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  Mango Crush

  A Mango Bob and Walker Adventure

  by

  Bill Myers

  www.mangobob.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Copyright © 2019 Bill Myers. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Version 2019.15.04

  Chapter One

  At six twenty in the morning, well before sun up, my phone chimed with an incoming call. Only about ten people have the number, and they all know better than to call me that early. Unless it was an emergency.

  So when a call came in early that Friday morning, I figured it was important. I rolled over in bed, picked up the phone and saw the caller ID read, “GG.”

  Her real name is Abby, and if she was calling that early, it meant trouble ahead.

  I shook my head and answered, “This is Walker.”

  She didn't bother to say hello or good morning. Instead, she asked, “You always answer the phone that way? Giving out your name before you know who's calling? That's not smart. What if the caller is a scammer trying to sell you something? You give them your name right off, and they know who you are.

  “A better way to answer is just to say, 'Hello.'”

  She paused, giving me a chance to respond.

  Instead of arguing about how I answered my phone, I said, “How about I just say, 'Goodbye'?”

  And I hung up.

  I knew she'd call back. She always did when she wanted something.

  Less than a minute later, my phone chimed with an incoming call. Again, the caller ID was, “GG.”

  I answered just as I had before.

  “This is Walker.”

  Clearly miffed that I had hung up on her, Abby said, “Yeah, we all know your name. Anyone who calls, whether it be friend or foe, will know who they reached as soon as you answer.”

  She continued, “So here's the deal. I need you to meet me in the parking lot of the Castile San Marcos in St. Augustine, this afternoon at four sharp.

  “Bring your motorhome and a box or two of that wine you had in your fridge last time. We'll be heading to a dry county, so if you forget the wine, you'll have to put up with me sober. I don't think you'll like that

  “Don't forget, Castile San Marcos. Four this afternoon. Don't be late.”

  Instead of giving me a chance to ask why she wanted me to drop everything and drive across Florida to pick her up, she ended the call.

  It was late January, and while the rest of the country was knee deep in snow, in southern Florida it was still shorts and T-shirt weather. Sunny skies, light breezes off the gulf, and warm enough to run the AC in the daytime.

  While people up north were busy shoveling the white stuff and shivering through freight trains of arctic blasts, those of us lucky enough to be in Florida were spending our days walking the beaches, picking up seashells and eating fresh seafood right off the boat.

  But Florida wasn't the paradise it had been years before. The warm temps and sunny beaches were a magnet to millions of snowbirds; people from the northern states who headed south to keep from freezing their toes off in the cold.

  Those millions of temporary residents clogged the roads and created an almost unending traffic jam across the state. Many lacked the skills or patience necessary to survive on Florida roads. When lost, some would stand on their brakes with no concern about drivers behind them traveling at highway speeds. Or they'd veer across several lanes of traffic without warning to check out an early bird buffet.

  Locals knew that driving during snowbird season was like being in a pinball game. Cars came at you from every direction, traffic rules didn't matter, and if you weren't on your toes, you'd end up being hit by an eighty-year-old in a big Cadillac.

  For me, the roads being jammed up by the snowbirds meant the two-hundred-fifty-mile drive from my place on the west coast of Florida to St. Augustine on the east coast would take at least six hours. Maybe more, depending on the number of accidents along the way.

  Abby probably knew this, and that's why she called so early. She knew that if I had any hope of getting to St. Augustine by four that afternoon, I needed to leave early. As in about an hour after her call, at the very latest.

  Had it been anyone else who had called and wanted me to drop everything and go pick them up in a parking lot two hundred and fifty miles away, I would have asked, “Why?”

  But with Abby it was different. She was special. She knew before she made the call that I wouldn't say no. I'd never turn her down.

  Chapter Two

  My name is Walker, and I live in a motorhome with Mango Bob, my cat.

  I'm single, in my mid-thirties and semi-retired. I used to work in the corporate world as an IT manager. Back then my future was bright. I had a good job with a big salary, an office with a view, a new car, and a nice home. I was set for life.

  At least that's what I thought.

  Everything changed when the company I worked for decided to close some of its offices, including the one I worked at. They gave me two weeks’ notice, a nice severance package and sent me on my way.

  That same day, when I got home, my wife did the same thing. But no two weeks’ notice, no severance pay. Nothing. Just a sheaf of divorce papers.

  She said she was doing me a favor. Said I'd be better off without her. All I needed to do was to sign my name, and I'd have my freedom, whether I wanted it or not.

  We didn't have any kids, so the decision was easy. If she didn't want me in her life, I wasn't going to stick around.

  It was what they call a ‘friendly divorce.’ No shouting, no fighting, no arguing over who got what. Her attorney had drawn it up so both sides got a fair share. She got the house, her car, and half our savings. I got the other half and no debt. And I got to keep my severance pay.

  We both got our freedom, me even more so since I didn't have a job or a place to live. I was free in the same way homeless people are, except I had money in the bank.

