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Ron (Ron & Julie) Friday, 8:00 a.m.
Using the birthday list Karen fetched from the office, Julie eliminated four and added two residents to the list of men who might be Greg Miles. By ten o’clock on Friday, she had eight neat lists printed and ready to go. Each had the man’s name and lot number, followed by a space to make notes after the interview. At the right margin was a box we’d check when we all agreed a guy was clear of suspicion.
I was eager to get to work on my list. It’s good to have things to occupy your mind as you get older, because I sure don’t want to get dementia. I’d been trying to come up with ways to meet guys I’ve lived in the same park with for years but never spoken to, except maybe to say “Excuse me” as we pass at some event. Some of them I knew by sight. A few I’d have sworn I’d never heard of before. How did I miss that we have a guy at B-Bird named Harry Longbaugh? I loved Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but I’d missed old Harry’s name in the directory.
I thought the plan I devised would work. I’d knock on doors with a clipboard, assessing interest among residents for a slot-car racing club. The topic would appeal mostly to men, and it would give me a chance to talk about the good old days when the hobby was popular. I’d then steer the conversation to specifics, where the guy was living in the summer of ’67.
A slot car club was something I’d been considering anyway. We have lots of outdoor activities for men at B-Bird, but not so many rainy-day things. I’d already scoped out a corner of the activity room where we could set up tracks. I didn’t mind organizing the club, because as a kid I was crazy about those little cars. My dad and I built different tracks and raced our favorite cars against each other. The modern kits aren’t cheap, but you work all your life to enjoy retirement, right?
In order to not be too obvious, I mixed people I know in with the ones targeted for our investigation. My neighbor Harry liked the idea right away. “It would be good to have something to do inside,” he said when I explained my idea. “Otherwise you sit on your duff and watch reruns all day.” When I approached the first person on my suspects list, I already had Harry and Tommy listed in the Yes column.
I knocked on the door of #20 Stork, and after a few seconds a grizzled face appeared at the screen. “Yeah?”
“Hi. I’m Ron Rogers from over on Egret Street, and I’m trying to find guys who might be interested in setting up a few slot-car tracks here in the park.”
“Slot-cars?”
“Yeah, like in the ’60s. It’ll be fun to bring them back. We’d set up events every month or so. It would be great when the grandkids visit.”
The man’s face got smaller as his forehead, nose and mouth puckered. “Ain’t got no grandkids.”
“But you do remember slot-cars, right? I’m from Wisconsin, and they were big there.”
“I remember a little.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Why is that your business?”
This wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined. “You don’t sound like a Northerner.”
The almost-toothless mouth twisted. “Born and raised right here in Florida.”
“Wow. I don’t meet many natives.”
One eye opened from its squint. “Well, now you did.”
“You ever live anywhere else?”
He stood a little straighter. “Never been more’n a hundred miles from Tampa Bay.”
I’d learned what I came for. “If you’re interested in the club, I can keep you informed.”
“I work every day,” he said dismissively. “Got no time for clubs and that.”
“It was nice meeting you.” It was a lie, but I had to say something.
I made it through six of my seventeen the first day, and I was pretty sure five of them couldn’t be our guy. One was a possibility, but not a great one. He admitted to knowing Nashville a little but claimed he’d never driven anything bigger than a pickup truck.
Around three, when I retired to my carport and put ice on my knee, Hank stopped by on his bike. “You been awful busy,” he observed. Self-appointed B-Bird head gossip, Hank can’t rest until he knows what everybody’s doing. Though he wasn’t on my suspect list, I gave him the spiel about the slot-car track.
“Sounds like something a lot of guys would like.”
“They have kits for semis too,” I said, following my prepared script. “Big-rig events are popular at racetracks these days, and I was thinking we could have events for both.” After a beat I said, “Did you ever drive a big rig, Hank?”
“Nope.” He pushed his bike backwards into the street, turned the handlebars, and set his feet on the pedals. “Had a lot of jobs over my lifetime, but I never got into that.”
As he rode away, my brain replayed a story, someone describing how loud it was in the cab of a semi back before modern improvements muffled the noise. The voice in my head sounded like Hank’s rumbly bass, but it could have been a half-dozen other guys. I talk to so many people in the park that it’s easy to mix up who said what.
