Beachcombers of the Apocalypse (Part I)

A Detective Florida Man Weird Tale

Part I

When I moved back to Florida, I had no idea how bizarre my life would become.

I almost gave up after the tenth ring but finally, someone absent-mindedly decided to answer.

To say the conversation with the old bureaucrat was aggravating is an understatement.

“Wait hold on, what did you say your name was again…you need to speak louder, I don’t hear so good no more,” the elderly female voice with an old school Florida cracker drawl shouted from the other end of the phone.

“Again, ma’am…my name is Gus Flordamen, spelled G-U-S-F-L-O-R-D-A-M-E-N. I am interested in taking the private investigator licensing exam…that is why I called this office…this is..”

“There is no need to get curt with me, Mr. Florida-Man,” The old low-level bureaucrat snapped back at me. As for the nickname, like I hadn’t heard that a hundred times in my life. Damn Florida and their low paid bureaucrats.

“I apologize, ma’am. It’s been a difficult week…I just need to take the licensure exam. Can you set me up for an exam date, preferably as soon as possible?” I tried to sound pathetic and contrite at the same time. The old woman asked a few pointless questions.

“Yes, ma’am. I already filled out the application and sent it to the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services. Perhaps I am already in your database?”

“Database?!? Mr. Florida-man, we still use paper in this here office! Hold on, I’mma go check.” It’s 2025, who still uses paper?! State of Florida, I guess. After several minutes of listening to light jazz muzak, she came back more fiery than ever.

“I see here under investigative experience, you listed that you worked at the Cee Eye Ay…you a spook or something?” She asked suspiciously.

“Yes, I worked at the CIA for ten years, six of which I was a counter-intelligence investigator. I left a few months ago and I assure you, I have more than enough investigative experience.”

“So you weren’t a spy then? ‘Cause that wouldn’t qualify for the required investigative experience to apply for the license, you know?” The old woman pondered aloud.

“Yes, I know, I wasn’t a spy…I was a spy hunter…look, ma’am, I sent in all copies of my different training certificates.”

“Now, don’t get snippy! I have eyes, I can see them here. I’ll send these over to our state background investigators and they will confirm your training and employment. In the meantime, let’s get you set up for the exam.” I breathed a sigh of relief. I was prepared for a few more rounds of verbal sparring with the old bat.

Surprisingly, it turned out okay after my brief encounter with Florida state bureaucracy. I got an exam date, I passed the private investigator license exam and a few months later, my background scrutiny came through with flying colors. A few weeks after that, I took a firearms certification course at a local security firm. Once I showed them my marksmanship skills on the firing range, I got an official armed carry card for my new PI license.

It took me a bit to find an actual job. It was summer and I needed daily beach time.

But after applying to a few different insurance companies, I got an offer from Sunshine City Insurance, as one of their inhouse special investigators. That was last year. For the most part, it required me to bust up some of the least sophisticated fraud scams ever witnessed by man, mostly workman’s compensation but a few poorly devised automotive insurance grifts as well. Sunshine City offered many different types of policies for the hard working Floridian.

Thus, my new life began as a private investigator in the place known as God’s Waiting Room…as well as the strange situations I found myself in.

Where do I live?

Why, I own a double wide mobile home I call the Florida Sugar Shack. My 960 foot Longwood model was the perfect fit for my new beach lifestyle, as long as a hurricane didn’t carry it away. A perfect location for the beginning of my next cycle of life.

You see, I am now considered PNG..persona non grata in not just the intelligence community but all of DC.

No one wanted a pariah who lost his top secret clearance around. In short, I was an exile. Luckily, after I cashed out of the Agency, I had just enough savings. Enough anyway to pay off my spiffy Jeep Wrangler Islander Edition, buy my double wide in a trailer park by Ashton Beach, as well as keep myself stuffed with tacos and beer for several months while I pondered my banishment from fedgov life.

My pondering only lasted two months. I needed some sort of purpose, I needed work. Law enforcement was out since they would do an extensive background investigation.

This left the private sector. I didn’t want to be an armed security guard; spending my hours at some dirty, hot construction site, hospital or God forbid…a dying mall filled with diversity.

However, a private investigator gig fit the bill. It used my current skill set, gave me much needed purpose and perhaps a little excitement in my new suncoast life.

Let me tell you a little something about the Sunshine State, it is pregnant with fraud. If you have insurance in this state, you are paying some of the highest premiums around. It feels like every low life in this state is trying to shake down insurance providers for whatever they can get.

