3 Mango Bay by Bill Myers Page B

right outside my door and honking a toy horn. It was annoying but I figured whatever it was, it would soon go away. 
    And it did.  After a few minutes the beeping stopped.
    But it was soon replaced by a loud tapping sound.
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
    Apparently someone was at my front door. Tapping instead of knocking. I had no idea who it could be, and really didn't want to get up and see.   I'd only been in Serenity Cove for two days, and no one except Anna, Polly and Lucy knew I was here. If any of them were at my door, they wouldn't be tapping. They'd knock.
    Maybe if I ignored whoever it was, they'd go away.
    But they didn't. The tapping continued.
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
    Followed by more beeping.
    Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
    Figuring that someone out there wanted to see me really bad, I gave in.  I got up and looked out the window and saw an older man wearing a white cowboy hat, white cowboy shirt, white linen pants and dark sunglasses, sitting in a shiny black golf cart.
    The man had driven his cart up the shell path leading to the front steps of my motorhome. Just close enough so that he could use the black walking stick he held in his right hand to tap on the door.
    As I looked out the window, the man tapped the horn on the golf cart.
    Beep. Beep. Beep.
    I was pretty sure the neighbors would soon get tired of hearing this, so I went to the front door and opened it to see what the guy wanted.
    Before I could say anything, he looked at me and asked, “What took you so long, son? You doing drugs in there?”
    I shook my head. “No, I was sleeping. What can I do for you?”
    “You the guy who is supposed to fix the internet around here? That's what they told me down at the office.”
    I nodded. “Yeah, that's me.”
    “Good. You're the one I'm looking for. My internet is broken, and I need it up and running now.”
    The man looked to be in his late sixties and something about him was familiar. I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place his face.
    Impatiently he said, “Well, don't just stand there. Come fix my internet.”
    I shook my head. “Look, the internet is slow throughout the entire park. Fixing it is going to take some time. At least a month before the new equipment can be installed.”
    “No, that won't do. Can't wait a month.  I need to get on the internet within the hour. And you're going to get off your butt, and come down to my place and get it fixed.”
    I had to admire the guy. He wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer.  “Okay, I'll come down and take a look, but I can't promise anything.”
    He pointed to the passenger seat in his golf cart. “Hop in.”
    I shook my head. “Give me a minute. I need to get a few things.”
    I grabbed my cell phone off the kitchen counter along with my keys. Stepping back outside, I locked the motorhome behind me, and reluctantly climbed into the passenger seat of the golf cart.
    The man smiled. “My name's Buck. Better hold on.”
    He mashed the accelerator to the floor, and the golf cart took off like a rocket.  The momentum threw me back in my seat, and if I hadn't grabbed the hand hold in front of me, I probably would have been thrown out. I looked over and Buck was grinning as we zoomed down the road.
    In less than a minute we reached his home – an older forty five foot Prevost Marathon bus – the kind owned by movie stars.  Buck's was silver and black, with a wall of tinted windows stretching from the front to the back. The bottom half of the bus was rolled stainless steel, which shined brightly in the Florida sun.
    I was impressed.
    Prevost builds the most expensive motorhomes sold in the world. Absolute luxury on wheels, with no expense spared in their construction. The one sitting before me would have easily cost more than a million dollars when new. Even an older one like Buck's would be worth at least a quarter million.
    During our walks around the park, Polly had told me that this bus belonged to an aging movie star who had