The guard dog’s name was Bing, and he was a supposedly intimidating German shepherd. Something had gone wrong with his genetics, though, because he was probably the goofiest German shepherd on the planet.
One of his ears flopped down over his furry forehead instead of standing tall. He loved people, hated loud noises and couldn’t successfully guard a mousehole — let alone the Native American jewelry store that was his assigned “territory.”
So one day in 1978, when I was the store’s lone salesperson and two scary-looking guys walked in, I knew Bing would be useless as backup.
Granted, the southwestern-themed store was an unusual business for subtropical Key West. It was owned by a New Jersey man who called himself Geronimo and swore he had been adopted by a New Mexico tribe.
Some of the jewelry was stunning — an inlaid cuff bracelet by master silversmith Charles Loloma, a necklace of breathtaking blue-green turquoise from Nevada’s Carico Lake mine, and numerous pieces crafted by the legendary Begay clan — all gleaming in polished perfection in the glass-topped cases.
The store, however, was shabby. The pago-pago floor covering was dirty and the life-size Navajo figures out front, though beautifully made, were tattered with age.
Bing and I were alone in the store when the two guys came in. The stockier one, with tattoos and shoulder-length curls, wore scruffy jeans and a leather biker vest. The other looked like a pirate, bearded and imposing, with an arrogant gait.
I edged closer to the silent alarm button.
Bing wagged his tail and surged forward to be petted.
As it turned out, the dog’s instincts were better than mine — because the two men were customers with money. The biker introduced himself as “Sideways from Scallywag’s Bar,” and showed me a silver skull ring that he wanted replicated in gold with ruby eyes.
While Sideways prowled the store, the pirate made conversation with me. His deep voice was mesmerizing, and he wasn’t scary after all.
Two afternoons later, I sat with Sideways, Geronimo, Bing and the pirate at Scallywag’s, a biker bar on Duval. As Geronimo and Sideways discussed the skull ring, the pirate and I chatted.
Suddenly a scrawny patron everyone called “Mad Jack” appeared. Bowing, he gave me a rose — apparently purchased from a strolling flower vendor. Despite the glint of lunacy in Jack’s eyes, it was a nice gesture.
Not to be outdone, the pirate marched out the bar’s side door, returned with a sprig of flowers from a nearby bush, and presented it to me.
Somehow we all (including Bing) wound up having dinner at Mad Jack’s house — a beautiful but tumbledown Victorian with vines covering the exterior walls and balcony, and a first-floor room decorated like a bordello.
It was one of those Key West nights when the air was supercharged and practically shimmering, and you knew something wild and unforgettable was about to happen.
It happened the moment an irate neighbor stalked into Mad Jack’s dining room.
Jack leaped up from the dinner table with a yell, grabbed an electric chainsaw that lay on a nearby bookcase (why?) and started its motor. Before anyone could react, Jack began chasing his neighbor around the room, brandishing the saw as it buzzed ferociously.
Eventually the neighbor escaped unscathed; the pirate confiscated the chainsaw, and Jack calmed down. That’s when we discovered Bing was missing.
Twenty minutes later we found our guard dog (whose job title would shortly be changed to “canine companion”) hiding under the couch.
Looking back on that night now, I can’t help but smile. Despite the confusion, and even the chainsaw, it was one of those occasions that helped define the wacky and wonderful Key West life back then — and like other survivors of that era, I wouldn’t trade the memories for anything.
