Macgregor, p.2
MacGregor, page 2
Mac grabbed an oversized Hawaiian shirt off a beach chair and shrugged it on as he went to the side gate. The shirt hung loosely, emphasizing his lean, muscular structure. He paused to get his act together, then lifted the latch, pushed the gate aside and walked into madness.
Jean and the topless Kim cowered against the garage as several Boca cops, led by a beefy patrolman with a weightlifter’s build and steroid temper, advanced on them with their guns drawn. The nametag on the steroid cop’s shirt read Officer Maass.
“Thank God, you’re home, Uncle Mac,” Jean said.
“They’re gonna arrest us, Uncle Mac,” Kim wailed. “And we didn’t do anything. Honest.”
Before Maass and the others could stop him, Mac stalked over to the couple. He peeled off his shirt and draped it around Kim. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a look of disappointment on several cop faces as her pretty breasts and round hips vanished beneath his extra-large Hawaiian shirt.
“That’s okay, officers,” he told them. “I’ll take over from here.”
The cops were dumbfounded, especially Maass.
“The hell you will,” he snarled. “They’re goin’ to the station, pal.”
Mac gave him a mild look. “That won’t be necessary…” He peered at the nametag. "…Officer Maass. Call your lieutenant, she’ll set you straight.”
“Just who the hell are you?” Maass demanded.
Mac nodded at the kids. “Their cousin.”
Maass sneered. “They called you uncle.” He gave Jean a pointed look then glared at Mac. “Which is just as big a lie.”
Mac sighed wearily. “No lie,” he said. “We really are cousins, but they call me uncle. The age difference, I suppose…Like I said, officer, get on the horn to your lieutenant. She’ll put you straight.”
Maass snorted and lumbered toward the kids.
“I don’t care who you’re related to, or how,” he told them. “You’re comin’ with me.”
As he reached for Kim, Mac stepped in front of the big cop. Maass purpled and turned – determined to pound him into dust. Then a commanding voice whipped out, freezing him in place.
“Goddamn it, Maass. Are you fucking with the public again?”
Maass jolted around to see his boss, Lieutenant Donna Snow, getting out of her plainclothes car. Snow was a weary-looking cop about Mac’s age. She was a tall woman with a trim, muscular figure that didn’t need much decoration. Her clothes were conservative civilian, shoes plain with just a little lift in the heels, purse utilitarian leather with a gun bulge in it, eyes and hair dark and big, plain gold hoops in her ears.
She also scared the shit out of Maass and all the other cops on the force. The rest of the officers stepped back a few paces to let Maass take the heat.
“I wasn’t fuckin’ with anybody, Lt. Snow,” Maass said. “This guy’s a lyin’ sack.”
Mac laughed. “You know what they say about Boca Raton,” he said. “Tell a lie at breakfast, it’ll be true by dinner.”
Maass saw no humor in it. He raised an indignant finger and jabbed it at Mac, so there would be no way Snow could miss which lyin’ sack he was talking about.
“This asshole says he’s cousin to the black kid...” he said, voice shaking with emotion. Then he pointed a thick finger at Kim, who shrank back as if it were a weapon. “And the blonde bimbo. He says she’s his cousin, too.”
Lt. Snow sighed. “They probably are his cousins, Officer Maass,” she said. “Mac, here, is cousin to just about everybody who's a native of Florida--black, white, Latino and everything in between. Hell, if you weren’t just down from Jersey, he’d probably be your cousin, too.” She pointed at the big cop’s gun. “Now, put your weapon away, Maass, so you can meet the best friend the Boca police ever had.” She made a slight gesture with her hand—almost but not quite a flourish. “You’re looking at none other than Addison Mizner Flagler Titus Broward MacGregor,” she said, then grinned at Mac. “Did I leave anybody out.”
He shrugged. “Gomez…maybe a couple of others.”
“Gomez. Right. The pirate.” She turned back to Maass. “Most folks call him Mac. And we leave him the hell alone unless we catch him buggering the mayor’s Chihuahua.”
Mac laughed. “He still have that thing?”
Lt. Snow nodded. “Pisses on my ankle every chance it gets.”
