course, they have a nest nearby or they’re feeling particularly hungry. Then, who knows what they’ll do. Almost anything goes. Dodgy creatures.”
As if to make a liar out of the elderly kayaker, the reptile started gaining on their crafts.
“Gramma . . .” Andy said quietly. He nodded toward the 14 foot beast with black dorsal ridges slicing through the dark water.
The creature’s slightly raised eyes were targeting them directly.
Andy’s nervousness was affecting his paddle strokes, causing the orange kayak to sway back and forth. The activity was threatening to spill water across his shaking legs.
Or worse.
“Andy. Sit still and paddle slowly, but firmly away from here. And keep all your body parts in the boat at all times. Do it quickly and do it now. I mean it.”
“But what about you?” Andy yelled. “I can’t leave you here with the alligator.”
“Lower your voice and do what I said. Book it!”
Knowing better than to argue further with his gramma, Andy used smooth strokes to put some water between him and the gator.
Gramma followed her grandson, paddling strongly.
The alligator swam faster. He occasionally scratched at the side of her white fiberglass craft.
Gramma had had enough.
She turned and faced her stalker. Myopic elderly eyes were fixed on double-lidded, vertical-pupil slits.
Neither flinched.
It was a Turkey Creek standoff.
Sharp, yellowing teeth were bared and before the carnivore had a chance to make a move, Gramma raised her arms up, paddle out, and yelled at the top of her lungs.
“Get away from me, you ugly old monster. Now!” She slapped the water with her paddle.
The gator bellowed and made a swift lunge. His lower jaw opened and nabbed a jumping Striped Mullet. He did a 180 degree turn, dove into the creek and swam toward the shore. The gator closed his jaws across the fish and, head above water, swallowed his meal whole.
Gramma paddled swiftly, rejoining Andy near the dock. She casually brought her boat alongside his.
“How’d you do that?” Andy mumbled, his brain shocked by what he’d seen.
“What?”
“Whattya’ mean ‘What?’ That. What you did. Scaring the gator off.”
“Oh, that. That was nothing. He was just fishing, that’s all. You misunderstood the gator’s getting a tasty lunch for his being aggressive towards us. Common misperception. Easy newbie mistake.” She stroked the black paddle into the water and floated away toward an island, humming her favorite tune.
A perplexed Andy followed behind.
Overhead, a double-crested cormorant silently coasted across the sky toward an aged Southern Live Oak and settled on a branch.
Chapter 5
Shots in the Hotel and Ecuador Goes to the Dogs
“Ecuador’s lovely this time of year,” Gramma said. “I think you’ll like it.”
“Will we have time to do any sightseeing?” Lola asked. “You have some meetings to attend that’ll keep you busy, but I’m hoping we can have some fun. While I can always go on my own, I’d like us to be able to do some things together.”
“Sure. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to look around and be tourists. It’s such picturesque country there. Hilly and pretty with interesting old towns sprawling through the valleys. Yes, I’m sure we’ll have lots of time to do things together. Shopping. Eating. Eating. Shopping. More of the same.”
“Great. Then sign me up. I’m going.”
Lola envisioned Ecuadorian crafts of silver and leather and maybe a colorful llama fur blanket or two.
Gramma envisioned spending time with her granddaughter, eating great food, shopping and touring after tying up some loose ends on important matters with her Quito contacts.
Cubans, Gunshots, and Rolling on the Floor
Getting settled into the Quito hotel went swiftly. Gramma unpacked first. She placed phone calls and made appointments while waiting for Lola to get ready to go shopping.
Raring to start their adventure, Lola and Gramma rode the elevator down to the lobby, chatting the whole time about their upcoming touring.
Near the hotel desk, Lola waited while Gramma retrieved messages from her phone.
Gramma tapped away at the cell phone keyboard and sent her answers out. She shook her head in wonder at her messages. Well. Well. The Russians are at it again. Putin. Putin. Putin. Not much has changed since we last spoke.
“Are you free now?” Lola asked.
“Yep. Let’s go to the market.” Those Russian rascals! I suppose I’m gonna have to go there again. Should be interesting.
As they neared the hotel’s glass front door, a dozen young people in matching jumpsuits rushed past them. Holstered weapons hung across their chests and occasionally one of them would pat their gun to reposition it for comfort. They settled as a group in the center of the lobby, casting glances about to see who was already there.
The frontman casually draped a Russian AK-47 off his arm, swinging his head back and forth while he scanned the lobby. The gun dangled as he moved.
