Fold, Do Not Starch

Copyright © 2014, 2020 by Etienne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wherever possible, the syntax and spelling in this book follows guidelines set forth in The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition, and in the Merriam-Webster online dictionary.

Cover Art © 2014, 2020 by Gerald Lopez

Acknowledgments

My special thanks go to the following:

To my partner of twenty plus years, for his helpful comments and suggestions.

To Beta readers: Brandi, Joyce, Johanna, Murphy, Rich, and anyone else whose name might have gotten away from me (blame it on a senior moment, if you will), for their comments, and often extremely helpful suggestions.

And last, but far from least, my long-suffering editor Jim Kennedy. This book was originally published without his help, because he was not available at the time. But now, he has performed his usual miracle on the manuscript, and it is a much improved book.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Jim Kennedy, who has served long and faithfully as my personal editor. He has guided me through the often perplexing world of commas through twenty-five books, over the course of many years.

Thank you, Jim

Author’s Notes

Many people have written to inquire if the places described in the Avondale stories are real, and I'm happy to say that most of them are. Avondale is a very real neighborhood in Jacksonville, Florida, situated between Roosevelt Boulevard (US-17) and the St. Johns River. It is bounded on the northeast by McDuff Avenue which separates it from the neighborhood known as Riverside, and on the southwest by Fishweir Creek.

After the great fire of 1901 leveled much of downtown Jacksonville, destroying over two thousand buildings and leaving nearly ten thousand people homeless, the Springfield neighborhood immediately north of downtown was developed. Then the city began to move west and south along the St. Johns River, and first Riverside then Avondale were born. Said to be the first planned community in Florida, Avondale was developed in the nineteen twenties.

The restaurants frequented by our guys are very real, and pretty much as described in the stories:

The Derby House, sometimes referred to as Gorgi’s Derby House was a popular restaurant for several decades, until it closed circa 2011, give or take a year or so. It was the kind of neighborhood hangout where people seated themselves. After its closure, the building was remodeled, enlarged a bit, and a new restaurant emerged, known as The Derby on Park.

Biscottis, which opened in the fall of 1993, is a very popular restaurant located in the Avondale shopping area.

The Pizza Italian in Five Points, was opened by a Greek immigrant in the spring of 1976, and he dished out good pizza, wonderful lasagna, and the best meatball subs in town for just over forty-one years. Sadly, the restaurant closed in 2017, due to the owner’s age and health problems.

Richard's Sandwich Shop in Five Points, for more than three decades offered the best Camel Riders* in town. After more than thirty years in business, the owner sold the property and retired in 2016.

The Goal Post Sandwich Shop is located across the street from the complex that houses The Loop, and has been a fixture in the neighborhood for a very long time.

The Cool Moose Café has been serving breakfast and lunch to neighborhood residents for some thirty years.

The Loop Pizza Grill, home of the best grilled chicken sandwich in town and locally referred to simply as The Loop, began in Jacksonville in the late eighties, and has grown to several locations around town. The Avondale location, situated on Fishweir Creek, was popular for its deck, where one could sit and watch sea birds foraging in the tidal estuary while eating. Unfortunately, the entire complex was razed by developers in 2017, and replaced by apartments. The Loop moved to another location nearby, but that location, sadly, lacks a deck on the water.

*THE TERM Camel Rider might sound like a pejorative to some in today's politically correct society, but in Jacksonville—which has one of the largest Middle Eastern communities on the East Coast—it's the name of a sandwich offered at the numerous sandwich shops around town operated by people whose ancestors fled the economic decline and religious persecution of the Ottoman Empire. Predominately Christian, they came from Syria, Lebanon, and other parts of the Middle East and settled in Jacksonville during the early twentieth century and shortly before.

All of the sandwich shops offer sandwiches in a pocket of pita bread, and these sandwiches are called riders. The Camel Rider is a pita pocket stuffed with lettuce, slices of tomato, cheese, and cold cuts, with a bit of mustard and a dash of olive oil. The camel rider is a very simple, but amazingly satisfying sandwich.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the author

Contact the author

Other books by Etienne

Fold, Do Not Starch

(An Avondale Story

featuring George and Mike)

Revised edition

Etienne

Chapter 1

Jacksonville, FL

IT WAS A PLEASANT Saturday, and Mike, Robbie, and I were standing in line at The Loop on Fishweir Creek waiting to place an order. Immediately ahead of us in the line was my best female friend Deborah Cantrell. Deb, as she preferred to be called, was a study in contrasts. She was in her mid-thirties, and had run a highly successful specialty advertising business for a dozen years. In that context, she mingled with the movers and shakers of Jacksonville with ease, providing them with five hundred calendars, or five thousand pens containing their logo, or whatever else they thought they needed. On the other hand, she was as outrageous in her personal life as she was circumspect within the business community. Today she was dressed accordingly in an outfit that was both loud and colorful. The woman ahead of her in the line had set her baby on the counter to the right of the cash register, and was keeping one hand on the baby as she placed her order. The baby was clad only in a diaper.

