| TRAVELS OF DURSMIRG VOLUME IV THE ROGUES OF ST. AUGUSTINE AND OTHER SOCIAL MISFITS Chapter 37 |
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FLAMINGO APARTMENTS and the historic land it sat upon
A brief history of this place known as the Fountain of Youth;
Yes, this truly is where Don Juan Ponce de Leon the Spanish conquistador first set foot ashore in North America.
On his seven month exploration cruise that began in San Juan, Puerto Rico, where he was governor at the time. In
the quest for the fabled Fountain of Youth and any other things of value this is where his journey would ultimately
lead him.
Up a small creek known today as Hospital Creek there is a monument to commemorate this monumentally historic
landing at this very spot on Easter Sunday March 27, 1513.
(This monument is within the premises of the present day tourist attraction known as the “Fountain of Youth” on
Magnolia Street a few blocks north of the old Spanish fort on St. Augustine’s waterfront.)
This story wouldn’t be complete without a mention of one of the previous owners of this particular piece of historical
property where the present day tourist attraction is located.
Luella Day McConnell also known as “Diamond Lil, The Lady named Lou”.
This extraordinarily provocative lady found her way to St. Augustine around 1900 at the height of Henry Flagler’s
extravagant expansionism along with a large bundle of money.
Sporting a diamond in her front tooth “Diamond Lil” quickly became St. Augustine’s number one most colorful female
character in the hay-day of Henry Flagler’s wildest spending spree as St. Augustine shed its isolated past.
She wrote a book entitled “Tragedy of the Klondike”.
Reputed to have been educated as a physician she also claimed that she was the “Lady named Lou” from the
famous poem by Robert Service; “The Shooting of Dan McGrew”.
Meet the real Luella Day McConnell here in this all-time favorite classic poem by Robert Service;
The Shooting of Dan McGrew by Robert Service
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a rag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.
When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There’s men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that’s known as Lou.
His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway,
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play.
Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars? —
Then you've a hunch what the music meant . . . hunger and might and the stars.
And hunger not of the belly kind, that’s banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowded with a woman’s love —
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true —
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that’s known as Lou.)
Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil’s lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart’s despair, and it thrilled you through and through —
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew.
The music almost dies away . . . then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill . . . then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell . . . and that one is Dan McGrew."
Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark;
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that’s known as Lou.
These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it’s so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —
The woman that kissed him — and pinched his poke — was the lady known as Lou.”
Diamond Lil purchased the land at 155 Magnolia Street according to the city directory and there built a palatial
home. In 1909 while having a well dug on her premises she also discovered an old Indian burial ground.
It has been said that she was not beyond slight fabrications in her perpetuations of old history tales.
During WWI Diamond Lil was jailed as an “enemy agent” after she attempted to do business with some German
developers to build a hotel on her property. She was not released until after the war was over.
War hysteria and terror driven obsessive paranoia knew no limits and this poor woman was locked away without the
slightest hope of rational resolution.
This clipping appeared in the St. Augustine Record Nov 1, 1980;
(Photo above of “Louella” Day McConnell, “Diamond Lil’s home located on the Fountain of Youth
grounds. This photo was taken in the early 1900s. The house was later moved to another site on
Magnolia Street and used for a time as a military academy before demolition after WWII. )
“Diamond Lil McConnell” continued to fabricate stories about Ponce de Leon’s discovery of the Fountain of Youth
and amuse and appall St. Augustine’s residents until a car crash took her life in 1927.
Her legendary status lives on in the pages of Page Edwards’s novel “American Girl” and is one of the characters in
Karen Davey’s “Darling Daughters, St. Augustine’s Feisty Females 1565-2000
This dynamic dame of Klondike fame came to St. Augustine to re-discover Ponce de Leon’s historical claim.
Here is a brief narrative of how Jane and I became involved with this intriguingly controversial and very
historical Fountain of Youth property;
We had just completed six fabulous years of sailing and cruising while living aboard our 46 foot dream boat
Dursmirg which we had built by ourselves.
We went where the wind blows when the spirit moved us and where the price was right.
Now we were forced to shift gears in life and seize the moment to our advantage.
