keep thinking a few more steps ahead of myself.
8
Spanish Main Drive on Cudjoe Key runs straight south from the Overseas Highway. A natural radar trap, the stretch offers a clear view in the rear view. If I were being followed, I would know. For one mile I saw only a squadron of senior tricycle riders from Venture Out, the upscale trailer park. At road’s end I went right, hoping to catch Frank Polan at his coral-colored two-story home on Calico Jack Circle.
Bobbi Lewis had revealed to me a year ago that Polan had become wealthy through financial ventures kept clean by the constant vigilance of his attorneys. She knew because the deputies had done a background check on him after a shooting on his property. Polan, it turned out, was an innocent bystander.
I found him using a pole brush to chisel bird shit off the stairs to his elevated deck. He wore another pair of unattractive sunglasses, a tank top, a Speedo suit, a plastic mesh pith helmet and submersible sneakers. His shoulders and arms shined with sun oil. He didn’t appear surprised to see me.
“It’s okay to walk on the pea rock,” he said. “I’m not as fussy as I used to be.”
“That’s good news, Frank. It’ll reduce your stress.”
“But what the hell,” he said. “Try to stay on the stepping stones. You want a smoothie? I bought this very expensive blender, and I use organic fruits. It keeps down my sugar and makes me younger. Or I got beer somewhere, maybe in that fridge in the downstairs guest room. You can go look. I never have to buy beers. Visitors leave them behind.”
“Thanks, but no. Your place looks great,” I said. “You can’t afford a yard man?”
“Oh, sure, I got the service, it comes once a week. But I keep my hand in. I replaced my treated wood with that new composite. I mean, I had it done. One less upkeep hassle. No more stain, no more sealer I gotta buy… You’re right, it drops my stress level. But how do you stop this shit rain? Wouldn’t our lives be better with no birds? We should teach every last one of them to fly to Iraq. They could birdshit the terror boys into submission.”
Because I had come to ask a favor, I changed the subject. “You used to wear those big rubber Birkenstocks.”
“They got too heavy and they boiled the tops of my feet. These Surfwalkers are like foot condoms, if they made rubbers with mesh which I’m glad they don’t because of my opinion on rug rats. But I’m glad I bought these. I mean, what the hell.” He waved his arm at his yard and boat ramp. “I can afford what I want.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I said.
He took off his pith helmet. His hair was so closely cropped that his skull had a deep tan. “Come into the carport, out of the sun. I don’t make loans for under fifteen percent. You should know that going in.”
“I want to give you some money to hold for me. About four grand.”
“You don’t trust yourself not to piss it away?”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “It’s somebody else I don’t trust. I figure, if I need someone to sit on my cash, why not a millionaire?”
Polan got an odd look on his face.
“Of course,” I added, “that may be the exact person not to trust.”
“You’ve got a point, there.” Polan finally cracked a grin. “Maybe I can put it to work for you.”
“Or just hold on to it.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s the least I can do, and I always want to offer the least I can do. I’m that kind of guy. Come see my new backcountry boat, the Everglades. It draws maybe sixteen inches. A bit more with all your topless models aboard.”
I almost made the mistake of following him to the dock. The view of Cudjoe Bay was a postcard dream, and Polan’s array of boats, kayaks, jet skis and sailboards was equal to a five-star resort’s. I stopped short, begged off, and explained to Frank that I had an appointment in Key West in an hour.
I kept some pocket money and gave Polan forty Ben Franklins. While
8
Spanish Main Drive on Cudjoe Key runs straight south from the Overseas Highway. A natural radar trap, the stretch offers a clear view in the rear view. If I were being followed, I would know. For one mile I saw only a squadron of senior tricycle riders from Venture Out, the upscale trailer park. At road’s end I went right, hoping to catch Frank Polan at his coral-colored two-story home on Calico Jack Circle.
Bobbi Lewis had revealed to me a year ago that Polan had become wealthy through financial ventures kept clean by the constant vigilance of his attorneys. She knew because the deputies had done a background check on him after a shooting on his property. Polan, it turned out, was an innocent bystander.
I found him using a pole brush to chisel bird shit off the stairs to his elevated deck. He wore another pair of unattractive sunglasses, a tank top, a Speedo suit, a plastic mesh pith helmet and submersible sneakers. His shoulders and arms shined with sun oil. He didn’t appear surprised to see me.
“It’s okay to walk on the pea rock,” he said. “I’m not as fussy as I used to be.”
“That’s good news, Frank. It’ll reduce your stress.”
“But what the hell,” he said. “Try to stay on the stepping stones. You want a smoothie? I bought this very expensive blender, and I use organic fruits. It keeps down my sugar and makes me younger. Or I got beer somewhere, maybe in that fridge in the downstairs guest room. You can go look. I never have to buy beers. Visitors leave them behind.”
“Thanks, but no. Your place looks great,” I said. “You can’t afford a yard man?”
“Oh, sure, I got the service, it comes once a week. But I keep my hand in. I replaced my treated wood with that new composite. I mean, I had it done. One less upkeep hassle. No more stain, no more sealer I gotta buy… You’re right, it drops my stress level. But how do you stop this shit rain? Wouldn’t our lives be better with no birds? We should teach every last one of them to fly to Iraq. They could birdshit the terror boys into submission.”
Because I had come to ask a favor, I changed the subject. “You used to wear those big rubber Birkenstocks.”
“They got too heavy and they boiled the tops of my feet. These Surfwalkers are like foot condoms, if they made rubbers with mesh which I’m glad they don’t because of my opinion on rug rats. But I’m glad I bought these. I mean, what the hell.” He waved his arm at his yard and boat ramp. “I can afford what I want.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I said.
He took off his pith helmet. His hair was so closely cropped that his skull had a deep tan. “Come into the carport, out of the sun. I don’t make loans for under fifteen percent. You should know that going in.”
“I want to give you some money to hold for me. About four grand.”
“You don’t trust yourself not to piss it away?”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “It’s somebody else I don’t trust. I figure, if I need someone to sit on my cash, why not a millionaire?”
Polan got an odd look on his face.
“Of course,” I added, “that may be the exact person not to trust.”
“You’ve got a point, there.” Polan finally cracked a grin. “Maybe I can put it to work for you.”
“Or just hold on to it.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s the least I can do, and I always want to offer the least I can do. I’m that kind of guy. Come see my new backcountry boat, the Everglades. It draws maybe sixteen inches. A bit more with all your topless models aboard.”
I almost made the mistake of following him to the dock. The view of Cudjoe Bay was a postcard dream, and Polan’s array of boats, kayaks, jet skis and sailboards was equal to a five-star resort’s. I stopped short, begged off, and explained to Frank that I had an appointment in Key West in an hour.
I kept some pocket money and gave Polan forty Ben Franklins. While
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