BUGGED BY PALMETTOS

If you look up "ubiquitous" in a dictionary you should find a picture of a Palmetto bug--the Asian Water bug. The cockroach on steroids. That is, if it's a Florida dictionary. They're ubiquitous! And, sometimes in the strangest places.

A State Fish and Game officer, Snook Bucktail, could tell you all about it. We had the Hoppe's and patches out one morning, cleaning our guns, when he dropped by the NPD. "Mine might could use that," he said, pulling his S&W from the holster. If he had refloated the Titanic, there couldn't have been a rustier piece of metal.

In fairness, Snook worked on salt water quite often and it will rust a blue gun fast. Stainless weapons weren't in production at the time, so we all had to be vigilant against rust. But damn. His looked like the anchor on the Ancient Mariner's ride.

Then, when he tried to open the cylinder, it was rusted shut. He had to beat it on the corner of the desk to release it. And, when it finally creaked open, out strutted a Palmetto bug from an empty chamber in the cylinder. Seemingly perturbed that he'd been evicted from his home, the bug ran up Snook's arm and crawled in his shirt pocket. Seemed to know the territory real well.

Another time, Snook stopped by wanting to bum some fresh ammo. "Sarge told me to change mine out. Said it had more moss and mold on it than granny's cooter. Guess it is a little raunchy. But, I'm a little short on cash this week. Wonder if. . .?"

We said sure and got some out of the ammo closet. When he opened the leather ammo pouch on his gun belt, out walked a Palmetto bug. He looked at it, then at us, and stuttered, "Now that ain't the same one. . ."

But you couldn't have found a cop that would've bet on it. One said, "You keep bringing your pal around least you could do is introduce us, tell us his name. We'll get him some coffee and a donut."

Note: (Why did Snook's revolver have an empty chamber? At the time, some cops still had old revolvers that didn't have a hammer block built in. The block prevents a dropped gun from firing. One of our officers, Lou Collins was killed in just such an accident. So, as a safety measure, they would just load five bullets and leave the chamber under the hammer empty. This is still done by some with Colt .45 revolvers and black powder guns. Same reason.)

And, a cooter is a genus of pond turtle, especially in Florida. Granny was an animal lover.

What did you think it was?

ED CRAWFORD, FHP

Ed Crawford was a Trooper with the Florida Highway Patrol when I got in the police business in 1963. Then, they shared a desk at the NPD. The desk was also used by the wildlife officers and the FBI when needed. These were all agencies that didn't have local offices.

Ed was the personification of the FHP Trooper. He was stern, had little to say, and was the scourge of bad drivers. The FHP had a system in place to insure their Troopers didn't turn into slackers. They were assigned a monthly quota of tickets they had to meet or they got transferred to Florida's equivalent of Lower Slobovia. They didn't need the quota with Ed. He was the first cop I ever heard use a famous cop wisecrack. Ed'd stopped a mouthy speeder who disparaged him with, "Well, I guess you got your quota for the day."

To which Ed replied. "Nope, we don't have a quota any longer. Now I can write all the tickets I want."

Ed was a strong fella, too. Once an enraged motorist bowed up to him at the NPD, and said, "I'm gonna kick your azz."

Ed grabbed him by the neck, with one hand, lifted him in the air arm's length and said, "Well, come on down here and do it."

He was also innovative. He modified his radio car, a Dodge 440, so it would exceed the 120 mph top end. That model had a speedometer that had a horizontal, sliding bar to indicate the speed, instead of the round, regular model. Ed took the stop peg off his so the indicator could continue past 120. Then he wrote on the glass over the meter, 130, 140 and 150. And the meter would get there.

I understand he has a son in law enforcement. Hope so. If he's anything like his Dad we can sure use him.

PENNY ANTE JUSTICE

Judge Richard Stanley had his own way of doing things. He'd dole out special conditions to his levied periods of incarceration. Thirty days on a diet of Gerber's baby food. Or, Corporal punishment consisting of so many licks with a belt. Performed in the courtroom. Or, Keep the cell in total darkness. Yep, Richard, or Wretched as he loved to be called, was an original.

Once a game violation case came before him that evoked his special conditions. Dorkwood Dikhead was a local game warden. Being a game warden requires special sensibilities because of the vagueness of the laws and sometimes unique circumstances. And a little common sense comes in handy. Dorkwood, without exception, possessed none of these traits. He was nitpicky and picayune, and was popularly referred as a Prick with ears. It was an appropriate epithet.

In the case in question, Dorkwood had a man for possession of three cottontail rabbits. The man had no valid hunting license so Dorkwood charged him and took the rabbits as evidence. The poor defendant stood before the bar, a downtrodden soul, who obviously had intended the bunnies for his supper. He readily pled Guilty to the charge. Whereupon, Dorkwood related the man's dastardly deeds to the Judge.

Judge Stanley, looked at the defendant for several long seconds then adjudicated the case: "On your plea of guiltily, the court finds you guilty, and fines you two cents for each rabbit. Pay the clerk six cents."

Then he turned to Dorkwood and gave him that look that you never wanted aimed at you. A look that would whither an oak tree. Then, with the brutal sarcasm that only Wretched was capable, he said. "And for you, Mr Dikhead, bring me some more of these cases."