  I could travel and start a new life if I wanted to.

  But first I needed a place to stay. And then a job, because that's what you're supposed to do—work for a living.

  I started looking for a job first because having one would make it easier to find a place to stay. But I soon learned there weren't many job openings in the small town where I'd been living. With the company closing, there were a lot of locals looking for work and not many jobs to be had.

  Without any prospects, I didn't want to sign a long-term lease on an apartment or move in with a stranger. So, when the company that had laid me off said they'd sell me the corporate motorhome, I jumped on it.

  It wasn't new; it needed a good cleaning and hadn't been driven in a year. But it did have something I needed. A roof, a bed, and a bathroom.

  After spending a few nights in it, I realized it wasn't bad at all. It had everything I needed, including a kitchen with a microwave and fridge, a dinette table that could seat four, and if I ever had guests, a couch that folded out into a bed.

  With my housing situation taken care of, and a healthy amount of savings in the bank, I started wondering if I really needed a job, at least right away.

  A female friend suggested I check out Florida. She had a
sister there who had a place where I could park the RV and said it was available to me at no cost if I would do one little favor for her.

  Just take the cat she had been babysitting and drop him off at the sister's home.

  It seemed easy enough, so I had the oil changed on the motorhome, put on a new set of tires, filled the tanks with gas, and got out a road map.

  It took me three days to get to Florida with the cat, and that's where I've been living ever since.

  Not having to work meant I had a lot of free time to travel, exploring places on my bucket list and meeting some interesting people along the way.

  Abby was one of the more interesting ones.

  According to those who knew her, she had a 'gift', one that supposedly helped her to see the future. Some even said she could read minds.

  No one knew for sure if her gift was real, but those who’d spent much time around her, including me, had no doubt that something special was going on in that little head of hers. She could sense things that most of us couldn't.

  The other thing about Abby is she's weird.

  Before I met her, I was told she was shy and tended to faint away under stress. Like those fainting goats you see on TV.

  You clap your hands, and they drop to the ground.

  Supposedly, Abby was like that. That's why I jokingly called her the goat girl. I didn't say this to her face, but she'd heard me anyway, and from then on, GG was an inside joke. She was the goat girl. And proud of it.

  Except she wasn't a girl. And she didn't faint away when she heard a loud noise. She was a grown woman, about my age, with stunning good looks and the body of a ballerina. Her voice could melt men's hearts.

  The friend who had introduced us had given me a set of rules to go with the goat girl. Never raise my voice, never lose her in a crowd, never let her drink, and never ever sleep with her.

  They seemed like easy rules to follow. And they would have been, had the goat girl not broken each and every one of them within days of our first meeting.

  We had been traveling together at the request of her uncle, a retired mafia boss living in Key West. His daughter had gone missing, and he wanted Abby to use her gift to help find her. He wanted me along because I had the motorhome and we needed a place to stay no matter where we stopped.

  I wasn't too thrilled to be traveling the country with the goat girl, someone who I hadn't met yet, but it wasn't the kind of request I could turn down. You don't refuse an ex-mafioso seeking his daughter.

  Before I met Abby, I couldn't see any way she could help me find the missing girl. As far as I was concerned, she'd only get in the way. It'd be tight quarters in the motorhome, traveling with a woman I'd never met. It wasn't something I was looking forward to.

  But, surprisingly, it turned out okay.

  Yeah, she was weird and had a quirky personality. And it was scary when it seemed like she knew what I was thinking. But I learned to live with it.

  What really bothered me, though, was she took over my bedroom, sending me to sleep on the couch. Before she came into the picture, I had my own set of rules in my motorhome. Like who would sleep where, what music we'd listen to, and when we would stop for the night.

  Simple rules, but she broke them all.

  She'd given me a wedding ring and asked me to wear it while we were on the road. She wanted us to pretend we were married. She'd even worked up a back story.

  We were to be the Mendozas from Key West. She was Paige, and I would be Tony. Somehow, she'd come up with a fake Florida driver's license for me with Tony Mendoza's name on it. And my photo.

  The license looked real. Like it was created by someone at the DMV. She said it was better that I not know where she got it.

  We'd used her pretend names, and it helped us find the girl we were looking for.

  Then Abby disappeared from my life. We were staying in the honeymoon suite at the Ameristar Casino in Vicksburg, Mississippi. It was her idea.

  I woke up the morning after, and she was gone. She'd left a note saying it was fun but it was over. And even though I hadn't seen her in months, I still carried the fake driver’s license in my wallet and her wedding ring in my pocket.

  I'm not sure why I kept them, but I figured if I had to travel with the goat girl again, they might come in handy.

  In her early morning phone call, she hadn't told me why she wanted me to pick her up in Saint Augustine. But if it was like our last trip together, it was probably another request from our mutual friend in Key West. The one who wouldn't want me to say he was the head of Florida's Russian Mafia. So I'm not saying he was, or still is.