With run away inflation in the late 1970s eating up our savings Jane and I had made the painful decision that it was
time for us to look seriously for an inflation proof investment. We needed one that would save our financial nest egg
from the post Vietnam War 22% run-away inflation that was literally destroying our fixed pension plan and savings
account.
This led us to a serious search for the most leveraged investment with a positive cash flow to see us through this
very distressful financial time in our nation’s history.
Upon looking through the places we knew so well it quickly became apparent that the most economically depressed
place in the entire state of Florida at the time was St. Johns County mostly because of the fact that in the1960s four
months of race riots and martial law brought about a ten year federally sanctioned withdrawal of all funds for federal
loans and other projects as punishment. The two Arab oil embargos in the 1970s did the finishing touches to the
local economy…St. John’s County was in financial shambles.
Now it would be up to us to put this inflationary action to work for us instead of against us. We were looking for
owner financed income property with a positive cash flow plus the possibility of a handy man special we could
upgrade at the same time.
We got busy and dedicated our full efforts to scouting out possibilities in and around St. Augustine and made this
hunt into our full time focused project.
After several weeks of failed attempts and a large number of investigations on our own and with realtors that lead to
dead ends our hopes were sinking but I was following up on all possible leads.
Our good friend and boating associate Bob Baker stopped over to our boat Dursmirg one night for a chat as we
were anchored out in the Matanzas Bay near the City Yacht Pier. I told Bob of our exasperations in finding income
property that was owner financed and he then told us about a deal he had been looking at and working on but
couldn’t raise the down payment for.
This was an old apartment house that was definitely a handyman special but the owner was nearly impossible to
negotiate with.
The next morning while Jane was working at the St. George Tavern filling in for her sick friend, Mary Metter, I got on
my bicycle and headed north to the Flamingo Apartments.
The structure was a huge imposing three story building that dated back to the 1940s. The location was tucked away
on a very quiet side street in a heavily wooded neighborhood of ancient oaks and towering magnolia trees adjacent
to the fabled Fountain of Youth tourist attraction with a very lovely uninterrupted sea breeze and ocean inlet view.
I knocked on the door of the bungalow cottage house hidden away from the street behind the apartment building in
a well established but neglected garden filled with ancient oaks eerily hanging with Spanish moss, lofty palms and
fragrant scented aromatic southern red cedars that had a small unimposing sign that merely read “office”.
A petite, pleasant gray haired little woman with ghostly white skin near 60 years of age answered the door with a
condescending but arrogant and at the same time gracious smirky smile of the cat that had eaten the canary and
asked me if there was anything that she could do for me.
As I sized her up and scrutinized her, my first impression was that she was in total control of the household and knew
her position well. She at the same time was making some judgments of me with my straw hat, shorts and sandals.
Having arrived by bicycle I am sure her evaluation was that I probably couldn’t afford the security deposit on one of
her antiquated apartments. She was at least going to humor me for the moment when she heard that I was
interested in buying the business and invited me to come in to their glassed-in Florida room stacked high with
unopened packing boxes she was curious to hear what my story could possibly be.
As I stepped into the house I had the distinct impression that Mrs. Falconer was the lady spider enticing me into her
awaiting web and I was there to be feasted upon.
In a half hour we both had sounded each other out enough so that she thought it would be good to meet my wife
and for me to meet her husband so we made an appointment for that evening.
In spite of the fact that the Falconers thought that Jane and I couldn’t possibly afford their business they were at
least getting desperate enough to hunt down all leads and after all, we were at least interested.
Over the next few weeks I made contact with the Falconer’s several times but found a lukewarm response to my
further inquiries. All this time I was diligently pursuing every possible lead that we had but nothing worth our
commitment materialized.
The fall season was approaching and Jane and I both decided that we wouldn’t find what we were looking for in St.
Augustine so we would set sail with our Dursmirg for yet another winter season down in the Florida Keys.
Before we pulled anchor I left a brief note at the apartment building stating that we would be leaving the following
morning but we were still interested and that they could contact us by mail.
That evening I was surprised to find a note attached to our dinghy at the City Yacht Pier saying that we should come
over to the apartments that evening to talk serious business. Well, we went over to the apartments with our bicycles
that evening and sure enough Ken and Helen were eager sellers but wouldn’t budge one single cent on the price.
