Evil in Paradise

by R. B. Conroy

  “Coming right up. Running a tab?”

  “Yes, I will be, thank you.” She took a quick glance at the parking lot, looking for Eric’s Jeep. She loved it that he drove a Jeep. It made him more masculine and sexy-much different from her reserved and conservative husband, Ed.

  “There ya’ go, ma’am.” The bartender set the vodka and tonic on the bar in front of her.

  Cathy hated the word “ma’am” thinking it was a name younger people used only when speaking with someone they considered old. She hoped the bartender would refrain from using that term when Eric arrived. She worried about the difference in her and Eric’s ages and didn’t want the bartender bringing attention to it. So far she had handled the age difference pretty well with Eric. He seemed interested enough in her and she looked younger than her sixty-seven years. Except for some sagging on the back of her legs and some not so deep wrinkles around her eyes, she could pass for the late fifties.

  “Oh my, look at that guy, he’s cute,” a pretty lady two seats down from Cathy exclaimed.

  “What a hunk!” her wide-eyed friend agreed.

  Cathy spun around to see Eric approaching her from behind. His tanned, muscular body looked great in his white tennis shorts and light blue shirt. The setting sun reflected off his wrap-around shades, adding to his ultra-hot persona. The comments from the other ladies only caused Cathy’s excitement to grow. She was hoping more and more that this might be the night she got her hunk of a tennis partner into bed. She shivered at the very thought of it.

  4

  Daisy Vanover looked up from a small stack of motorcycle repair invoices and watched her boss as he led a customer out of the garage area and into the front lobby. He stopped and leaned over his cluttered desk, poked at a small calculator for a few seconds and then scribbled down some numbers on an invoice.

  “Let’s see, I’ve got three hours on this one, so with parts and labor that will be exactly one hundred fifty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents.”

  “You take credit cards?” the elderly gentlemen asked.

  “Read the sign, sir, it’s on the wall right behind you.”

  The man turned around and read the faded “Cash Only” sign.

  Sorry, is a check okay?”

  Dirk paused, “I’ll need two forms of ID.”

  The man slid a checkbook and a pen from the back pocket on his Bermuda shorts and flipped it open. “Who should I make this out to?”

  “The Cycle Shop, it’s right behind you,” Dirk replied curtly.

  The man glanced over his shoulder again, “Oh, yes, I see it.”

  “May as well throw those signs in the trash, nobody ever looks at ‘em,” Dirk groused.

  The gray haired customer did not comment. He finished the check, ripped it from the book and handed it to the irritable garage owner along with his driver’s license and a credit card.

  Without commenting, Dirk examined the check and IDs carefully and then wrote the driver’s license number on the front of the check. He carefully ripped a pink copy from the center of the invoice and handed it to the customer. “You’re all square, partner. Your bike’s out front and the keys are in it.”

  The man nodded, left the store without saying anything to Dirk and started his cycle. Dirk watched him pull away from his shop and merge into the busy traffic on Highway 27. “Rich old bastard,” Dirk mumbled.

  Dirk Harrison was forty-eight years old and a former member of the Viper motorcycle gang in South Chicago. Nicknamed “Assassin” by his fellow gang members, he had a nasty temperament and a hair-trigger temper. Throughout his years in Chicago, Dirk had, for the most part, confined his violent outbursts to beating up rival gang members with his fists. Then one day, as everyone who knew him had expected, the volatile biker got carried away.

  On a hot July evening in the year 2000, angered by some recent threats made by the local Hell’s Angels chapter against one of his fellow Vipers, Dirk armed himself with a loaded .45, hopped on his Harley and headed for the Hell’s Angel hangout on the Chicago’s near Southside. When he arrived at the hangout on West Fullerton Avenue, just outside the Loop in Chicago, he observed several of the Angel’s bikes lined up in front of the nondescript two story townhouse. He became furious as he surveyed the many low-rider bikes covered with Angel paraphernalia.

