Chapter One
A sharp rap on the door has awakened me abruptly from a troubled sleep. I automatically swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my robe. As I stagger from the bedroom, I have no immediate recall of the events of the previous evening, and have already lost the thread of a disturbing dream that had gripped me just moments earlier.
I open the door and am greeted by a smiling room service attendant. He offers an enthusiastic, “Good morning, Mr. Henshaw!” I flick on the light and motion for him to place the breakfast tray on the coffee table. Then I slip him a ten-spot and mutter, “Thank you.” He backs away like he is departing the throne room of an eastern potentate. When he is gone, I pull the cork from a bottle of Gibson’s Finest, and add a generous splash of whiskey to my morning orange juice.
My dear departed wife once accused me of being a man with a thirst. I never thought of myself as being a heavy drinker. Hey, maybe I deluded myself. Maybe, I’m really what they call a functioning alcoholic? Whatever… for years I seldom took a drink before 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Nowadays though, I have a little nip in the morning just to help start my 80-year-old engine. I note that it is 6:05 a.m. as I carry the drink out to my third floor balcony. There I stand at the balustrade in the balmy early dawn, looking over the beautifully manicured grounds.
There’s no question that I have landed in a high-class establishment. Hey, it should be for $16,000 (seriously!) a month. That price tag is way beyond my means. Happily though, my well-heeled son looks after the financial arrangements… and money seems to be no object. Edgewater Manor is the anointed name given this extravagant palace, and management promote it as an ultra-high-end retirement residence, providing every conceivable amenity. It’s a nice place to hang your hat for sure, but I’ve overheard some of the residents facetiously refer to it as ‘Gods Waiting Room.’
Nowadays, many oldsters claim that age 80 is the ‘new’ 60. Huh? Every time I look in the mirror I see reasons to doubt that assertion. I’m more inclined to think that eight o’clock is the ‘new’ midnight… certainly it is for the bunch of geriatrics who live here. I just moved in a few days ago, but I’ve already done the math. I figure that the average age here is around 85. Three quarters or more of these inmates (sorry)… residents are widows. And while there is a sprinkling of married couples, all of the others live alone in their individual suites.
I learned that one old gal has attained centenarian status. Remarkably though, quite a few of the other residents are still in their seventies, and I wonder why they have been put out to pasture so early? There must be some interesting stories to tell. But, never mind THEM… I think, what the hell am I doing here? Therein lies the problem. I can’t remember.
I step back inside and make a beeline towards the loo. That’s when I hear an unusual sound. What is it? It sounds like a gentle snore. What the… I look into the bedroom and I am shocked to see a strange woman laying asleep in my bed. You’ve got-to-be-kidding! Who the hell is this? And how did she get in? DISCLOSURE: I’ve been having a bit of a problem with my memory; it manifests in the form of a frustrating forgetfulness, interrupted by flashes of clarity.
Suddenly I remember speaking with an attractive woman in the lounge after dinner last night. Later, after I returned to my room, there had been an urgent knock on the door. I opened it and the same woman, now dressed in a wispy nightgown, slipped past me. As I turned towards her she put her arms around me and whispered, “Let’s make love.” Moments later she was performing a sexual act that would have her late husband rolling in his grave. And now, as I look at her in repose, I can’t even remember her name.
What should I do? I clear my throat and whisper, “Good morning.” This elicits no response, so I nudge the bedframe and then give it a good shake. The woman opens her eyes and says, “My gracious Bobby, you were so wonderful last night.” Again, I search my memory for her name and come up blank. Finally I say, “We better get you back to your room before anyone notices.” I gently escort her to the door and check the hallway for traffic. Before leaving she smiles and says, “We’ll have to do this again, soon.” Then with a parting kiss on my cheek she’s gone.
I wait a minute and then stick my head out for another look. There’s nobody in sight and I heave a sigh of relief. I know the hallways will soon be buzzing with old people pushing walkers, motoring in wheelchairs and hobbling with canes. In comparison to most of them, I’m a paragon of fitness. I close the door and add another splash of Gibson’s to my juice. Taking a large gulp, I think to myself… what kind of a zoo is this?
