Gator Lake

By Thomas 'DOC' Savage

An orphan from Detroit and a man on the run from his past find adventure, acceptance, and plenty of "Southern comfort" in a small, out-of-the-way Florida town.
The town folks of Gator Lake, Florida half believe the legend of a monstrous alligator that inhabits the near-by lake. And the local diner serves up daily helpings of good old comfort food to keep everybody satisfied.
Everything seems to be ideal, but big trouble is brewing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: May 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224569809

Thomas 'DOC' Savage

Thomas Savage is a non-denominational minister who has pastored churches in Florida, New York and Arizona. He writes Christian-themed adventure stories in his 'spare time'. Before entering the ministry he worked at a wide variety of occupations, from short-order cook to factory worker to hunting and fishing guide. This wealth of experience allows him to create stories that are fast-paced and exciting, and characters that are believable and identifiable. The vast majority of those stories are family friendly, (except for 'One Man's Odyssey', which deals with adult themes). The plots are all new and unique. He currently lives in Tucson, Arizona with his wife and their four-legged 'grand puppies'. He is the Pastor of Amphitheater Bible Church, the "Friendliest Church in Tucson"

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GATOR LAKE

THOMAS ‘DOC’ SAVAGE

Copyright © 2012 by Thomas Savage

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above-mentioned publisher of this book, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copy written materials.

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

This book may contain views, premises, depictions, and statements by the author that are not necessarily shared or endorsed by J.C. Hulsey Books

For information contact: [e-mail]

Edited by Cindy Heaton

Cover Art by Michael Thomas

Cover Design by J.C. Hulsey Books

Published by J.C. Hulsey Books

January 2024

10987654321

CHAPTER ONE

The sky was painted with vivid splashes of reds and oranges. Another spectacular Florida sunset was only minutes away as Sheriff Andrew Taylor wheeled his black and white cruiser into the parking lot of the Good Eats Café, but his mind was not on the beautiful sky. He was looking instead at an old, dirt stained backpack leaning next to the door.

Great, he thought. More road trash. He eased his lanky frame out of the car and adjusted his gun belt. Then he set his white Stetson at just the angle he preferred and headed for the door of the café. 

As he entered, he held the screen door with the back of his hand, so it wouldn’t slam shut against its spring, and took a look around before he stepped to the counter. The dozen or so tables were all empty. There was only one customer seated at the white Formica counter in the familiar old eatery, so he had to be the owner of the backpack outside. The guy was on the small side. Andrew’s cop instinct pegged him at about five foot six and a hundred fifty pounds. He had short, gray hair and was dressed in worn but fairly clean Levis and a faded red tee shirt. The guy was cradling a cup of coffee in both hands and didn’t look up as the sheriff took a stool at the end of the long counter.

What’s your name, bud? And where are you headed? 

The stranger looked up with a start, as if he hadn’t been aware of the Sheriff’s entrance. I just stopped in for a cup of coffee and to rest up a bit. I’ve got money. I can pay for the coffee, the stranger answered.

What I asked you, son, was what’s your name? Sheriff Taylor repeated as Mona Kane, the slim, blonde owner and waitress of the café, set a steaming mug in front of the sheriff and slid a pitcher of cream over beside it.

Oh, just leave him be, Andrew, she said, leaning her hip against the counter and twirling a lock of her curly blonde hair around her finger. He ain’t botherin’ nobody and besides, I’ve got a real problem here. Don’t be so suspicious.

It’s my job to be suspicious, Andrew replied as he poured a generous amount of cream into his coffee and reached for the sugar bowl. Strangers make me nervous, especially after that big bank robbery down Miami way. Those goons that wounded that guard are still on the loose and could be anywhere. Now, boy, what’s your name? I won’t be asking again.

Jim Johnson, Sheriff. Sorry. I’m just passing through on my way to Tampa, looking for work. 

Sheriff Andrew Taylor (He didn’t allow anybody to call him Andy, because, as he said, I ain’t him and this ain’t Mayberry!) gave the guy another searching look before turning back to Mona and asking, Anyway, what kinda problem do you have?

That darned Jorge quit this morning. Just packed up his stuff and took off. Claimed he needed to get up to Detroit to see his mamma. And the twins still aren’t back from their uncle’s funeral. They shoulda been back hours ago. The boys will be back from the bowling tournament pretty soon, and I ain’t got anybody to cook for ‘em. I don’t know what I’m gonna do, she said in exasperation.

The stranger looked up from his cup as she spoke. I, um couldn’t help overhearing what you just said, ma’am. If you’re really in a jam, I might be able to help.

Just finish your coffee and get on your way, Sheriff Taylor told him. Mona’s problems are none of your concern.