  What happened next is legendary among the many biker gangs that inhabit the greater Chi-town area. With his ire still growing, Dirk pulled out his .45 from under his leather vest, pointed it at the townhouse and began firing at random into the front of the building, shattering several windows and blowing scores of holes in the vinyl siding. Screams of terror soon emanated from inside, trailed by loud shouts of profanity. The carnage continued with Dirk reloading several times and continuing to blast away at the building. By now, crazily furious, he had climbed off his bike and calmly shot the tires flat on all of the motorcycles on the street in front of the building. In all, the police counted seventy-five bullet holes in the front of the townhouse and nearly fifty more bullet marks on the riderless bikes.

  Unbelievably, there were no casualties as a result of Dirk’s savage assault. A few of the Angels were slightly injured by flying glass, but no one was badly hurt or killed in the shooting.

  Two Angels who resided in an adjoining townhouse had watched the frightening scene through slightly opened blinds, later identified Dirk in a police line-up. He was immediately booked and charged with attempted murder, reckless endangerment, assault with a deadly weapon and several other assorted charges. After a brief trial, he was sentenced to five years in the Illinois Department of Corrections in Springfield, Illinois.

  Dirk hated his time in jail and proved to be a surly and uncooperative inmate. With no time off for good behavior, he was released from prison in 2006 after completing his entire sentence. Part of his probation agreement, after he left prison, included a pledge that he would disassociate himself completely from the Vipers motorcycle gang. Any contact with the notorious gang would send him back to prison. Out of money and looking for some place to go, he accepted an offer from his aging grandfather to come and live with him in Lady Lake, Florida, a small community adjacent to a large, well-known retirement community.

  A short time after Dirk arrived in Lady Lake, his grandfather loaned him the seed money to start a Harley-Davidson dealership. A natural born mechanic, Dirk was excited by the opportunity to start his own business.

  “The Cycle Shop” opened in the spring of 2007 to little fanfare. Being the only Harley shop in the area, the business served mainly the bikers in Lady Lake, but due to his close proximity to The Villages, he also did some business with the retired bikers there. He considered the folks in the large retirement community to be “rich snobs” and didn’t like working on their bikes. He hated their tanned faces, fancy golf shirts and Bermuda shorts. “They’re not bikers,” he would grumble to his grandfather, “they’re just old farts tryin’ to be cool.”

  With the customer now out of the store, Dirk’s well-tattooed office gal, Daisy, shouted at him from behind the reception’s desk. “He’s not an old bastard, he’s a nice man.”

  “I got enough business; I don’t need those uppity old assholes taking up all of my time.”

  A disbelieving look spread across Daisy’s face. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Dirk, but you actually don’t have enough business. We owe everybody in town money. This recession has hurt us real bad. About the only folks who can still afford to repair their bikes are the Villagers. You’d better be nice to them.”

  “I was nice to him. I didn’t give the old guy a hard time or anything,” Dirk replied.

  Daisy just stared at him. Dirk and Daisy’s sometimes contentious relationship went back a long way. Her husband, Reg, was a mechanic at the shop, a part-time dry-waller and one of Dirk’s best friends. She could say almost anything to the thin-skinned ex-con and he wouldn’t object. Very few people enjoyed that kind of relationship with Dirk Harrison.

  Dirk flipped the sign h
anging on the front door over to closed and turned the dead bolt. He reached into his pocket and lifted a beat-up cigarette holder from his grease covered jeans, pulled out a joint and lit up. The sweet smell of marijuana soon permeated the small office area. “You worry too much, Daisy. I know how to handle those people. Besides, those rich assholes have nowhere else to go. And quit staring at me; it makes me nervous.”

  Daisy looked away. “Okay, boss, but most of the folks in The Villages are not rich. The rich people live down in Naples and Sarasota, not around here.”

  “Not rich, my ass! He had a huge diamond on that bony hand of his and a big Rolex on his scrawny-ass wrist.” Dirk took a long, deep drag on the weed, it burned into his lungs.

  Daisy shook her head and went back to work. She knew of the violent past of her mercurial boss and knew not to push him too far. Dirk had a dark side. She’d seen it once before and she didn’t want to see it again. Dirk was a throw-back to the glory days of the biker thugs when they all smoked dope, “partied hardy”, and kicked the shit out of anybody who disagreed with them. As far as she could tell, his time in prison had not mellowed him. He was lean, tough, highly opinionated, somewhat unstable, and always egging for a fight. She knew that in the right situation her boss could be a very dangerous man.

