Marc J. Yacht

18137 Branch Rd.

Hudson, Florida 34667

Never Heard of It

Jack and I were living in Tampa doing errands for Fat-Boy. I’m known as Ferdie. Most transactions were in Ybor City whose past distinction was being the cigar capital of the world. I wouldn’t know, as I was never one for cigars. It’s a compact dingy place long past its heyday. Efforts to create an artsy village had mixed reviews. Yuppies would come for the night life and a walk on the wild side. Frankly, the place did nothing for me and Jack hated it.

Fat-Boy didn’t like Ybor either, but he could do business without a lot of hassle. Buyers and sellers were everywhere and arrests were rare. He could load up on Mary Jane, rocks, heroine, pills, powder, and get it to folks in the Panhandle, Jacksonville and Tallahassee. We could make a “G” a week running supplies, doing transactions, and making deliveries. If we wanted to get laid there were plenty of ladies to accommodate and the merchandise we carried made those scores easy and free. Life was good, even if the city was crumby.

The flat we had was a converted warehouse. The living area was a spacious 3000 square feet with no walls. Etched on the floor were what had been the partitioning of the manager’s office, next to the front door. We divided up the place with Chinese panels. The bathroom had 10 shower heads, lined up affixed to the east wall, and rained onto a cement floor with a common drain. Ten open toilets were directly across from the showers. Only 8 of the 10 enameled cast iron sinks remained against the windowed south wall; the capped-off plumbing provided evidence of the other two.

The multiple windows overlooked E. Columbus Avenue in the heart of Ybor City. I never knew what was manufactured in the old building but imagined it was a dressmaker’s sweat-shop. I could visualize rows of sewing machines attended by young Cuban ladies trying to survive the hardships of the 19^th Century. They probably worked and lived in the factory, sending their meager earnings home to help some family member to the same fate. I suspected women because the only other bathroom had expensive fixtures and was graciously appointed. I figured that was for the manager. One good sized air conditioner cooled the joint for us and it was great for parties and broads.

Fat-Boy called and told us to pick up a satchel (cash) for some merchandise in Aripeka. As was usually the case, we got the bucks from Fat-Boy and met the other players at an agreed upon spot, exchanged bags, did a quick check of the merchandise, and were on our way. “Where the hell is Aripeka?”

Fat-Boy told me it’s north of New Port Richey before Hernando County.

“Where the hell is that?”

“Schmuck, get over here, I’ll give you a map.” Fat-Boy hung up.

He’d been renting this dump off of 14^th Ave. and 25^th St. Here’s a guy with a million bucks living like a pauper in poor-town. “You need to keep a low profile.” He must have said that a hundred times. I’m thinking, with his money I’d be living on a yacht. “Don’t attract attention, it could get you killed.” I appreciated that advice but what good is all this money if you got to live like you’re on food stamps?

Fat-Boy gave me a bag. “Count it!”

I counted 100 Gs in packs of hundred dollar bills. Jack looked on. “Looks like a major buy.”

“It’s Artie’s boys - they want to move the merchandise fast and I’m the only one they trust to take it. It’s a whole lot of weed, so rent a panel truck. Everybody knows everybody, so it should go smooth. Don’t get any tickets!”

Fat-Boy gave us a map and directions and soon we’re on the road with a $26.00 per day U Haul-It. We would get to the destination one hour before time. It gave us a chance to eye the place, look for potential problems, and quick exits. Unfortunately, there were more police involved in these transactions than real dealers. The good news was that most of the cops were bad, moving stuff from evidence rooms. Fat-Boy never did that business - too risky.

We’re driving on U.S. 19 past New Port Richey, into Hudson, and we’re looking for the cut-off to Aripeka. The meeting was to take place at the end of a gravel road off the second bridge. It was eight in the evening in August, so the sun was low in an orange sky. Blue, red, and green textures filtered through the clouds as we reached the coastal road traveling through town. While driving slowly through the community, I realized that this was old Florida. The Florida before the developers came with their real estate agents and slick talk. We observed cracker houses, saw-grass, canals and palm trees with an old post office and a small stucco Baptist Church, locked in the past. A young boy rode a bicycle holding a fishing pole; alongside lumbered a Golden Retriever. Driving up Aripeka Rd., I saw an old Chevy truck and a 49 Ford. Jack and I look at each other, “Where the hell is this place?”

Jack countered, “What year is this?”

“Did you see that sign? It says this was Babe Ruth’s favorite fishing spot.”

“Yeah, and how about that Chief Aripeka sign, carved and painted with the face of an Indian. It’s a mobile park.” While traversing the first bridge, two fishermen had their lines in the water. A fat lady, very broad in the beam, sat on a small chair baiting a fishhook. Happy children played nearby. While we slowly drove, anticipating the second bridge, we noted picturesque stilted houses overlooking the marsh and Gulf. We slowly crossed the bridge and saw two children cast their lines in the water.

“There’s the road.” I pointed.

“I think you’re right,” Jack turned onto the road.

We passed another stilted house, then woods, and finally parked at road’s end. It would be one hour before the scheduled rendezvous so we left the truck and explored. We both watched a beautiful pink sun drop like a hot air balloon into the waters while reflecting an array of golden colors from the sky. Skimmers raced across the water as a flock of seagulls whisked by. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the sunset and enchanted by an old Florida. Time had not caught up with Aripeka, and perhaps it never would.

“You like this place, do you?”

“I could live here, Jack. In fact, I think I will live here!”

“Here comes a truck, it must be them. You stand out of sight over there locked and loaded. I’ll greet.”

I stepped behind a tree with my Uzi. I never had to use it and prayed I never would. Jack kept a Glock tucked in his belt.

