Randy White - Haunted

We exited a path onto the private road. Two signs were posted. One was a warning to those entering the campground: No Rednecks, Gypsies, Boom Boxes, or Close-Minded Nabobs. Cash Only.

Nabobs? I could guess what the word meant.

The other sign was smaller, posted at a gated gravel drive:

SLEW VACCINE AND HERPETILE

TRESPASSERS RISK ENVENOMATION

BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

The signs were stenciled in red, made by someone with an ego.

Theo confided, “A processing lab, supposedly,” and didn’t look back.

My mind was on the journal in the house that was fuming with vapors, the front door padlocked, not that I was comforted by that. Thieves could easily break a window or shimmy up to the balcony and through the French doors.

Birdy said, “Gyspies,” as if she found that interesting yet disapproved. “I know ‘Herpetile’ means snakes, but is slew the owner’s name or slew as in swamp?” She turned to me. “That’s another word for swamp , isn’t it?”

Theo had been talking nonstop but tolerated the interruption. “Call it anything you want, it’s still a snake farm. Can you imagine milking snakes for a living? The guy has to be twisted. Or hung up on the money thing.”

“I doubt if hospitals care one way or the other,” Birdy replied.

“Oh? I guess you’d like handling snakes-you know, real thick, long ones.”

Theo thought that was funny. Birdy didn’t. So he tried another approach. “I do what I do because I love it. I have a commercial pilot’s license, too, but it’s my life, you know? Jesus… dealing with reptiles all day sounds sort of freakish to me.” Odd, his response-a mix of contempt and hubris.

Birdy picked up on that. “Three weeks here and you haven’t met the owner?”

“‘By appointment only,’ the sign says, but I’ve seen the place from the outside. There’s not much, three buildings and an old Land Rover. One of the classics, though-an old Defender, like in the jungle movies. At least we’d have something to talk about-if I bothered.”

I was thinking, This man is nuts, while Birdy asked, “Did you try calling?”

“Businesses don’t take calls anymore. It’s all Internet-driven. There’s money in raw snake vaccine, I don’t doubt that. But, from those signs? He’s got to be a pretty strange animal.”

Finally Birdy agreed. “A pompous prick, is what he sounds like. ‘Envenomation’-why not just say poisoned?”

Theo replied, “Because they are two very different things,” sounding like a pompous prick himself. “It’s not like the RV park gets a lot of traffic. A dozen trailers and a few tents, is the busiest I’ve seen it. And that was yesterday.” Then he resumed talking about the man he was supposed to meet and the award he was receiving-a subject I had tuned out ten minutes ago.

Birdy’s patience was also wearing thin. She interrupted to say her sheriff’s department had brought in an expert on Florida Gypsies, part of a continuing education program.

“Why would anyone care?”

“Someone bothered to put it on a sign,” I countered. “Why do you think, Birdy?”

“The place could be sued for discrimination, is what I think. Gypsy is considered a racial slur. The accepted term is the Romani people. Or Roms. Carnivals attracted them to Florida way, way back. Most went legitimate. Assimilation, that’s what happens to most ethnic groups. But not all, and the ones who’ve stuck to the old ways can be very bad news. Dollarwise, it’s incredible the amount of crime they get away with.”

Theo again. “Yeah? But back to what I was saying-”

I blocked him. “What else did the expert say, Birdy?”

My friend continued, “Traditional Roms only marry among themselves-arranged marriages, usually-and they still pay dowries. Can you imagine? A few-not all, of course-but some think cheating an outsider is a badge of honor. They work in packs. Con games and fraud. Fortune-telling from the carnival days is still a favorite gambit, but now it’s high-tech. Seriously-a billion -dollar business. In Lauderdale, they just busted a fortune-telling ring. Like twenty people, all with the same last name. Cops confiscated boxes of electronics: eavesdropping and surveillance gear, stolen hard drives. And then there are the simple cons: bogus house repairs or yard work. Some pass themselves off as Hispanic. Like a pretty Latina home health care nurse, she goes in while her brothers rob old couples blind.”

Theo said, “Profiling and stereotyping nonwhites-does your department offer courses on that, too?” Then tried to make it into a joke. “I’m kidding . I know law enforcement is tough. So you’re an intelligent woman, very attractive. Why did you choose such a crazy occupation?”

Birdy threw it right back at him. “Because I like handcuffing men who are twice my size but ten times as naïve-which is probably why they make half my salary.”

Theo said, “Ouch,” in a humorous way. “Do I have time to apologize before you do the Miranda rights thing?”

Birdy laughed at that. Damn.

“The woman who sold me the chrysanthemum resin? Just a warning-don’t tell her or anyone else you’re a cop.”

We had rounded a bend: pop-up campers and RVs set apart in clusters, three fires and a tent, people gathered tribally in separate halos of light.

Birdy asked, “Is she a Gypsy?”

Theo, back in control, said, “You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”

THREE WOMEN, all with long gray hair, two wearing tie-dyed dresses, looked up from a bong they were passing around, happy to see Theo until they noticed us. Their smiles flattened. The bong vanished under the table. The table held a plate of cookies, burning incense, and a battery-powered candle that flickered in its plastic chimney.

Birdy whispered to me, “Except for the chubby one, they could pass for my mother. Throw in a tofu turkey and it’s my pain-in-the-ass childhood all over again. Let’s make this quick.”

Woodsmoke, incense, and reefer, the odors clung to the clearing. Trees screened all but a circle of sky. Opposite us was a domed tent and an RV camper. Two men sat playing a board game by lantern light. Theo called, “See you in a minute,” as we passed them. One man waved and the other said, “Righty-o!”

It was probably the Civil War hobbyist he had mentioned. I liked the older man’s looks: solid, grandfatherly in slacks and gray hair. But he and his friend were outsiders, segregated by space and a lack of shade. Others here were different. I could see it in the furtive looks, felt it in the air. Nearer the river was a van and more pop-up campers, all attached to vehicles that had towed them. Except for a CBS house- Office on a sign out front-and one trailer, an old single-wide on blocks, the roofline curved like the lines of an aging Cadillac. A small wooden porch held it to the ground.

Tyrone and the park manager are the only full-time residents, Theo had told us.

I didn’t want to linger on the image of a man with scales, so I replied to Birdy, “I’m thinking I should talk to the owner of the vaccine place or whoever runs it. I don’t see how a bunch of weekend campers can help.”

“Hipster-genarians,” she muttered, meaning the three women. “The Butterfly Generation is turning into moths.”

I said, “I wouldn’t bother him tonight, of course. Tomorrow, I’ll look up the number-Theo has to be wrong about his phone being unlisted. Don’t you think we’re wasting our time here?”

“I bet they’re all high as kites,” my friend said. “Look at their expressions-sixty-year-old flower chicks hoping to score some good lovin’ from Theo. Very, very groovy until we show up.”