Dead Street

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

“That’s not it.”

“What is, then?”

“Somebody has got to pay for twenty lost years.”

“They may be dead.”

“I’ll kick over their tombstone,” I said.

There were papers to be signed and attested to by witnesses and a Notary Public, papers issued by the bank to be affixed with my name, and when it was all over I was the legal guardian of a woman I had promised to marry two decades ago. My heart was beating a reserved tattoo. I left all the legal papers in Dr. Brice’s office safe. Later I’d get a certified copy at my new address.

Damn, a new address? I hadn’t lived out of state since I was a kid, and couldn’t even wonder what it would be like. Then I’d have a picture of Bettie blossom in my mind and it didn’t matter at all anymore.

And the transformation would be simple. There would be no debts to pay off, very little to pack and move, no big friends to say so long to and a happy retirement from then on.

Who was I kidding?

Someplace there would be a hole in the program. Something would crack, then it would split, and a sharp- nosed reporter would spot a story. Ex-Killer Cop Moves to Sun City! Or maybe, Top Gun of NYPD Takes on Retirement Home! There were tabloid newspapers that would eat that kind of thing up.

And then somebody would remember, and somebody would worry, and somebody would call in the shooter soldiers who carried modern artillery on their persons and have access to more sophisticated weaponry at their beck and call.

It didn’t matter how many would be killed in the shootout as long as the main target was acquired and silenced permanently. And the main target would be plural. Bettie, then me. Or me first if they wanted to quell the firepower.

It took me two days to get everything in order. A single man doesn’t get entangled in many things, so shipment was a snap. The moving company did it all. Two cartons, the disassembled four-poster bed, Bettie’s old desk, my swivel chair and a few odds and ends, and I was ready to go. At the last minute I cashed in my plane tickets, deciding to drive and have transportation at hand all the time. A one-day trip to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, then another day’s drive to Sunset Lodge.

The end would be the start of the beginning.

Chapter Three

The two-day drive was an easy one. Traffic was sparse between seasons and at the beginning of the second day I got up before five, had a light breakfast and was on the road long before six. Seven hours later I crossed the Florida state line and stayed on Interstate 95 until I hit the east-west highway that would take me to Sunset Lodge. Along the way, the road passed the site of another complex named Garrison Estates that was still partly under construction.

A series of neat billboards set well back off the macadam highway told its story. There were no renters. Each dwelling was occupant-owned, oceanside swimming and fishing areas very accessible, police and fire protection adequate and privacy guaranteed, starting with a monitored gate entry.

Money had gone into this development, the kind that older people who enjoyed peace and quiet and an early-to-bed and late-to-rise lifestyle would enjoy. Several luxury-model vehicles passed me by, well-attired elderly in the front seat. In two of them a woman was driving. If Sunset Lodge was anything like Garrison Estates, I could risk a sigh of satisfaction with the good doctor’s choice of residence for his adopted daughter, my Bettie.

The very thought of seeing her again made my heart pound and I reminded myself that this had to be a carefully studied move. In my fantasy, she would see me and recognize me and all of those memories would flood through her and....

Right.

On the left of the road there was another area, neatly fenced off and identified by a sign that said GARRISON PROPERTIES — ONE OF FLORIDA’S EARLIEST PERSONAL ESTATES, indicating the part of the gated community that was still under development. So far, somebody sure had a big front lawn of sand.

There was nothing else to be seen until I had driven for another mile and saw the outlines of buildings a couple of miles off the road. There was another brick-gated entry with no attendant visible, but tire tracks were very evident in the sand, all leading on toward the low-lying buildings. Just a little way farther on, a half-dozen head of cattle were browsing amongst some visible greenery. They weren’t any kind of cow I could name, but they sure could exist on desert delights. All of them were big and muscular-looking.

It was another twenty minutes of driving before the wire fencing appeared. It was the kind to keep animals out, not people. Another two miles and the first small billboard appeared on my right that read SUNSET LODGE — A TOTAL RETIREMENT RETREAT.

And I breathed a small sigh of relief. This place, even at the gated entry, spelled quiet luxury. From a distance I could see the pleasant shapes of small buildings and the sand sprouted acres of bright green grass. I stuck my head out the window, away from the air-conditioned atmosphere I’d been breathing, and took a deep sniff of the tangy, salt-laden ocean air. Outside the red-brick guard post was a neatly painted sign that read, Yacht Docking and Boat Rental Facilities. Guided Ocean Fishing Trips. Crewed Scenic Sailing Tours Daily.

The good doctor had really gone all out for his protege.

The tan-uniformed attendant, carrying a clipboard in his hand, came out to meet me. He walked with the air of someone in total authority, disguised by neighborly friendliness. He said, “Good morning, sir — can I help you?”

He was a trim sixty or so with his blond hair cut in a military crew. I handed him the document of home ownership and his smile grew into something natural. When he handed it back he said very seriously, “Great to have you here with us, sir.”

I took the papers, nodded back and said, “You’re from New Jersey, aren’t you?”

“Newark. Been retired three years. Name’s George Wilson. My accent show?”

“To a New Yorker, absolutely.” I stuck my hand out and shook his. “Jack Stang, NYPD, retired.”

He scowled a few seconds, then gave me a big grin. “Damn, you’re the Shooter, aren’t you?”

I gave him a weary laugh. “That’s what the tabloids called me.”

“Didn’t you off Creamy Abbott during that bank heist back in ’82?”

“No choice,” I told him. “He swung that AK at me and I had to pop him.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “one shot right between the horns from fifty feet away.”

“Pure luck,” I retorted.

“Pure twice weekly visits to a gun range, pal,” he said.

I made a face at that observation.

“Somebody around here was saying they just demolished an old station house back in the big city — was that yours?”

I nodded. “When I went, the old building went. Hell,” I added, “the street went too.”

“This place isn’t Manhattan, you know. Think you’ll like it here?”

I gave him a little shrug and answered, “Anything beats out city noise and multiple gunshots.”

“Won’t get much of that here,” he told me, “except on the firing range.... Want me to have a car lead the way in to your place?”

I shook my head. “I’ll find it. I used to be a detective, you know. I’ll have to get adjusted to the area anyway.”

“No problem. Streets are all in numerical or alphabetical order.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Sure. You want me to tell the boys at the clubhouse you got here? You’ll be a real surprise to them.”

“The clubhouse?”