Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page B
Authors: Kathy Hogan Trocheck
Ads: Link
an alarming shade of purple. “I live on the top floor. What happens to me?”
Cookie frowned. The Mandelbaums had cosseted the old lady for years. Too bad for her that she came from the poor side of the family tree.
“All former Fountain of Youth residents will have an opportunity to purchase units,” she said. “I’m sure one of the smaller units on the lower floors, say, one of our St. Luke efficiency units, which will be sixteen thousand five hundred dollars, would suit you perfectly, Mrs. Hoffmayer.”
Ollie was jumping up and down on his metal folding chair. “Sixteen thousand five hundred for an eight-by-ten room with a toilet, a sink, and a view of the alley? You’re nuts, lady. And you can tell that goddamn preacher he’s nuts too. We ain’t paying. And we ain’t moving out, either. Are we?”
He looked around the room for agreement. The residents sat in their chairs, stunned, their hands folded in their laps.
“Are we?” Ollie repeated. “Come on, people, if we stick together, we can win this thing. We can have a sit-down strike. Refuse to be moved. Call the media. There’s a guy buys the New York Times at my newsstand, he’s something big over there at Channel 7 in Tampa. I say something to him, we’ll be all over the news. What do you say?”
Myra Strickland, a tall, thin woman with hair wound into two white braids coiled on top of her head, stood up.
“A strike?” She pursed her pale lips in distaste. “No. Definitely not.
“As some of you may know,” she continued, “I practiced law in Wisconsin for many years before my retirement. I’ve checked into Florida’s condominium statutes, at Arch’s request, and what I find, unfortunately, is that it appears that what the new owners of the hotel are doing is perfectly and unfortunately legal.”
“Legal?” Ollie cried. His sweaty hair stuck to his scalp. His face was flushed. “It’s legal to put retirees, folks who have worked hard all their lives, out in the street so some uppity-ass church can sell our homes to the highest bidder? How’s that legal?”
A hum of voices rose around Ollie. People were nodding quietly. Cookie got up and made a beeline for the door. She’d had enough.
“Hey,” Ollie called after her. “We’re not through with you yet, missy. You tell that preacher we’re not leaving. Hell, no, we won’t go!”
“You tell ‘em, Ollie,” somebody said. “Give ‘em hell,” another one prompted.
Arch Barchie had to pound his podium repeatedly with his wooden meat-mallet gavel to regain order in the room.
“Please!” he thundered. “Let’s observe some parliamentary procedure, can’t we?”
“What are we going to do?” Rosemary Pickett asked. “Verbena and I can barely afford our rent now. We don’t have enough money for a down payment. And where else can we go? We’ve got to be downtown, close to the buses. Verbena sold our car three years ago.”
“That’s why we’re here today,” Barchie said, struggling to regain control of his meeting. “The first thing we need to do is appoint someone to get the church to give us full disclosure of pricing and financing for the conversion. Miss Rosemary, would you do that for us?”
Rosemary and Verbena Pickett nodded in tandem.
“Next,” Barchie said, looking down at his clipboard, “we’ll need a legal committee to explore our options pursuant to taking legal action to stop the conversion.”
“Yeah!” Sonya Hoffmayer called out. “Let’s sue the bastards!”
Barchie pretended not to hear her. “Myra Strickland has already agreed to head that committee. Sonya, perhaps you could assist her?”
“Hey!”
Barchie glared out over the rim of his bifocals at Ollie, but Ollie seemed not to notice.
“Has anybody here ever heard of this Cosmic Unity outfit?”
“Never heard of them before,” Barchie admitted. “Anybody else?”
No one had.
“Somebody needs to find out who these people are,” Myra Strickland agreed. “Are they
Cookie frowned. The Mandelbaums had cosseted the old lady for years. Too bad for her that she came from the poor side of the family tree.
“All former Fountain of Youth residents will have an opportunity to purchase units,” she said. “I’m sure one of the smaller units on the lower floors, say, one of our St. Luke efficiency units, which will be sixteen thousand five hundred dollars, would suit you perfectly, Mrs. Hoffmayer.”
Ollie was jumping up and down on his metal folding chair. “Sixteen thousand five hundred for an eight-by-ten room with a toilet, a sink, and a view of the alley? You’re nuts, lady. And you can tell that goddamn preacher he’s nuts too. We ain’t paying. And we ain’t moving out, either. Are we?”
He looked around the room for agreement. The residents sat in their chairs, stunned, their hands folded in their laps.
“Are we?” Ollie repeated. “Come on, people, if we stick together, we can win this thing. We can have a sit-down strike. Refuse to be moved. Call the media. There’s a guy buys the New York Times at my newsstand, he’s something big over there at Channel 7 in Tampa. I say something to him, we’ll be all over the news. What do you say?”
Myra Strickland, a tall, thin woman with hair wound into two white braids coiled on top of her head, stood up.
“A strike?” She pursed her pale lips in distaste. “No. Definitely not.
“As some of you may know,” she continued, “I practiced law in Wisconsin for many years before my retirement. I’ve checked into Florida’s condominium statutes, at Arch’s request, and what I find, unfortunately, is that it appears that what the new owners of the hotel are doing is perfectly and unfortunately legal.”
“Legal?” Ollie cried. His sweaty hair stuck to his scalp. His face was flushed. “It’s legal to put retirees, folks who have worked hard all their lives, out in the street so some uppity-ass church can sell our homes to the highest bidder? How’s that legal?”
A hum of voices rose around Ollie. People were nodding quietly. Cookie got up and made a beeline for the door. She’d had enough.
“Hey,” Ollie called after her. “We’re not through with you yet, missy. You tell that preacher we’re not leaving. Hell, no, we won’t go!”
“You tell ‘em, Ollie,” somebody said. “Give ‘em hell,” another one prompted.
Arch Barchie had to pound his podium repeatedly with his wooden meat-mallet gavel to regain order in the room.
“Please!” he thundered. “Let’s observe some parliamentary procedure, can’t we?”
“What are we going to do?” Rosemary Pickett asked. “Verbena and I can barely afford our rent now. We don’t have enough money for a down payment. And where else can we go? We’ve got to be downtown, close to the buses. Verbena sold our car three years ago.”
“That’s why we’re here today,” Barchie said, struggling to regain control of his meeting. “The first thing we need to do is appoint someone to get the church to give us full disclosure of pricing and financing for the conversion. Miss Rosemary, would you do that for us?”
Rosemary and Verbena Pickett nodded in tandem.
“Next,” Barchie said, looking down at his clipboard, “we’ll need a legal committee to explore our options pursuant to taking legal action to stop the conversion.”
“Yeah!” Sonya Hoffmayer called out. “Let’s sue the bastards!”
Barchie pretended not to hear her. “Myra Strickland has already agreed to head that committee. Sonya, perhaps you could assist her?”
“Hey!”
Barchie glared out over the rim of his bifocals at Ollie, but Ollie seemed not to notice.
“Has anybody here ever heard of this Cosmic Unity outfit?”
“Never heard of them before,” Barchie admitted. “Anybody else?”
No one had.
“Somebody needs to find out who these people are,” Myra Strickland agreed. “Are they
Similar Books