None of the hotel patrons seemed concerned about having a group in their midst with exposed weapons. This didn’t appear to be an out-of-the-ordinary event for them.
Customers continued discussing their routine checking in and out of the hotel with the clerk. When their business was finished, they went to the elevators or out the revolving front door.
In a few minutes, the only ones remaining were the Cubans, Gramma and Lola.
Gramma smiled at the group and some of them smiled back at the sweet, innocent-looking old lady. She discretely snapped photos with a
piece of jewelry nestled on her shirt collar.
Gramma wandered about the room, bending down to look at worn magazines on the tables. She picked one up, turned some pages and moved on to the next table, edging closer to the Cuban gang.
Lola, having been made aware ahead of time of the upcoming events, leaned safely against a protected alcove.
As if on cue, Gramma promptly tripped and fell at the booted feet of the surprised frontman.
Caught off balance, the frontman staggered backwards and his rifle abruptly left his grasp.
The firearm projectile, flying across the room, fired noisily and destructively. The rifle blast shattered the silence, and a smoking, 50 caliber black hole opened up in a wall.
Some of the Cubans screamed.
The frontman and Gramma tumbled together, ending in a heap, banging against a coffee table littered with old magazines, newspapers and an ashtray with cigarette butts. The table overturned and skidded against a couch where it came to rest on its side. Magazines, and newspapers fluttered across the room. Stale, stubbed cigarettes were scattered about.
Still spinning around, the rifle landed with the barrel pointing at the frontman’s head which, with the rest of his body, lay unmoving on the bare floor. When the frontman opened his eyes, he was staring down the barrel of his own rifle.
“Holy―” the frontman yelled. He sputtered some cigarette stubs off his chin and hastily attempted to extricate himself as the object of his gun’s barrel and the senior citizen who caused the mess. He felt embarrassed, caught-off-guard and shocked, all at the same time.
Frontman’s Cuban mates were chattering and trying to help. One of them grabbed the AK-47. Another tried to help Gramma get up and into a sitting position on the floor.
It was a struggle for all of them.
“No need to be alarmed,” the frontman said in Spanish to his group. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Obviously, he didn’t.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. So terribly clumsy of me,” Gramma said to no one in particular. “Oh, dear, I’m in such pain.” She spied the ashtray contents near the frontman. “Smoking’s a dirty habit, don’t you think?” She furrowed her eyebrows in disgust.
With the aid of a kindly young Cuban, she made motions of trying to get herself up off the floor. Holding her hip and wincing, limping and groaning, Gramma permitted the frontman to assist her efforts.
Her shiny purse remained where it had fallen.
“Here, let me help you. Are you okay?” the frontman asked nervously. He grabbed for the pocketbook and held it out to her.
“I think so,” Gramma said shakily. She clung to his arm. A small tear streaked down her cheek. Another soon followed. She took her purse from him and held it tightly. She sniffled for effect. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out an embroidered hanky and blew her nose and blotted tears.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again. Oh, my God, she’s crying. The last thing we need is an international incident of me knocking an elderly American woman to the floor and breaking her hip. And my gun fired!
“Attention everyone,” Frontman yelled into the air. “Absolutely no photos or videos. Do you hear me?” He desperately did not want this incident to end up on the news or the internet. “And you,” he pointed at the desk clerk. “I want the film from the lobby cameras. Now!”
The clerk scrambled to the back room.
Gramma weakly smiled her sweetest and reassured the frontman all was well. She patted his arm to comfort the obviously rattled leader and muttered about needing to go to the bathroom. She hobbled about.
Frontman lit up a thick cigar and puffed deeply.
Gramma scowled. “You can get help kicking that stinky habit, you know.”
Frontman raised an eyebrow at her.
Gramma bent over and cried out in pain.
Lola rushed to her side and helped her ambulate away.
Gramma limped about and moaned until out of the Cubans’ sight.
The frontman jammed a chair in front of the dark 50 caliber hole in the wall. He grabbed his weapon from his comrade, examined it, and slung it over his shoulder.
With the frontman’s direction, the Cubans hustled about the lobby, straightening the furniture and picking loose items off the floor. In their haste, they bumped into each other. The area was restored to a tidy space.
Within minutes, the rattled desk clerk had the video from the lobby cameras. He presented it to the frontman.
“No copies, right?” The frontman asked, tucking the video into his jacket. "Remember, I know you and your family."
“No copies, Sir,” the clerk nervously lied to him. He skittered back behind the counter and hoped he sounded convincing.
Frontman pointed to the gunshot hole in the wall. “Get that repaired now. No excuses. I’ll be back later to check it.”
