I rolled over while still in my sleep, my left cheek and ear ending up squarely on a man-of-war, on the sand – dead, thankfully.  The sun barely crested the horizon when the gelatin-like glob oozed against the flesh of my face.  Startled awake by the feel of the blue, squid appearing creature on my skin, I bolted upright on the beach. The glare of the sun, a sizzling white orb, burned directly where the silvery looking Atlantic Ocean slid into the pale morning sky.  I shaded my sleep-blinded eyes with one hand while I quickly wiped the sticky remnants of the washed ashore sea urchin-of-sorts off my face.

Falling asleep at the shore – really, passing out after a night of tequila shots and brew – was a relatively regular occurrence for me in the late 1990's, in the mid 1990's, the early 1990's and most of the 1980's.  I found napping off at the Ft. Lauderdale shore was easy post-blitzing therapy a good portion of the year.

Sometime after midnight when I wandered to the beach I apparently took a spot on the sand to hear the breakers.  Bounding awake I found the lower third of my pants wet and my Docksider shoes soaked.

Still gazing across the flat morning seawater, trying to adjust my fuzzy vision, my attention was deflected by the titter of two giggling girls, probably barely high school aged, taking a morning beach walk.  Once the trill of their light laughter took hold in my mind, my ears shagged onto the sloppy pat-pat-pat of the girl's thong sandals on the sand still damp from the then receded nighttime tide.

The clipping sound of the rubber soles against the wet strip of beachfront thumped in my head, a dry batting and the aching aftermath of my prior night imbibing.  Merely tipping the hand that served as my sunshield downward a bit; I clutched a hold of my throbbing forehead.

Peeking out from beneath my little finger as its bigger companions rubbed my skull, I caught sight of the young girls glancing from me and then back to each other, my presence and posture obviously adding to their easy post dawn merriment.  If my ever more riddled noggin did not so suddenly dominate my senses, I would have managed at least a word in greeting.  But kneading my head even harder, I gladly watched the girls walk onward.

Slowly I shifted positions and rose to my knees, gingerly moving to cause no further aggravation of my ill constitution.  Waiting a couple of minutes before stretching to a stand, I decided to brush the sand off as best I could and make my way off the beach, across the street and down a piece to a diner where I could get a greasy breakfast.

Sitting in a booth at the ratty diner, awaiting for the egg, sausage and home fries platter I ordered to be served, I realized for the first time that morning that I vaguely smelled of vomit.  I gave my shirt and pants a once over, visually and by running my hands over the fabric.  I found nothing untoward and concluded the rancid odor exuded from my bitter tasting mouth.

Conscious of the problem, and not wanting to offend my polite and recognized waitress any further then I may have by that time, I sloshed a couple shots of grapefruit juice about my mouth like a morning mouthwash.  The waitress returned to my table mid-swish with my piled-on platter and seemed non-pulsed by my cheek gyrations.

I wasted no time in scooping forkfuls of greasy eggs, pork and potato into my sour sluiced mouth.  As I expected, the fried feast balanced my gut, soothed my previously storming stomach.  Paying my tab, I left the diner and retraced my steps down the street, towards the point on the beach where I spent a part of the night.  I figured that by starting at the place on the sand where I finally passed out some hours earlier, I'd have a better chance of more readily recalling where I parked my car.  Auto seek and find was a regular past time in my life.

I eventually found my vehicle at a $5.00 a slot parking lot a few blocks west of the shore.  Starting my car I sped off home, a small but efficient apartment on Hendricks Isle, one of the finger-shaped islet's about a couple miles from the ocean, narrow juts of land surrounded by deep canals.

Arriving at my flat, I found my front door unlocked which was not surprising considering I downed a few rum shots before taking to my pub crawl the night prior. Stepping into my narrow yet neat living room, the only light coming from the opened door as the blinds were drawn.  Living alone I did not anticipate any visitor upon my arrival; I did not see anyone sitting in the recliner seat in the dim far corner of the room.  I did not see the corpulent, sweaty many who sat in that chair.  I did not realize his presence until he cleaned his throat.  I did relieve myself down my leg, wetting my pants, being startled beyond the bounds of my forty-five year old bladder.

Before I managed any further reaction, involuntary let alone voluntary, the stout trespasser cleared his throat again, a guttural rasp, and then spoke out my name. Considering the circumstances – an unknown invader in my flat – I found the fellow's voice to be nonthreatening, indeed really pleasant.

I did not answer being still startled and also off balance and embarrassed to have wet pants like a miscalculating child.  For whatever reason, the fat chap on my recliner paid no never mind to my moist condition.  Rather, he apologized for surprising me, startling me in my own home.  He explained that the door was open.  He let himself in, after ringing the bell a couple of times.

The trespasser, maintaining pleasant tone, worried that in the line of work I was long associated I might have met with foul play, might be in need of quick assistance. Therefore, he reasoned, he let himself inside upon finding the door unlocked and upon receiving no reply from the doorbell ringing.  He added he arrived at my apartment before six that morning.

