CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After I got everything set up for my business in Florida, I searched for a place to live. After only a few weeks, I found a great area, between Jacksonville and Daytona Beach. I won’t say the name of the town, but it was small and quiet. The neighborhood I moved into was secluded and peaceful. It was a trailer park, on about fifty acres of land with a small lake in the middle and a large wooded area. There weren’t many trailers, maybe thirty or thirty-five with a lot of space between units and it had front and back access roads, which made it perfect for my needs.
I rented a large lot with a furnished double wide trailer near the back access road. The less people who saw me coming and going, the better.
It only took me about a week to settle in. Some of the other residents came by during that week to welcome me. I was congenial to them, knowing that it was better to have neighbors who were comfortable with you than angry and watchful.
I took on the role of a native Floridian, taking a break from work to rest and recharge my batteries. I had already familiarized myself with the state while I was in prison, reading several different books about it and a Fodor’s guide. Now, I just had to turn that book knowledge into practical application.
I visited historical places, tourist sites, museums; all of the places that people from Florida might be with. I drove the interstates, roads and rural routes from north of Pensacola to Key West. Familiarizing myself with the whole state; learning as much as I could about my new ‘stomping grounds.’ I learned a lot of good information, including the fact that there were literally thousands of different retirement communities spread out around the state; something I’d read, but had not internalized, I guess you could say. It was good to discover this though.
Plenty of retirees equaled plenty of money. Money that was just sitting there, ready for someone like me to come and take it.
I was still in great shape from all of the time I spent exercising in prison. I had spent three to four hours a day working out to keep in shape, in case some inmate tried something stupid, and in preparation for my life once I was released.
I also resumed my regimen of ingesting gold dust, starting it within a week of my release. I could feel my strength, stamina, and senses coming back to life, making me feel like I was finally myself again, the person I was supposed to be.
One of the first things I did once I had settled into my new home was get a membership. I went with a small gym in town instead of the other one there, which was a national franchise. If I was put into their database, I could possibly be tracked by the authorities. I always had to think things through when I moved, play out every scenario that could possibly happen. I had been to prison once. I had no plans of ever going back.
Before I had Caesar set up a meeting with Miguel DeFriese, I made absolute sure that I was ready. I worked for about six months, getting into businesses, homes, getting a ‘feel’ for what things were like in the Sunshine state. When I thought it was time, I made the call.
Miguel had me meet him at the weirdest place: a large hotel in Orlando that was hosting a Real Estate seminar. It was a free seminar that was open to the public. Caesar told me what time to be there and where to sit. 8:45am and on the left side, fourth row from the back, end of the row, near the exit.
I got there early and sat in the seat, sipping a cup of orange juice that I’d gotten from a table in the back. At 8:50am, a man sat down behind me, instructing me not to turn around. He introduced himself as Miguel DeFriese. His English wasn’t American, I could tell he had lived in Europe for some time, but really couldn’t distinguish exactly from where. I could smell distinctive cologne that I didn’t recognize. It smelled pretty good, without being overwhelming.
Miguel said that he’d gotten a call from T.Z. and that T.Z. had wanted him to meet with me and help me if he could. DeFriese said he was aware of the business I was in and what kind of help I was in need of. He then told me that this meeting would most likely be the only one we would ever have. Then he reached over my shoulder and handed me a small folded piece of paper with two names and phone numbers on them.
The first name was T.O. and the other was Wyatt Broderick. Before I had the chance to ask, DeFriese told me that T.O. was the best man to know when it came to getting rid of any car I could find. He also told me the man had two garages; one in Sarasota, and the other in West Palm Beach.
The other man, Broderick, or Brady for short, was DeFriese’s personal liaison, his go-through guy. Anything I picked up, other than cars, would be processed through him. There would be absolutely no contact between me and DeFriese at all. None. He was quite adamant about that.
He also mentioned that Brody would handle all goods, no matter the value as long as it had some resale potential.
That made things fairly easy for me. Whenever I would find a house with all new furniture and appliances, or full of antiques, and I was sure that the owners would be gone all day or if they were out of town, I would come back with a moving van and a couple of temporary workers I’d picked up down at the local day office, usually Mexicans, and clean out the entire house.
Of course, I would only do this if the house was separated from other homes by a good distance; away from nosy neighbors. And you know, there were plenty of these. Rich old people enjoyed their privacy. They felt safe, putting all of their trust in home security systems that I had extensive knowledge of.
After Miguel said what he had to say, he handed me a note. He said that T.O. and Brody would be in touch. He then said he had my contact info, and that he’d met me to get a feel for who I was, that he liked to know those he did business with. Then, without saying goodbye, DeFriese got up and slipped out the side exit door. I glanced back and caught a brief glimpse of his back as the door slid close.
I was a little puzzled. I had expected him to make a few threats, to tell me what would happen to me if I ever mentioned my business dealings with him or any of his people.
But, I guess when you’re dealing with men like Miguel or his boss T.Z. it’s understood that if you double-cross them, you’re committing suicide, and also killing your whole family.