Saturday Special 3 15
The morning sun slapped the Gulf of Mexico like it had caught the water stealing its lunch money. Danny “Gumbo” Malone squinted at the blinding reflection from his weathered deck chair, wondering if this was what retirement looked like or just unemployment with a fancier name tag.
Gumbo — nobody called him Danny anymore except his mother and the IRS — tilted his Panama hat lower over his eyes and took another swig from his coffee mug. The mug said “World’s Best Executive.” The liquid inside was cheap rum. At 10:17 AM on a Tuesday, this constituted what his former therapist would call “a concerning lifestyle choice.”
He’d been sitting here for two hours already, watching pelicans dive-bomb the water with kamikaze precision. Unlike the pelicans, Gumbo had lost his precision. And his corner office. And his company car. And his purpose.
“Restructuring,” they’d called it, which was corporate-speak for “we found someone younger who’ll do your job for half the salary and twice the enthusiasm.” Twenty-seven years at Consolidated Dynamics Solutions, whatever the hell that even meant. He still wasn’t sure what the company actually produced, but he’d been damn good at managing their Southeast regional operations division.
Now he was fifty-five, “retired,” and living on a houseboat in Cedar Key, Florida — a place where the average resident was either a weathered fisherman with tales taller than the local lighthouse or a refugee from some corporate nightmare up north.
Gumbo fit neither category precisely, which meant he fit right in.
The business cards had arrived yesterday. Five hundred of them, which felt optimistic bordering on delusional.
DANNY “GUMBO” MALONE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR “Finding the truth when nobody’s looking for it”
The slogan had seemed clever after his fourth bourbon last month when he’d placed the order. Now it read like the tagline for a direct-to-DVD movie nobody would rent.
He’d gotten the idea from Jimbo at the Rusty Pelican Bar, who claimed being a private investigator in Florida was “easier than catching sunburn.” According to Jimbo, people were constantly losing things in Florida — their spouses, their retirement funds, their sobriety, their sanity — and they’d pay good money to have someone find at least one of those items.
“You just need a license, which is basically a formality in this state,” Jimbo had said, tapping his nose knowingly. “Florida will license anything with a pulse. Sometimes without.”
So Gumbo had taken the online course, passed the exam with a suspicious ease that suggested the state really did need the licensing fees, and found himself the proud owner of a laminated card declaring him qualified to investigate things privately. Whatever that meant.
His cell phone rang, interrupting his existential crisis. The screen displayed a number he didn’t recognize, which described most numbers these days.
“Malone Investigations,” he answered, trying to sound like he hadn’t been drinking rum from a coffee mug while contemplating the cosmic joke that was his life trajectory.
“Is this the detective?” The voice on the other end belonged to a man who pronounced each syllable like it was costing him by the letter.
“Private investigator,” Gumbo corrected, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the difference. “Danny Malone speaking.”
“I need your services immediately. It’s a matter of considerable urgency and discretion.”
Gumbo sat up straighter, nearly spilling his breakfast rum. An actual client? Already? Perhaps Jimbo wasn’t completely full of shit after all.
“I can be discreet,” Gumbo assured the caller, despite having told the entire Rusty Pelican about his new career path just last night.
“Excellent. My name is Rufus Sterling. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Gumbo had not, but he’d learned in his corporate years that wealthy people enjoy being recognized, even when they aren’t.
“Of course,” he lied smoothly. “The Rufus Sterling.”
“Indeed. I need to meet with you today. Are you available?”
Gumbo looked down at his faded Margaritaville t-shirt and cargo shorts with the mysterious stain that might be either hot sauce or blood (he’d had an unfortunate encounter with a can opener last week).
“I can move some things around,” he said, as though his calendar contained anything beyond ‘stare at water’ and ‘drink progressively earlier in the day.’
“Splendid. My yacht is docked at Pelican Marina. The Midas Touch. You can’t miss it — it’s gold.”
Of course it was.
“I’ll be there at noon,” Gumbo said, already calculating how long it would take to make himself look like a professional who hadn’t just invented his job title on a drunken whim.
“Make it one. I’m in the middle of something.”
The line went dead. Gumbo stared at his phone, then at his business cards, then at the pelicans still dive-bombing the water with suicidal confidence.
“Well,” he said to no one in particular, “I guess I’m in business.”
He stood up, stretching his six-foot-two frame and feeling the sun on his face. People had called him ruggedly handsome before, usually women who’d had a few too many margaritas at corporate retreats. In the right light, with the right amount of shadow, he supposed he could pass for someone who knew what he was doing.