Dorkwood Dikhead beat a hasty retreat from the courtroom, amid rumbles of muffled laughter.

And he didn't present any more bunny cases.

Thanks Dave Dampier for this tale.

JUDGE HUGH HAYES

Officer Gerard Rittersdorf came into my office at the Naples Police Department and dropped a bomb. "Just gave that new Judge a traffic ticket," he said. The new judge was a young Hugh Hayes. Although giving a judge a traffic citation was perfectly legal, it was considered bad form. At least. This was a person we were going to have to work with and, considering the egos of some judges, crapping in their flathat could have disastrous consequences.

 But Rittersdorf was famous for arresting those who usually received special consideration. He'd arrested a local priest for DWI. Twice. And, although only giving him a warning ticket, had lectured our boss, the City Manger, at a traffic stop. "You think you being the City Manager impresses me, think again."

 "I thought, after I'd given the Judge the ticket, maybe I should tell you about it," Rittersdorf said. Yep, so I could get a head start on looking for a new job.

 Just about then, my secretary Shirley, came in and said, "Judge Hayes is out here and wants to see you."

 "Well," I told Rittersdorf, "I guess we're gonna find out real quick what kinda man we have for the new Judge." I told Rittersdorf to go back to his duties and I'd take care of it. Reluctantly.

 Judge Hayes came into my office. I'd met him before, but we weren't friends or close associates. He came right to the point. "One of your officers just gave me a traffic ticket and I want to know where I pay it."

 "Well, uhhhhh. . ." I muttered, trying to read his attitude.

 "No, I was speeding," he said, "and I deserved a ticket. Your officer did exactly the right thing. I'm going to be presiding over a court that will hear cases just like like this. And if I can't be fair in my own case, how could I be expected to be fair in anyone else's." And pay up he did.

 That day I formed an opinion of Judge Hugh Hayes. This time they got it right. A good, decent, intelligent, and equitable man. Just what a judgeship requires.

 We found out later he could sure come in handy in other situations. Once, while presiding over a case with a rowdy defendant, the defendant went nuts and attacked the bailiff. The defendant was strong and mean and violent and the bailiff was having a time with him. Thankfully, help was on the way. The bailiff was dumbfounded to see his assistant was the Honorable Judge himself, piling on the rowdy and helping to subdue him.

 Yep, I found out about Judge Hugh Hayes years ago and have never had reason to change my opinion of him. The perfect man for the job.

THE GREAT DUDA RAID--Part 2

Seeing property trashed the way the migrant's had done Duda's wasn't anything new. When attending polygraph school in NYC, a Lt showed me some of my tax dollars at work. It was a multi-story apartment building that had been renovated under HUD for low cost housing.

When we went inside the stench was unbearable. He showed me why. There was an air shaft in the center of the building that each apartment on that floor had windows on. The garbage was stacked up over the third floor windows, where tenants had just thrown it out into the air shaft.

As for the apartments themselves, anything that could be removed had been. Copper plumbing, dry wall, appliances, sinks, toilets, even the tiles on the floor and carpet had been stolen. When the tenants took everything out they could sell, they moved.

This project was paid for with tax dollars. Most of the tenants had been illegal aliens. The renovation had happened less than six-months before.

Sandy told me that most of the workers at Duds's had to be illegal aliens since they all had phony Social Security numbers. I used to tease Lamar about this, and he would deny it--with a wink. I told him, as a joke, that he'd better quit lying to me or I'd get revenge.

One day I had one of those The Devil Made Me Do It moments. I was on the East Trail and Duda's was coming up. Sandy and I were having trouble making ends meet. With four kids and several doctor's bills a cop's and her salary didn't go far. And what hurt was that we were also paying the doctor bills for these illegal aliens.

So I flipped on the blue lights, turned on the screaming siren and raced into Duda's parking lot, skidding to a stop. In the fields I could see migrants running in panic in every direction. It looked like when you pick up a board and the ants have built a nest under it. Or, maybe like a soccer game. Anyway, I guess they figured it was an Immigration raid to sack them up.

Probably was a silly thing to do. But it sure felt good.

Lamar told me it took a week to gather 'em all up from the woods and get 'em back to work. But they did come back. And we're still paying for them.

THE GREAT DUDA RAID--Part 1

At one time, my wife Sandy was a payroll clerk for A Duda and Sons, then the world's largest farming operation, having properties all over the world. They were good employers and offered their employees excellent benefits, especially insurance. They could do this because they had a controlling interest in Hartford Insurance. Their operation in Naples was several miles out on the East Trail. I got to know several of the folks there, especially their farm boss, Lamar.

At the time Hubert Humphrey, running for president, had a traveling circus going around where he was exposing the terrible conditions migrant farm workers endured. Although being a migrant worker wasn't a cushy job, being a construction worker, and many other occupations weren't any fun, either. And the migrant's irresponsible lifestyle appealed to many. Especially wetbacks who didn't like to stay in one place too long.

Hubert's circus did uncover some sad cases but mostly the idea was to gain publicity for Hubert. And, he didn't want too much lemon in his hot toddy. Tom Morgan, a local reporter for the Miami Herald, accompanying Hubert on a tour of a destitute woman's home in Immokalee, opened up her refrigerator to take a picture of how bare it was. He was astounded to see that it was packed full of groceries. And the heifer weighed about 300 lbs. No starvation going on here. He pointed it out to Hubert, who quickly slammed the door shut and moved on to another building.