We knew Charlie, who was the first to step out of the truck. I was able to relax. Transactions could be very tense and there was always the possibility of trouble. Next to Charlie was a short stocky man I didn’t know. He did all the talking. He took Jack’s bag, counted quickly, and then nodded to Charlie. The driver of the truck, who I could not see, turned it around and backed it up so the trucks were side by side. The driver got out and opened the rear of their truck. Charlie, the stocky guy, their driver, and Jack quickly loaded our U Haul.

“Hey Ferdie, take care of yourself,” Charlie looked in my direction. “Be careful you don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”

“Piss on you, Charlie.” I yelled back. He laughed; they got in their truck and drove off. We got the goods to our warehouse, and returned a clean truck the next morning.

It took us three weeks to unload the merchandise. Buyers were lined up in Jacksonville and Tallahassee; there was one run to Mexico City in the Panhandle. We got our money, Fat-Boy had his, and everybody was happy.

Things stayed cool for a few weeks. It was odd we had not heard from Fat-Boy. I told Jack we ought to go visit as calls to his dump were not answered. He rarely left the house, so where was he? We jumped in Jack’s car and went to Fat-Boy’s place. In our work, routine was important; when things were out of kilter that was trouble. We were, well armed, wearing flack jackets and parked about a block away from the house. The empty unlit street was pitch-black. I pulled out the Uzi and checked my Beretta. Jack hid a shotgun under his jacket and had his Glock, holstered. He approached the house from the front; I worked my way to the back. The back door was ajar. I quietly stepped onto the back porch. It was silent and dark inside.

As I approached the door, the smell overwhelmed me. Rotted flesh had a distinct odor and I gagged but thwarted the urge to vomit. I carefully entered and turned on my penlight. I didn’t go far. Fat-Boy was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. He must have been dead a week. I carefully made my way to the living room. I saw Fat-Boy’s woman slumped over a chair, also dead. I carefully opened the front door and signaled to Jack. We went from room to room. Other than the two bodies, the place was empty and stripped. Bedding was torn up, closets ripped apart, drawer contents spilled everywhere. Somebody was after Fat Boy’s cash. We knew he didn’t keep much there. Maybe, whoever did this, got 10 or 20 thousand, but the big money was at the warehouse.

We knew Fat-Boy was connected and all we had was a phone number. We got back to the car and called. One thing was certain; we wanted to tell them what happened before they asked us, whoever they were.

Jack simply said someone took out Fat-Boy. He listened briefly and hung up.

“What’d they say?” I asked

“They said, okay; go back to your place, that’s it.”

“Did they seem surprised?”

“No.”

“I don’t like it, Jack.”

“I say we go to the warehouse. Nobody knows about the warehouse. That’s what Fat-Boy said.” Jack stroked his beard.

I’d known Jack since high school. I never saw him worried or rattled. He was a careful planner and on the rare occasion when things got strange, Jack was ready. During one transaction, I saw him take out two guys very quick. A third guy dropped his piece and fell to the ground. Somehow Jack realized the deal was a herring. He had good instincts.

“You think we’re being set up, don’t you Jack?”

“I don’t know but I will play it that way.”

The warehouse was by the railroad tracks and just a few minutes from Fat-Boy’s place. Jack parked the Chevy out of sight behind the building. We had a key.

“Ferdie, you stay outside and keep an eye from a distance, be ready!”

“Oh yeah, you be careful, Jack.” I stood adjacent the building behind a dumpster. Jack went inside. I kept a keen eye on the only door of the warehouse. About fifteen minutes later Jack exited with a large bag. About that time a car screeched to a halt in the parking area. Three gunnies jumped out and opened fire, so did Jack. It went down so fast. I saw Jack fall back. I opened-up with the Uzi and dropped two of them. Jack had already taken out the third. I watched the car lurch back; I then emptied my clip into the windshield. The car careened backward into a pole and exploded into flames. I pulled out my Beretta and made sure the other three remained dead.

I kept an eye out for other hitters while running over to Jack. His vest had stopped five bullets; the one that killed him got him in the head. My God, Jack was dead. I stood over his body. “Jack, I’ve got to leave you, I’m sorry. I’ll see you in hell, I guess.” I closed his eyes, stretched him out lengthwise, then grabbed the bag and drove off.

Several decisions were made - I would never go back to the flat, I would no longer be in this business, I would get a motel room, and I would examine the bag. I drove on I-4 East and didn’t stop until Lakeland. I found a small motel run by an Indian family, parked the car out of sight, went into the room, threw the bag on one bed and collapsed on the other. I left the Uzi in the car but kept the Beretta.

I was walloped by the events of the evening. My thoughts were of Jack, I would miss him. We had traveled together since high school. Neither one of us had family; we were raised in foster homes, had met at school, and quickly became friends. Fat-Boy gave us our first job. He treated us okay. I was pleased that we had avenged him. I also realized we were followed to the warehouse.

Finally, after staring at the ceiling until 3 A.M., I ventured over to the other bed. The duffle bag was clipped shut with no lock. I opened it. As the lamp illuminated the contents, I could see the $100 bills. The damned bag was full of money, a lot of money. I counted one million-four-hundred and eighty thousand dollars. I sat next to that bag for three days, only getting up to relieve myself or drink water. On the third day, I walked across the street to the Huddle House for a light breakfast.

I have resided in Aripeka for the past five years. I live in a stilted house overlooking the Gulf. I watch the sunset light the saw grass, evening sky, and Gulf waters with marvelous golden hues. I often join the youngsters and their families fishing on the bridge. I attend the small Baptist Church on Sundays and coach the little league team. I enjoy observing the Egrets, Herons, and other exotic birds. I have never been happier and if my past catches me, well, Aripeka, circa 1950, is a good place to die.

End