Down Among the Palms

By George Clark

Joe Evansex-con, ten years a solid, law-abiding citizengets drawn into a heist with tragic results and, as the survivor, is under a moral obligation to honor a vow he made to his friend, Terry Garcia, to be there for his family should the worst occur. But Megan Garcia now hates him and blames him for Terrys death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543412383

George Clark

What you see here is a picture of one person, the author of this book, first as a young lad aged ten with a French name And pictured below is the same person as an adult, this time with an American name. This is a story I’ve wanted to tell for quite a few years, especially as I’m getting older, and being aware that virtually none of my family or friends know any of the details about the first ten (10) years of my life that I spent in Japan during and after The Second World War. I’m also mindful in this day and age of how many Americans take their life here for granted, scanning the hourly electronic headlines without relating to what is really happening worldwide. I’m concerned about the apathy I witness every day, as we see on occasion people in the street being stopped by a reporter and being asked questions about current or recent events. The answers are amazing to behold, as virtually 95% of the people asked these questions have no clue to the answer. As a refugee migrating from Japan in 1950 and seeing first-hand the devastation of the war, and then coming to America and realizing what a miracle nation this is has made me realize how lucky I have been, considering the millions throughout the world who never had the chance to emigrate. There are no simple solutions to what I’ve talked about here, but I have faith in the 300 million plus citizens of this great nation who never make it to the headlines. Our future lies with them, and I am fully confident that our nation is strong and will be able to overcome future challenges and obstacles.

Book preview

Chapter 1 The Roadhouse

Joseph Peter Evans lay on his back watching the blades of the fan chase their shadows across the ceiling. It was nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, warm, he thought for February even here in the Keys. He looked over at the still form lying beside him, covered in the coolness of a white satin sheet, cascade of auburn hair soft across her shoulder. With his eyes he traced the contour of her body, the slope down from back to waist, the abrupt rise at the hips and then the tapered incline down to a pair of sunburned feet peeking out from beneath the sheet. Elizabeth, don’t call me Liz, a corporate lawyer from D.C. down for some sweaty fun in the Florida heat. He leaned over close and took a long whiff of vanilla scented hair, turned and eased out of the bed, rose, emitting a low groan of effort, the night’s activities having taken a bit of a toll on his aging body. He glanced back to make sure he hadn’t disturbed the sleeper and padded quietly off to get some coffee going.

Joe Evans was in the spring of his fifty-fifth year, a shade under six feet tall and two hundred and twenty pounds. He had spent over half his adult life incarcerated in various penal institutions, the last a brutally endless twelve year stretch in the Florida State penitentiary. A less than ideal prisoner, he got no perks for good behavior and wound up taking the full ride. His salvation while inside had been long arduous workouts in the prison yard. Pumping iron to the point of exhaustion had kept the simmering anger and frustration, the deadening monotony, at bay. His heavily muscled body from hip to neck, arms included, was covered in tattoos. Some acquired painfully and primitively while in prison, but much of the work had been done professionally on his too brief forays into the free world. Across his back a beautifully rendered Osprey in full attack mode, wings spread, talons extended, the dominant piece of body art. In the long grim isolation in that bleak merciless institution, Joe had come to realize that he could never survive another extended sentence. As a habitual offender the system would lock him away and forget about him.

A former business associate, Nelson Alessi, wiser and less impulsive than Joe, had taken his share of their ill-gotten gains, invested it shrewdly and luckily, and retired to a luxury cabin on the banks of the Appalachicola River in northern Florida, where he commenced to write a series of successful adventure novels, using an enhanced version of his old partner, Joe Evans, as the flawed but heroic protagonist, Jake Evers, ex-con, now working undercover for a sophisticated covert government agency, protecting the masses without much reward or any recognition. Nelson cranked out these novels yearly. The ever expanding fan base and critical acclaim had the movie industry showing some interest. Money from the books and his investments kept rolling in. He had maintained important connections in his old hometown of Miami and had gotten wind of a funky beach bar that was about to go under foreclosure. The couple that owned the place were in monstrous debt. They owed employees, mortgage companies and suppliers. Their credit sources had dried up and they were under litigation threats from various government agencies. Nelson had taken the long drive down to the Keys, looked the place over, and told the desperate pair that he would clear their debts, make everything right, and give them a substantial amount of cash for full ownership of the business if someone he had in mind agreed to manage its operation. Nelson had set the wheels in motion, greased the right palms, and stood first in line to obtain a sweet piece of real estate at a fraction of its value.

Twice a month without fail he had made the 150 mile journey to visit old pal Joe in the soul shattering environs of the prison. Invariably he had left these encounters with a profound sense of thankfulness mixed with a heavy dose of guilt, and vowed to help Joe make a permanent positive transition into polite society as painlessly and productively as possible.

