packages, the kind of crappy, processed fare that’s a staple of bachelor life. Before leaving home I’d printed a handful of phony business cards on my computer, tied my graying hair in a neat ponytail and shed my typical Keys’ uniform of shorts, flips and frayed tropical shirt for my one remaining good suit, which still sort of, almost, fit. No socks, though. After all, this
is
South Florida. When I got to the Gutierrez condo I parked at one of the side entrances and waited for its residents—among them, hopefully, a sympathetic woman—to come strolling back from an early dinner or late day at the office or quick trip to a local market.
After half an hour of drumming my fingers and running my Miata’s wheezing air-conditioner I saw what I was looking for—a pair of good-looking young women, still in business dress, chatting animatedly and heading for home. One was already reaching into her purse for her key card. As they approached the entrance I got out of the car, awkwardly holding my heavy bag of groceries, and quick-footed it to the door, then faked a stumble and dropped the bag to the pavement, scattering my goodies in their path.
“Oh, shit!” I muttered, kneeling down and cramming everything back in the bag. I looked up at the women, a harmless, embarrassed loser. “I am such a doofus,” I said, rising to my feet, the crumpled bag held tightly to my chest. “Would you mind getting the door?”
They both smiled sweetly at the clumsy, aging, hippie doofus, then the blonde swiped her card and the brunette held the door open. They smiled again at my chivalrous, “Thank you, ladies,” and walked down the hall, chuckling, I was sure, at my pathetic lack of coolness.
But I was in.
I already had Armando Gutierrez’s apartment number from the county real estate records so I ditched my groceries in an empty elevator and rode another to the twenty-first floor. My plan was to brace his neighbors with a modestly believable cover story and find out anything they knew about the man in apartment 2144, maybe get a lead on a girlfriend or frequent visitor who I might pump for more information.
No one was home at 2142. At 2146 a large man with a military buzz cut and body builder’s physique straining a wife-beater t-shirt opened the door.
“I’m Christopher Travers with Secure Tech Industries,” I said, holding out my fake business card. “We’re considering Armando Gutierrez, your next-door neighbor, for an important position with our firm, and I’d like to ask you a few—”
Slam!
I must have been in the Keys too long; I’d forgotten about the hospitality of big city residents.
I didn’t have much better luck at 2141 or 2143. At 2145 a gnome-like woman with dyed-blond hair wearing a flowing designer caftan answered. She looked to be in her mid-seventies but remarkably well-preserved, with quick, bird-like movements and ice-blue eyes that raked over me like lasers.
I did my Christopher Travers thing.
“. . . and I’d like to ask you a few questions about—”
“Hah! You can’t bullshit me, Christopher Travers or whoever the hell you are. Come in and have a drink. And don’t think I’m a helpless old woman. I’ve got a .38 Police Special and I know how to use it.”
I stood in the doorway, still recovering from her verbal onslaught, not sure whether to laugh, run or go in.
“Scotch or vodka? That’s all I’ve got.” She’d already turned her back to me and was filling a glass from a bottle of vodka on a table in the living room. “Well, what are you waiting for, Christopher Travers? You’re not one of those teetotaling health nuts, are you?”
Not me.
“Scotch, please. Just a couple of cubes.”
I shut the door behind me and she stuck out a bony hand, giving mine a good, firm squeeze.
“I’m Marilyn Kravitz. Moved to this humid hellhole thirteen years ago from the Bronx. Never wanted to leave New
is
South Florida. When I got to the Gutierrez condo I parked at one of the side entrances and waited for its residents—among them, hopefully, a sympathetic woman—to come strolling back from an early dinner or late day at the office or quick trip to a local market.
After half an hour of drumming my fingers and running my Miata’s wheezing air-conditioner I saw what I was looking for—a pair of good-looking young women, still in business dress, chatting animatedly and heading for home. One was already reaching into her purse for her key card. As they approached the entrance I got out of the car, awkwardly holding my heavy bag of groceries, and quick-footed it to the door, then faked a stumble and dropped the bag to the pavement, scattering my goodies in their path.
“Oh, shit!” I muttered, kneeling down and cramming everything back in the bag. I looked up at the women, a harmless, embarrassed loser. “I am such a doofus,” I said, rising to my feet, the crumpled bag held tightly to my chest. “Would you mind getting the door?”
They both smiled sweetly at the clumsy, aging, hippie doofus, then the blonde swiped her card and the brunette held the door open. They smiled again at my chivalrous, “Thank you, ladies,” and walked down the hall, chuckling, I was sure, at my pathetic lack of coolness.
But I was in.
I already had Armando Gutierrez’s apartment number from the county real estate records so I ditched my groceries in an empty elevator and rode another to the twenty-first floor. My plan was to brace his neighbors with a modestly believable cover story and find out anything they knew about the man in apartment 2144, maybe get a lead on a girlfriend or frequent visitor who I might pump for more information.
No one was home at 2142. At 2146 a large man with a military buzz cut and body builder’s physique straining a wife-beater t-shirt opened the door.
“I’m Christopher Travers with Secure Tech Industries,” I said, holding out my fake business card. “We’re considering Armando Gutierrez, your next-door neighbor, for an important position with our firm, and I’d like to ask you a few—”
Slam!
I must have been in the Keys too long; I’d forgotten about the hospitality of big city residents.
I didn’t have much better luck at 2141 or 2143. At 2145 a gnome-like woman with dyed-blond hair wearing a flowing designer caftan answered. She looked to be in her mid-seventies but remarkably well-preserved, with quick, bird-like movements and ice-blue eyes that raked over me like lasers.
I did my Christopher Travers thing.
“. . . and I’d like to ask you a few questions about—”
“Hah! You can’t bullshit me, Christopher Travers or whoever the hell you are. Come in and have a drink. And don’t think I’m a helpless old woman. I’ve got a .38 Police Special and I know how to use it.”
I stood in the doorway, still recovering from her verbal onslaught, not sure whether to laugh, run or go in.
“Scotch or vodka? That’s all I’ve got.” She’d already turned her back to me and was filling a glass from a bottle of vodka on a table in the living room. “Well, what are you waiting for, Christopher Travers? You’re not one of those teetotaling health nuts, are you?”
Not me.
“Scotch, please. Just a couple of cubes.”
I shut the door behind me and she stuck out a bony hand, giving mine a good, firm squeeze.
“I’m Marilyn Kravitz. Moved to this humid hellhole thirteen years ago from the Bronx. Never wanted to leave New
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