Closer to home, at Duda's all of the pickers made more money than Sandy. All. They also enjoyed free health care at the County's expense, and got food stamps.

At the start of one picking season Lamar showed me the family housing units the pickers could use. Looked like a motel. They were all freshly painted, had good appliances--some new--and were as nice as many low-cost motel rooms. He said we'd look at them again in just one month.

In that short time the buildings had been destroyed. And anything that would hold a clothes hanger was festooned with new clothes. Never seen so many. They'd even pried the doors off the refrigerators and used them for a clothes closet. Lamar just shook his head and said, "This is how you get the slum housing Hubert's crying about."

Part 2 tomorrow.

SNAKE MOBILES

Most folks with good sense stay as far away from snakes as possible. And others carry them around in their cars.

JD Spohn once ran over a rattler, and was so impressed with its size he threw it in the back of his station wagon to show to his family. JD lived in Pine Ridge and in rainy season the rattlers would migrate from the marsh lands--where Pelican Bay is now--to the high ground in Pine Ridge. It was common to run over these brutes, some as thick as a coal miner's arm. And when you ran over one it was like running over a tree limb. JD had one of these.

Spying one of his neighbors he pulled in the driveway and yelled, "Look what I got in back." The neighbor came over, looked in the back and said, "What? An empty K-Mart sack?"

"No, the snake! The rattler." JD said.

"Snake!" the neighbor said, taking a quick step back. "No snake back here."

The neighbor later said he'd never seen JD move so fast. Out of the car, pulling his .45, pointing it in every direction, realizing the rattler he thought was dead had only been stunned.

Finally, JD gingerly opened all the doors, stood back and waited until the rattler came slithering out. Whereupon he made sure it came to an untimely demise.

Another time, a man was taken to the station on suspicion of larceny and was being interviewed while his truck was being searched. "Tell who ever's searchin' that truck not to open that box in the back. There's a rattlesnake in it." Huh? "A rattlesnake."

When cops went to confirm, sure enough, in a chest-high wooden box, was a rattlesnake. Never found out why he was carrying it around. A pet, a close friend, a relative, who knows. But there it was.

Then there's the cop that stopped a fella on the East Trail for a speeding violation. Writing the ticket he could hear movement behind the driver in the back seat. Looking inside, he saw a large burlap bag with something squirming inside it. "What's that?" he asked the driver.

"Oh, it's about twenty, twenty-five moccasins I picked up this evening out in the Glades," the driver said.

"Moccasins? You mean Cottonmouths? Snakes?"

"Yep. I gather 'em up and sell to Ross Allen at the Serpentarium. He milks 'em or something to make anti-venom."

"You ever get bit?"

"Ever once in a while, but the pay's real good."

Not good enough for this old hoss.

Thanks Dave D.

JOHN HENRY'S BOX OF ROCKS

John Henry lived in the Naples ghetto and worked for McCormick excavators for years. He was a huge man with a bear-like physique and prodigious strength. Which he used to great advantage. And he was a pretty good thinker when it came to not letting his job interfere with his precious off time.

Ernest McCormick would tell two stories on John Henry that illustrated the latter. A dump truck had broken down with a cracked engine block. The new block had been delivered and was waiting to be moved onto the workbench. Ernest collared John Henry late in the day. "John," he said, "gather up two or three of your partners and put that engine block up on the bench. Then, you can go home." John grumbled an okay and went to the shop.

About five minutes later, when Ernest was locking up the office, he saw John walk by. "Going to get some help?" he asked.

"No, suh," John said, "I be goin' home."

"What about the block?"

"It's up there."

Astounded, since John was the only other person there, Ernest raced back to the shop where he found the block sitting on the bench. "What the. . .?" he said.

"Just be one engine," John said. "I do it myself."

Another time Ernest told John Henry to go get a dump truck full of rocks. It was early on a Saturday, and Ernest said John could go home when he picked up a truck full. At the time the fields around SR 951 were scattered with coral rocks, free for the taking. John left on his task. In less than two hours he returned. Ernest couldn't believe it. Loading a truck full of the melon-size rocks should take hours. Suspicious, he looked in the truck.

What he saw made him laugh. The truck was full, alright, with about ten huge boulders. "Didn't say how many," John Henry said. "Just you wanted a load."

John Henry was a lucky man, too. One Saturday night, in McDonald's Quarters, an angered drunk pointed a sawed-off shotgun at John's belly. And pulled both triggers. Nothing happened.

When we arrived, John had the assailant in one hand and the shotgun in the other. We relieved him of both, checking the gun to make sure it was unloaded. There were two 12 gauge double OO buck shells loaded and each had a dented primer where the firing pins had hit them. The detective checking the gun figured the clown had tried to shoot John Henry with two empty shells. But, he ejected them and found they had never been fired. He replaced them, cocked both hammers, aimed the shotgun at the ground, and pulled the triggers. It fired instantly.

Go figure. We never could.