The unknown character spoke with an accent born of Brooklyn.  He wore a shiny looking suit, with no tie and his shirt collar opened three buttons deep revealing two, braided gold necklaces.  An overgrown signet ring encircled his stumpy yet plump left pinky finger. The man was tan, his thick black hair combed straight back with the same sort of slick styling compound.  He complained of gas and appeared to be about forty years old.  His name was Frank.

After listening to Frank speak for a couple of minutes without saying much of substance, I told him I needed to change into a fresh pair of pants.  More then amenable to my request, Frank told me to take my time.

Removing myself to my bedroom, I bore no inclination to phone the police.  Rather, I cleaned myself up, redressed and returned to the living room.

Frank once more apologized for his unconventional presence in my apartment.  But, he quickly added his employer was in desperate need of my services or so Frank said.

I wasted no time in explaining to Frank that I changed my line of work but in the same breath I asked him who employed him.  He whispered the name of a notorious New York businessman, twice indicted by the Feds yet never convicted.  I had done a couple of jobs for Frank's boss before abandoning New York City for Ft. Lauderdale a few years earlier.

Frank told me that the subject to his boss's concerns actually was in Miami Beach that week on some sort of business or another.  And, Frank explained, his boss figured that with one living less than 30 miles from Miami Beach, I was a natural for the assignment.

Frank offered me $20,000.00 on behalf of his employer if I finished the job by sometime the following day.

I declined.

Frank offered $25,000.00, for his boss, to engage my services.

Once more, I declined, reminding Frank that I had quit, that I was no longer in the business for over three years.

Frank sat in my recliner for a quarter hour more, trying to persuade me to take on the job for his boss.  I remained unmoved.

When Frank finally rose to depart, he seemed satisfied that he had made his best case to me in regard to his employer's needs.  He seemed equally content with the knowledge that I no longer was the man for such a task.

With the Brooklyn stranger out of my flat, I cracked open a beer and filled the tub with warm water.  Before slipping into what I hoped would be a soothing bath, I snatched a couple more unopened bottles of beer from the refrigerator.  I also downed four aspirins.

I spent a couple hours in the bathtub, keeping the water temperature well up by regularly draining some out and adding more in with the hot spout.

By noon, any headache dissipated and the seven beers I managed to down left me feeling relaxed.  With the tub and the brew any lingering aftermath from my stealth morning visitor washed away.  I ordered a pizza for lunch, a large pepperoni with extra cheese, which I finished in little time, slurping a few more beers to slick down my gullet.

My day continued to unfold evenly until mid afternoon when my television viewing was interrupted by the buzzing sound of my doorbell.  Reluctantly I pulled myself out of my easy chair and went to the door, expecting my elderly neighbor lady who regularly appeared on my stoop for one reason or another.

Surprised to see Frank at my door when I opened up, I nearly dropped a bottle of beer.  He apologized profusely for disturbing me a second time and yet asked if he might come inside.  I hesitated for a moment, wanting to stay tuned to my television program and my brew.  In the end, I ushered Frank from Brooklyn inside.

He immediately took a seat on the recliner I used to watch my television.  He apologized again for bothering me but immediately launched into a proclamation about his boss, in New York, being disappointed by my refusal to accept $25,000.00 to do a job for him in Miami Beach.  I explained once more, to Frank, that I was no longer in the business.  I reminded him that I stopped that line of work over three years before, at the time I left New York.

Frank nodded, seeming to understand, but nevertheless launched into a presentation of sorts about how his boss really needed my services, that the situation really was an emergency, that I was the best – Frank eventually said only – man for the job.  He explained that his employer in New York would pay me $30,000.00 for my work, $20,000.00 in cash right then on the spot and $10,000.00 more when I completed the assignment.

I needed a fresh beer and offered one to Frank, which he declined.  I quickly went to my kitchen to grab a cold one from the refrigerator, noting I only had three bottles left. Returning to my livingroom, I wasted not a beat in declining once more, Frank's offer on behalf of the big man in New York City.

Frank replied that his boss was going to be very disappointed to hear my refusal, again.  He twisted his signet ring around his pinky finger as he spoke.  Despite the ominous nature of the words Frank spoke, his tone remained friendly, easy.

Apologizing for interrupting my day again, Frank bid me so long and departed.  With the man gone again, I finished off the remaining beers in my possession, called for a taxicab because I did not want to bother with a game of automobile hide and seek the next morning, and took off for the Red Room, a dim pub on Oakland not too far west of Federal Highway.

An old fellow named Clyde was on tender duty at the pub that night. Because he knew me as a fairly regular he wasted no time, as I sidled up to the bar, topping me a shot of Cuervo Gold tequila, with a Budweiser back.

