WHITE SHADOW

Few people outside of those who have lived in Tampa seem to know of its vibrant, diverse culture and violent, often troubled past. A unique mix of Latin (Spanish, Cuban), Italian, Cracker, African American (with a sprinkling of other backgrounds thrown in) produced a special place regionally and historically. Racist, conservative whites shared the streets with radical, leftist cigar workers. A thriving port, nearby farms and groves (strawberries, guava, citrus, cattle), and industrial city (initially cigars) attracted as well thousands of tourists and travelers. And during the early twentieth century Tampa’s loose control of gambling, liquor, and prostitution garnered interest from organized crime, ranging from Mafia types, homegrown toughs, and  international interests. Corruption was rampant from the highest levels of government on down. With such an interesting and varied milieu, it is strange that so few novels have set their action in the city and county (Hillsborough).  From 1970 until 1989 I lived in this wonderful town (actually just outside of it), and was captured by its history and people. Not to mention Cuban sandwiches that I passionately love. In college I studied history, and my master’s covered the Depression era on the west coast of Florida (primarily focusing on Tampa, however). I love Ybor City. It is this background that almost guaranteed that I would read Ace Atkins’ White Shadow (2007), a historical thriller that closely follows the investigation into the murder of bolita (gambling) kingpin and local legend Charlie Wall in 1955. Almost every page brought to mind a sight, sound, or taste to my memory, and even included individuals I had met or knew about. Atkins obviously did a lot of research to get the background right, and even when he takes liberties with the actual story (for literary purposes) he reveals a complicated time and place as accurately as any I have read. The story is told through the eyes of a young newspaperman, as well as in third person following the detective who is determined to catch the culprit(s). Into the mix is thrown a young radical Cuban girl, who after seeking revenge for the murder of her father, gets mixed up in gangster activities and lands among the colorful community carved out by retired carnival workers (many of them sideshow performers) in the southern boundary of the county. Some of the action also takes place in Havana. Real-life larger than life characters from Santo Trafficante, Fidel Castro, to lesser-known cops, bartenders, reporters and prostitutes fill the pages. Although locals will enjoy this book, I also think snowbirds and other northerners will like it as well. I think it is time to go back home for a visit.

NEWLYWEDS

Wishing much good luck and happiness to my sister Beth and her new husband Brad.

EASTER

A picture from Easter gathering at Bobbie's & Beth's compound in southern Georgia (for the latter's wedding as well). Herewith the senior Tidd boys: Me, Dad, and Paul. Luckily the shading has me essentially hidden, so no one will be hurt during viewing. We went on a golfing (well, ok, more viewing and drinking than golfing) excursion to local course.

MOCKINGBIRDS

I interrupted

two mockingbirds a-coupled

grey feathers flying.

IMPRESSIONISM

While driving to an Eagle project yesterday, Chimo started asking questions about what differentiated humans from other mammals, and I said among other things it was most important that humans produced art---of many kinds---that could inspire and awe. This afternoon I decided to drop in at the Columbia Museum of Art to catch its "Impressionism from Monet to Matisse," a wonderful collection of paintings by such household names as Renoir, Degas, Monet, Cezanne, Chagall, Seurat, as well as probably lesser-known artists such as Braque, Sisley, Forain, and Lepine. What an amazing show featuring great artists that many locally would not normally get a chance to enjoy. Oddly enough the two paintings I liked the best might be borderline (and not even) classified as impressionist. Edmond Georges Grandjean's "Changing Horses" is beautiful; I can't remember any horse painters that were better. Two giant white horses dominate the large canvas. I also liked Jean-François Raffaëlli, whose work seemed like a transition from realist to impressionist. On the other end of the spectrum falls Cezanne's "Trees and Rocks," which is darn near modernist. Probably my favorite piece, especially when viewed around ten feet away was Albert Marquet's "Blue Boat at Porquerolles." The water practically shimmered. Monet's "The Seine at Giverny" is a pastel, foggy delight, depicting a grouping of trees on the bank of a river. There were several ballet paintings and drawings from Degas (of course), Toulouse-Latrec, and others. Dance seemed a perfect theme for the impressionist quick style. Seurat's "The Picnic" seemed to reveal his path toward painting with the dots.  There were more than fifty works displayed, and Columbia is lucky to have them for a short while.

SCOUTING FOR FOOD

Chimo and Joey during Scouting for Food (2013) at Cooperative Ministries with the day's haul.

ADVENTURES OF DUFFY DEAN, DETECTIVE

It’s always a dame. Yes, this truth I have learned many times over, and I’m not catting around. In my case, there are many dames, of course, and they shall likely be the death of me. My main dame, rock of my existence, however, is my babe Sarah, but this tale has little to do with her. Nor my many mistresses, no. This story is about a dame who interrupted my normal sleuthing duties.

It was a dark and stormy night. I was sitting at my normal perch, feet up on Sarah’s computer keyboard, when there was a knock. I could barely see a profile through the translucent pet door, but I could smell her Chanel #5. I set down my absinthe. I don’t always drink absinthe, but when I do . . .well,  I really have no idea why. I called for her to enter. The flap wasn’t locked.

I nearly fell off the table. Dressed in sheer blue velvet, with a wide-brimmed hat sporting plumage from several different breeds, she sashayed into my room. I’ll have you know that I am a feather fetishist, but let’s keep that between us. She had curves that wouldn’t stop, a squashed nose that of an aristocat, and enormous blue eyes you could have swam in. Skinny dipping immediately came to mind. Margaret Keane would have drooled to paint them.

“What’s a broad like you doing in a seedy neighborhood like this?” I asked. I was relieved that my maid had recently changed out the litter box.

“I was looking for help,” she purred cattily. “And I heard you were the top.” Oh, what she didn’t know! I played it cool, though, but my whiskers were thrumming like strings on Hendrix’s guitar.

“What should I call you.” There were many names already swirling about the crevasses of my feline brain. But then she stopped my heart.

“Kitty Boo Boo. But you can called me Boo.”

I almost melted. I recognized her now. She had sent me a card. The online photos did not do her justice.

Quickly I was to my feet. I knew we should talk in more intimate surroundings. “It’s late. I was heading over for some Indian cuisine. Wanna join me for some curried tuna and nan?”

A sensuous smile cracked her beautiful face, and she said, “Why not.”

I knew I was being foolish, heading off into dangerous territory, but it was a path I’d take a thousand times just to hold her delicate paw again.

[Join us tomorrow as we continue The Adventures of Duffy Dean, Detective on this radio channel.]