KEN CLAVEAU

After watching carefully choreographed demonstrations of five-year old girls slinging grown men across the gym, and confronting Karate "experts" in real life, you have to come to several conclusions. Great way to get in shape? You bet. Teaches admirable principles that aren't usually followed? Yep. A good way to get your butt kicked if you try it on someone who really knows how to fight. Oh, yeah!

That is unless you are a real Karate master like Ken Claveau was.

Ken came to the NPD from Chicago. He was a fit-looking guy but his appearance was no clue to what a bad dude he could be. Ken was a devoted student of Karate. And a master. He could do things that you only saw Bruce Lee do in the movies.

Stand flat-footed, jump up and kick the ceiling? No problem. Break bricks with his hands? Sure. Deliver a knockout punch with such speed it couldn't even be seen? Yep. Several saw him do just that one night while arresting a combative turd at the Anchor. Or, to be factual, several didn't see him do that. They were looking right at him, but they didn't see a thing. One second the fool had bowed up at Claveau, the next he was in sleepy land at Ken's feet.

When the City decided to reconfigure and replace the old parking meters of 5th Ave South, Ken got permission to help on the project. The meters were clamped onto 3" steel pipes. His removal technique was to kick them off. That's what I said, kick them off. Said it was faster than using wrenches and all those other tools.

One night, while off duty, Claveau and his pal, Karate student, and fellow NPD cop, Ken Ferrell got into a altercation at the Rainbow Restaurant and Bar. When one of their antagonizers decided to beat a hasty retreat to his car, they went to work on said refuge. Although, the car later looked like it had been pounded with sledge hammers, only their feet and hands were used. Looking at the car, you were chilled to realize that a human body could do that to metal.

Ken worked for us a few years, then went on to another agency. He died from a heart attack before he reached middle age.

So, the moral of this story is be nice, stay outta fights. And if you get trapped into one, hope it's with one of those little girls in the Karate contests on TV. And not with a Ken Claveau.

CLOSE CALLS

In the cop business you run across things that can strengthen your resolve that somebody up there may be watching out for you. Here's a couple that convinced me.

One of our cops, Mr Lucky, was in the black Riverpark Apartment complex answering a complaint about some Saturday night rowdy. It was a common occurrence. He was told this particular turd had threatened several folks with a machete. They pointed to the direction the culprit had gone so Lucky went thataway, too. As he was going around the corner of a building, he stumbled on the gravel and dropped his flashlight. Bending over to retrieve it, he heard something whoosh over his head, then a loud clink, and sparks. Jumping back he saw an assailant had ambushed him. Had he not bent over, to get his flashlight, the machete would have decapitated him.

The machete had been swung with such force that it was embedded in the mortar joint between the blocks. Lucky, grabbed his attempted murderer, and put him under arrest. Unfortunately the assailant stumbled several times on the way to the patrol car, sustained injuries about the head and shoulders, and had to be patched up at the ER.

All cops will tell you that most of us die in ways the public would never guess. Shot by John Dillinger? Waylaid by a Machine Gun Kelly? Nah. Number one is in cars crashes. Number two, is answering domestic violence complaints. One of my first ones taught me that lesson.

I was answering a complaint in Riverpark Apartments (same place) concerning a man beating his live-in. When I arrived they had taken it out to the street and the man was sitting on the woman's belly. He had her by the ears and was smashing her head on the asphalt like he was trying to crack a coconut. And, it was working. You could hear a wet, mushy sound with each blow.

I piled on him and pulled him off. He was drunk, and big, and mean and I wished I'd jacked him with my slapper first. He was truly an all-day-sucker and I was beginning to think my coconut would be the next one cracked. Then, I heard a wonderful sound. An approaching siren. Concurrently, I felt something hit me on the back and heard the woman scream, "He killin' my man. He be killin' my man." Then the cavalry arrived and order was restored.

When I caught my breath and sorted out the madness I was astounded. What I felt hit my back was a butcher knife the woman I had saved had tried to stab me with. What saved me was it was one of those old ones with two rivets holding on the wood handle. The wood had rotted away and when she tried to stab me the handle gave way, the blade hit me at a glancing blow and swung back on her, cutting her severely. I mean really cut her which was some small consolation.

I looked at her and at the knife, a big "what the" in my eyes. "You was hurtin' my man," she jabbered.

First off I wondered what fight she'd been watching, then why she didn't try to stab this azzhole, that was trying to bash her brains out, instead of the guy that saved her.

Sgt. Robert Dennis told me why. "Domestic violence complaint. They'll turn on ya every time. Just like breakin' up a street fight. Pretty soon both of 'em are on ya." Always remembered that. And I'm still here.

FLATT AND SCRUGGS

Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs were a big deal after The Beverly Hillbillies hit TV. Their tune, The Ballad of Jed Clampett, was the show's theme song. And their Foggy Mountain Breakdown, then atop the record charts, was featured in the film Bonnie and Clyde. Everyone knew it. . .except folks in Naples, as we found out the hard way.

Always on the prowl for a quick buck to fund PAL kids football, Sam Bass, then the NPD Chief, said he'd heard Flatt and Scruggs were gonna play Ft Myers soon and had an open date after. He said we could book them cheap.

Sam knew this because he was a long-time country music musician himself. He was in the loop. Sam made the phone calls to Lester's wife, who was their agent, we made arrangements to use the Naples High School football field for the concert, and the deal was set.

