Two nights later I was working in my office at home and heard some ruckus outside in the driveway. With a Corona in hand, I flicked my Notepad off and found myself at the front door of Montaba. There in the evening’s blue-purple twilight that coated the seashell drive was the gator guy with his truck and massive cage. He jumped out of the Ram’s cab, gathered up some equipment from the vehicle’s bed, and started to carry the goods around the bungalow, heading towards the canal, Larry, and Curly.
I rushed outside with my beer and was on his heels. “Hey, Manijo!…What’s going on?”
The handsome guy wasn’t wearing a shirt since it was ninety-three degrees and his chiseled chest gleamed with model perfection. An extreme heat wave had tackled southern Florida and wasn’t letting up anytime soon.