  Dirk hacked up a cough, traces of blue smoke drifting from his nose. “What’s Reg up to on his day off?”

  “He’s dry-walling a new house over in Oxford.”

  “I don’t know how he does that dry-wall shit. It would drive me nuts.”

  Daisy grinned, “I agree. I used to try and help him and I hated it, but he loves it and he makes a good buck doing it.”

  Dirk stacked some invoices and dropped them on his small desk next to the entrance to the garage area. “I’ve got a few bikes to finish up. Call Reg and tell him to stop by after work and we’ll do a few joints and then the three of us can go bar hoppin’.

  Daisy winced at the orders from Dirk. She didn’t feel like going “bar hoppin”. The last thing she wanted to do was hang around the shop for a couple more hours watching her husband and Dirk smoke dope, shoot the shit about motorcycles and then head for some bar full of biker buddies and watch everybody get high. But, she knew her husband would be in favor of the idea. He looked up to the muscular Dirk and almost never crossed him. Tired of being pushed around by the men in her life, she decided this was as good a time as any to take a stand. She took a deep breath and answered, “Reg said he was stopping by anyway to pick up that decal you ordered for his bike.”

  “Oh yeah, the decal.”

  “Sorry, Dirk, but I won’t be joining the party. I’m going home. I’ve got a lot to do,” Daisy blurted, never lifting her eyes off the receptionist’s desk.

  Dirk paused at the door to the garage and slowly turned around. A look of disbelief covered his narrow face. “If you don’t go, Reg won’t go.”

  “Yes, he will.”

  “He’d better!” Dirk warned.

  “He will.”

  A grumbling Dirk pushed the door open to the garage area and disappeared. The door slammed behind him.

  A smile of satisfaction spread across Daisy’s face. “I did it!”

  5

  “Eight ball in the side pocket.”

  Reg watched as the shiny black ball rolled slowly in the side pocket. “Luck ass. I owe ya twenty-five. That’s enough for me. I’m tired of losing.”

  Dirk grunted out a crude laugh. “You’re in over your head, Reg.”

  “I know, and I’m also getting a little tired losing to you, and I’m also getting a little tired of Spudzie’s. We come here all the time. Let’s go somewhere else.” Reg tossed a twenty and a five on the green table top.

  Dirk gathered up the cash. “Like where?”

  Reg thought for a moment. “How ‘bout The Villages.”

  “What? We won’t fit in with all those rich bastards.”

  “Why not? I’ve been over there before and nobody seemed to care. Our money is as good as anyone else’s. Besides, there are a lot of old single babes over there and a lot of them are looking for a good time.”

  Dirk shook his head. “Okay, but if we get in trouble, your ass is grass.”

  “Don’t worry, big guy, and besides Daisy tells me that you have a lot of customers in The Villages. It will be good for you to know what’s going on over there. You’ll be able to relate better to your customers.”

  “I’m sure.” Dirk shook his head and looked around for the waitress. He spotted her at a nearby table and shouted, “Hey, Rosie, what do we owe you?”

  Rosie maneuvered the green order pad from the back pocket on her tight jeans, “Let’s see, you’ve both had five beers, so you owe me thirty.”

  One of the players near Rosie was preparing to take a shot and was annoyed by Dirk’s shouting. He paused, leaned on the top of his cue and stared at Dirk.

  The observant Rosie noticed the reaction. “Cool it, Eddie,” she said quickly. “Just hit your damned shot and forget it. I don’t need a fight in here tonight.”

  The well-tattooed man ignored Rosie’s plea and kept staring at Dirk.

  Dirk tossed fifteen more dollars on the felt table top next to Reg’s twenty-five, grabbed his cue off the side of the table and rushed toward the glaring shooter.

  “Oh shit!” Rosie wailed.

  The volatile Dirk’s face was red with anger. Before the other guy had a chance to move, Dirk jabbed the handle of his cue into the man’s gut. The tall man groaned in pain and folded over.

  “Somethin’ bothering you, smart ass?” Dirk growled. “You got a problem with me talking to Rosie. Huh….huh?”