The night of the concert things started awful and ended up worse. Flatt and Scruggs were late. Had there been a crowd they might have become unruly, but there wasn't one. Maybe 100 people showed. We were a financial disaster before the show even started. Our only hope was the concession stand.

The band finally arrived, Lester and Earl in the back seat of the Caddy. They were in bad shape, looking like two wilted lilies on a week old grave. Turns out, they'd gone out fishing in Ft Myers that day, had too much booze in the treacherous sun, and were very sick puppies. They were, however, troopers and climbed to the stage and began their show.

The show was bluegrass perfection, Lester picking the guitar and singing, and Earl untouchable on the banjo. They took turns, however, waltzing off to the wings to puke up their guts. Lester alternated his trips barfing or taking long pulls from a fifth of liquid stupid. The audience never caught on and loved the show. We did, too.

Afterwards, Sam, after counting up the proceeds, found we were about $50 short of the agreed fee. Always resourceful, he wrote them a personal check with instructions not to cash it until he covered it the next day. They agreed, and accepted the post dated check which was worthless. But good ol' Sam made it good.

Flatt and Scruggs went on to the Country Music Hall of Fame, Sam Bass to the Florida Country Music Hall of fame, and the rest of us found better ways to raise money for PAL.

Thanks Ray Barnett

POLICE ACADEMY ON A BUDGET

In 1963 Chief Ben Caruthers sent Dave Dampier and me to the Broward County Police Academy in Ft Lauderdale. At the time getting to go to a police academy was a novelty. The state didn't require it and most sheriffs and chiefs were again' it. Losing an officer for several weeks just so he can learn his job? Waste of time!

Our salary at the time was about $281 a month. That was for as many hours a day it took in the six-day week. It cost me $100 a week to leave electronics for the police business. But I never regretted it.

The City gave us a per diem budget of $15 a week. We'd get up early Monday morning and drive to Lauderdale, via US 41 and SR 27, in Dave's old Dodge sedan. Wasn't any Alligator Alley. We'd come home on Friday afternoon.

Stretching the $15 was a trick. We rented a cheap room within walking distance of the FLPD. But you have to eat, too. Thank God Dave was a hunter and had a full freezer. I don't know where he got all that deer meat--and I didn't ask--but it kept us alive. And Dave, having grown up in hard times, knew a million ways to vary the menu. We had venison burgers, steaks, stew, soup, you name it. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If we'd have had a freeze he'd have made ice cream out the stuff.

And damned if it wasn't good. But, one night a week we splurged and went to the Burger King for a Whopper and the works. Man does not live by deer meat alone. But he could.

The academy was populated by cops from departments all over South Florida. Many were transplants from big northern cities. One, from New York City, quit in a rage when he found out there wasn't any under the counter money for cops down here. "How the hell they expect me to live on this salary?" he bellowed.

And I remember the day the academy's Director, Lt Bob Smith, later the Ft Lauderdale Chief, interrupted the class with sad news. "President Kennedy's been shot," he said, his voice halting, tears in his eyes, "and it doesn't look like he's going to make it."

We were stunned. No matter what your politics an attack on the President is an attack on our country. There was silence in the classroom until some dope from Plantation asked, "Do that mean we get to go home early?"

MICK AND THE SPEEDOLESS KRAUTS

In the sixties the Germans began invading Naples. Started with day bus tours from Miami. They'd park at the end of 5th Ave South and go to the beach. Nice people. No problem, except for one small thing. They would change into their swim suits right out in the open. Shuck off their lederhosen and suit-up.

Until that time I was certain there was nothing uglier on earth than a fat, hairy, Frog in a Speedo, or whatever that banana hammock is the French wear. I was wrong. There's nothing worse looking than any fat, hairy, man without a Speedo. So when the calls came pouring in that the moon was rising over the beach, we knew it was a true emergency and beat it down there to deal with it. It took some time, and many trips, but we finally cured them of indecent exposure.

How'd they comply? With a beach towel. They'd wrap the beach towel around them and somehow squirm about, shedding clothes and adding clothes as they went. Then the towel would drop, and they were in swimming garb. Or, after the swim, back in street clothes. And you never saw a thing.

After that, Naples was secure from these vile scenes until folks found Party Beach, an island tip close to Marco. Something about the area, the sun, or too much liquid stupid, would cause revelers to shuck their laundry. Get sand in their Schlitz.

The CCSO would sorta overlook the indiscretions on the remote island. Especially, if it was a topless, pretty girl. After all, they were only partially breaking the law, still having half a bikini on.

One day CCSO Marine Patrol Deputy Bobby K spotted a group of five or six men strolling down Party Beach, sans drawers. He edged up close to the beach, and got the groups attention. He noticed that one, an extremely skinny and unusual looking dude, was trying to hide behind the others. Then he figured out why. It was Mick Jagger. And the Rolling Stones. Seems they were staying at the Ritz Carlton and playing a concert in Tampa the next day.

Bobby told them before he could get any Satisfaction they were gonna have to put their togs on and they complied, without complaint. Mick was very apologetic and agreeable. That wasn't a surprise. The Stones stayed at the Ritz often--some finally buying homes on Sanabel--and were known as primo guests. They would rent an entire floor and caused no one any trouble or make any goofy demands. They also liked to hang at Harold's Place, a small bar still on US 41, never causing a problem.

