A Storied Tour of Florida: Country Yarns and City Tales

By G. Alan Brooks

Thirteen stand-alone short stories that take place in Florida which contain both country yarns and city tales. They include a delightful array of interesting characters; both good people and unsavory scoundrels from a wide range of backgrounds and cultures. Many have a surprise ending with a twist that often changes the readers early opinion of the main participants. The yarns and tales illuminate the diversity of people and places that reach from the Florida panhandle to the keys. The authors view of Florida includes a large rural component with old-fashion country values and customs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543448924

G. Alan Brooks

George “Alan” Brooks was born in central Florida in 1940 into a Florida pioneer family. The Brooks families settled in central Florida around 1815 and were sustenance farmers for at least 150 years.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by G. Alan Brooks.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2017913619

ISBN:                      Hardcover                         978-1-5434-4890-0

                                Softcover                            978-1-5434-4891-7

                                eBook                                 978-1-5434-4892-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/31/2017

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To the different ways Floridians have chosen to live.

Contents

Chapter 1      Gulf Hammock White Dog Revenge

Chapter 2      Jacksonville Pawnshop Intrigue

Chapter 3      Surprise in the Everglades

Chapter 4      Orlando Interclub Golf Match

Chapter 5      World War II Souvenir Addiction

Chapter 6      Palm Beach Love Story

Chapter 7      Stiltsville Fortune in Biscayne Bay

Chapter 8      Wakulla County Mercy Killing

Chapter 9      Miami Fine Art Deception

Chapter 10    Misfortune in Coconut Grove

Chapter 11    Russian Spies: Mistake in Miami

Chapter 12    University of Florida Panty Raid

Chapter 13    Dangerous Spearfishing in the Florida Keys

Gulf Hammock White Dog Revenge

"DAMN, THAT TASTES good in this cold weather," said John to himself as he swallowed the expensive bourbon from his flask. He was hidden behind a large clump of green weeds with his back against the root of a large tree that had been toppled by a hurricane years ago. With his soggy green camouflage suit, he was virtually invisible as he waited to shoot a white-tailed deer that happened to walk his way.

In January, it can get surprisingly cold in Gulf Hammock, Florida. It had been drizzling off and on most of the day, and the temperature was around thirty-five degrees. The sun had just disappeared behind the tree line, and it would be dark in less than an hour. John had been in this blind for around four hours since eating his lunch at a local restaurant just outside the wildlife preserve.

John was not happy about his discomfort, and he was disappointed that he had seen nothing to shoot all day. In fact, he was in a bad mood.

John and his partner Mike had driven up to the Gulf Hammock hunting area late Friday night for their first deer-hunting trip. Gulf Hammock is in Central Florida near several rural communities, including Cedar Key. It is only about an hour and a half drive from Tampa to Gulf Hammock, and many hunters from Tampa visit the area.

John and Mike, both accountants, lived in an affluent subdivision of Tampa. They planned their trip for several months. They purchased all the necessary hunting licenses, permits, and stamps required to hunt in the Gulf Hammock Game Management Area. They rented a camper and bought the supplies they thought they would need for two days and nights of camping.

They trailered the small pop-up camper behind their 1994 Bronco truck, and when they arrived, they set it up in Campsite A. The spot they foolishly picked was in the middle of a low area that was extremely wet, and the inside of the camper was quickly filled with huge clumps of mud.

Only inexperienced campers would choose such a lousy spot to set up their camper. A few of the local hunters had seen the messy campsite chosen by John and Mike, and they laughed at the inexperienced city slickers.

They had not slept very well because the small camper did a poor job of screening out the hungry mosquitos. The Coleman stove they brought to use for cooking did not work, and they had nothing to eat for breakfast before they went for the morning hunt. In addition, the greasy spoon restaurant they visited for lunch was giving John stomach problems.

Hunters are allowed to use dogs at certain times in the Gulf Hammock Preserve. Sometimes the dogs will get confused and chase a raccoon or possum. Some are also trained to chase wild hogs, but mostly the well-trained dogs will only chase a deer.

John did not know anything about hunting with dogs. However, he would certainly take the opportunity to shoot a deer if dogs of another hunter pushed one his way.

I hear some dogs, and it sounds like they are coming this way, John muttered out loud as he stood up to get a better view of the area in front of him. It sounded as if there were many dogs in the pack chasing something. One of the dogs had a deeper, more distinctive voice than the others.

Oh hell! There is a huge deer right in front of me, he whispered as he reached for his shotgun and put it to his shoulder. Before he could take aim and fire, the deer disappeared, and all he could see was a white tail flashing to his left as the deer bolted away.

Damn, damn, damn! How did I let that deer get away? He was angry with himself and frustrated that he had not paid more attention to how close the sound of the dogs had become.

The dogs were pushing that deer right to me, and I failed to take my shot, he muttered as he stomped the ground. He decided to take another drink from his flask to help calm himself down. Drinking and hunting do not mix, as he would soon discover.

Suddenly, he saw a flash of white again. Great. The damned deer must have double backed, and I won’t miss him this time, he vowed. He waited for a sight of the deer, and when he saw another flash of white, he aimed and fired into the bushes in front of the direction the animal was moving.

An experienced hunter knows that you never shoot at anything without a clear view of your target. The bourbon he had consumed, along with his inexperience and anger, must have clouded his judgment.

He ran over to the bushes where he had fired and where he expected to find the big buck he had spotted before. However, to his disappointment, he found a dead white dog. The dog was almost completely white with a tan head. He was bleeding profusely from the buckshot that had hit him broadside. The white dog was not moving. The other dogs in the pack kept chasing the deer and only stopped for a moment to look at the dead white dog.