Chapter Two
My son – Robert Jr. – did extensive research to find the best possible retirement facility to meet my needs. The doctors had offered up several labels to describe my medical condition. Bottom line, they said that it was an untreatable neurodegenerative disorder that would progressively worsen and lead to diminished mental capacity. My interpretation of this is that I would ultimately become a vegetable, unable to move, think or communicate normally… as my brain slowly turns to mush.
I have been struggling with frustrating memory lapses for the past couple of years. And not just the short term stuff. I also have trouble with my long term memory. Some days I can barely remember my name. It almost feels like I am losing my identity. The crazy thing about it is, that on some days I have total clarity; on others I slip in and out of awareness. Then there are the really bad days when I am totally out to lunch!
Other than my surprise visitor earlier this morning… this day ‘so far’ seems to be shaping up as one of the better ones. After the woman had left, I took pen in hand and made a few entries in my diary. I find that this helps to ground me and provides a point of reference when my memory begins to fail. Then I scribble a few post-it notes to remind me of today’s activities, and stick them on the refrigerator door. Around 8 a.m. I dress in my work-out garb and take the stairs down to the Juice & Smoothie Bar on the main floor. I order one of their healthy concoctions from the barista and carry it out to the pool area.
The pool is deserted at this hour so I sit at a table in peaceful contemplation, sipping my drink. Although I have only been in residence a few days, I had already decided to avoid the dining room as much as possible. In the mornings I will have coffee and juice delivered by room service; for lunch I’ll prepare something simple in my kitchenette, and then later – only reluctantly – will I venture down to the dining room for the evening meal.
One of the unique features of Edgewater Manor is that it is a totally secure facility. That means that residents are restricted from leaving the grounds. There is a beautifully constructed high stone wall around the perimeter, and an extraordinarily high ratio of caregivers and support staff who closely monitor the residents. On my first day, I approached the main gate and was turned back. When I asked the security guard if I could leave, he jokingly said, with a verbal nod to the Eagles’ song Hotel California, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” Very funny, I thought.
With further investigation I have determined that all of the residents here suffer from some sort of dementia, Alzheimer’s or memory issues. Depending on the severity of their condition, residents are assigned to floors one through four. The first floor is for those in the early stages of memory loss; the second is for moderate cases; the third floor is for the more severe, and the fourth for those in late stage dementia. My assignment to the third floor isn’t exactly a morale booster!
Chapter Three
A few days later at the gym, I meet a guy named Ron who is pumping some serious iron. He looked at me and panted, “Gotta do the curls for the girls!” Later, when we started chatting, he disclosed that his room was on the second floor, and that he had been a resident of Edgewater for about six months. He was happy to see me at the gym, because he was usually the only person making use of the place. When we finished our work outs, Ron observed, “Bob, you’re in great shape, the ladies here are going to love you.” I guess I gave him a blank stare because he smirked and added, “The word is that you’ve already scored with Donna Maurizio.”
I wandered out to the pool area after lunch to bag a few rays of sunshine. It’s a beautiful afternoon, and the place is slammed with the ‘girls’ that I have determined are part of the social in-crowd. As I walk up to a vacant lounger, a few of them look at me coyly and say, “Hi Bobby.” I nod politely and wonder, have I even met these people?
When I slip my shirt off there is a collective gasp, and the hum of conversation seems to have died. I drape my towel over the lounger and shift it towards the sun. A few minutes later, a shadow falls over me as one of the girls approaches. She attempts to start up a conversation, and I respond in a desultory fashion. Finally she says, “Bobby, where did you get all of those sexy scars?” She seems particularly transfixed by the puckered, atrophic scar on my lower abdomen. It is a vestige from a long ago military campaign.