Some lesser rock stars could rush to take notice. Especially on New Year's Eve.

Thanks, Dave J.

HOMEMADE KUNG FU

Cops, as a survival mechanism, develop their own self defense moves. CH Dasher, who could destroy any aggressor with his fists, had a little trick for his light work. He'd put a .38 cartridge between the victim's index and middle fingers and squeeze them like a nutcracker. He owned you then but if you were good he'd only squeeze until you whimpered like that Senator that got caught playing footsie in the restroom.

One cop, who we'll call RD, was a fan of professional wrestling. From TV he'd picked up the sleeper hold. This is now called a Figure 4 Neck Lock. Applied correctly, the carotid arteries are compressed and the no blood goes to the brain. Soon sleepy time ensues. RD could knockout a thug faster than Hulk Hogan. The hold has since been banned because, in certain ethnic groups, the carotid is not too elastic. You clamp it shut and it doesn't flex back open when released. Then you've got a dead rowdy on your hands and lots of paperwork.

Perhaps, as some unjust Karma, RD was victim to a certain street Kung Fu move: the kick to the gonads. Another nutcracker, so to speak. Never saw a man get kicked in the sperm bank more often. And anyone who's had this happen to them knows it's just terrible. Again, unlike in the movies, it can have dire consequences. Last time I remember it happening to RD he had an extended stay in the hospital.

Course, some dudes are just so huge they don't need homemade Kung Fu. Take 6'4" 250 lbs Ed Jones. Ed arrested a coward one night who'd taken Karate lessons and was an expert at mule-kicking unsuspecting drunks in a bar. He'd done just that at The Port Hole and Ed had brought him to the station. There, Grasshopper decided he wasn't going into the cell. He struck a combative pose, gave a screech like when Granny sat on the toilet after Grandpa forgot to put the seat down, and yelled Karate! Ed looked at him, laughed, picked him up over his head and threw him like a dart into the slammer. His head hit the back wall and we weren't sure he'd ever get to be a Barroom Bruce Lee again.

So kids, this stuff can lead to early retirement. Don't try it at home. Unless you know someone who really needs a good whuppin'.

Thanks, Dave D.

MAYHEM-WHAT REALLY WORKS

Watching a Kung Fu movie recently caused me to recall the training in self defense we received in the Broward County Police Academy in Fort Lauderdale. Back when the text was carved on stone tablets. It was a combination of mixed martial arts, and come-along holds popular at the time. Remember Dave Dampier and I throwing each other around. And I particularly remember the last day of class.

"First rule," our coach, Payne N Misery, said, "is don't try any of this stuff unless you practice it diligently. My advice, unless you seriously want to study martial arts, is to pick up one or two favorite moves and practice them. For example kicking some puke's knee backwards, or dislocating his shoulder using a bar hammerlock."

This ain't the movies," he continued, "and you ain't Bruce Lee."

How right he was. In the movies the Kung Fu'ers kick and punch the hell outta each other and come right back for more. In real life, land a good ol' country boy sucker punch and the show's over.

And if this stuff is so great, why don't the dudes in the UFC mixed martial arts battles do any of these movie gyrations. Cause they'll get your butt broken unless you use them against someone who doesn't know how to fight.

Howsumever, after Payne had made his cautionary statement, he picked two recruits to try to get one man out of a car. The driver, a Ft Lauderdale cop, just offered resistance, no offensive moves. He held the wheel with both hands and the two recruits couldn't move him.

The instructor laughed and said, "Now, after all these weeks of text book self-defense training, I'm gonna show you what really works."

He moved to the car. "See the mustache on the driver, get a good hold on it and pull. He'll follow right behind it. And, a quick finger to the eye will get those hands loose from the steering wheel. And, a ear is a perfect handle. So's a finger in the mouth, like a fish hook pulling it sideways. These things work. But forget where you heard it."

These moves, and a few others, kept most of us out of the hospital. There were other cops who didn't need them. We'll look at a couple next time.

TOM T AND HOW IT'S NOT DONE

On the same show with Mel Tillis was Tom T. Hall. Tom was surfing the crest of his fame at the time and it must've made him seasick. He wobbled and bobbled, slurred his words, couldn't focus his eyes, and needed assistance walking. Some suspected he might've pigged out on too much liquid stupid.

He was in good enough shape to spot a Deputy's wife and ask her if she'd like to come in and look at the trailer is was waiting in. She quickly consented and studied the place for near an hour.

When they finally emerged from the trailer, it was time for Tom T to perform. He had to be walked to the stage by two Deputies like a drunk being escorted out of a barroom. Then he was lifted on to the stage. There, he staggered to center stage, mumbled some greetings and went into his first song. Sadly, he couldn't remember the words. Nor those to the second, or third songs. By then, the crowd had had enough and booed him off the stage.

I guess the high-point of Tom T's act, was before he even got on stage. That was all the Deputies waiting for the trailer peruser wife's husband, a Deputy working the event, to bust in the trailer and open up a can of Whoop Az. Never happened. Another Deputy explained why later. "I know his wife. He was probably glad to get rid of her sorry az for an hour or so."

