GOOD ADVICE?

Went to the doctor the other day and he said if I didn't lose some weight I was gonna die. I told him he caught me once, maybe twice, but that line wouldn't work any longer. He was confused. I explained that he told me years ago if I didn't quit smoking I was gonna die. So not wanting to die, I quit.

Then, a couple years later, he said if I didn't get my cholesterol down I was gonna die. I told him I though quitting cigarettes would insure I wouldn't die. Nope, he says, cholesterol would whack you, too. So started working on that.

Now, he says I'm too fat, gonna die again. Thinking back, I'm beginning to suspect his advice. And honesty.

We once had a neighbor who looked like Gandhi. Had a towel wrapped around his head looked like a turban, emaciated body, baggy drawers. Went running in the neighborhood every afternoon. One day I was picking up the mail and he stopped at the mailbox, held on, gasping for air. I asked if he was okay and he said yeah but the running was miserable, made him feel like he was dying. So I asked why the hell he was doing it. He said he'd had a mild heart attack and the doctor said if he didn't start running he'd die. Sound familiar?

I told him he should get a second opinion and he said he had; exercise was where it was at if you didn't want to die. So away he goes, huffing and puffing, his face twisted in agony like when Denzil caught his cahones in the churn. But, he ran for about two more weeks. Then they found him beside the road, flies buzzing around his mouth, dead as his plan for eternal life.

And there was another guy, older, small in stature but well built. Used to run by the station every morning on his way to the beach. There, he'd swim outta sight, then swim back.

Had a conversation with him one day about sharks. How they were catching hammerheads and all types of baddies off the pier. (At the time you could fish for sharks off the pier and all the baiting caused them to migrate there for a meal)

Our athlete just laughed, said his doctor said swimming was the best exercise he could do and he was gonna keep it up. A few weeks later he turned up missing, after swimming out of sight.

Every time I see Jaws I think of him. Or maybe his old heart just exploded like Gandhi's. Then I ponder on living seventy-some wonderful years or ninety-some miserable ones.

MORE THRIFTY (NUTTY) IDEAS

The City of Naples loved the new 1957 Chevy Impalas so much they bought three of them for the Police Department. And paid for them twice. It happened like this.

At the time new car dealerships were scarce in Naples so getting the Chevrolets was a trick. But a used car dealer, who we'll call Slippery Simpson, convinced the City he could get them a good deal on new Chevies. He'd once sold new cars elsewhere, he claimed, and had the inside track on obtaining all the new ones the City wanted. They bought his story, gave him three old police cars as trade-ins, and paid for the merchandise. Slippery told the City they'd have to pick up the cars in Lakeland, where he'd bought them, and made all the arrangements.

When the car pickeruppers arrived there, however, they where met with quizzical looks. No one, it seems had purchased three new Chevies for the City of Naples. Must be some mistake. So the City took delivery of three new ones anyway, and told the dealer there they'd forward payment.

Arriving back in Naples, a search for Ol' Slippery found he'd left town. Driving the then Chief Cale Jones' car he'd taken on trade. The car dealer in Lakeland finally filed a civil action against the City when they never recieved any money from Slippery or the City and the City had to pay up. Again.

Slippery was later caught out of state, but the money was long gone.

Thanks to Chief Ben Caruthers for the help.

THRIFTY (NUTTY) IDEAS

Government, constant bastion against frivolous spending of the tax payers dollars, sometimes is a little too thrifty.

There was a time when the CCSO would only use Firestone tires. Great tires, cheap price. The City would only use Goodyear. Cost a little more but lasted much longer. A friendly contention raged over who was right.

The argument was settled one evening when both NPD and CCSO cops chased a wild man in a Dodge Challenger up to Bonita Springs. Before the chase was over, the tires blew on all three CCSO cars in the chase and remained inflated on the Goodyears. By the end of the next week all Sheriff's cars were wearing Goodyears.

That's not to say the City was always wise in their spending. When the new PD was built on Goodlette Road our--the Police Department's--specs called for shades over the front windows. If not shaded, a clear view of the lobby and the Comm Center, with dispatchers, was available at night to anyone driving by or taking a gander from the adjoining neighborhoods. Across Goodlette was Naples' ghetto, McDonald's Quarters, not always the NPD's fan base. The City said blinds cost too much so we asked for dark solar film. The cost for this was minimal but some Council folks argued it was excessive. And they won.

During the first week we occupied the building, a rifle shot came zinging through the Comm Center one evening. Fortunately, no one was hit, but several did have to change their laundry.

And, suddenly, the film was no longer too expensive. It went up the next day, right after the glass with the bullet hole in it was changed.

JACK, HARVEY AND THE O'DAY TWINS

Jack Bliss was the Detective who taught me to be a Detective. A big, rowdy, former Paratrooper, he had his own way of doing things. And a grand, dark sense of humor.

Harvey St Jean was the premier South Florida criminal lawyer. The subject of Calvin Trillin's Harvey St Jean, He Had It Made, he was at the top of the defense garbage heap in Miami. He was preferred by the criminal cartels. Until, in 1974, when someone shot him to death in his fancy car. The suspect was a Cuban cocaine dealer who claimed Harvey had stolen some of his money. Harvey? A lawyer? Why would he think that.

Harvey may have come close to his just deserts earlier, when he met Jack Bliss. Harvey defended two burglars who we'll call the O'Day twins. The O'Days had a neat little operation going. One would commit a burglary, while the other established an iron clad alibi. If caught, the one with the alibi would go to court. Who knew? They were identical. After he was identified, Harvey, their lawyer, would prove it couldn't have been him using the alibi. Worked great. Until they did it in Naples.