He grimaced. “Cute eyelashes, though.”
Snow chuckled. Maass, however, continued fuming.
“Nice to see everything’s so cozy,” he said. “But I still got a problem with these two. Broke about every traffic law on the books.” He indicated Kim. “Plus that one’s drunk. And probably high on illegal drugs to boot.”
Snow gave Mac a look. He raised a hand, palm up.
“It’s like this, lieutenant,” he said. “Jean’s dad is the new ambassador to Brazil. Kim’s mom is doing something similar in Portugal. And, well, the kids got in over their heads with the wrong crowd and the wrong inducements. Long story short, their folks came to me for help, and I’m getting them checked into rehab tomorrow.” He gave his head a sad shake. “Except little Kim, there, screwed up the schedule. I’ll have to get her cleaned out for another twenty-four hours before the guys at rehab will accept her.”
Maass snorted derisively.
“Ambassadors?” he scoffed. “Both of them? Give me a friggin’ break.”
“I come from a long line of ambassadors,” Mac said. Amusement twisted his lips. “And more Florida crooks than you can shake a coonskin at. A thieving governor. A crooked railroad man. The king cracker of the cattlemen. And even a few honest folks who made no bones about being outright thieves, whores and cutthroats.”
Lt. Snow nodded agreement. She told Maass, “Hell, his great-uncle—man named Addison Mizner—built this town right on top of a swamp. Made a fortune selling land to dumb Yankees like you.”
Maass finally realized he was licked.
“Sorry about the trouble, Mr. MacGregor,” he said, but he shot the lieutenant a dirty look.
Mac gestured--no big deal.
Snow did some subtle internal gear-shifting and, with body language alone, managed to get the idea across to Maass and the others to back off.
When they were out of earshot, she said, “Haven’t seen you around lately, Mackie.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I know."
“How’s Barbara?”
Mac felt his mouth go dry. “Same as always,” he said, voice rough. “Not good.”
Snow gave a sad shake of her head.
“Life’s a funny old bitch, you know?” She touched his arm in sympathy, letting it linger a little longer than mere friendship might permit. “See you later, Mac.”
She left, taking the other cops with her. As the last patrol car backed out of the driveway, Kim gave a little moan and collapsed against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Mac,” Jean said. “She wouldn’t listen.”
“At least you got her home, son,” Mac said. “Now, let’s get her to bed.”
Kim sagged as if props had been kicked out from beneath her. He caught her shoulders and Jean her legs, and the two of them carried her awkwardly through the gate.
CHAPTER FOUR
KIDS LOOKED UP from their games when the old school bus lumbered across the bridge and turned onto Orinoco Street.
The bus was a familiar sight. It was painted white, with big red crosses on each side framing signs that read Angelside Children’s Clinic. A loudspeaker mounted on the roof played the Barney song both in English and Spanish.
The bus maneuvered slowly down the street – a working class neighborhood just within the northwest border of Boca. Barely claimed by the city, the neighborhood hugged a broad canal – a deep ditch, really – that swallowed wayward cars and drunks and gave back catfish and oily crabs and turtles in return. Huge iguanas, some as long as five feet, grazed the weedy banks, to the delight of some of the transplanted islanders who caught them in traps and roasted their thick tails. The canal was a far cry from the grand river in Venezuela for which both it and the street were named.
Small homes and apartment buildings were interspersed with shops and businesses that displayed signs in Spanish, French, and English. Men and women of every variety and race tended push carts offering everything from iced mangoes to used clothing.
The kids shouted to one another as the bus went by, and some of them fell in behind to follow Barney’s sugary Pied Piper song.
On board, Tampa glared out at the scene with red-rimmed eyes. He was hung over and disgusted at being up so early in the day. Bonita didn’t like morning drinkers, so he was suffering from a lack of his usual medical assistance--tomato juice and beer.
* * *
In the jumpseat beside him, Bonita smiled and waved at some of the kids. She was wearing a starched white nurse’s uniform with a short skirt that showed off her fine legs, and sturdy white shoes on her trim feet. There was a colorful brochure spread across her lap.