I respond, “It’s a long story, maybe for another time. But, for now I think I’ll just close my eyes for a little nap. When she returns to where her friends are sitting, I blow out an exasperated breath and think to myself, what the bloody hell am I doing here? It was like being in high school again. At the risk of sounding misogynistic, it is mostly women who live here and they seem to be running the show. Most of the men that I’ve seen are doddering old goats who can hardly make their way to the dining room. The smart-set consisted of about a dozen women in their seventies, who were well dressed, groomed and dripping with expensive jewelry. The Queen Bee seems to be a curvy platinum blonde named Donna, whom I ‘vaguely’ recall having met.
Of the two hundred or so residents at Edgewater Manor, about forty are housed on the fourth floor. They are sealed off there in their own world, and even have separate dining arrangements. Of the remaining population, there’s maybe thirty men and about one hundred and twenty women. The numbers underscore the scary reality of geriatric demography.
Virtually every resident here is struggling with some form of cognitive decline that makes developing personal relationships more complicated. The only person that I have really connected with is the guy at the gym, and at the moment I can’t remember his name. It’s only the exclusive ladies sorority that seem to thrive socially. Maybe that’s because there’s strength in congruency, and they all seem to be on the same page.
Later, I joined my new friend Ron in the cocktail lounge before dinner. There is a dress code for the dining room, so we were both smartly attired in jacket and tie. My major beef with the dining room is the slow service. It seems to take forever to order and finish a meal. Most of the residents look upon this as the highlight of the day. For them it’s a chance to see and be seen, and catch up on the gossip. Personally, I’m not interested. At my urging, Ron and I take a table for two in a quiet corner. After we had placed our orders, Ron looked at me appraisingly and asked, “Robert, tell me about that impressive looking ring you are wearing.” In response I lifted my hand and glanced at the ring. I was drawing a blank. He said, “Let me see.” I extended my hand. The ring has a crest which is surrounded by the words ‘Special Air Service.’ Ron asked, “What’s that all about?” Frustratingly, I couldn’t remember.
Chapter Four
Rocco (three finger) Maurizio is the underboss of a Kansas City crime syndicate. He manages the day-to-day criminal side of the business, while his boss provides a smiling face to their legitimate enterprises. His nick name was derived from the loss of two fingers in gun battle with a rival gang, some years ago. Two things to know about Rocco Maurizio are; that he loves his mother Donna dearly, and that he would kill anyone without hesitation if they crossed him. He first noticed that his mother was struggling with memory issues a year or so after his father passed away. Unknown to him, this condition had been slowly developing for some time. He had always dismissed his mother’s memory lapses as just part of her loveable, quirky personality, until the family doctor alerted him to the seriousness of the problem.
After having his mother examined by a neurological specialist, he made the decision to have her moved to a special retirement community for her safety, comfort, and for his own peace of mind. He was advised that Edgewater Manor was the best facility of its type in the country. Although it was situated far away in Palm Beach, Florida, he was finally able to convince his mother to make the move. He promised that he would speak to her by telephone daily, and would endeavor to visit on a regular basis. Their arrangement was to speak at four o’clock every afternoon. But, even this proved difficult, as Donna often forgot about the call, or mixed up the times. Just last night she had become confused and had called him at four in the morning.
At that ungodly hour, Donna told him that she had exciting news. She was in love with a wonderful man that she had met recently, and thought they might be getting married. The man - his name was Bobby – and he was ‘so’ romantic. He had even given her a beautiful ruby which she had sent out to a local jeweler to have it set in a pendant. Rocco Three Fingers just about went ballistic when he heard this news! The thought of some filthy animal lusting after his 73 year old mother was more than he could bear. He told her that he would be on the next flight to Florida.
~ ~ ~
Robert Henshaw Jr. gazed out the window of his office on the 47th floor of the Republic Plaza Tower in Denver, Colorado. He wasn’t admiring the view of the Front Range, that section of the Rocky Mountains that was closest to the city. Instead, he was musing over a telephone call that he had just received from Marjory Jorgensen, the executive director of Edgewater Manor in Florida. Marjory had expressed concern over a recent development concerning his father. Apparently, Robert Sr. had established a relationship with one of the female residents, and had given her a very expensive ruby as a token of his regard. The lady in question had told all of her friends about the gift, and it was now the talk of the Manor. Ms. Jorgensen’s concern was that perhaps Mr. Henshaw wasn’t thinking with the right head, and he might have been taken advantage of.