We gave a security deposit in exchange for a buy-sell agreement and made arrangements for the closing to take
place at the office of their lawyer, Sonny Weinstein two days later…the story continues.
A word about Sonny Weinstein;
Sonny Weinstein; good lawyer and perhaps the best that St. Augustine had to offer back in the 1970s.
It was said about Sonny Weinstein that even the devil was afraid of him.
A Spanish saying; “A good lawyer makes a bad neighbor”. Well, in the end Sonny Weinstein became our neighbor.
Sonny Weinstein’s only son had recently shot and killed someone with a high powered rifle who was driving past
their home in a car.
Sonny eventually got his homicidal son off this murder rap, but he spent a huge fortune doing so.
This only goes on to prove the saying about America that it is far better to be rich and guilty than poor and innocent.
We first met Sonny Weinstein when we closed the deal on the purchase of the Flamingo Apartments located next to
the Fountain of Youth on Dufferin Street.
Sonny represented the sellers, Ken and Helen Falconer as their lawyer and didn’t mind slipping in a few extra
clauses favoring the Falconers in the signed closing statement before he recorded it.
The addendums snuck into the recorded mortgage made Jane and I responsible for the Falconer’s adjacent
property that included the upkeep, mowing and cleaning of it.
Sonny was a nice guy, he was friendly and cordial but the buck stopped with him and he always made sure that
every deal had a little something in it for him.
When we later bought a piece of waterfront property from the Falconers we asked Sonny to guarantee the riparian
rights to us. We told Sonny that we didn’t care how he did it and we wouldn’t ask any questions but we wanted those
property rights for river access easements to be a contingent of closing the deal.
This was no problem for a very savvy and sharp Sonny Weinstein.
We got 640 feet of riverfront property from our 100 foot lot that happened to have a pie shaped piece of property
adjacent that was not clearly defined as belonging to anybody at the end of Dufferin Street. The marsh front lot had
an expanse of natural salt marsh grass extending out more than 400 feet to Hospital Creek.
That small wedge near shore became an enormous pie after 400 plus feet and thus we wound up with our 640 feet
of river frontage.
We were happy.
When Jane and I had problems with city hall regarding our Flamingo Apartments that were thanks to the cat that ate
the canary, Helen Falconer, the previous owner and mortgage holder who complained to the city building inspection
department that we were doing our own work; it was Sonny Weinstein that got those city hall extortionist bastards off
our back.
Back to our convoluted purchase of the Flamingo Apartments;
The wheels were now in motion and we would have to have a cashiers check for $40,000 to cover the down
payment at closing time. We sold stock and cashed bonds to make up the money that turned out to be the largest
check that Jane or I had ever personally written at the time.
Mrs. Helen Falconer confidentially told us that we could make a lot of extra money collecting forfeited deposits from
disgruntled tenants leaving early before their contract period was up.
We soon found out that Helen knew exactly how to grab every last buck, and she was indeed the cat that ate the
canary.
The problem was that we would soon be her next canaries as we stepped into this entangling financial spider web.
We were told that the Chamber of Commerce would be a big help to our new business and that we should keep up
the membership so we did and found out we were not members and were only paying the Falconer’s
membership…now that did not pay.
Ken Falconer after the closing told me that he read the water meter every day and kept an accurate chart of water
consumption in the event of a water leak somewhere in the building. Come to find out the pressure water system
was in dire need of total replacement, something we sadly found out early one morning when the police came to
awaken us aboard our boat at 2 AM. The policeman advised us that water was pouring down the three story
staircase of the apartment house.
(We had an arrangement at that time with San Sebastian Marine to tie our boat at the boatyard in exchange for
being the night watchmen and that was where we slept aboard our docked boat.)
When we bought the apartments we bought a job and I became among other things; “The skin diver for Rotor-
Rooter”.
Our old hippie sailing buddy and vagabond traveling companion Bubba Schill when he heard that we had purchased
the apartments maintained that now we were “born again capitalists” and “slum lords”.
