Evil in Paradise. R. B. Conroy

      A short time after Dirk arrived in Lady Lake, his grandfather loaned him the seed money to start a Harley-Davidson dealership. A natural born mechanic, Dirk was excited by the opportunity to start his own business.

      “The Cycle Shop” opened in the spring of 2007 to little fanfare. Being the only Harley shop in the area, the business served mainly the bikers in Lady Lake, but due to his close proximity to The Villages, he also did some business with the retired bikers there. He considered the folks in the large retirement community to be “rich snobs” and didn’t like working on their bikes. He hated their tanned faces, fancy golf shirts and Bermuda shorts. “They’re not bikers,” he would grumble to his grandfather, “they’re just old farts tryin’ to be cool.”

      With the customer now out of the store, Dirk’s well-tattooed office gal, Daisy, shouted at him from behind the reception’s desk. “He’s not an old bastard, he’s a nice man.”

      “I got enough business; I don’t need those uppity old assholes taking up all of my time.”

      A disbelieving look spread across Daisy’s face. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Dirk, but you actually don’t have enough business. We owe everybody in town money. This recession has hurt us real bad. About the only folks who can still afford to repair their bikes are the Villagers. You’d better be nice to them.”

      “I was nice to him. I didn’t give the old guy a hard time or anything,” Dirk replied.

      Daisy just stared at him. Dirk and Daisy’s sometimes contentious relationship went back a long way. Her husband, Reg, was a mechanic at the shop, a part-time dry-waller and one of Dirk’s best friends. She could say almost anything to the thin-skinned ex-con and he wouldn’t object. Very few people enjoyed that kind of relationship with Dirk Harrison.

      Dirk flipped the sign hanging on the front door over to closed and turned the dead bolt. He reached into his pocket and lifted a beat-up cigarette holder from his grease covered jeans, pulled out a joint and lit up. The sweet smell of marijuana soon permeated the small office area. “You worry too much, Daisy. I know how to handle those people. Besides, those rich assholes have nowhere else to go. And quit staring at me; it makes me nervous.”

      Daisy looked away. “Okay, boss, but most of the folks in The Villages are not rich. The rich people live down in Naples and Sarasota, not around here.”

      “Not rich, my ass! He had a huge diamond on that bony hand of his and a big Rolex on his scrawny-ass wrist.” Dirk took a long, deep drag on the weed, it burned into his lungs.

      Daisy shook her head and went back to work. She knew of the violent past of her mercurial boss and knew not to push him too far. Dirk had a dark side. She’d seen it once before and she didn’t want to see it again. Dirk was a throw-back to the glory days of the biker thugs when they all smoked dope, “partied hardy”, and kicked the shit out of anybody who disagreed with them. As far as she could tell, his time in prison had not mellowed him. He was lean, tough, highly opinionated, somewhat unstable, and always egging for a fight. She knew that in the right situation her boss could be a very dangerous man.

      Dirk hacked up a cough, traces of blue smoke drifting from his nose. “What’s Reg up to on his day off?”

      “He’s dry-walling a new house over in Oxford.”

      “I don’t know how he does that dry-wall shit. It would drive me nuts.”

      Daisy grinned, “I agree. I used to try and help him and I hated it, but he loves it and he makes a good buck doing it.”

      Dirk stacked some invoices and dropped them on his small desk next to the entrance to the garage area. “I’ve got a few bikes to finish up. Call Reg and tell him to stop by after work and we’ll do a few joints and then the three of us can go bar hoppin’.

      Daisy winced at the orders from Dirk. She didn’t feel like going “bar hoppin”. The last thing she wanted to do was hang around the shop for a couple more hours watching her husband and Dirk smoke dope, shoot the shit about motorcycles and then head for some bar full of biker buddies and watch everybody get high. But, she knew her husband would be in favor of the idea. He looked up to the muscular Dirk and almost never crossed him. Tired of being pushed around by the men in her life, she decided this was as good a time as any to take a stand. She took a deep breath and answered, “Reg said he was stopping by anyway to pick up that decal you ordered for his bike.”

      “Oh yeah, the decal.”

      “Sorry, Dirk, but I won’t be joining the party. I’m going home. I’ve got a lot to do,” Daisy blurted, never lifting her eyes off the receptionist’s desk.

      Dirk paused at the door to the garage and slowly turned around. A look of disbelief covered his narrow face. “If you don’t go, Reg won’t go.”

      “Yes, he will.”

      “He’d better!” Dirk warned.

      “He will.”

      A grumbling Dirk pushed the door open to the garage area and disappeared. The door slammed behind him.

      A smile of satisfaction spread across Daisy’s face. “I did it!”

       5

      “Eight ball in the side pocket.”

      Reg watched as the shiny black ball rolled slowly in the side pocket. “Luck ass. I owe ya twenty-five. That’s enough for me. I’m tired of losing.”

      Dirk grunted out a crude laugh. “You’re in over your head, Reg.”

      “I know, and I’m also getting a little tired losing to you, and I’m also getting a little tired of Spudzie’s. We come here all the time. Let’s go somewhere else.” Reg tossed a twenty and a five on the green table top.

      Dirk gathered up the cash. “Like where?”

      Reg thought for a moment. “How ‘bout The Villages.”

      “What? We won’t fit in with all those rich bastards.”

      “Why not? I’ve been over there before and nobody seemed to care. Our money is as good as anyone else’s. Besides, there are a lot of old single babes over there and a lot of them are looking for a good time.”

      Dirk shook his head. “Okay, but if we get in trouble, your ass is grass.”

      “Don’t worry, big guy, and besides Daisy tells me that you have a lot of customers in The Villages. It will be good for you to know what’s going on over there. You’ll be able to relate better to your customers.”

      “I’m sure.” Dirk shook his head and looked around for the waitress. He spotted her at a nearby table and shouted, “Hey, Rosie, what do we owe you?”

      Rosie maneuvered the green order pad from the back pocket on her tight jeans, “Let’s see, you’ve both had five beers, so you owe me thirty.”

      One of the players near Rosie was preparing to take a shot and was annoyed by Dirk’s shouting. He paused, leaned on the top of his cue and stared at Dirk.

      The observant Rosie noticed the reaction. “Cool it, Eddie,” she said quickly. “Just hit your damned shot and forget it. I don’t need a fight in here tonight.”

      The well-tattooed man ignored Rosie’s plea and kept staring at Dirk.

      Dirk tossed fifteen more dollars on the felt table top next to Reg’s twenty-five, grabbed his cue off the side of the table and rushed toward the glaring shooter.

      “Oh shit!” Rosie wailed.

      The volatile Dirk’s face was red with anger. Before the other guy had a chance to move, Dirk jabbed the handle of his cue into the man’s gut. The tall man groaned in pain and folded over.

      “Somethin’ bothering you, smart ass?” Dirk growled. “You got a problem with