Robert Jr. was appalled by this news, and assured Ms. Jorgensen that he would speak to his father right away. He told her that to the best of his knowledge his father possessed no such precious stone, and that as trustee he had full control over the bank accounts. He had spoken to his father a few days earlier, and although he griped about being ‘incarcerated...’ he seemed to be generally happy with his new accommodation. He thanked the executive director for her concern.
What the woman had described was totally at odds with the character of the man Robert Jr. knew so well. His father was as straight as an arrow, and totally committed to the loving ‘memory’ of his late wife. Hmm… Except his ‘memory’ was like a Swiss cheese. Still, there’s no way the old boy would be engaged in a relationship with a strange woman at his age. Would he? Emphatically not! Not unless he had totally lost his marbles. And a ruby. What Ruby? The whole thing sounded crazy. He thought, I better pay him a visit and check this out.
Chapter Five
I have the same dream – nightmare – every night. I am flying in the back of a Douglas C-47. It’s night-time and the red light comes on to signal we are over the drop zone. The side door of the aircraft is already open, and my team are all hooked up and ready to go. It’s a tense moment! The pilot stalls the engine to slow us, and then the Sergeant yells “go-go-go,” and follows me into the dark void. Six SAS Troupers follow closely behind. We jump at eight hundred feet, so the canopies of our X-Type parachutes barely deploy before the ground looms up. I have just seconds to realize that the navigator has missed the mark, as we descend into the jungle tree tops.
My first contact with the trees completely knocks the wind out of me, and I hold on stunned, gasping for breath. When I shift slightly, the high upper branches which are holding me bend and give way. I must have dropped another fifty feet, until my chute finally snags and leaves me dangling. It’s pitch-black as I swing back and forth, with no idea of how high I am above the ground. I know that in jungle warfare we have lost more men in the trees, than actually killed in combat. In situations like this, men have unbuckled their parachute harness and fallen to their death. As a precaution we now carry seventy feet of strong thin rope to lower ourselves if necessary.
I repel down to the end of my rope and then drop the final ten feet to the ground. Although I am battered and bruised… no bones are broken and I am good to go. Minutes later I find the Sergeant in the dark, and he too has survived unscathed. We decide to wait until dawn to gather together the rest of the team. In the pale morning light we discover that one man is dead, still hung up in the trees; another has two broken legs, and a third man is missing. Just three of the six troupers are combat ready.
My squad of Special Air Service commandos had been sent to neutralize the self-anointed ‘Sultan’ Aung Khan, who was leading a worrisome insurgency that challenged the ruling Burmese Junta. Her Majesty’s government - in its wisdom - had decided that Khan’s removal would be beneficial to the people of Burma, as well as for British interests in the region. Khan was currently encamped in a villa on the Irrawaddy River, some twenty miles from Rangoon. We had parachuted in, roughly five miles from the target; a little off course, but still within striking distance. The plan was to stay concealed until after dark, and then make a rapid approach and assault Khan’s headquarters.
We entered the villa at three a.m. when the guards were functioning at a low ebb. The troupers’ were able to quickly neutralize them without creating a disturbance. The Sergeant and I then entered the private living quarters, and were surprised to find the lights were on and music was playing. We cautiously approached what appeared to be a den, and then swiftly entered, taking positions on either side of the door. A man sitting behind a desk immediately pointed a pistol, and I felt a burning pain in my abdomen. Almost concurrently, I fired a burst from my MP5 and stitched a line of 9mm bullets across his chest. Then I staggered up to confirm that the body was actually that of the ‘Sultan.’ It was him… he apparently had been examining a collection of red colored stones just before he died. I impulsively scooped up a handful and put them in my pocket.