Florida had thrown him for a loop, but Gumbo Malone had grit. And now, apparently, he had a client with a gold yacht.
Things were looking up, which in Florida usually meant a hurricane was coming.
You can get your copy of ILL INTENT — a quirky mystery HERE:
THIS Methylene Blue is popping up on my radar a lot for cognative function. The last time I did a deep dive on something like this it was the benefits of Sauna- how much it really helps with recovery, maximizing blood flow to soft tissue, and literally creating better blood cells. So I’m curious about mixing the two — anyone tried it? Either or?
(I did the actual footwork on sauna and can attest that it is a 10X level gamechanger)
Book 2 will be out in a week or so — A1A — a weird whacky Florida mystery: here’s chapter one:
The Florida sun beat down with the relentless enthusiasm of a time-share salesman who’d spotted a tourist wearing socks with sandals. Danny “Gumbo” Malone squinted against the glare reflecting off the Gulf, wondering if it was too early for rum. His watch said 10:17 AM. In corporate America, that would be scandalous. In post-corporate, post-dignity, private-investigator Florida, it was practically afternoon tea.
He reached for the bottle of Captain Morgan, the cheapest one they sold at Pelican Pete’s Discount Liquor Emporium (“Where the Spirits Are High and the Prices Aren’t!”), and poured a generous splash into his coffee mug. The mug read “World’s Best Executive,” a parting gift from colleagues who’d celebrated his layoff with the enthusiasm of prisoners watching their warden get fired.
“To professional reinvention,” he toasted the pelican perched on his deck railing. The bird regarded him with the same expression his former CEO had worn when Gumbo suggested they might want to avoid dumping industrial waste into protected wetlands. Judgment, disappointment, and a vague sense of moral superiority.
His phone rang with the jarring default ringtone he’d never bothered to change. The caller ID read “Unknown,” which in Florida could mean anything from Nigerian princes to the governor’s office asking for campaign donations.
“Gumbo Investigations,” he answered, affecting a professional tone that fooled exactly no one.
“Is this Danny Malone?” The woman’s voice had the crisp, authoritative quality of someone who’d never been told their email could wait until morning.
“Depends who’s asking and whether they’re offering money or serving papers.”
“My name is Eliza Mercer. I write for the Cedar Key Chronicle.”
Gumbo sat up straighter, splashing rum-infused coffee onto his third-best Hawaiian shirt. “The reporter? The one who exposed the mayor’s offshore turtle-smuggling operation?”
“Baby sea turtles and tax evasion, yes.” She didn’t sound pleased by the recognition. “I need your help, Mr. Malone. Someone’s trying to kill me.”
Gumbo’s first thought was that the list of people who might want to kill an investigative reporter in Florida was probably longer than the menu at the Waffle House. His second thought was that his bank account contained exactly enough money to cover this month’s dock fees and maybe a few more bottles of discount rum.
“I charge by the hour, plus expenses,” he said, trying to sound like he did this all the time and not like a man who’d received his PI license six weeks ago after completing an online course between Netflix binges.
“I’ll pay double your usual rate,” Mercer replied without hesitation. “Triple if you can figure out who’s behind this before my deadline on Friday.”
“Triple?” Gumbo echoed, mentally calculating how many months of dock fees that might cover. “What’s happening on Friday?”
“I’m publishing an exposé that’s going to make the turtle smuggling look like a petting zoo violation. I think someone wants to make sure it never sees print.”
The pelican on his railing took flight, as if sensing the conversation had taken a turn toward actual work. Gumbo watched it go with a twinge of envy.
“Tell me what’s been happening,” he said, reaching for a notepad that had previously been used to rate various rum brands on a scale from “Acceptable” to “Might Actually Be Boat Fuel.”
“It started with phone calls,” Mercer explained. “Heavy breathing, silence, then they’d hang up.”
“Could be teenagers,” Gumbo suggested, scribbling notes. “Or my ex-wife’s lawyer.”
“Then there were the dead fish.”
Gumbo paused mid-scribble. “Dead fish?”
“On my doorstep every morning. First a mullet, then a grouper, then a red snapper arranged in a circle with its head facing my door.”
“Okay, that’s… specific.”
“Yesterday, I found my cat shaved.”
Gumbo blinked. “Shaved?”
“Not completely. Just a patch on his back. They shaved him to look like a target.”
He set down his pen. “Miss Mercer — “
“Eliza.”
“Eliza. I think you should call the police.”
She laughed, a short, bitter sound like a car failing to start. “The police? The same police department whose chief I’m investigating for taking bribes from a developer who’s been dumping construction waste into the aquifer?”