  But either way, Abby and I would be again traveling together in my motorhome, sharing the cramped space with Bob, my cat.

  Chapter Three

  It would take me at least six hours to get to St. Augustine, assuming no accidents were blocking the way and no tourists stopping on the road to snap photos of alligators. But it was likely both would occur. There'd be traffic jams, accidents and other things that'd slow me down.

  Since I didn't want to be late, I needed to give myself at least eight hours to get there. That meant leaving at eight at the very latest. So, I climbed out of bed, took a quick shower, and ate breakfast.

  As he usually did, Bob joined me at the breakfast table. He'd sit in the seat across from me and watch as I ate. He'd occasionally meow, letting me know that if I had any extra food, he'd be happy to take it off my hands.

  But I was on to his game. I knew that once I gave in to any of his requests, he'd forever remember and expect me to do it again. So, no table food for Bob.

  He didn't need it. He was already the biggest cat I'd ever seen. Close to twenty pounds of fur and muscle.

  I'd never planned on living with a cat, but I'd ended up with Bob, thanks to a lady friend who left him with me.

  She'd said it was only for a few days, but it had been almost a year since I'd last seen her. According to her friends, she wasn't coming back. I was stuck with the cat.

  But Bob wasn't all bad. He was easy to live with, gave me someone to talk to, and kept me warm in bed at night, whether I wanted him to or not.

  I'd filled his food and water bowls after I showered and cleaned his litter box because I knew that once I got behind the wheel, I probably wouldn't be stopping until we got to St. Augustine.

  After breakfast, I went outside and unhooked the motorhome from shore power and city water. I did a quick walk-around to make sure all the tires were inflated and that I wasn't leaving anything behind.

  I went back inside and stowed everything that would slide around or break while we were on the road. Then I made sure all the cabinet doors were closed and locked.

  I checked the fridge and saw I didn't have enough food for two people on the road for a week. I also didn't have the wine that Abby had requested.

  Since there was no way I was going on a trip with her without the wine, I'd have to stop at the Walmart Super Center on Forty-One in Venice before leaving town.

  It was my preferred shopping destination, mainly because their parking lot was RV friendly. Easy to get into, plenty of places to park, and easy to get out of. Plus, they sold gas. I could top off my tanks there without having to go anywhere else.

  I programmed the motorhome's GPS to get me to St. Augustine, and then I hit the road. It took me ten minutes to get to Walmart. I figured it wouldn't take long to top off the tanks and get everything I needed. If all went as planned, I'd be heading to Saint Augustine by eight. That'd give me eight hours to get there.

  As it turned out, I was wrong.

  Chapter Four

  That early in the morning, Walmart wasn't crowded. I pulled up to the gas pumps and topped off the two tanks under the motorhome. Combined, they held fifty gallons of fuel. At ten miles per gallon, I could get to St. Augustine without needing to gas up again.

  After fueling up, I grabbed a shopping cart and went inside Wally World. I'd been to the store many times, so I knew where things were. St
ill, it took longer than I had planned to get everything on my list. Enough food for me, Abby and Bob. Wine, paper towels, snacks, bottled water, and sandwich fixings. I probably got more than we needed, but on the road it was better to have too much than not enough.

  I was heading to the checkout when my phone pinged with an incoming call.

  It was Abby.

  I answered the way she wanted me to. I said, “Hello.”

  She didn't reply. She just said, “You're in Walmart, right?”

  I didn't know how she knew where I was, but I didn't bother to ask. I just said, “Yeah, I'm here.”

  “Good. Go to the back of the store and pick up two burner phones. Pay with cash. Text me the number of one of them when you get back in your RV. Then remove the battery from your regular phone.

  “And Walker, be careful on the road today. Lots of things can happen.”

  It was the first time she'd told me to be careful. Maybe she knew something I didn't. I'd be driving through some of the most trafficked areas of the state. There would be lots of drivers unfamiliar with the area, with plenty of them distracted by the scenery and their mobile devices.

  I'd already planned to be careful. I'd driven in Florida long enough to know that you had to be if you wanted to survive, especially when driving a seven-ton motorhome.

  After she ended the call, I went to the electronics department and bought the two burner phones she wanted me to get, paying cash. Then I went back up front and paid for the groceries and other supplies. I headed out to the parking lot and was relieved to see that no one had blocked me in.

  It happens more often than you'd think. Even when I park way out on the edge of the lot, and there are plenty of empty parking spots closer to the store, people will park right up next to my RV, sometimes even in front of it, blocking me in. When that happens, I have to wait for them to finish shopping and come back out and move their car before I can go.

  Fortunately, that morning, no one had blocked me in. I had plenty of room to get out.

  Bob was waiting for me at the door and watched as I unloaded the shopping cart. He was fascinated with the sound the plastic bags made and would tap each to see if there was anything inside for him.