We then withdrew to the nearby riverbank, and within minutes, an extraction team of Royal Marine Commandos pulled up in a Navy Swift Boat. By then I could barely walk, due to the gunshot wound. The speedy ride down the Irrawaddy River was just a blur. Two hours later, we approached the aircraft carrier Ark Royal, which was stationed twelve nautical miles offshore in the Indian Ocean.
Chapter Six
It was late afternoon when Robert Jr. arrived at the Edgewater Manor. He checked in at the front desk, and was directed to his father’s room on the third floor. He rang the buzzer, and the door was opened by a man – it was his father – whose eyes were unfocused, his face totally without expression. Rob immediately thought, the lights are on, but nobody’s home. He said, “Hello Dad, it’s good to see you.” This elicited no response, so Rob asked if he could come in. His father turned and led the way into the living room. Rob tried again saying, “So, Dad how are you doing?” His father replied, “I’m OK.” Rob thought grimly, he’s having a bad day, and he’s definitely not OK. He continued, “Do you remember speaking with me on the phone last night?” The response to this was just a blank stare.
Moments later, there was a loud knock on the door. Rob asked, “Shall I get it?” His father nodded. Rob opened the door and found Rocco Maurizio standing there with his mother. Rocco snarled, “Who the fuck are you?” Rob was shocked and temporarily at a loss for words… he sputtered, “I...” Rocco interrupted, “Where’s this Bobby guy? Hey, have we got the right room?” When Robert Sr. walked up to the door, Donna Maurizio exclaimed, “That’s my Bobby!” With that, Rocco pushed his way into the room with his mother in tow. He turned to Robert Sr. and coldly demanded, “What’s this bullshit about a romance with my mother?” Breaking the silence that followed, Rob asked, “Dad, do you know this lady?” Robert Sr. replied, “I don’t think so.”
Upon hearing this, Donna began to sob uncontrollably. Rocco glared at Robert Sr. and demanded, “What the hell’s going on here? Did you – or did you not – give my mother a ruby?” Robert just shook his head in bewilderment. Rob Jr. said, “Look, I don’t know what this is all about, but my father had no ruby to give to anyone.” Rocco shouted, “Are you calling my mother a liar?” Rob replied, “Settle down pal, don’t you understand that both of these people are suffering with memory loss? Why do you think they’re living here? I think you had better leave.” A smouldering Rocco flipped his jacket aside to reveal a holstered pistol. He said, “Alright, we’ll leave. But if this slobbering half-wit bothers my mother again… you’re going to be sorry!”
~ ~ ~
Donna was still sobbing minutes later when they returned to her room. Rocco said, “Come on Mama, tell me what’s going on here.” She said, “I thought we were in love. He said that he wanted to give me something special.” Donna went on to recall that Bobby had opened his safe – there was one in every room – and had removed a small velvet bag secured with a drawstring. He opened it and shook several red stones onto the coffee table. He said they were rubies, and that she could pick one of them as his special gift to her. They all looked so red and beautiful, she didn’t know which one to choose. She finally decided on one, and tucked it into the pocket of her nightgown. Rocco thought, nightgown eh! He took a deep breath and then asked, “Show me the ruby, Mama.” Donna explained that it hadn’t been delivered back from the jewelry store.
Rocco knew that his mother was a little scrambled, but she wasn’t delusional. If she said that the old man had given her a ruby, he probably had. But hey, maybe it was just a knock-off or a piece of glass. He had time before his return flight to KC, so he decided to stop by the jewelry store… just to prove the point. He was impressed when he entered McMaster & Johnson Jewelry, in West Palm Beach. The proprietor, Michael McMaster, proved most helpful. He informed Rocco that the work on his mother’s pendant was almost completed, and he proudly stated, “It will be a beautiful piece of jewelry, set off by perhaps the finest ruby that I’ve ever seen.” Rocco’s antenna started to rise with this news, and he asked McMaster if he could estimate its current value.