Also, knowing the woman, it sounded reasonable to me.

PS-I saw Tom T later, in Tennessee. He was doing a free charity concert for our Sheriff's Department there. Country music stars regularly do that up in Tennessee. The same day we had Tom T we had George Jones, Jerry Lee Lewis, and David Allen Coe who all performed free. And Tom T, that day, was in much better shape. His act was first class.

JD SPOHN AND MMMMMMEL TILLIS

JD Spohn was an inveterate RV'er. And he had a Fiat with a rattan flat roof that he towed behind his motor home. Never seen another like it. Camping in Pahokee, he was stopped waiting for a light to change. The driver of a pickup truck stopped beside him yelled over that he admired the little Fiat and his boss would love to see it, too. JD told the driver where he was camping and asked who the driver's boss was. Mel Tillis, he was told. JD said bring him on by and they'd have a toddy or two.

Sure enough that evening up pulls Mel, with his driver. As expected he loved the little Fiat and offered JD good money for it but JD loved the little car too much to part with it. Later Mel broke out his guitar and began singing around the campfire. All the delighted nearby campers were treated to a free concert. Two elderly ladies, walking back from the rest rooms, could hear Mel singing, too.

One said to the other, "Listen to that fella sing. He sounds just like Mel Tillis."

"Nope," corrected the other, "I've heard Mel sing a dozen times. That fella's no where near as good as he is."

Mel and the campfire group could hear this and all had a good laugh.

Another time Mel and Tom T. Hall appeared at the old Swamp Buggy Track. It was some charity event and both the CCSO and NPD volunteered security for the concert. Unfortunately, Mel was suffering from the flu. His assistant told us, "Don't worry, he'll do the show. Mel's a tough old bird."

When time came, he came out of his bus, being supported by two men, and weaved to the back stage steps. There, the men boosted him up on stage, he straightened up, and walked to the mike. He said, "I hope you folks will excuse me tonight if I don't hit some of the high notes. I have a little cold." That said, his did his hour, with all the perfection one expects of a master. I doubt any member in the audience could tell how he was suffering.

His show over, he walked to the wings and collapsed. His assistants hurried him to the bus. One of the cops enquired, "Guess you're going to get him home to Pahokee for some bed rest."

"I wish," the assistant said. "He's playing Detroit day after tomorrow and we're on the road from here."

Always admired ol' Mel all the more after that. Can't say the same for Mr. Hall.

THE CIA INVADES PORT ROYAL

Naples old-timers may remember that at the end of Gordon Drive there was once a trailer park. One of my friends grew up there. And, along the water, across from Keeywadin Island, there was a collection of boat sheds, tin building, and other unsightly shacks that today, the mere sight of would cause the elegant Port Royal residents terminal apoplexy. Right after Fidel came to power, these abandoned buildings were commandeered by the CIA. Or some federal spook agency we could never identify.

It started with a Fed visiting Chief Sam Bass with some odd demands. In the future, there would be large van trucks proceeding down Gordon Drive late at night. They would be driven by Cubans. The police should not stop them, follow them, or hinder their progress in any fashion. If one was stopped the driver would present a card on which was written Chief Sam Bass. That would serve as code that the driver was legit and part of government sanctioned operation. Huh? But after doing some checking Sam told us it was way over our heads and just to turn our backs.

One early morning, however, one of the trucks broke down on 5th Ave So and 3rd Street. In the process of helping to get the truck started one of our nosey cops--God love him--was astounded to discover that the truck was loaded with cases of ammo, clearly stamped US Air Force. Later we figured out where all this ammo was going.

The old shacks along the water soon sprouted signs proclaiming they were the home of Delta Enterprises, Trans-World Imports, and other exotic--and ridiculous CIA type names. Tied off in front of two of the building were thirty-foot power boats, with obvious cannons pointing to the rear. The cannons were covered with a form-fitting tarp mark Radar. Right!

Then the raids started. The boats would proceed out, head to Cuba, sit off-shore and blow hell out of Fidel's fiefdom, then return to Port Royal. Though they weren't advertised, it didn't take much to reconcile news reports with the disappearance of the boats for several hours.

And they kept up, which didn't surprise use. It was a well known secret that the government was training Cuban insurgents in the Everglades. Why should the midnight runs be a surprise?

The runs kept up until the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Then, the boats and bogus businesses disappeared. Later we read that the Cuban general who had been training the troops in the Everglades had been put in prison.

Always caused us to wonder--and hope--the CIA was usually a little more covert than what they demonstrated in the Port Royal operation.

HOMEBREW BURGLAR ALARM

In the sixties we didn't have all the electronic goodies we now enjoy. Having no handheld radios was particularly dangerous and inconvenient but we didn't know any better. When electronic assistance was needed you had to use the Necessity Is a Mother Rule. Ingenuity.

Sometimes you'd have a burglar who had a good thing going and didn't want to give it up. This was often true of dopers who, to satisfy their habit, would break into the same place, time after time. And they liked drug stores because that's where the mother lode for hop heads was.

We had one who liked the Rexall at 5th Ave So and 8th Street. Hit it every couple of weeks. We weren't equipped to run long surveillances and the little portable burglar alarms they now have hadn't been invented. So we became young Tom Edisons.