We had never thought of it in that perspective before but upon taking an objective view thought that Bubba just
might be on to something with his witty and cynical remarks.
The first day we were owners of the apartments Jane was washing clothes in the laundry room when Helen, the
previous owner stopped by. Helen excitedly told Jane that someone was washing clothes and it was Sunday, oh my
god!
Jane explained that the clothes were hers and we were the owners now and free to set the rules. Helen stomped off
in a stormy and snooty snit of a huff and never called us again.
The mysterious ceramic tile story;
One quiet afternoon in 1980 after we had owned the apartments several years I was sitting in our recently renovated
office at the Flamingo Apartments for our traditional PM coffee break.
This is when I spotted a curious elderly gentleman modestly dressed lurking and from all intent appearances
suspiciously snooping around the premises.
I immediately sprang up and went out to inquire;
“Are you looking for something?”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
The inquisitive old fellow nonchalantly addressed me like I was some underling flunky employee. He indifferently and
casually seemed to size me up in a fleeting glance like he was preoccupied with some vital mission that had him
distracted in deep thought.
My sudden appearance threw him off for an instant and I could see him fishing around in his mind for a likely
response.
He cleared his throat, stammered slightly and then came out with his response. “I am Mr. Chaires. I am the former
owner of the Flamingo Apartments”.
I was surprised because I had never laid eyes on this man before but recognized the name from the mortgage
documents we had signed with the closing statements upon our purchase.
I invited him into our newly finished office and offered Mr. Chaires a seat.
He began by giving Jane and I a recapped history of his years at the Flamingo Apartments, originally a WWII military
school, which he had divided up into apartments.
Next old Mr. Chaires related a story of a tenant he once had who worked with the crew that replaced the ceramic
floor tiles in the old cathedral.
We heard some of the colorful stories that surrounded those floor tiles that were installed back during the British
occupation in the early 1800s.
We were told that the tiles had been manufactured at Stoke-on Trent, Staffordshire in central England and then they
made their arduous way to St. Augustine. First they traveled by canal boat along the narrow canals drawn by horses
that plodded the tow-paths. They went all the way to the seaport city of Liverpool. Next the tiles were conveyed with
physically manual labor from the narrow canal boats to the waiting sailing vessel that would ply the heavy cargo
across the Atlantic Ocean to the remote and isolated out post city of St. Augustine at that time only accessible from
the sea.
After arriving in St. Augustine harbor the British sailing ship would anchor and its freight be loaded into lighters and
rowed ashore. Then the tiles would be loaded into horse drawn wagons and transported to their final destination at
the Cathedral Street location. This was a very strenuously onerous and extremely protracted voyage before the age
of steam power.
Back to Mr. Chaires and the mysterious ceramic tiles;
Mr. Chaires asked me if I discovered the two crates of tiles under the south patio trace.
I told him, “No I had not”.
He then asked me if I wanted to part with them and again I said, “No”.
After Mr. Chaires left that afternoon I dashed over and sure enough right where the two cases were supposed to
have been two owners previously…there they were.
Those authentic old tiles held a mysterious story linked to St. Augustine’s twisted and convoluted past.
City building inspectors; Jim Pranks/Dick MacMall (Oct 27, 1979)
Over the years Jane and I built a number of homes and developed several properties in and around the St.
Augustine area so we became well acquainted with the building department in a big and intimate way.
One of our first lessons was that the building department had their own set of rules that could comply with the
“Southern Building Code” or St. Augustine’s very own special set of rules that contradicted the “Southern Building
Code”.
The thing that made this an ideal situation for extortion was that these rules were enforced selectively. If you
happened to be selected for a shake-down there was positively no way on earth that you could ever meet their
standards because whatever you had or did they made sure that you were wrong and would have to pay blood
money.
St. Augustine had its own dynasty political power that controlled all commerce with a silent iron hand.
If you happened to be one of the powerful insiders or could pay off city hall or actually “owned” the politicians good
things could happen for you like zoning variations or permits and licenses. There were even police that used their
power of extortion for favors.
This was all part of the dangerous and very corrupt game of influence peddling and extortion.
An elite closed circuit group enacted the Historic Preservation and Zoning Board and wrote their own rules to suit
themselves within the Old City’s downtown section.