McMaster responded, “Your mother’s ruby is particularly exquisite. It meets all of the criteria of the four C’s for establishing it as a valuable stone.” He explained that these were color, clarity, cut and carat weight. The most valuable rubies were a deep red, without any orange or violet overtones. This stone was just over five carats; it was flawless and the color was the deepest red that he had ever seen. There’s no doubt that it originated from Myanmar, which produced the best quality rubies in the world. Rocco asked, “Where’s that?” McMaster replied, “It’s a country in South East Asia. It used to be called Burma.” Rocco demanded, “So, what’s it worth?” The jeweler smiled, “I estimate the present value is in the range of $1.2 million.
Chapter Seven
I was having that same reoccurring nightmare, the one where I am in an uncontrolled free fall… suddenly someone nudges me and says, “Bobby wake up, you’re having a bad dream.” I switch on the light, and then turn to see who is here with me. It’s Cynthia, one of the sorority girls. Hey, wait a minute! I remembered her name! It just kind of popped into my head without effort. I look at her and smile; for at this moment I have perfect recall. She says, “Turn out the light Bobby, it’s too early to get up.” I think to myself, what’s with this ‘Bobby’ stuff? All the girls in this place call me Bobby. Where did that come from? I kill the light and snuggle up to Cynthia. At six o’clock when room service arrives, I can no longer remember her name.
It’s turning out to be a really bad day. I’m in a total fog and can’t seem to put two coherent thoughts together. Finding my way to the gym this morning happens more by instinct than by a plan. My friend – what’s his name? – is bench pressing some heavy weight, and he asks me to spot for him. Ron does six repetitions of 225 pounds, an impressive feat for a man of his age. Later in the sauna, he shares with me that the administration is looking to move him up to the third floor, and he’s not happy about it… even though we would be neighbors. Then he slyly observes that the talk around the Manor is that I have been entertaining several of the ladies. A few of them have been spotted taking the stairs up to the third floor. I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about.
Two Weeks Later
A man scaled the fence at the rear of the property, and quickly melted into the shadows. He had disabled the cameras earlier, but was still cautious… in spite of knowing that the security staff were quite lax. They were focused more on preventing people from leaving, than those attempting to enter the property. The intruder was dressed all in black, his head and face obscured by a balaclava. Tucked in a shoulder holster, he carried a Glock G-17 pistol, and around his waist were his burglary tools in a small pouch. He had thoroughly scoped out the place in advance, and knew exactly where his point of entry would be. Rocco had told him that the target was a feeble eighty year old, who lived in apartment 308. His boss had explained exactly what he wanted him to do. He said, “It will be like taking candy from a baby.”
It was 2:20 a.m. when Ron was awakened by a noise coming from the front room of his apartment. Seconds later someone flipped on the bedroom lights. Ron lurched into a sitting position, and with blinking eyes beheld a black specter standing at the foot of his bed. It was a masked man, and he was pointing a pistol. The intruder said, “Get out of the bed!” As a shocked Ron moved to comply, he implored, “What do you want?” The man replied, “I want you to open your safe.” Ron fumbled with the closet doors and pointed to the built-in safe. It was already open, the door slightly ajar. The man stuck his hand in and found that it was empty. He turned to Ron and shouted, “Where are the rubies?”
On the floor above Captain Robert G. Henshaw, DSC was struggling with the same dream. Since moving up to the fourth floor, the dream was the only reality that his failing brain could grasp. On this night – as drama unfolded on the floor just below – the Captain led his men out through the balcony door. He could hear the aircrafts roar as stepped up onto the patio table. Then suddenly the red light flashed, and the Sergeant shouted “go-go-go!” He jumped eagerly once more into the dark void.
~ ~ ~
The sorority girls had gathered for a pre-dinner cocktail in the Edgewater lounge. They were all dressed to the nines, and each wore either a ruby ring or a ruby pendant. As they appraised one another, they all had the good taste to avoid commenting on the commonality of their fashion accessories. Finally, one bold soul proposed a toast to their dear, late friend ‘Bobby.’
By Michael Barlett