Don Bruns - Too Much Stuff

It took six years for Henry Flagler to build his railroad to Key West. It took two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and an eighteen-foot tidal wave about sixty seconds to bring it down. Give or take a dozen or so people, five hundred souls were lost in that horrific storm. And even though James and I had studied that event in eighth grade Florida history, Id never read about the Florida East Coast Railway finance director, Matthew Kriegel, and the ten crates of gold bullion that he supposedly loaded onto Old 447s baggage car that fateful September 2, 1935.

Id learned about the treasure from Mary Trueblood, Kriegels great-granddaughter, when my girlfriend Emily gave her one of my business cards, More or Less Investigations. And I also learned that the gold, $1.2 million worth back then, had never been found.

What Mary Trueblood failed to tell me at the time was that the last investigation team she hired to find the gold had disappeared and not been heard from in over six months. Of course, my partner James Lessor would have taken the job anyway. Even though we were simply offered expenses.

Expenses, and a percentage, Skip. Do you know what that gold is worth today? Over thirty-four thousand ounces? More than forty-four million dollars, amigo. And shes willing to give us a half percent. Thats two hundred and twenty thousand dollars, dude.

James pulled one of my beers from our tiny refrigerator, popped the top, and took a long swallow.

Shell give us half a percent if we find this phantom gold. And whos to say its hers to claim, James? James always thinks were going to strike it rich. A fortune is just around the corner.

Listen, pally, the company doesnt exist anymore. Flaglers railway company went under after the hurricane. That means the gold is finders keepers. Like Mel Fishers shipwreck treasure.

I seemed to remember that the state of Florida claimed at least 25 percent of any treasure that was discovered. That was already diluting our find by fifty-five thousand dollars.

What about our jobs? This private investigating company wasnt exactly a full-time gig.

Skip, my man, do we really care about these dead-end jobs?

He had a point. As college grads we had bottomed out in grades and our job search. James was a line cook at a fast-food place called Capn Crab in Carol City, Florida, and I sold security systems to people in the same town-a town where no one had any money, any prospects, or anything they needed to secure. We needed a change and the far-off chance of making one hundred sixty-five thousand dollars did sound tempting.

So maybe we ask for leaves of absence. A couple of weeks to see if we could locate this fortune in lost gold. At least weve got something to come back to.

James shook his head and took another swallow of my Yuengling beer. He was slouched on the stained sofa, feet propped up on the scarred coffee table in our tiny Carol City apartment.

Jobs? We dont need no stinking jobs.

I smiled. James was a wiz with the movie quotes, but he had this one wrong.

Its badges. We dont need no stinkin badges. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Humphrey Bogart, nineteen forty-seven.

Forty-eight, but its kind of fitting dont you think?

Ill tell you whats fitting, my friend. Its another quote from that same movie.

Give.

I concentrated for a few seconds. Gold itself aint good for nothing except-

Except what?

Im working on it. I channeled the movie. Gold itself aint good for nothing except making jewelry with and gold teeth.

Good one, mate. James was genuinely impressed.

I cant explain it. The two of us remember a lot of trivial, useless crap.

We both finished our beers and it got real quiet.

Skip, this Mary Trueblood, shes got the treasure map.

Well, shes got an idea of where this stuff may have gone.

Dude, well get leaves of absence. Well get some expense money up front and take two weeks off. If we find the gold, were each rolling in it. If we dont, its an adventure, right?

Adventures with my best friend James have almost gotten us killed. Several times. I should remember that a lot more than I do.

The Chevy box truck was low on gas and two quarts low on oil as James pulled into the Exxon station. He shoved the prepaid credit card into the slot and was pumping fuel in fifteen seconds.

One thousand dollars. Thats what Mrs. Trueblood had put on the card. If we needed more, all we had to do was ask her. If she thought we were being frugal with her funds, she would supply more. On the chance that I could make forty-four million dollars, I know that I would advance more.

Take the card, buy a case of oil, and we should be set, amigo.

I studied the truck. The magnetic signs on the side were nothing but reminders to me that wed had one investigating job. More or Less Investigations. Yes, we were licensed by the state of Florida. But that didnt mean that everyone who needed a PI firm called us.

It didnt mean that anyone called us. Id started a Facebook page for More or Less Investigations, and the only response I got was from kids who graduated from our high school. They were laughing at our endeavor, letting us know that if we were the same two guys they remembered from six years ago, we werent qualified to be dogcatchers.

Im not sure that they were wrong.

I started a Twitter account, but only heard from people who wanted to know where our next gig was. I didnt get that. And LinkedIn tended to be people who wanted business advice or wanted to sell something.

The business advice I had for them was: You need a private investigating firm. And for those who wanted to sell me something, I had no money to buy it.

So much for social networking. Mark Zuckerberg made billions by inventing Facebook. I was making squat.

I walked out with the case of oil and James drained two quarts into the engine. That process would be repeated many times during our trip.

We could buy a brand-new truck if this deal comes through, Skip.

We could. It was more of a mutter than a solid statement.

The drive into the Keys is not this adventurous, Third World country experience that some people imagine. They picture a jungle-like atmosphere, with thick mangrove trees and flocks of ospreys, forgotten outposts scattered by the water on each side of what is laughingly called a highway, and mysterious waterfront bars with Edward G. Robinson and Humphrey Bogart drinking rum, smoking cigars, and planning nefarious deeds.

No, its nothing like that. Its two lanes of traffic, occasionally broken by the excitement of four lanes for fifteen seconds where everyone floors the gas pedal to pass all the really slow drivers.

And when your Chevy box truck only goes fifty-eight miles per hour at its top end, you really cant make up a lot of time. I had to face it. We were one of the really slow drivers.

Nonetheless, James kept on course. There is no other solution. If you want to get to Islamorada, you just keep it pointing south.

Occasionally, there are some breaks, like a divers supply shop that put up a billboard, LAST CHANCE FOR ALCOHOL, 34 MILES. People certainly didnt want to drive to the Keys sober.

And in the middle of scrub pine and scrawny bushes, on this narrow strip of land that extends to Key West, theres a sign saying: 7 ACRES. $175,000. What would you do with it? Put up a liquor store and sell alcohol?

Remember D. B. Cooper? James was smoking a cigarette, blowing most of his product out the window at some cheap shell shops and a roadside cigar store.

The guy hijacked a plane, right?

He nodded. Nineteen seventy-one, Portland to Seattle, this mysterious stranger grabs a flight attendant and tells her he has a bomb in his briefcase. When they land in Seattle, he asks for two hundred thousand dollars and a couple of parachutes.