Well, I don’t see any horns on that dog. Damnit, I wanted to get a deer today, he said without any sympathy. He looked closely at the big dog and noticed a collar with a name, address, and some other technical information. He undid the collar and put it in his vest pocket as a souvenir. That dog was stupid to get so close to the deer he was chasing. How’s a hunter to know the difference between a deer and damn fool dog?

John could hear the other dogs in the pack continuing to chase the deer, and their voices were getting farther and farther away. He figured the deer was long gone.

John decided to end this day of hunting. He returned to the Bronco and picked up his friend Mike, who was a few hundred yards down the muddy road. They were both wet and cold, so they returned to their campsite, changed clothes, and went to a local bar for some drinks and fun.

Meanwhile, Clint Johnson and his father Tom were riding their horses as they normally did when hunting with their dogs. They began the afternoon hunt shortly after lunch.

Six of their dogs trained to hunt deer followed them as they rode through the Gulf Hammock Preserve. They were hoping the dogs would pick up the scent of a buck to chase.

The objective of the hunt was for the dogs to push a deer to the hunters in their group who were waiting for a possible shot.

As hoped, the dogs jumped a big buck very quickly; and around twenty minutes earlier, they began the chase. Their voices carried quite a distance, and it was exciting to listen to the dogs and to anticipate a deer running your way.

Tom and Clint were from Cedar Key, and their families had been in the area for many years. Tom owned a general store in town, and Clint was a fishing guide. Their family had been hunting in the Gulf Hammock Management Preserve for more than forty years. They were traditional Southerners and carried the accent and manners of country people.

I heard a shot, but I guess the hunter missed because the dogs are still chasing the deer. Do you know who’s hunting in that area? I know none of our family is over there in Little Pine Island, said Clint.

Boy, the dogs jumped that deer superfast, and they are having a ball chasing him. I think I saw horns when he jumped up out of the palmetto bushes. It is too bad the hunter missed him. I think the dogs have pushed the deer beyond any of our hunters. We need to ride over to Little Pine Island and call the dogs off the chase, said Tom.

Most of the hunting dogs in Central Florida are trained to come when they hear the sound of a hollowed-out cow horn. The horn has a mouthpiece that has been carved into the narrow end, and a dog owner can easily learn to blow it.

Most owners have a particular cow horn they like, and they put it on a leather thong to hang around their necks. The dogs learn to respond to the unique sound of their owner’s horn, and they are trained to stop hunting and return to the owner when they hear it.

Clint and Tom rode their horses toward Little Pine Island while blowing their cow horns every few minutes. A few of the dogs returned, but they kept on heading toward the area where they last heard the dogs.

I wonder what Whitey could be doing. He is usually the first to return to the sound of the horn, said Clint.

He is probably still chasing that deer. You know how much he loves to get right on their heels and push them to our hunters, said Tom.

Well, it is getting so dark. I think we can only give it another ten minutes, and then we just go home. I know he will turn up tomorrow, if not tonight, said Clint.

In the distance, they heard some whining; and when they passed a clump of palmetto bushes, they saw one of their dogs pushing at something with his nose. Maybe the dogs caught something, said Clint.

Tom and Clint got off their horses and walked around the bushes to see better, and they saw Whitey lying on the ground with the blood barely dried on the buckshot holes.

Oh no! What the hell is this? Who would shoot a dog? asked Clint. He picked up Whitey and held the big dog in his arms. I loved this dog like a child. He was the best hound in Florida, and he never bothered anyone. There is no way a hunter was afraid of him. Someone must have shot him for the fun of it or by accident.

Look, his collar is missing, said Tom.

That means someone knows he killed Whitey. Maybe they will use the collar to find me and apologize for killing my dog. At least I hope they contact me. If not, I will find them, said Clint.

They put Whitey on the back of Clint’s saddle and rode back to their camp at Campsite B. They put the horses in the corral and gave them some water, hay, and sweet feed. They put Whitey in their old Jeep and went home to Cedar Key.

Their home was behind the general store. They also had a twenty-acre piece of property with some dog and horse pens behind the house, along with two boats and some farm equipment. Clint took some pictures of Whitey with an old Polaroid camera. They got some shovels and dug a grave for Whitey.

Clint had tears in his eyes as he walked back to the house. What kind of person would do that to a helpless dog who was only doing what he was trained to do? Clint asked his father.

Son, I can only assume it was a stranger. Nobody who lives around here would shoot a dog on purpose, and if they did it accidently, they would wait for us to find them and apologize like hell, said Tom.

***

We had a wet, cold day today and no luck at all, said John to the bartender at the small bar in Inglis. He and Mike had been drinking for a few hours. They had eaten two hamburgers at the bar and were chatting up the bartender.

We did hear a hell of a dog chase today, said Mike.

I saw the deer the dogs were chasing but did not get a clear shot, said John.

After another couple of drinks, John noticed the barmaid who was not busy with any customers. He started talking to her and offered to buy her a drink. The bartender said it was okay, and they moved to a booth and started laughing, seeming to have a good time.

Mike was left at the bar, and he began another conversation with the bartender about their experiences since they arrived last night. He talked about the trouble with the campsite, the mosquitos, the Coleman stove, the mud, and the rainy day. Mike then said, To top it off, the only thing we killed today was a stupid big white dog.

The bartender pretended to be interested and asked, What did the dog look like?

I didn’t see him. John shot him and just described him to me. John kept his collar as a souvenir, said Mike.

Could you get the collar for me to see? Maybe it says what breed he is. The owners around here put a lot of information on those collars. I know some of those dogs are more stupid than others. The bartender laughed.

Let me see the dog collar for minute, Mike said to John as he walked over to the booth.

Why do you want the collar right now? asked John as he was holding hands with the barmaid.

"The