The woman paid for her order, and slid the baby along the counter to the far end of the delivery area to wait for her order. In a rather loud voice, Deb said to the cashier, I hope you’re going to sanitize that counter before you put my food on it.

Excuse me? the cashier said.

I’m referring to the counter, where you place food orders for pickup. That baby has had its nasty diaper all over it, and I want that counter thoroughly disinfected before you set my order on its surface.

The woman, who’d heard everything—just as Deb had intended—gave Deb an ugly look, then snatched the baby off the counter and handed it to an older child, who was standing beside her. A tray containing her order was placed in front of her, and she grabbed it and stomped angrily away. Deb placed her order, paid for it, then again reminded the cashier that the counter absolutely had to be cleaned before her tray of food touched it. The cashier, knowing that she was outgunned, retrieved a spray bottle of disinfectant and proceeded to follow Deb’s instructions.

I placed an order for Mike, Robbie, and myself, paid for it, and moved to stand beside Deb to wait. Mike said, I’ll go outside and find a table on the deck for us, and left with Robbie in tow.

Deb cocked an eyebrow at me, as though she expected me to disagree with her, but I said, Don’t look at me, Deb, I agree with your sentiments about a clean counter.

But you’d have been more circumspect about it, right?

I’m a public employee, I said, so I have to be circumspect in public—unless of course, I’m arresting someone. Even then, I have to be reasonably polite to them.

Well, I don’t have to worry about such niceties, Deb said. She picked up the tray that had been placed on the counter in front of her, and added, See you on the deck.

When my order arrived, I carried it outside, and found the others sitting at a table near the end of the deck. We settled down to enjoy our lunch, and Deb said, What are you guys up to next weekend?

Mike and I have to make a quick trip to Maggie Valley to check on the carpenter’s progress.

Progress with what? she said.

We’re converting a portion of the recreation room in our mountain cabin into a couple of spare bedrooms, Mike said. We’re flying up Saturday morning, and will be back Sunday afternoon.

And I get to spend the weekend with my friend Anthony, Robbie said.

Was there a reason for your question, Deb? I said.

Not really, she said, I was just making conversation.

Maggie Valley, NC

WE DROPPED ROBBIE off at his friend Anthony’s house after school the following Friday, and were in the air an hour later. Fortunately for us, one of Mike’s extremely grateful clients was a huge firm of ambulance chasers, and they allowed him the use of a plane pretty much any weekend he needed one. They were careful to only use the plane for business purposes, so when Mike used it, they invoiced him for it, and he repaid them with billable hours of computer service. Since Waynesville didn’t have an airport, we had to land in Asheville and rent a car for the thirty-five mile trip to Maggie Valley and our cabin.

As we approached the turn to Waynesville on I-40, Mike said, Shall we stop by the grocery store and pick up some perishables?

We’re only going to be here for two nights, so let’s treat ourselves to restaurant food.

Works for me.

At the cabin, Mike pulled the rental car into the garage, and we went straight into the former recreation room to take a look at the carpenter’s handiwork. The recreation room, as originally built, had occupied the entire ground floor of the cabin, except for the garage, a full bath, laundry room, and two small storage rooms, and the stairway to the main floor above. Partitioning off two small bedrooms had used up about two-thirds of the space, with plenty of room left over for a playroom for Robbie.

We examined both bedrooms carefully, and Mike said, Joe’s Uncle John did a good job. Joe was one of two local boys—young men actually, who maintained the grounds around the cabin, as well as the yards of our rental properties in Asheville.

So did his friend, the electrician, I said, as I clicked a light switch on and off in one of the rooms.

Time to write the final checks, then, he said.

Yep. I’ll give him a call and see if he wants to stop by, or meet us in Waynesville.

We could fly home tomorrow, if you like.

And miss another evening sitting on the deck listening to the stream. Bite your tongue.

Sorry, I misspoke.