After stealing from a Naples hotel and getting caught, Harvey had gotten them off using the same trick. The O'Days walked. Not Guilty.

The gloating trio were on their way back to Miami when Jack pulled them over, miles down US 41, deep into the desolate swamp. Then Jack had a conversation with them that got their attention.

Jack was vague about what he'd told them, but when he loomed over you, and spoke in that flat, menacing, voice, accompanied by a wry smile, it amounted to one of those offers you couldn't refuse.

Like, "Your visa to Collier County has just been revoked." And, "Do you know how many folks have disappeared in these swamps? Never a trace found after the gators ate their bodies." And, "If you don't think I'm serious, just bring your az back over here and see."

Harvey and the O'Day brothers never returned to Collier County. Knowing Jack, I wouldn't have either.

WHY I WEAR A HAT

A few years ago, during my annual physical, my doctor said it would be a good idea for me to start exercising. Always a proponent of Mark Twain's advice, Whenever I get the urge to exercise I lie down until it goes away, I declined. But, under relentless pressure, I finally acquiesced to his request. That evening I went to our local gym and began some light weightlifting. Within a week I had a torn rotator cuff.

In about three months, when I'd recuperated from the repairs, the doctor suggested I take up walking instead. He is strictly against running--one reason he's my doctor--but said walking was a good compromise. In three months I was walking two miles each night. In four months I was having my knee carved on for a torn meniscus.

When I was ambulatory again, the good doctor said maybe I should switch to bike riding. I reminded him that I had been doing much better when I was a couch potato. He persevered, claiming the benefits to my heart would, at the end, allow me to rot in a nursing home long after my slovenly contemporaries where resting comfortably in their graves.

I rode the thing until I started getting prostate problems. The urologist said bike riding was the worst thing I could do. Look at that Armstrong fella, guy that won the Tour de Frog bike thing so many times. Prostate cancer caused by the bike seat. Try swimming instead.

So I'm floating here in the pool, no swimming, no kicking lest I rupture something else, trying to get to the point of this thing. Which is, while I was riding the bike I always wore a hat. A helmet. Here's why. The first vehicular death I ever worked was in Port Royal. An elderly lady was riding her bike, at a low speed, and ran into the curb when crossing the street. Couldn't have been going five miles an hour. Howsumever, over the handle bars she goes, hits on her noggin which cracks like a pistachio. This caused a subdural hematoma in her cranium. She went into a coma and died a few days later.

So, considering my record with exercise, a hat was compulsory. Should be for you, too.

GONE LIKE THE WIND

Once the Naples PD decided to enhance their First Aid capabilities. After getting each officer certified in CPR--advanced training and rare for the era--they installed extra equipment in each patrol car: a portable oxygen cylinder and mask and a blanket. The oxygen for those with emergency breathing problems and the blanket to warm victims subject to shock. Great idea. Except. . .

Each time a cop reached for the oxygen the bottle was empty. And you could never find a blanket. An investigation ensued.

The oxygen bottles were checked for leaks. Negative. Maybe the heat in the trunk was too intense somehow killing the stuff. Nope. The refill cycle time was shortened. No help. What was going on? Finally one of the cops came clean.

Nothing smells worse than a rotting dead body and our sub-tropic heat steps up the putrefaction stench until it is unbearable. Unless you happen to have a handy oxygen bottle and mask in your trunk. On reflection by supervisors, it made sense and was probably a legitimate use. The second, and most prevalent use, was harder to justify.

The cops, always on the leading edge of shady technology, found out that a few whiffs from the bottle after a long night, or day, of boozing would help deaden the most dreadful hangover. Some argued this was a more essential need than masking rotten body stench. Hangovers happened way more often.

Then the blanket problem, where were they going? Never was resolved although some said many migrated to the trunks of the cop's private vehicles. Or their beds at home. Or were left in the bushes after a quick roll with a willing cop groupie. And it was said one officer's dog snuggled each evening on not one, but two of the purloined comforters.

Oh, well, the First Aid equipment seemed like a good idea at the time.

BACK ASSWARDS

Sometimes the protective devices we work so hard to put in place turn on us. Such is the case with the Ten Codes and Signals used by cops. Now the standard of the good buddies on the CB--10-4--they originated for law enforcement use. There was a code for most activities or occurrences. Easy to understand, foolproof. Almost.

Once got one a Signal 41, at the time Armed Robbery. It had just occurred at a local gas station. There was a good description of the vehicle, with a New York plate, and, as luck would have it, it was two cars in front of me. I pulled the car over, drew my gun and ordered the two male passengers to get out, hands up. They complied and I put them spread eagle, belly down on the highway. It was Summer and the asphalt was blistering hot. Or so they claimed as they squirmed around like worms on a griddle while I stood over them, gun cocked, ready to blow their felonious asses away at the slightest mis-step.

One of our cars pulled in for backup, and gave me a quizzical look. "You're a hard man, G.D." he said.

"Don't mess with armed robbers," I said.

"Armed robbers? Hell, they ain't armed robbers. Got in an argument with the station attendant, and knocked over the oil can pyramid display on the way out. Vandalism, at the most. I took the call."

Then I knew what had happened. Vandalism was Signal 40, Armed robbery Signal 41. The dispatcher had mis-read the signal list. It happened.

I got the two miscreants up, dusted them off, and arrested them for Vandalism, a very minor misdemeanor, about 100 miles away from Armed Robbery. They were two jerks anyway, but I would've have pulled my gun on them and put them on the griddle if I'd know it was a piddly offense.

But there's a bright side to most things if you dig for it. "No harm done," my partner said in a low voice. "And you can bet your bippie this is two Yankees ain't never gonna visit Naples again."