Which brings me to my latest investigation for my employer.

What I thought was going to be just another work day turned into a strange chaotic mess.

I’m not much of a morning person so a nice long hot shower, even on warm and humid days helped with the brain fog. Today, the neurons just weren’t firing for me, could have been the six pack of Corona I had the previous night. I stepped out of the shower and in front of the steamy bathroom mirror.

I stared at the overly tanned solid body. Not bad for a thirty-six year old man. True, I was getting a small paunch, even with my daily, long beach walks. My lack of crunches, along with a carb filled diet didn’t help things. However, my six foot seven inch frame could still bear a lot of weight. I would never be mistaken for a hipster twink.

I’d just joined one of those national chain gyms with fat black women in all their advertising, letting me know that it was okay to accept my body type but I could, you know, do something about it if I wanted too.

Anyway, I would need to cut back on the beer. I flexed a bit, hard muscle still showing through the subcutaneous fat. A female friend told me recently that with my thick thatch of longish dark brown hair and strong chin with dimples, I could be an aging Floridian Lothario.

Going into the built-in armoire in my bedroom, I pulled out my usual subtropical uniform: white duck chino pants and a tasteful silk Hawaiian shirt (Ok, some consider it not so tasteful). I rounded out the ensemble with a pair of grey canvas boat shoes.

Since I was now officially a PI with a permit to carry while working, I slipped my appendix carry holster under my shirt and into my pants. The polymer framed compact Glock felt cool against my warm skin. So far, I didn’t need it, but you never know…I’d had a few uncomfortable confrontations with some tweakers before. Stimulant addicts were real moody before they got their daily fix.

I stepped outside and was greeted by a bright orange ball in the cobalt sky. The hot humid air could melt a snow man in seconds. In other words, just a typical summer day on the Florida Gulf coast.

I could have moved anywhere after my disastrous exit from the National Capital Region but I chose Florida because of the memories.

You see, I grew up in Tennessee but back when I was a young college man, I spent my summers at a wrestling training camp while going to USF. I dreamed of being a pro wrestler and getting on a national promotion, maybe even be on TV, like my childhood idols: Hulk Hogan, Randy Savage and The Ultimate Warrior.

But a knee injury and a few concussions later, I decided that I wanted to use my head for something other than being stuck inside of a Nelson hold. So once I completed university, I headed north for a real career…but I never forgot those memories of the beautiful gulf coast.

Eventually, I would find myself in the hallowed halls of Langley, Virginia.

But I digress, I wanted to tell you about the weird shenanigans I found myself mired in.

My Wrangler with its dark tinted windows was perfect for surveillance. These Jeeps are a pretty common sight in Pinellas County and the plain black color made sure that it never stuck out in traffic. Which was good since I was spending the day surveilling a suspected fraudster. Conducting surveillance is a large portion of my job.

Augustin Guerrier was a Haitian who washed up on the shores of Miami after that catastrophic earthquake in 2010. Since that time, he moved from Miami to the Tampa Bay area, running various little scams while working in the hotel industry.

Monsieur Guerrier liked running workman’s compensation schemes on his hotel employers. He’d take a hotel cleaning job for about six months or so and then, suddenly, one day, he slips on the wet floor of a hotel bathroom, while preparing to clean it.

Guerrier always made sure that there was a witness when he fell. You had to hand it to him, he could pratfall like one of those ol’ vaudeville comedians.

Only Monsieur Guerrier had done this one too many times and it seems, the insurance companies had started talking to one another. While working at the Spanish Lady Resort in Dunedin, he had himself another little accident while on the job. Sunshine City Insurance, wasn’t buying this current chicanery.

According to his file, Guerrier had suffered both spinal and hip injuries. He was out on paid medical leave and recuperating back home. Guerrier had himself a nice little two bedroom bungalow in a small, palm lined neighborhood in eastern Clearwater. Clearly, he was recovering at light speed as he climbed up and down a ladder cleaning out his gutters.

I was parallel parked nearby, taking video of his entire miraculous convalescence. It was while I was considering my lunch options when I spied something a bit more interesting.

A black Toyota Camry slowly pulled into his steel and aluminium carport. Two young, fresh faced latino adults exited the dependable sedan. One male and the other female greeted Guerrier.

I saw that they both wore the same uniform, khaki chinos and white polo shirts. As if they worked at a resort or a spa. They had small name tags pinned to their polos but I couldn’t see the names, even when I pulled out my binoculars.

