In it is a very unique group that calls itself, what else, the crime club. They meet to plan their crime wave when not drinking and/or eating. The club has a cross section of members that makes it special.
A retired lieutenant of the LAPD homicide, who has seen it all and doesn’t like any of it, (his words), a retired FBI agent that specialized in bank robberies, they are a pair! Their friends believe that they are never far away from their pieces!
A liberal witch or bitch, your choice, who taught law at an Eastern establishment university is a trial to the entire community, and is considered the communities cross to bear. Her sorority sister, they were re-acquainted here at the Commons, is a widow that loves to flirt and brag about her early affairs. The latter pisses off the women, her Porsche, a red Targa pisses off the men in their caddies and Lincoln's, they’re also a little leery of her reputation.
There is a retired Army Lieutenant Colonel in the group who is or was a highly decorated helo pilot. His forte is a finely honed sense of humor. The club also has a New York Jewish couple, who disagree with everybody, each other and particularly their children. The cop wants to put a contract out on them.
The Whizzer, in baggy shorts, gold chains, big hairy belly and black high tops, he is a living legend. Don’t believe it—ask the local cops.
This group and other immortals make up this geriatric tribe and the core of the crime club. Do they try to solve crimes-oh no. Do they read who-dunnit books guessing on the endings-oh no. Do they play the crime dinner games-oh no.
They plan jobs, crimes! Fast food stores and restaurants, banks and yes even a Presidential assassination, which backfired, but you will have to read the book about that cluster f---. Their big caper is the planning to knock over a second rate Indian casino.
It’s hilarious and they do it, but it gets complicated with the FBI, Indian cops and the local gendarmes. It ends well but different than they planned.
“I can’t damn believe it,” said the red-faced Director of the Secret Service.
“Well, sir,” from his EA (executive assistant), it’s a pass from the Bureau. They were smirking about it and said we’d better hop to it and by the way we should use the geriatric division to investigate,” said a grinning deputy.
“Don’t laugh, mister, or I’ll let you ramrod the investigation. Phoenix this time of the year is a fucking oven.”
The EA smiles and says, “Boss, I heard a great joke yesterday when we got wind of this operation. It goes like this:
A little old man shuffles very slowly into an ice cream parlor and slowly and painfully pulls himself onto a stool. After catching his breadth, he orders a banana split.The waitress asks kindly, “crushed nuts,” no he replies, “arthritis.”
“Jesus,” smiles his boss, “you’ve been at headquarters to long. Enough! What are we going to do?”
“Right sir, as you know the President plans to include a trip to Phoenix next month, so I recommend we pass, as we normally would, to the Phoenix office to investigate, with a caveat to be damn careful. The last thing we need is a bad bust on the retired folks. Christ, the AARP would organize a march on Washington with the ACLU in the vanguard.”
“Concur, but put someone from our office to take close liaison responsibility on this investigation.”
“This is horseshit sir, why me? Exclaimed Agent Horvath. “The Phoenix office can take a quick look and then we go on about our business. If its true we take away their walkers and golf clubs and send their asses to Gitmo for enhanced interrogations,” said a laughing Horvath.
“I know," said the chuckling deputy, “but tough shit, you got it.”
“This is payback for that little prank on the Director at last year’s headquarters party, isn’t it?”
“Why Secret Service Agent Horvath, how can you say that, the Director was only pissed for three months. Why a little sleeping powder in his water at the yearly dance and he falls asleep at the head table with the Secretary present. I think you can plan on every shit detail until you retire. Hell Bob, if it had been me you’d be working in Bumfuck, Alaska now,” he leaves chuckling.
SECRET SERVICE HEADQUARTERS
“Any ideas on the follow-up to the FBI’s alert?”
“What did they say again?” Asked Agent Dean Davis.
“Just that an informer in a retirement village called, let’s see, here it is, West River Commons. Commons huh, must be trying for a little East coast class, and stated that a group there is plotting the assassination of the President next month.”
“I don’t fucking believe it, the Feebs are pulling our chain,” says Davis, “I’ve been by that place. You can fire a cannon around there and not hit anyone; even their golf games are retired.”
“I know it but it doesn’t make any difference, headquarters called and told us to look into it.”
“I called the local FBI SAIC and requested written verification on the report and he stated that it had already been forwarded to D.C. In short, it’s his ass if this is a practical joke. He swears it’s a valid tip but I could hear those assholes laughing in the background and making snide remarks but, when all was said and done, it was our investigation. He went on to say they had some old retired guys we could use if we needed undercover operatives, the prick.”
“Okay, I’ll take a look see and sniff around. Christ you know they have posse things in those places. If I get caught who in the hell will believe me? Better yet they have those neighborhood watches and everybody knows everything that’s going on, shit it’s like a commune.
Many of the retired communities have local posses with cars and equipment supplied by the county sheriff, the most widely known and famous sheriff in the America. By and large he’s adored by the retired folks and the community as a hole. The liberals and local paper is not friendly, nay intensely dislike his no nonsense law enforcement.
