Don Bruns - Too Much Stuff

“I don’t think this is the original building, but this is the spot where the survivors met.”

The story we’d read was that the Rustic turned out to be the meeting place for all the survivors. Not many of them were left, but if you showed up after the storm, at least you were alive. There were families with, like fifty members who lost all but ten. The more I read about the hurricane, the more I heard stories, the worse it seemed. Almost no one had lived in Islamorada before the storm. You subtract five hundred from almost no one and what do you have? Not much.

We passed Cheeca Lodge, the location of a resort that had been thriving during the ’30s. Vicks Chemical Corporation or some other big business had built a resort on the property in the early 1900s, and alongside of it was Millionaire’s Row. Some of the hotshot northerners who owned big companies built vacation mansions on that row. Those homes were blown away by the ’35 hurricane, and I would bet that most of the priveledged owners were up north when it happened. As I pointed out, only two businesses survived the big wind and tidal wave. Only two.

James pulled into the parking lot of the Turtle and we got out of the truck.

“Damn!”

James was staring at his side of the truck, his fists clenched and his face screwed up in a frown.

I walked around the vehicle, and checked out what he was looking at. Spattered across the side of the truck was what appeared to be black paint.

“Who would do that?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“And why?”

“We’ll get some rags and-”

“What? Smear it?” He banged his fist on the back of the box truck. “No, we’ll get some solvent and do it right, back at the resort.”

In spite of the paint, in spite of the mess, I smiled. And James smiled. Resort. We’d never stayed at a resort in our lives. A poolside bar, waterfront, an ocean view. This wasn’t bad at all.

“Let’s grab some lunch, pard.”

And with that we walked into The Green Turtle. Could have been the best move we made the entire trip, because we met Maria. But as it turned out, it wasn’t.

At The Green Turtle there’s a room out back with a sunporch feeling. Wicker chairs, windows, and a cheery, open-air atmosphere. Plus, James could smoke. And of course, I had to cater to James’s worst habits. So, that’s where we sat. Our laptop was in the bag next to my seat.

“If we’re going to figure this out, we have to find out where the Coral Belle was located. Our primary job is finding that gold. If it still exists.” I assumed that this was the primary objective. Under the Coral Belle foundation was some clue regarding the treasure.

“Let’s explore the other end of this.” James sipped his beer.

“I thought finding the gold was the end.”

“Skip,” he took a drag on his cigarette, “there could be a good deal of work involved in this investigation. We’ve got a very limited amount of time to spend on it. Am I right?”

“You are.”

“Okay, follow me. We need to see if we can find AAAce Investigations.”

I stared at him for a moment. “What the hell are you talking about?” I swallowed a quarter of the bottle of my beer, thinking we should have had some breakfast.

“The lady said find Markim and Weezle.” A broad smile now on his face. “Wouldn’t you change your name if it was Weezle. Weezle, for God’s sake.” Then he broke out in a muted chuckle. “Weezle!”

“James, that’s a sidebar adventure. We’re here to find the gold.”

“And Skip, what if our boys, our crackerjack investigators Markim and Weezle already have the information? What then?”

“I’ve lost you, dude.”

“Pay attention. These guys come down here and get lucky. They find a diary, a map, a letter.”

“And?”

“We’d be better off to find them . They’ve done all the work. Now all we have to do is just get the information from them .”

James had a point. It came from his lazy nature, but he had a point.

“So, Mrs. Trueblood says that their website is down. Their phone has been disconnected.”

“And?”

“Pull out our computer, my friend.”

I took it from the bag.

“Check it out.” He pointed to a small sign on the wall. “Free Wi-Fi.”

“James,” the guy seemed oblivious to the facts, “they’ve vanished. These two detectives no longer exist.”

“Google Yellow Pages.”

I did.

“Now, in the search box, type in AAAce Investigations.”

I did.

“So, what did you find?”

“A site.”

“Ah, grasshopper, but not a personal website. They’ve taken that one down. But, they probably didn’t take down sites from some reviewers. Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”

“Yeah, of course. You’re always right, James.” He wasn’t. But in this case-

“Click on the one that says photos.”

I studied the options.

“How the hell did you know there would be-”

“Click it.”

I did.

“Pictures, right?”

There were. I nodded. It was a Yellow Page ad that was still posted.

“Ah, I knew it. Ego guys. What do we have in our Yellow Page ad, pard?”

“ We don’t have a Yellow Page ad.”

“Do you see? No ego.” He drained his bottle, banging it on the table.

No money. That’s what it boiled down to. James had ego. Trust me. If we’d had the money, James would be front and center in all the Yellow Page ads. Oh, my friend James had ego.

“Can we print this? Get a feeling for who these guys are? I want to know it when we run into them.”

“We can print it back at the,” I hesitated as the word made both of us smile, “resort.”

We laughed out loud.

“Resort. Okay. Let’s view the enemy. Hopefully we’ll recognize them.”

They stared at us from our computer screen, names under their photographs. Two guys not much older than we were. Weezle had a stubble of beard and a Miami Vice sort of wardrobe. T-shirt, jacket, and slacks. Markim, while not black like Tubbs, was dressed like him in a suit with a tie and a very cocky look on his face. James and I didn’t even own a tie. Between us.

The body copy in the photo ad read as follows.

AAAce Investigations. We succeed where others fail.

Undercover investigations

Photo service

Surveillance

Multiple vehicle surveillance-car, truck, boat, motorcycle

Discreet video and audio work

Wiretapping where legal

“It doesn’t say where they are, James.”

“No, but we know who they are.”

I studied the faces. Two guys who had enough money to buy a Yellow Page ad. It was impressive. We didn’t have a boat. We didn’t have a-

“Skip, look at that ad again.”

“I just did. We’ve got a car. Mine. It may not be worth much, but we’ve got a car.”

“We’ve got a truck.” James nodded his head.

“But we don’t have a boat.”

“No,” James agreed, “and we don’t have a motorcycle.”

“But-”

“But, amigo, somebody ripped by us today on a motorcycle. And I’ve been thinking ever since that-”

“Yeah. That the guy on the motorcycle spattered the paint on the truck. Same thought, James.”

“Excuse me.” She came out of nowhere.

We both looked up and were surprised at the attractive woman approaching our table. She didn’t appear to be a waitress.

“What can we do for you?” Charming James.

She smiled. She beamed. An almost flirtatious look on her lovely face. “Do you own the truck outside? The white box truck with the splash of black paint on it?”