Beach Front — a weird whacky Florida mystery
BEACH FRONT — A Gumbo mystery
Beach Front
Gumbo Malone was trying to convince a pelican to stop using his boat as a toilet when Mrs. Gertrude Kowalski came power-walking down the dock in a velour tracksuit that could’ve been seen from space. She was maybe eighty, with steel-wool hair and the kind of determination that had probably won World War II single-handedly.
“Mr. Malone, I need you to investigate my neighbor.” She clutched a canvas tote bag full of what looked like art supplies. “Something fishy’s going on with old Vincent Torrino.”
“What kind of fishy?”
“The man’s supposed to be broke, living on Social Security, but suddenly he’s selling paintings for ten thousand dollars each. And they’re terrible. I mean, really terrible. Like someone painted them with their feet.”
Gumbo wiped pelican droppings off his deck chair. “Maybe he’s just having a late-life artistic breakthrough.”
“Have you seen his work? He paints the same sunset every time, except it looks like a nuclear explosion. And the buyers — they’re all these young men with neck tattoos and expensive cars. Who drives a Mercedes to buy amateur art?”
She had a point. In Cedar Key, most art buyers drove rusty pickup trucks and haggled over twenty-dollar fish paintings.
“Last week, I watched a guy buy three paintings for thirty grand cash. Cash, Mr. Malone. Who pays cash for art that looks like it was painted during an earthquake?”
An hour later, Gumbo was parked outside Vincent Torrino’s trailer, watching the old man set up an easel in his front yard. Vincent was about seventy, with paint-stained clothes and the kind of mustache that belonged in a 1970s cop show. He was working on what appeared to be a sunset, if sunsets were orange and purple and looked like they were having a seizure.
A black Escalade pulled up, and out stepped a guy who looked like he’d been ordered from a catalog called “Discount Wiseguys.” Gold chains, tracksuit, and sunglasses that probably cost more than most people’s rent.
“Vinny, how’s the art business?”
“Tony, good to see you. I got three new pieces ready.”
Tony barely glanced at the paintings before pulling out a roll of bills thick enough to choke a horse. “These are beautiful, Vinny. Real emotional. I’ll take all three.”
“That’s thirty thousand.”
“Worth every penny.” Tony peeled off hundreds like he was dealing cards. “My associates are gonna love these. Very… expressive.”
After Tony left, Gumbo wandered over to Vincent’s makeshift gallery. The old man was already starting another painting, this one featuring what might’ve been a flamingo if flamingos were neon green and had three legs.
“Nice work,” Gumbo said. “You been painting long?”
“Started last month. Turns out I got a real gift for it.” Vincent dabbed his brush in what appeared to be radioactive yellow paint. “My son Tony got me into it. Says I’m the next Picasso.”
“Tony’s your son?”
“Yeah, good boy. Always looking out for his old man. Brings his friends around to buy my art. They got real sophisticated taste.”
Gumbo studied a painting that looked like someone had sneezed on a canvas while eating Skittles. “What did you do before you became an artist?”
“Worked construction. Then I had a little bookmaking operation, but I gave that up when I got too old for the stress.” Vincent squinted at his latest creation. “Art’s much more relaxing.”
“I bet. Your son in the same business?”
“Nah, Tony’s got his own thing. Import-export, he calls it. Though between you and me, I think he might be into something a little less legal.” Vincent chuckled. “But hey, as long as he’s buying my paintings, I ain’t asking questions.”
That evening, Gumbo was having a beer at the Rusty Anchor when Tony walked in with two guys who looked like they’d been rejected from a mob movie for being too obvious. They ordered expensive whiskey and talked in loud voices about their “art collection.”
“I’m telling you, Paulie, this old man’s stuff is pure genius,” Tony was saying. “Every piece tells a story.”
“Yeah, the story of how you’re washing your money through your father’s finger paintings,” Paulie replied.
“Keep it down, you moron. People might hear you.”
But it was too late. Mrs. Kowalski was sitting three stools down, and her hearing was better than a bat’s. She caught Gumbo’s eye and nodded toward the door.
Outside, she was practically vibrating with excitement. “Did you hear that? Money laundering! I knew those paintings were too terrible to be worth real money.”
“Problem is, proving it. Art’s subjective. Maybe these guys really do think Vincent’s a genius.”
“Or maybe we need to catch them in the act.”
The next morning, Gumbo was hidden in the mangroves behind Vincent’s trailer with a camera and a thermos of coffee. Mrs. Kowalski was across the street, pretending to tend her garden while actually conducting surveillance that would’ve made the CIA proud.
Tony showed up around ten with a new customer — a nervous-looking guy in a suit who kept checking his watch.
“Here’s the deal,” Tony was saying. “You give me fifty grand in dirty cash, I buy fifty grand worth of my old man’s paintings, then I sell them back to you for ten grand clean money. You just laundered forty thousand through legitimate art sales.”
“But what if someone gets suspicious about the prices?”
“Who’s gonna question it? It’s art. People pay millions for paintings that look like someone spilled soup on a canvas.”
The nervous guy handed over a briefcase, and Tony started selecting paintings with all the care of someone picking lottery tickets.
That’s when Vincent came out of his trailer and saw the briefcase full of cash.
“Jesus, Tony, what’s all that money?”
“It’s, uh, an advance payment. This gentleman’s buying your entire collection.”
“The whole thing? But I just started painting last month.”
“Yeah, well, you’re having a moment, Pop. Very hot right now in the art world.”
Vincent looked at his paintings, then at the money, then at his son. “Tony, are you using my art to launder money?”
“What? No! Why would you think that?”
“Because I used to run numbers for forty years, and I know a money-washing operation when I see one. Plus, these paintings are terrible. I got cataracts and arthritis. A blind monkey could paint better than this.”
Tony’s face went through several color changes. “Pop, you’re supposed to be the naive old artist. You’re not supposed to figure it out.”
“I’m old, not stupid. And I’m certainly not going to prison for art fraud at my age.”
Vincent picked up his paintbrush and started painting over the canvas he’d been working on. “Tell you what, Tony. I’ll keep painting, but from now on, I’m charging realistic prices. Twenty bucks for a sunset, thirty for a flamingo. Take it or leave it.”
“But Pop — “
“And maybe it’s time you found a new hobby. I hear pottery’s nice.”
Two hours later, Gumbo was watching the sheriff’s deputies load Tony and his associates into patrol cars while Vincent started a new painting — this one featuring a jailhouse with bars that were actually straight.
“You know,” Mrs. Kowalski said, “I think his work’s already improving.”
Vincent looked up from his canvas. “Turns out I paint better when I’m not worried about accidentally becoming a criminal mastermind.”
“Plus,” Gumbo added, “orange jumpsuits are much easier to paint than sunsets.”
Vincent laughed. “Maybe that’ll be my next series. ‘Jailhouse Blues.’ I bet I could get at least twenty-five bucks for those.”
Grab the first book in the wild whacky Florida adventures of Gumbo Malone, retired exec turned private eye, RED TIDE RETIRED free.
If you’re a fan of Dorsey or Hasaan, with a little flavor of Rockford Files thrown into the mix, you have to try this Gumbo out.
Don’t miss the rest of the series:
Something Fishy
Gator Bait
And
Lobster Roll
Beach Front
Seahorse Serenade