  The noisy bar went stone quiet. Everybody knew what Dirk Harrison was capable of. Dirk continued to angrily jab the player in the arms and face with his cue. Stunned, the other man raised his arms up for protection as red blood streamed down his denim jacket.

  Reg hurried over and grabbed Dirk by the arm, “Come on, buddy, he doesn’t want any part of you. Let’s get out of here.”

  Red-faced, Dirk was staring at the man, hoping for the least provocation so he could beat the man senseless. Meantime, Reg kept yanking on his arm. Finally, he started to back away. Reg leaned closer and barked in his ear, “Dammit, Dirk, let him alone. I like coming to this place. So give it up!”

  Dirk jerked his arm free from Reg, tossed his cue on the table and backed away. At Reg’s urgings, the two men turned and headed for the exit. The battered pool player leaned precariously against the end of the pool table as others examined his wounds.

  Outside, Reg continued to admonish his explosive friend. “You can’t do crap like that, Dirk. That guy was just looking at you. You can’t blow up every time somebody looks cross-ways at you.”

  Still seething, Dirk remained quiet.

  “You keep that shit up and we won’t be able to get into any bars around here. They’ve already thrown us out of Stacey’s.”

  “Okay, okay”, he mumbled. “But, that guy was asking for it, so I gave it to him.”

  “Do me a favor, Dirk. Next time you think somebody is asking for it, leave him alone, okay?”

  Dirk slowly mounted his Harley low-rider and grinned at his good buddy, “How about I kick your ass next time somebody messes with me? How about that?”

  “Just try it, hard guy, just try it.” Reg slid his leg over the worn leather seat on his ancient Harley and kicked it to a start. He gunned the engine and then popped it into gear.

  Dirk howled with laughter and high-fived his good friend. “Let’s go find us some nookie over at The Villages. Okay, buddy?”

  “Lead the way!”

  Dirk’s front wheel lifted off the ground; his mufflers popped sending a loud good-bye to the wary customers inside the shaken bar. Dirk fell in behind him as the hardened bikers wound their way through the crowded parking lot and gunned it down Pine Avenue toward The Villages.

  6

  Reg twisted the throttle and moved up next to Dirk as they cruised
slowly around the square at Lake Sumter Landing. The dance floor around the big gazebo was packed with gyrating Villagers.

  “City Fire or Cody’s?” Reg shouted over the groaning Harleys.

  “Your call.”

  “Follow me.” Reg twisted the throttle once again and pulled ahead of his companion. He whizzed past a couple of double-parked golf carts, smiling and nodding at the folks on the carts. He and Dirk were younger and stronger than most of the seniors at Lake Sumter but this was not their turf and Reg knew it. He and Dirk had to be on their best behavior or they would soon be surrounded by a mess of officers from the Community Watch security force. The Villages is a multi-million dollar operation and the management would not tolerate for a minute any trouble from a couple of biker guys from Lady Lake. Reg was hopeful that his volatile pal, Dirk, understood the situation also, but he had his doubts. He would have to keep an eye on his temperamental buddy.

  The men cruised off Lakeshore Drive and found a parking spot across from the long outside bar at Cody’s Original Roadhouse. Reg pulled to a stop and killed the engine. Dirk pulled in and racked his pipes turning heads at the nearby bar-just what Reg was trying to avoid.

  “Damn it, Dirk, cut it out!”

  Dirk gave him a toothy grin.

  Reg leaned closer to his rebellious cohort. “Listen, Dirk, there’s tons of security around here. If you punch somebody in the gut, your sorry butt will end up in jail in a flash, I guarantee it. Let’s calm down so we can have a good time. No more bullshit, okay?”

  “Lighten up, Reg, I just racked my pipes a little, that’s all.”

  “Yea, and now everyone in the joint knows that two biker guys just pulled in the parking lot.”

  Dirk jabbed his long middle finger in the face of his pal.

  Reg frowned and shook his head.

  “Hey, check out the broad in the green skirt, she’s hot.” Dirk nodded toward an attractive lady engaged in a heavy conversation with a man at the far end of the bar. Reg glanced over at the lady, and to his surprise, she picked up on Dirk’s gaze and tossed him a flirtatious smile. She held her smile for a second and then returned to the conversation with her companion.