Tampa also wore white--the open-collared shirt and trousers of an ambulance driver; he’d kept his old brown leather scrub boots. He was a Panhandle boy who favored boots and overalls dotted with IHOP syrup. Bonita had been civilizing him to the point that the overalls had first been washed, then banished to the closet. The boots, he feared, were next. So he clung to them fiercely, knowing it was a losing battle.
Bonita said, “Be nice today, Tampa. If we’re lucky maybe we can make up the five hundred dollars.”
Tampa did his best to act contrite.
“I’m sorry, Bonita, honey bun,” he said. “She just shouldn’t have bit me, you know? I can take almost anythin’ but that sort of lowdown disrespect.”
Bonita put on her cheeriest face. “I understand, sweetie pie,” she said. “But if we’re ever gonna cash in on our dreams, we’ve gotta really buckle down. We’re not gettin’ any younger, you know?” She tapped the brochure on her lap. “This RV park we bought is a real opportunity, hon. I realize it’s kinda rundown. But with a little money and a whole lotta elbow grease…Well, we’ll finally get our piece of the American dream just like everybody else.”
“I know, baby,” Tampa said. “I promised I’d turn over a new leaf and danged if I didn’t.”
In Tampa’s mind, this was a mighty truth. Hells' bells, six months ago he’d been rollin’ drunks down in the Keys. Then he got lucky enough to hook up Bonita. Now he was the bona-fide co-owner of a by God RV park, thanks to their hard work, plus knockin’ over that bodega she used to do book-keepin’ for.
Bonita gave him a loving smile, then went back to perusing the brochure. She turned to a foldout of a large Winnebago with a pop-out living room and an awning arched over a portable barbecue. A handsome man wearing a chef’s hat and an apron tended burgers, while his perky wife, wearing a nice halter top and shorts, served drinks to guests.
Bonita sighed and wiped a bit of moisture from one eye. What she wanted more than anything in the world – now that she had Tampa - was a nice RV of their own. Why, they’d been floppin’ at that fishing camp motel so long the mosquitoes know her by her first name. She was awful tired of smelling like DEET all the time. And here they had themselves a nice, mosquito-free RV park, but no RV of their own.
She showed Tampa the picture. “Look at this one, baby,” she said. “Brochure says it’d make an ideal owner’s unit. That’s us, hon - owners.”
Tampa glanced at the brochure, then took in the look pure longing on his sweetie’s face. He took a resolute grip of the wheel and set his jaw. Be damned to his hangover, this is what Bonita wanted. And was she, or was she not, the woman of his dreams? A woman who put all the ones he’d met in his whole life to shame?
“Okay, sweetie pie,” he said. “I’ll be good. We’ll get back that five hundred bucks and then some. And that’s a promise.”
Bonita gave him a look of great affection. “I love you, honey bunch,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion.
“Me, too, hon,” Tampa said, voice cracking.
It was his turn to wipe his eyes. He thought it was just plain remarkable that a smart, sophisticated woman like Bonita should love a dumb cracker like himself.
Bonita glanced out the window and saw a mass of kids gathered at the corner.
“Here we go,” she said, pointing at the corner. “Pull over, baby, it’s sucker time.”
“What a gal,” Tampa laughed, pulling over to the curb, hangover gone.
Bonita unhooked a microphone, chopped the Barney music, and keyed the mike.
“Okay, kids,” she said, her voice crackling through the loudspeaker. “Angelside Clinic is now open for business. Everybody line up. And take it easy, okay? There’s plenty of goodies for everybody.”
She replaced the mike, and Tampa yanked the lever that opened the door. Bonita grabbed a large white briefcase with a red cross emblazoned on it and stepped off the bus, ready for business.
Outside, children and their mothers and aunts crowded around, chattering happily as Bonita handed out candy from the briefcase. Behind her, Tampa lugged a bright red scooter off the bus, and the kids all gasped in amazement as the sun sparkled off the chrome handlebars and wheels. It was the very latest, hippest Razor Scooter in the entire TVland world, and they were totally and completely in toy love.
No one more so than Leslie, Stormy’s granddaughter, who stepped out of the crowd, munching free candy, her eyes aglow as she examined the scooter.