The clerk nodded obligingly.
The Cuban gang, frontman and all, rushed into the stairwell and out of sight.
Within seconds, hotel security was all over the lobby.
Sirens were blaring from police cars lining the street outside.
Before long, a crowd gathered to see what all the commotion was about.
For some reason, the lobby was empty and there were no available witnesses for the police to interrogate.
Even the desk manager had mysteriously disappeared. His copy of the lobby’s video was secreted in Gramma’s room.
A “Closed” sign rested on the desk top near the telephone.
Gramma settled into a bathroom stall where she promptly lifted the frontman’s fingerprints from her shiny purse, transferred them to a card and into an envelope. We’ll find out who he is and what he’s really doing here.
Lola monitored the bathroom door. “Gramma. Are you sure you’re okay?” she said, eying the row of closed stalls. “Where are you?” She bent down and scanned the floor under the doors for her Gramma’s black boots. “How’d you know that gun wasn’t going to go off again?”
“I’m over here,” Gramma said. “The rifle was a semi-automatic requiring the trigger to be released and pressed again to fire,” Gramma said. “And, yes, I’m okay, thank you. I’ll be right out.” She walked sturdily from behind the door and directly to a sink.
“Good hand washing is so important, don’t you think?” Gramma said, vigorously soaping and rubbing her hands under the water. “Especially if you’re going to be having lunch, as we are.”
“Who are they? Lola asked. “I know you told me what you were going to do in the lobby, but, wow! What was that all about out there with you and the gun and that man and everything?”
“Cubans. They were Cubans invited here by the Ecuadorian government to do some work for them,” Gramma said.
“How’d you know that?
“Their jumpsuits, weapons and suitcases gave them away. Oh, yeah, and I was briefed ahead of time about their assignment and my part in it all.” Gramma straightened her rose pin camera and smiled. “I love all this new technology, don’t you?”
Lola was unsure of what her Gramma was talking about, so just let it go. She looked down at her phone at a text from Buddy. She messaged him back.
“Buddy wants to know how our day is happening,” Lola said.
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him it was a typical Gramma day. Nothing unusual goin’ on.”
Police were heard shuffling about outside the bathroom entry, in an attempt to find eyewitnesses to the lobby event.
Gramma directed Lola to a stall and had her stand on the commode and be silent.
The bathroom door opened slightly and one of the male police hollered in, “Anyone in here?”
Gramma affected her best old lady voice. “No one but me, sonny. I’m alone in here.”
Embarrassed to be interrupting a senior citizen in her bathroom duties, he closed the door and hastily shuffled away.
After a few minutes, assured the hallway was empty, Gramma and Lola exited the bath
room. Gramma absently pulled at some toilet tissue which was stuck to her shoe, trailing behind her, down the hall.
They left by way of a back door.
At the Market
The outdoor marketplace was bustling with shoppers and vendors of various trades. Painters, jewelry-makers, and peddlers of all things Ecuadorian (some Chinese stuff, too) and attractive to the buyers’ eye were displayed atop tables and on blankets spread on the ground. Buyers and sellers haggled over asking prices. Purchases were made and some were refused.
Gramma and Lola scanned the offerings, bargaining for the best value, but wanting to be fair. Their bags were stuffed with jewelry, clothing and various handmade items. Both were pleased with the fine items they bought.
“This tablecloth will look beautiful on my parents’ dining table,” Lola said, admiring the gift.
“Oh, yes,” Gramma said. “And I think Andy’ll like the silver and leather necklace I bought him. I enjoy shopping for you grandchildren more than anything.”
“We always love what you bring us, Gramma.”
“That’s why I do it,” Gramma said, beaming. “Let’s stop at this booth here before we go back to the hotel. She leaned in to get a closer look at a folder of photos for sale.
While Lola was busy staring at a young man selling sweet plantains, Gramma chose a selection of pictures of Quito to take back to her family.
The picture vendor, smiling and cordial, was insisting she take a sealed packet along with her purchases. He held it out for her and stared her down.
“Thank you, but I only need these,” Gramma said, backing off a little.
“No, you must take this, too,” the vendor said more firmly. He frowned and pressed it to her arm.
“You’re very kind, but I have little space in my suitcases for souvenirs and I’ve already bought my limit.”
“Take it,” he said in a deep voice, pressing her wrist for effect. “No charge.”
Gramma looked first at the seller. She swung her gaze to the envelope, noting its seal. She nodded her head and tucked it into her bag.
The Amazing Adventures of Gramma Page 3