When Joe had come strolling through the gates at Raiford a free man, eyes brimming with tears, elation so powerful his chest felt wrapped in a constrictive squeeze, it was Nelson in his customized Cadillac Escalade truck there waiting to greet him. Joe had walked over and flung a satchel filled with his meager possessions in the bed of the truck and given Nelson a long fierce embrace. Then he had climbed into the passenger seat, lowered his head between his knees, and taken deep breaths until he had gained a semblance of control, sat up and asked Nelson where they were going, and Nelson had said the Keys. Joe had said O.K. and that was it.

They cruised down Florida 16 through Green Cove Springs and across the wide Saint John’s River and picked up Interstate 95 heading south. The acute euphoria had gradually given way to a peaceful kind of serenity, and Joe sat with eyes closed, humid wind heavy with the scent of the sea blowing on him through the open window. Mostly they had ridden in silence, music pouring from the deluxe Bose speakers. In their face to face meetings at the prison Nelson had made it clear he had plans for him, legal plans, and Joe was content to just let it be, knowing it was Nelson’s way to wait for the right moment. It was coming. So he had sat back, sensory organs tuned up and watched the world flow by.

They had stopped in Palm Beach and checked into a resort hotel on the ocean. At Nelson’s insistence they headed for the in-house men’s clothiers, where he bought Joe a pair of off-white linen trousers, size 32 waist, length measured and tailored on the spot, an extra-large multi-colored pure silk tropical shirt, and leather sandals hand made in Italy.

After cleaning up they had met for a splendid dinner of lobster bisque, blackened grouper, plantains and yellow rice, later flan and Cuban coffee served in demitasse cups. Then they had taken a leisurely walk along the water’s edge in the fading twilight, Joe looking spiffy in his new expensive duds. Nelson had finally opened up with his proposal.

I’m in the process of buying this bar on the water down in the Keys. I need you to manage it for me, he had bluntly told Joe.

That had stopped Joe in his tracks. He turned to Nelson, searching his face in the pale light and said emphatically, I can’t do that. I’ve never done anything remotely like that. Give me something I can handle. That’s nuts.

You’re the perfect guy for the job. Perfect. The guy who owns the place is gonna’ hang around for a while, get you comfortable. He had people working for him you can talk to, hire new ones if you want. You got carte blanche. I’ll set up an account for you with a bank in Largo under the name Conch Shell Roadhouse, you’ll be the only one with access. There’s a guy in Miami, Marcus Burke, who specializes in these redo’s, new management kind of things. You got everything you need including a beat up Tundra pickup you can use to haul shit. Everything’s in my name.

What I’m getting, Joe had replied cautiously, is that you’re dumping all this in my lap and haulin’ ass back to Tallahassee and takin’ the long range perspective on it all.

Why the fuck would I want to hang around the nasty, sweaty Keys runnin’ a sleazy little beach bar I live in paradise. I got Hollywood knockin’ on the door, they want to make a feature cable movie, they say they got a bulked up Colin Farrell to play Jake. Paul Greengrass likes my work, he might direct. Besides, this is just another investment. I see you turning it into something special. The value will just go up. I’ll make money. We’ll be happy. You can’t turn me down on this. I got you by the short hairs. What else you gonna’ do? He had wanted to know.

They had stood, two shadowy figures, darkness spreading like an inkblot across the ocean and beach. Joe, smiling into the dimness like the guy who had just scored the winning touchdown had quietly told him, What the fuck. Why not.

In the morning after a breakfast featuring a chorizo omelet, fresh fruit, warm buttered Cuban bread to be dipped in hot café con leche, they had driven out into the chaos of Interstate 95 and the absolute bedlam of southeast Florida traffic, down through the frantic heart of Miami, the road filled with bad desperate drivers. On the way Joe had learned that the couple who operated the business are heavy cocaine users, especially the woman who served as part-time bartender and full-time incredibly incompetent bookkeeper. All the profits and then some being sucked up their noses.

They had picked up U.S. 1 in Kendall and spilled out onto the bridges and causeways on a gorgeous late February day, big cumulus clouds hovering, the water sparkling in the sunlight and a gentle breeze making the greenery quiver. A few miles past Key Largo they drove onto an oyster shell parking lot and stopped beneath a big neon that read Conch Shell Roadhouse. Old sun bleached, skin rusted Tundra pickup as promised waiting patiently on the lot. The building, a long rectangular wooden structure faced the Florida Bay side of the highway, the peaked storm shingled roof sloped down to cover a deck that ran the full length of the building and was wide enough to accommodate small tables and chairs. Although not that old it had an intentionally weathered look that would reflect the desired Keys’ vibe. Nailed to the railing supports on each side of the two steps that led to the deck and then the main entrance were signs that read, CLOSED, UNDER RENNOVATION, OPENING SOON. Nelson had called ahead and the anxious couple were on the deck awaiting their arrival. Nelson had introduced them to Joe as Duke and Joy Beecham. Duke was a tall, gaunt guy with a bandito mustache who looked like he could use some decent sleep. Joe had him figured for mid-40’s and Joy for a hard, time ravaged 30 year old. She had enormous surgically enhanced breasts, a striking contrast to the rest of her skinny shapeless body. From her red inflamed nostrils oozed a clear liquid she daubed at with a tissue. She had taken a long predatory look at Joe and had blurted out,

I can bartend and do the books. Guys love me. I bring in lots of good business.