No, really, the stranger, Jim Johnson, insisted. I used to be a short order cook. I worked my way through B...uh, I was a fry cook for several years. I’m sure I could pick it up again, and, like I said, I’m looking for work.

Now both Mona and the sheriff gave the stranger their full attention. I told you to just move on. This is none of your concern, the sheriff said.

But Mona waved her hand at him and said to the stranger, Really? You can work a griddle?

Now you look here, the sheriff began, but Mona waved him off again.

Let him talk, Andrew. Maybe he can help.

Mona, we don’t need no hobos hanging around here. You don’t know nothing about this guy. Figure something else out.

There’s nothing else to figure out. Unless the twins show up in the next few minutes, I’m gonna be in a real fix. And if this guy can help, I’m gonna let him. You just go hunt for the bank robbers or catch a speeder or something. I’ll handle the café.

Jim Johnson got up from his stool and walked over to where the sheriff sat. Sheriff, I’m not a crook. I don’t have a criminal record, and I really was a short order cook. You have my word. I won’t hurt or cheat anybody.

Yeah, and what’s the word of a hobo worth? I’m telling you, Mona, this is a mistake.

You let me worry about this, Andrew. And Mr. Johnson, I’d be happy to give you a chance, Mona said as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. C’mon in the back, and I’ll show you around. I think Jorge even left some of his cook’s whites back there.

Darn it all, Mona. When are you gonna learn to listen to me? the sheriff said as he jammed his Stetson back on his head. His anger caused his face to flush, making the scattering of freckles across his cheeks stand out.

When you say something worth listenin’ to, Andrew. Now, follow me, Mr. Johnson.

Please, ma’am, call me Jim. Just let me grab my backpack.

Sheriff Taylor stormed out of the café, not even trying to stop the screen door from closing behind him with a bang.

Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble, Jim said. I’m just looking to make a few bucks.

Oh, don’t worry about Andrew. He’s always trying to tell me what to do. There’s a small apartment back here where you can change, and I’ll show you where everything is.

Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate the chance to show you what I can do. I promise, I won’t let you down. I really was a pretty good cook.

It’s okay, Jim. I’ve got a good feeling about you, and I learned a long time ago to trust those feelings. C’mon back this way."

CHAPTER TWO

Detroit means horsepower . And that horsepower was never more evident than on Saturday nights at Ted’s Drive-In. Ted’s was where all the young people gathered to celebrate their youth and to show off their cars. Every Saturday evening the parking lot was filled with glistening paint and gleaming chrome. The air was filled with the throaty rumble of souped-up engines.

Inside, the air was filled with the smell of hamburgers and French fries. The sounds of the Beach Boys spilled out of overhead speakers, reminding everybody about that little old lady from Pasadena. Every table was filled, and many people were circulating around the room, greeting friends and making plans, raising the noise level.

Justin was there, too, but not as part of the Saturday night crowd. He was the busboy and dishwasher. So, with a paper hat on his head and an apron around his waist, he moved through the crowd picking up used plates and glasses.

Justin was an orphan. He had spent all of his sixteen years at the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. Because he was short (just a hair over five feet six inches), skinny as a rail and forced by his myopic vision to wear thick glasses, he had never had a chance at adoption.

That was okay with the nuns who ran the orphanage. They all had a special bond with Justin. He had been found one bitter cold January evening, abandoned on the steps of the orphanage as a tiny baby.

No note, no explanation, wearing only a thin cotton shirt and dirty diaper, and wrapped in an old blanket. If he hadn’t been found when he was, there was a good chance he would have frozen to death. The Sisters said they found him just in time. Some of the nuns had a sense of the whimsical, so they named him Justin Thyme.

For all of those sixteen years, the nuns had raised him as their own. Justin proved to be a clever child, quick to grasp any task he was given, and, often finding a better or easier way to do that task. Now he had this part-time job to help with his own expenses and give a little back to the Sisters.

He also spent several mornings each week, and after school, helping out at a local garage where he kept the floor swept and took care of old parts and such. He really enjoyed his time at the garage. The mechanics showed him a lot about cars and motors.

He enjoyed his work at the garage and only endured his job at the drive-in, where he was often teased and ridiculed because he wasn’t part of the crowd. But he just shrugged it off and took care of his job. 

Justin did have a few friends, though, and one of them was calling to him now. As he carried an over-flowing tray filled with used dishes toward the back to wash them, he saw his good friend Charlie Gold waving his hands over his head.

Justin! Hey, Justin! C’mere! You gotta see this! Charlie and Justin had sort of gravitated toward each other years ago, as both of them were considered outsiders with the popular set.

Charlie’s folks were Jewish and forced him to wear a yarmulke everywhere. When he thought he could get away with it, he’d stuff it in his back