The telephones, back then, were all big, heavy, black rotary dial things.  We decided to use one of its unique characteristics to make a burglar alarm. If you dialed all the numbers to the desired contact but didn't let the last number dialed return back to to zero point, the call wouldn't be put through. As an example, dial 774-443 then dial the last 4 but not let it rotate back, the line would stay poised to make the call, but wouldn't do it until you took out your finger and let the dial process finish. Folks used this trick all the time calling radio stations to win money. The next caller will win $25. People would wait around with all the numbers dialed, but their finger holding the last number back. When the announcer gave the word to call, they'd let go and the call was instantly put through. 

So we went to the Rexall one evening, selected a phone near a pathway in the store that had to be traversed, dialed all but the last number to the PD, tied a string in the finger hole, tied the string across the pathway, then went home.

The idea was that when the burglar broke in, in the dark, and went down the pathway, he'd pull the string loose from where we had it loosely affixed, the dial would rotate home, and a call would be made to the PD. Dispatch was instructed that if they received a call with no one on the line, send a car to the Rexall post haste.

Mickey Mouse rig, right? Rube Goldberg at his best. Redneck engineering. That ain't what the burglar thought when we caught him in the act. And we caught another, the same way, at the Moorings Pro Shop.

Next we invented the wheel.

FUTURE COP TRAINING

 What kind of little boys and girls grow up to be cops? All kinds. I always liked to hire to ones who'd lived in the real world, knew how things worked, and were familiar with the system. Street wise. No one was gonna pee down their back and tell them it was raining.

One of my favorite cops, Byron Tomlinson, made money in high school by injecting oranges with Vodka and selling them to other students. Is there not some element of genius here?

Had a few others who were Crackers. To keep the old belly full in their youth, they'd skinned a few gators, sold a few hides, and taken several deer out of season. And fishing limits? Forget it. 

Long as we're fessin' up, I have to make a few myself. Growing up post depression in Charleston, WVa, you forgot about trying to make a buck. A few pennies would do. To accomplish that, I used to go all over downtown stuffing toilet paper up in the coin return slots. When the change and returned coins dropped, they remained up there atop the plugged slot. End of the day, I'd go by, remove the toilet paper, and collect my bounty. Which could be very good for a ten year old. Later, the phone company got wise and installed that rocker device in the coin slot to prevent stuffing it.

Then there was the bottle return thing. You got two cents for soft drink bottles and five cents for a Canada Dry ginger ale bottle. Five cents! Why you could by a candy bar, or an RC for five cents. Five more and you could add on a Moon Pie.

So I'd look for stores that stored their collection of returned bottles behind the building. It was usually fenced in but that was no problem for a kid. The processes was simple. Climb the fence, liberate a few bottles, then, later, sell them back to the same store. Course, we spent the ill-gotten gains in that store so the owner didn't get hurt too badly.

Then there was the old Coke machine trick. Remember the old machines that looked like chest freezers. Had the drinks in there hanging on sliding rails. You slid the drink to the end of the row, put in a nickel, and pulled it up through a lock thing.

All that work wasn't necessary. Look for a place where the machine was out of sight--usually a service station--pop the cap on one of the Cokes with a bottle opener, insert a straw, and empty the bottle. Ah, the pause that refreshes.

Then for my favorite. Michael Jackson did not invent the moonwalk. Young folks like myself did. At movie theaters they usually had two sets of doors. one set for folks to enter the movie, another for those exiting. We'd wait by the exit door until the movie ended and the crowd was flowing out the doors. Then, we'd step into the crowd, and moonwalk backwards into the theater. Never failed!

Hope the statute of limitations has run out.

Thanks Gail for your help.

NAPLES INVISIBLE STREET

Noticed recently that Collier County folks are still fighting about personal property vs public beach property. This particular fight was at the Ritz Carlton, but the battles and questions have persisted since before our family moved here in 1956.

Most of our disputes in the City were caused by realtors who told prospective beach front property owners that the lot ran from the street, Gulf Shore Boulevard or Gordon Drive, to the Gulf. This, of course, was a lie and led to calls to the PD with whines about people walking on their beach. 

There's that mean high tide thing that's considered the true dividing line. But, witness the battle at the Ritz, calculating that takes an engineer or a Swami and a lotta time.

Quite by accident, we found out the founding father's foresight had made the problem non-existent. An old-time Naples resident called the PD one day and said he'd been reading about the disputes in the Collier County News and wondered if folks didn't realize that the beach was actually a platted street in the City of Naples. We went over and dug through the plats and durned if the fella wasn't right. It was also spelled out in the City Ordinances. Obviously, the founding fathers wanted to retain the Beach's use for everyone, not just a privileged few. 

Its name was Gulf Street. All the Avenues in the City terminated at Gulf Street. The plat map clearly defined Gulf Street's right-of-way so conclusively that we kept a copy of it at the PD to show blubbering beach property owners just what their property boundaries really were. And they sure weren't out as far as the invented mean high tide line.

Once a NPD cop wrote a motorcycle rider a ticket for speeding on Gulf Street. And it held up in Municipal Court.

I've wondered over the years if the plat still exists or if some misguided or politically pressured weasels did away with it.

Thanks, Dave for the corrections.