Joe had known enough not to step in that mess and had told her rather quickly, Thanks anyway, I got people set up for those jobs.

Doing nothing to keep the disappointment out of her voice, she had whined, You’re making a big mistake there, but keep me in mind if they don’t work out.

Nelson had ended that conversation abruptly by saying, O.K. Let’s give Joe the tour. Afterward he and I will talk it over and get back to you in the morning. Let’s go, hurrying them along.

They had walked through the opened doorway into the dimness. Joe had stopped, let his eyes adjust and taken it all in. One big full length room with a small elevated stage to his left that faced a cleared area for dancing, neo-retro Wurlitzer in the corner. Tables in a semi-circle flanked the dance floor and a long bar with stools stood on his far right. A hinged section of wall tucked between the mirror-backed liquor shelves could be raised and attached to the rafter supports on the deck for outside service. A dozen big fans hung from the exposed beams of the ceiling of the tall room. Six round massive columns, strategically placed, buttressed the roof. The place was suffering from neglect. It could use some TLC, but he had liked what he was seeing. He had visualized it filled with people, a band playing, couples dancing. They had walked across the main room and through full length swinging doors with porthole windows and into the kitchen, a big room that flared out in wings at the back. A metal door in the rear of the room led out behind the property and faced the highway. A huge exhaust fan was centered in the ceiling. Most of the appliances showed signs of acute wear and abuse. The whole kitchen needed some serious scrub work. Joe had given Nelson a look and Nelson had told him, Yeah, I know, it’s fucked up, but you got the funds to get it the way you want it.

The ladies facilities were located to left of the porthole doors, the men’s to the right, both roomy but like the kitchen in dire need of a thorough cleansing and an upgrade in fixtures. They had filed out back through the heavy kitchen door, the roar of traffic on U.S.1 immediately apparent, and had done two slow walk arounds, then stopped by the vehicles and Nelson had told the Beecham’s, First thing in the morning, we’ll let you know. Then Joe and Nelson had climbed into the Caddy and left the bewildered couple standing in a pale cloud of oyster shell dust as they drove away. It had taken less than twenty minutes.

Back out on the highway, Nelson had turned to Joe and asked, Well, what do you think?

I like it. Joe had replied with enthusiasm. It’s a great looking place, major potential. I don’t understand how they managed to fuck it up so badly, wind up in hock up to their asses.

Well when you’re pounding cocaine up your nose nothing else matters that much. Nelson had said sardonically.

Less than a mile down U.S.1 from the Conch Shell they had pulled into the parking lot of a nice beach front motel. They sat in the truck, windows down, and Nelson, facing Joe, had told him, You gotta’ promise, I want a blood oath here, you’ll stay straight, you won’t go chasing the juice again and dedicate yourself to the business. It won’t be easy but it’ll be just as gratifying as takin’ down some high-end bank and a whole lot safer.

I can’t go back inside. Joe had replied with righteous seriousness. I’d rather be dead. I’m gonna be Mr. Perfect Citizen, untouchable, beyond reproach. You give me this opportunity, its past anything I could of imagined.

I don’t really give a shit if it’s a big success or not. I just want you to stay out of that life. Live like a normal person. Make me happy. I love you.

Joe had smiled at him, O.K., I promise boss. So we’re talking unlimited funds here, deep pockets.

No, no. Nelson had answered with a grin, but you’ll have a big chunk of money in the bank in Largo. I’ll let Marcus know that it’s a go and he’ll be coming down from Miami and stay as long as you need him. Listen to him, he knows what he’s doing. Keep Duke around for a while and maybe he can be of some value. I’ll give you a cashier’s check for the money I promised him and you can give it to him when you’re through with him and send him and his lovely bride on their way.

For a time they had stayed seated in the truck, two aging ex-felons, exchanging information and sharing memories before checking in and taking separate rooms. After a shower Joe had met Nelson in the lobby and they had walked next door for a supper of stone crab claws, that most succulent of shellfish meat, at an appropriately named restaurant, Patsy’s Crabbery. Later, Nelson had retired to his room claiming fatigue and the need to wrap everything up for the morning. Joe had grabbed a chair from poolside, carried it down to the water’s edge, sat back and listened to the joyous sounds