“Ah.” Gumbo picked up his pen again. “So that’s what the exposé is about.”
“It’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Eliza said. “I’ve uncovered a network of corruption that stretches from the police department to the county commissioner’s office to the biggest resort development firm on the Gulf Coast.”
“Sounds like you’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been doing my job, Mr. Malone. Something this town desperately needs more of.”
The implication that he wasn’t doing his job might have stung if Gumbo had developed any professional pride in the last six weeks. As it was, he was still surprised when people actually called the number on his business cards.
“Where do we start?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.
“Meet me at the Dockside Café in thirty minutes,” Eliza said. “And Mr. Malone?”
“Yes?”
“Come alone, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”
The line went dead before he could respond. Gumbo stared at his phone, then at his coffee mug, then at the half-empty bottle of rum. With a sigh, he capped the bottle and stood up.
“Sorry, Captain,” he told the rum. “Duty calls.”
The Dockside Café occupied a precarious position on stilts over the water, the kind of construction that made insurance adjusters wake up screaming in the night. Its weathered wooden deck had survived four hurricanes, two tropical storms, and countless drunken tourists attempting to feed the seagulls.
Gumbo arrived five minutes early and claimed a table with a view of both the parking lot and the marina. Old habits from corporate security training died hard, even if he’d mostly used those skills to identify which executives were sneaking out early on Fridays.
Eliza Mercer arrived precisely on time, navigating the uneven boards of the deck with the practiced ease of someone who’d conducted many interviews over many meals in this exact spot. She was younger than Gumbo had expected, maybe mid-thirties, with sharp green eyes that cataloged everything they saw and dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She wore jeans, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an expression that suggested patience was a limited resource.
“You must be Gumbo,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him. “You look exactly like I imagined.”
“Is that a compliment or an indictment?” he asked.
“Neither. Just an observation.” She nodded toward his shirt. “The palm trees gave it away.”
“It’s my professional attire,” Gumbo said with dignity. “The flamingos are for court appearances.”
A waitress appeared, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. “The usual, Eliza?”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
“And for you, sir?” The honorific was delivered with the enthusiasm of someone saying “tax audit.”
“Coffee, black. And whatever passes for breakfast here.”
“Everything passes for breakfast here,” Maggie said. “It’s all the same griddle.”
After she left, Eliza leaned forward. “I brought you something.” She slid a manila envelope across the table.
Gumbo opened it and found photographs: a dead fish arranged on a welcome mat, a cat with a disturbing circular patch shaved into its back, a car with slashed tires.
“When did the tire slashing happen?” he asked.
“Last night. Right in front of my apartment.”
“Have you filed police reports?”
“With the police chief’s brother-in-law?” Eliza shook her head. “I told you, they’re all connected. Chief Rutledge, County Commissioner Hanson, and Samuel Rourke of Gulfside Developments. They’re bleeding this town dry, Mr. Malone.”
“Call me Gumbo,” he said, studying the photos. “Everyone does. Even my mother, which was awkward at parent-teacher conferences.”
Maggie returned with coffee and what appeared to be eggs in some previous life. Gumbo waited until she was out of earshot before continuing.
“So you’re publishing this exposé on Friday, with or without figuring out who’s threatening you?”
“The Chronicle’s going to print with or without me,” Eliza said grimly. “My editor has the files. If anything happens to me — “
“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Gumbo interrupted. “I may be new to this PI gig, but I was head of security for BayPoint Consolidated for twelve years before they ‘streamlined operations.’”
“What does a corporate security guy know about investigating death threats?”
“You’d be surprised how many death threats the CEO of a company with seven EPA violations gets,” Gumbo said, taking a sip of coffee that could strip paint. “Besides, I have something none of your corrupt officials have.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing left to lose.” He grinned. “So, tell me about Samuel Rourke and this development company. What exactly are they dumping in the aquifer?”
For the first time, Eliza smiled. It transformed her face, softening the sharp edges and lighting up her eyes. “How do you feel about visiting a construction site tonight?”
“I feel like I should charge quadruple for anything involving trespassing or potential arrest,” Gumbo replied. “But something tells me I’m going to say yes anyway.”
“Good instinct,” Eliza said, pulling out a small notebook. “You’re going to need it.”
Outside, a pelican — possibly the same judgmental one from his deck — watched them through the window. In the distance, thunder rumbled, promising the afternoon rain that was as reliable as corrupt Florida politicians. Gumbo had a feeling his life was about to get considerably more complicated than rum in morning coffee.
And for some reason, he was perfectly okay with that.
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