His boss shakes his head..
“Alright, I’m going but how about taking the new female agent with me, what’s her name, Beverly something?”
“Wickets. Okay but be careful, she’s not house broke yet and isn’t taking any shit, particularly from the likes of you.”
“Hi, Beverly Wickets? Dean Davis. We’re assigned together on an investigation into a threat from a retirement village, a place called the West River Commons.
Beverly is part of the new breed of female agents, tough, attractive and above all bright as hell. More importantly she is qualified as expert on all the service firearms. She is not a token female agent.
She’s about 5’9” tall with a nice figure, short blond hair and of course striking blue eyes.
Bev looks at him smiles and says, “bullshit Davis. I know you by reputation. If I’m on it then I ride in the back seat. If it’s serious it’s probably a husband looking for you.”
“Ha ha, it’s worse than that,” and he proceeds to give her the details of their assignment.
“I don’t believe it, how are we going to surveil and investigate in a retirement community?”
“You my dear are going to get a gray wig and a walker,” said a smiling Davis.
“Yeah and you’re going door-to-door selling Viagra, what a chicken shit assignment, being around you is not career enhancing!”
“C’mon I’ve got a car lets drive over there and prowl around the area and see what’s what.”
“Okay,” sighs Beverly.
They arrive at the beautified entrance to West River Commons and after a cursory look around proceed to enter and, as they say, “surveil.”
“Jesus, it’s deserted,” exclaims Beverly.
“No, they knew we were coming,” says Davis with a big grin.
“Where are the alleged criminals?” she asks.
“Here are a coupla addresses, let’s go and take a look.”
They drive by one of the addresses. “Belongs to a L. Valentine. I’ll put it into the system and see what happens. Strange place, alright. The house looks just like the other three thousand. Rocks and more rocks make up the landscaping."
A few minutes later.
“Well this is a hot tip, alright; the resident is Lou Valentine, retired Lieutenant LAPD. This whole damn thing is going to be a local goat rope, one of those; I’m going to get even things.”
“Let’s go talk with the local manager of the community and find out what we can,” said Davis.
“That’ll probably give us a fifteen minute head start before the word gets out,” said a disgusted looking Beverly.
“We’ll talk to he or she privately and request that they keep their mouth shut,”
“Yeah that’ll work, when pigs fly.”
They pulled up to an immaculate but small building that stated in a small neat sign West River Commons Administration.
They walk in and a gray haired receptionist looks up and says, “It’s a wonderful day at West River Commons, can I help you.”
“We’re here to see the manager or who ever is in charge,” said Dean.
“May I ask the subject of your visit,” she asked with a sweet smile.
“No, lady, you can’t, please get the boss. We need a few minutes,” said Dean.
“Well she may not want to see you.”
Beverly rolled her eyes and said, “please."
“I’ll check,” she replied huffily and disappeared into the back of the building.
“I might resign,” sighed Davis.
A middle aged rather plump lady followed the receptionist and said, “I'm Betty Fitzpatrick, how may I help you?” She was dressed as someone a great deal younger with a surplus of facial enhancement and a big hairdo.
Beverly answered, “Ms. Fitzpatrick, a word in private, please.”
She looks them over, sniffles and finally says, “very well, follow me.”
They were ushered into a pleasant office overlooking a lawn and rock garden.
Dean closed the door, and Betty quickly says, “leave it open.”
With that Beverly showed her badge and ID and says, “We’re secret service agents Davis and Wickets and we just need a few moments.”
“Lord, what now?”
“We’re investigating a possible problem in the community and need a little of your time, in confidence of course.”
“Who this time? Our last shooter is in the nut house,” Referring to an incident by one of the residents a year earlier at a discount store.
“I remember that,” said Dean, "was that a member of this community?
“I guess I was thinking of another HOA (Home Owners Association) thing.”
“That was another community where a disgruntled homeowner shot a board member at the monthly meeting,” replied Betty.
Looking at Bev, Dean says, “good thing were carrying.”
“Ms. Kirkpatrick we’ve heard about a crime club here is that a fact?”
“Those assholes, pardon me, they were in trouble with the local cops about six months ago, something about casing a local 7/11. It was just a thing they say they do.
Most of the retirement communities have a wide selection of clubs that just about fits everyone’s desires. They get them all but a swingers group but that’s because the members forgot how to swing, this remark from the Ladies lunch group.
“Where is the club?”
“They generally meet in someone's home or at the rec center,” Betty replied. “Just a minute,” and reaches for a large loose leaf notebook, labeled clubs.
Opening it and showing a page to the agents, “here is a list of members. I don’t know how accurate it is.”
Dean and Bev look it over, Bev says ,”a copy please."
She returns in a minute, “here,” and she hands them a single sheet of paper.
“Thank you,” said Dean, “and please keep all this to your self Ms. Fitzpatrick.”
The agents leave.
“Corry, (the receptionist) come in here, have I got something to tell you, but don’t repeat it,” states a flushed Betty.