Perhaps they worked at the same resort as Guerrier? He didn’t seem surprised to see them. He certainly wasn’t fearful that he had been caught working hard while falsely applying for workman’s comp. All three were very jovial, smiling and laughing while they talked. Guerrier even slapped the young man on the back.

This was getting interesting.

Did the three have a side hustle going on at the resort? I snapped several pictures of the two new unknown subjects. After about 5 minutes or so, Guerrier handed them a paper bag that he had produced from the interior of his bungalow. They were soon back in their Camry, heading east.

Guerrier soon finished his gutter maintenance and went back inside his home.

I felt like I had enough video evidence at this point to deny his recent claim. But those two latinos sparked my investigative curiosity. Haitians and latinos aren’t known for their friendly relations, also, what’s in the bag? My mind immediately went to contraband…drugs, guns, kiddie porn, etc.

This had nothing to do with my current case of course but sometimes, I get a little too curious for my own good, which cost me my last career. Can’t be helped, I’m like a autistic kid who has been given a Rubik’s Cube. I have to solve the puzzle.

I decided to take a drive to the Spanish Lady Resort and have a look around.

It was a bust. None of the resort’s employees wore polo shirts as part of their uniform, it seemed in order to stay on brand, employees were issued multi-colored linen Guayabera shirts instead, along with white chinos.

Hunger dictated that I stop somewhere for lunch. The resort was at the end of Main Street, on the gulf itself, next to Edgewater Park. I drove the Islander back east on Main and just one mile from the resort, I found a large strip mall that offered multiple options. It was fancier and better kept than most strip malls in Pinellas and I figured I wouldn’t get food poisoning.

While considering the nice sushi spot near to a large nondescript church, I spotted it. I recognized the plates on the Camry immediately. It was parked in a spot reserved for church parking only.

I chucked to myself. Guerrier did not strike me as a stalwart church going man. That man was more sinful than a hooker at a liquor convention.

A large white painted sign above the glass and metal entrance simply stated: The Church By The Sea. Stenciled on the glass entrance of the double doors were the lobby hours, church service hours and that all are welcome.

I guess that included me. I didn’t even hesitate, I strode on through the entrance as if I belonged.

“Welcome, Sir. How may we assist you on this beautiful day?” The perky, handsome middle-aged mestiza asked me as I entered the lobby and stood before a large circular reception desk.

The desk was made of thick mahogany with maple inlays and a heavy Formica countertop. It stood six feet in height and seemed more appropriate for a war bunker than a supposedly hospitable church. The reception desk dominated the lobby and the seated receptionist was on a raised platform since we were almost eye to eye.

The name tag on the white polo of the mestiza stated her name as Luz.

“Well, Luz…my name is Gus. I find myself at a crossroads in my life. Recently, I’ve had some difficult life experiences occur. I am greatly in need of some spiritual guidance. I thought maybe your organization can maybe provide some answers.” I threw out a few half truths. It’s always better to mix in a truth or two when throwing out a bold faced lie.

Like a latin oracle, the pony-tailed Lux nodded sagely and briefly pondered what I needed. “Let me give you some of our brochures. It states who are and how we help others’ spiritual growth. We hold communal services every evening at 9 pm. For those considering joining us and other first-timers, we recommend you attend services the first Friday of every month…it will help you decide whether we are for you or not.”

I took a few glossy pamphlets from her that she produced somewhere behind her fortified wall.

“This is an impressive place you got here.” I gestured to all the artwork on the earth tone colored drywall of the lobby. Mostly paintings or large framed photographs of various bodies of waters, including storms, palm trees and beach sand.

Interestingly, there were no crosses or other religious iconography anywhere.

“Yes, it is.” Luz simply stated. She looked at me with a fake smile painted on her face. It was clear I had been dismissed and she wasn’t interested in simulating chit-chat.

Just before I made myself scarce, I noticed an elevator at the end of the lobby, behind reception. A hulking black man also in a white polo stood in front of the elevator. Only he wore no name tag and instead of chinos, he wore fatigue style navy blue pants, black boots and a Sam Browne duty belt rig with a Smith & Wesson .40 caliber semi-automatic attached to it.

“Anything else, Sir?” Luz asked when she noticed me eyeing the armed security guard at the other end of the lobby.

“Nope, just thinking about lunch. Thanks again.” I exited the church and walked down to the other end of the strip mall. At the sushi shop, I got a few California rolls, a Diet Coke and pondered while I ravished the meal.

Why does a one level church building have an elevator?

(continued in Part II)