The guy downstairs: The full picture

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This is number three in a series. I’m not sure if there will be one after this one, but I’m pretty sure there are two before. You may want to read the others (ugh, I know, what a drag)  before starting this one. Just a suggestion, though. Do as you wish.

The Lexus is always there. For days it doesn’t move and then for days it disappears. Oh, and just because the Lexus is parked outside, doesn’t mean he’s in the apartment. I doubt he gets his “real estate” clients to pick him up and drop him off. And I know the market is bad, but I’m sure he could afford to turn on a light or two. Even the TV. For a second. To watch Ellen.

Recently, he had people over. An entourage of two men, a woman and a child that arrived in two, beautifully souped-up Mercedes Benz sedans that had just been waxed and polished at the dealer. Two identical cars for three-and-a-half people. I can only imagine they each take their Hummers for road trips to Disney World while pulling their 32 foot boat.

About an hour before the entourage arrived, the guy downstairs arrived in his Lexus with a lady friend. He hadn’t been there all weekend. At least his car hadn’t. Yet, there he was, about to host a little get together in his “investment” apartment.

All night I heard a woman’s voice scream the menu of beers to them from the fridge. “Heineken, Presidente o Corona” I heard a child run around and get into messes. Everyone tried to entertain the kid, but it seemed everyone was much better at just yelling at it. “Don’t touch that!” I heard the cling sound each bottle made over and over as they were tossed in the garbage. I heard their slurred conversation screamed over a way-to-loud TV blaring fight commentary.

This went on well after midnight.

I paced furiously. Normally I wouldn’t have even considered calling the cops over a loud TV and drunken cheering, but it was the fact that I felt like I couldn’t call the cops. Now, calling the cops represented the possibility of angering potential mobsters, which may or may not lead to my apartment being vandalized or getting whacked by the washing machine by some burly man.

So I sat down, armed with an ergonomic keyboard and unlimited access to the Property Appraiser’s and County Clerk’s public records and began my descent into that dark space in the brain where your imagination is darker, cynical and conspires to make realities something bigger than they are – or are they?

My first step was to find out his name. And knowing his address, I found it in the Property Appraiser’s database. Then, I searched that same database with his Eastern European first name followed by his incredibly common Spanish last name and received two hits for two properties, both purchased in 2009. Those two apartments I mentioned in the last blog you should’ve read already (See, I told you it was important). Then, I found that both mortgage deeds were under two different mailing addresses. Neither address points to a real house, according to Google Maps. So, I looked up the addresses and found that only one was valid in the Property Appraiser’s database.

The valid address was under a husband and wife with the same last name as the guy downstairs.

Must be his parents.

So I looked them up too.

According to the Clerk of Public records, his “parents” sued a hospital for under $1,000 back in the 70’s on behalf of their son…who is NOT the guy downstairs! Upon further investigation, his “parents” took out a second mortgage in the 80’s and then they disappeared. Poof. The house listed as the guy downstairs’ mailing address is still under their name, but they are otherwise untraceable.

Weird.

It is completely impossible that those missing old fogies are his parents. His aunt and uncle, maybe. Some random old people that happen to have his same last name that he murdered and buried in the backyard with their son and had their house demolished? Now that’s a story.

But that’s just his recent mailing address. At least he didn’t live there in 2008. That’s when he was kicked out of his apartment for defaulting on his rent. It is also not the address listed in the legal papers that name him co-plaintiff, along with an X-Ray place, which state that an insurance company settled with the parties for an undisclosed amount.

I’ll come back to that later. I’m more interested in his mailing address.

Why can’t Google find this house? Will my GPS?

Expedition to the mystery mailing address to follow. Photos will be posted if I’m not warped into an episode of Lost.

P.S. I woke up this morning to: “If he can read, you’re going to get us killed!”

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2 responses »

  1. Yelling out names of beers to your houseguests. Classy with a capital K. Oh don’t worry. He can’t read lol. Let’s hope that he turns this apartment over quickly and leaves. That’s the thing that bugs me about living in SoFl, chances are that you will have to live next to scum even though you’re a decent person. Omg, don’t even look at him. Whatch out!

    • I’m telling you, the guy is ga-ross! I’m going to take a break from this series until next week, so I can put together the photoshopped pictures of my expedition to the grassy knoll of his mailing address.

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