“You-all know how this deal works,” Bonita said to the women. “We’re gonna take the kids to the Angelside Clinic where they’ll get their shots and have their teeth fixed.”
She motioned to one woman, Marita Morales, an attractively exotic mixture of Hispanic and Haitian, to come forward. “Remind them about our program, Marita. Tell them how it works.”
Marita beamed. A paid shill for Angelside, she turned to the crowd of women and gave a speech that would have made Avon executives weep, moving from French, to Spanish, to English and back again.
“This is for the health of our children, my dear sisters,” she said. “We must all give thanks to the Blessed Virgin above who looks out for us and sends us so many kindnesses that we have such a great opportunity to guarantee our children a long and healthy life.”
At this point, Bonita broke in. “And it’s all for free, ladies. Free. Paid for by the good folks at the State Of Florida Board Of Health. All you ladies have to do is sign some permission slips and as a reward for your cooperation, we’ll give each and every one of you vouchers worth ten dollars at the Rico Market.”
Bonita showed them the vouchers, then handed them to Marita to pass out. The women crowded around, clamoring to sign and get their ten bucks worth of goodies.
“Wait a second, ladies,” Bonita admonished them. “We’re offering’ an even bigger surprise.” She pointed at the scooter Tampa was holding. “When we bring the boys and girls back here this afternoon we’re going to have a drawing for this fantastic Razor Scooter.”
Leslie and the other kids let out loud cheers at this news. They’d all been wondering if that two-wheeled marvel might by some miracle end up in their neighborhood. Kids ran off down the street to collect missing brothers and sisters so they could get in on the action. Marita raced through the crowd, snapping up permission slips, and returning them to Bonita faster than lightning from a clear Florida sky. Soon, the two women were handing out vouchers to an ever-thickening crowd. Finally, Bonita was getting down to the end. She nodded at Tampa, who started getting the kids on the bus.
“Okay, kids, all aboard,” Bonita urged the stragglers. “If we’re late, there won’t be time to draw for the scooter.”
“Yes, yes, hurry children,” Marita cried, shepherding the kids on board.
This goosed the stragglers into action and in a few moments they were all on board – except for Leslie. Bonita’s sharp eyes spotted the way the little girl was hanging back all teary-eyed.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Bonita asked. “Isn’t your momma here to sign a permission slip?”
Leslie sadly shook her head, no.
Bonita gave a meaningful look to Marita, who pressed in, her features as compassionate as the portrait of the Madonna and Child on her bedroom wall. The same bedroom where she serviced a steady stream of working men at all hours of the day and night.
“It’s okay, my azucarita – my little sugar,” Marita crooned. “This is important for you. For your health. I’ll tell your grandmother about it. Stormy won’t be mad, I promise you.”
Even so, Leslie hesitated. But Bonita knew when she had the sale. She gently took Leslie’s hand and led her to the bus. Although she thought about holding back, Leslie did not resist the firm adult hand, especially with Marita calling out words of encouragement.
Bonita added the capper: “Don’t you worry, sweetie,” she said. “We can make an exception to the rules for a pretty little girl like you.”
She gave Tampa a meaningful look. “Tampa, I want you to take special care of this little girl. She’s all by her lonesome.”
Tampa got her drift and smiled broadly. “Don’t you worry, kid,” he said to Leslie as he helped her up the stairs and into a seat. “We ain’t gonna let you miss out on a thing.”
Bonita boarded the bus and the doors closed. The bus gave a chuff, belched black smoke, and started off down the street, the Barney song echoing across the neighborhood.
As the bus neared the corner a frantic Stormy came running up, looking wildly around. “Has anybody seen my Leslie?” she asked the mothers.
Marita pointed at the bus, which was turning the corner. “Do not worry, old woman. She went with the other children.”
Stormy freaked at this news. “Why didn’t you stop her?” she demanded. “I didn’t give nobody permission to take my Leslie.”
Marita said, “Everybody feels sorry for little Leslie. She has no mother to care for her. Just an old woman with tattoos. It’s for her health, you know?”
The other women chattered agreement, rolling their eyes and starting away. Stormy grabbed at Marita’s sleeve. “When are those sons of bitches coming back?” she demanded. “Can you at least tell me that?”