Saturday, we met Joe’s Uncle John in front of the Sweet Onion Restaurant in downtown Waynesville, thanked him for handling the job, and gave him checks for himself and the electrician before we went inside to have lunch. The rest of the day—and for that matter, the next morning—was spent on the deck of our cabin enjoying the very noisy stream that ran through our property.

Jacksonville, FL

AS SOON AS WE’D landed in Jacksonville, we went straight from Herlong Airport to pick up Robbie, and were home shortly thereafter.

The days hurried along, and before I knew it, October was almost over, and I was looking forward to taking almost an entire week off for Thanksgiving, difficult though that might be. Under normal circumstances, taking a week off at Thanksgiving—or at any other time, for that matter—was only a matter of logistics. On the positive side, as a captain in the Jacksonville, Florida Sheriff’s Office, I accrued so many days of leave for each month of time served. And Mike, my best friend since childhood, and partner, was self-employed, so he pretty much dictated his own schedule—subject to the needs of his clients.

On the negative side, as the youngest captain in the department, I could take leave time when, and only when, other captains with more seniority than me were not doing so. Also on the negative side, but definitely a mixed blessing in terms of vacation schedules, was the fact that Mike and I had, nearly two years earlier, adopted a recently orphaned not quite six-year-old, who we’d found living in the shed that housed the emergency generator at our cabin in Maggie Valley, North Carolina. These days, our vacation plans had to work around his school schedule.

After a year spent in the first grade in one of the best private schools in the city—St. Mark’s Episcopal Day School—Robbie had earned an opportunity to spend the current school year in a sort of limbo; that is, he spent part of his day with the second grade, and the balance of his day with the third grade. At the end of the school year, he would, grades permitting, be moved to the fourth grade, thereby skipping a grade. Robbie had, not surprisingly, asked if his friend Anthony could come with us on our Thanksgiving trip.

Sure, I said, provided his daddies agree.

Anthony doesn’t have daddies.

Of course he does, kiddo. He has two of them.

Dad! he said in the exasperated tone that only a child can produce, Anthony has two uncles.

Okay, I give up. Why don’t we go pay Anthony and his family a visit? You can issue the invitation while we’re there.

Cool.

I called Kevin Boxer, Anthony’s uncle, to see if he and David Majors, his partner, were going to be home over the weekend, which prompted him to invite us to bring Robbie over to use their pool one last time before they covered it for the season. It was mid-afternoon on Saturday when we arrived at Kevin and David’s house in the Murray Hill neighborhood, which was situated just across the Roosevelt Boulevard and the CSX main line from the Avondale neighborhood where we lived. When we got there, the pool was already in use.

Kevin and David were tossing Anthony in the air, much to his delight, and Mrs. Simpson, Kevin’s grandmother, was sitting at a table under an umbrella watching them. Kevin and David had gone to Iowa a couple years earlier to attend his grandfather’s funeral; and they’d invited Kevin’s grandmother to come home with them to stay. Not too long after that, Kevin’s older brother had unceremoniously dumped Anthony in their laps—he was getting married for the third or fourth time; and neither he, nor his intended had any interest in raising a child. Kevin and David had adopted the little boy, who was about a year younger than Robbie.

Anthony spotted us first, and hollered, Look, Uncle Kevin, it’s Robbie.

Hi, guys, Kevin said.

We spent a minute or two greeting everyone, and talking to Mrs. Simpson. Finally, Robbie couldn’t stand it any longer.

Dad, can I get into the pool, now?

Sure, I said.

He slipped out of his shorts and sandals, and pulled off his T-shirt, revealing that he was already wearing his bathing suit, and jumped into the pool. We followed suit, only much more slowly. An hour later, during a lull in the noise coming from the pool, Mrs. Simpson announced that she was going to the kitchen to retrieve the food.

I guess it’s time to get out, Kevin said.

Do we hafta, Uncle Kevin? Anthony said.

Yeah, do we hafta, Dad? Robbie said.

We need to be out of the pool and dry by the time Anthony’s grandmother returns with the food, Kevin said.

Ditto, I said.

When Mrs. Simpson returned carrying a platter of food, we were out of the pool and ready.

Can I help you with anything, Grandma? David said. He’d begun calling Kevin’s grandmother Grandma, early in their relationship.

Sure, she said, you can get the cooler of soda. It’s kind of heavy for an old lady.

Robbie waited until everyone’s mouth was full before he started talking about our planned trip for Thanksgiving week.