He asked how my day was after I finished a couple of shots and a couple beers. Never having particularly shared my past with anyone in Ft. Lauderdale, at least as far as I could remember, I oddly felt like opening up to Clyde at the Red Room that night after my two visits from Frank.  As I took another shot and went to work on a chasing brew, I decided that nothing ill would come from opening up to Clyde the bartender.

I told Clyde about my unexpected, early morning visit by a stranger named Frank from Brooklyn.  I told Clyde bits and pieces about the man this fellow named Frank worked for in New York City.  In the end, I told Clyde about the offers of $20, $25 and then $30 thousand to do a job for Frank's boss, in Miami Beach.

Certainly I left out some details of the situation; however, the points I provided to Clyde were glaring enough to allow the bartender to draw accurate conclusions.  I did make it known to Clyde that I declined Frank's proposal.  I mumbled something about not being in that business any longer, a remark that I do not think Clyde quite heard over the ambient noises natural to a pub.

On around midnight, someone took possession of the barstool next to my own, a man who quickly cleared his throat and spoke my name.  The harsh Brooklyn accent registering, even in my liquid state, I turned to the right to face a somewhat grim faced Frank.

He wasted no time in explaining that he needed to speak with me, in private. He ushered me over to a vacant two-top table in the corner of the dimly lit pub, a good amount of the lighting coming from regularly spaced neon advertisement signs.

Once at table, he firmly told me that his boss in New York had to have my assistance.  Frank flatly stated that I could not decline.  Even in my intoxicated shroud, I well knew Frank's words bore a most ominous ring.

$40,000.00 was the boss's new offer, with the added tidbit of information that the target was an easy one.  Frank's New York employer needed to eliminate - at once – a careless and carefree woman who was keeping herself at a condominium on Collins Avenue in South Miami Beach.  Frank summed up how he saw my position, my situation.  In front of me, Frank contended, was easy work that I must accept.

Clyde came by the table at that juncture with what looked to be a concerned expression on my face, at least as far as I could discern.  I ordered yet another shot and beer back, asked Frank if he cared for any refreshment.  Fiddling with his pinky ring, the overgrown signet, he declined.

Frank commenced his stern pitch, on behalf of his boss, after Clyde returned tableside with my order and then departed for the bar stand.

Trying to match Frank's tone for firmness, I told him to advise his boss – once and for all and forever again – that I was and intended to remain out of business.  Period.

Frank sat quietly, staring directly at me, I thought.  My vision was blurred from my day of chosen entertainment.  Eventually Frank half smiled, shrugged and vaguely stated something or another about me having it my way.  Had I been coolly sober at the moment I might very well ingested his words as a veiled (or not so shielded) threat.  But, as it was, after Frank rose and departed the Red Room, I resumed to my cups and imbibed.

Somewhere along the course, Clyde the bartender must have summoned me a taxicab and poured me into the hired auto for I came round the next morning, long after the dawn, on my own bed.  I believe the pounding, migraine throbbing of my head actually was the cause of my awaking that morning.

Struggling to my kitchen, I remembered I was out of beer before I managed to pull open my refrigerator door.  Moaning, I drug myself to the bathroom, vomited once and then again.  The act of expulsion made me feel a bit better, but far from crisp.  I swallowed five aspirins and lumbered back to bed until half past one that afternoon.

Using the phone at the side of my bed, I telephoned the same pizza delivery store from the day before, once more ordering a large pepperoni with extra cheese.  I phoned out for food in part because I was feeling the rumblings of my gut but, more importantly, because the arrival of the delivery person would force me out of bed to get the door.  Of course, I certainly would have preferred a booze carry out delivery over Italian food.

The food arrived within the hour and I managed a few pieces of pizza before making a hasty retreat to my bathroom to bury my head in the porcelain bowl once again.  So relieved, I returned to my living room and finished off three more slices which ended up staying down, although resting uneasily in my still tilting gut.

I dozed off in my recliner, lunch completed a short time later, I was awoken by none other than Frank, ringing my doorbell and calling for me from my stoop.  Reluctantly, I let the fellow from Brooklyn inside.

He wasted no time in explaining that his boss was intent on my services.  Frank went so far as to say that his employer would not take no for an answer.  Frank – and presumably his boss – well knew I had heard such belligerence time and again in my former field to no personal effect or avail.

The contract price rose once more, to $45,000.00.  Frank made if very clear that all I would really have to do was drive to Miami Beach and do the deed.  He encouraged me to make an evening of it, to have a good meal at a Lincoln Avenue bistro.

Yet another time, I declined.  Yet another time I told Frank I was out of the business and carried no intention of returning.

Frank rotated his pinky ring a couple of times then scratched his chin.  He pointed at me and made some blasé reference to my driving a hard bargain and then offered me $15,000.00 in cash up front, right then and there.  $40,000.00 – cash – to follow upon completion of the assignment.  Plus Frank would give me an extra hundred bucks for a little dinner, a little wine.

Within the hour I was driving to Miami Beach, having finally said:

“Okay.”