I used to joke about their historic preservation rules that had no basis on any particular timeline in the cities history.
“This wasn’t colonial America it was early depression!”
As part of their land grab they adopted a political shell-game designating real estate as a “Passive Park” to
condemn it much like “eminent domain”. These rulings were used at their own discretion when it became profitable.
One interesting thing that I noted in the Southern Building Code was the mandate that potable water was to be
supplied to all homes via copper piping soldered together with lead solder. The argument that I received for this was
that in the event of a fire PVC pipe would emit harmful gases.
Well, that is so terribly ironic because it so happens that the poisonous heavy metals of copper and lead when in the
environment of chlorinated water especially if it is heated like it is in a hot water heater that leaches out deadly toxins
that kill slowly. These deadly heavy metals the government mandated that you must have in your home drinking
water supply if they were going to give you your permit to occupy.
What ever lobbyist could possibly have passed that insanely disgusting law off on the American public should be
sued for health crimes against humanity…but then this was Amerikkka with the very best politicians that money
could buy.
The Building Department came down on Jane and I like a ton of bricks and if they had their way we would be shut
down in our apartment business because for one thing we were not allowed to do any of our own electrical or
plumbing work that happened to comply 100% with the Southern Building Code. They told us that we couldn’t legally
even swing a paint brush around there; “You can’t even paint your own building”.
Well, push did come to shove because this was our whole lifetime’s accumulated nest egg and all of our earthly
assets so we just had to stand our ground though they definitely made us feel like cornered rats.
I went before the city council to plead our case and also went to our shrewd and crafty lawyer, Sonny Weinstein who
was no stranger to these shake down tactics and wasn’t afraid of the Devil himself.
Well, the next week one of the building inspectors was looking for a new job and I got several gray hairs in the
process but our nerves were stressed beyond the limit.
Who needs this crummy treatment?
Aren’t these guys getting paid enough? Isn’t this America with Liberty and Justice for ALL?
I found out early on in life that bully bastards have to be stopped because there is absolutely no limit to how far
these situations can degenerate.
Feeding an extortionist only generates an industry that has no limits and you become a slave to the lowest form of
scum-bag unmerciful blood sucking bastard with a badge and government license to steal.
On the subject of the St. Augustine building department I have to tell about this little incident. At our Flamingo
Apartments we had a coin laundry and I wanted to discharge the wash water out to water the yard which was large
and most of the year drought stricken.
The dictators down at City hall said absolutely NO!
The reason I mention this is because across the state in St. Petersburg, Florida anyone that waters their yard with
wash water gets a sign from the city to display in their yard commending them for being good citizens and
conserving water.
We built a triplex with a large parking area across the street from the apartment house. Our intention was to use
paving blocks like they do universally throughout Europe because rain water perks through freely and they can
easily be picked up and re-laid back for plumbing and electrical service.
Not in St. Augustine! You don’t!
“If you don’t use poured concrete you will never get your permit to occupy” and no utilities would then be hooked
up…and so city hall got their pig-headed way!
This was our introduction to a totally different class of social misfit.
This 1950s brochure advertising the Flamingo Apartments pitched their most admirable attributes that
included; reasonable rates, the world’s finest beaches, cheery outside rooms, splendid
accommodations and restricted clientele.
SELLING THE FLAMINGO APARTMENTS;
First I must tell what it was that prompted us to sell.
Jane and I had a total commitment to this project financially, physically and I must admit emotionally. Our first three
years of ownership we not only invested all of our assets but plowed back every cent that the business generated...
and it showed. Our third year in business we didn’t have a single turn-over of tenants.
Physically we were totally hands on beginning each day at 6 AM and not signing off until after 6 PM. We took no
vacations, seven days a week. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries we worked all and always on a dead run.
The results were amazing but progress was slow.
We had 26 units on 12 city building lots that were kept like a pristine park.
Jane and I pulled together and each fulfilled our lists of projects each day, only sitting down together for coffee
breaks and meals.
We had completely remodeled all but three of the 26 apartment units after three years of toil and 100% financial
reinvestment. The end was in sight and we had built a monument to our mutual efforts.
After dedicated labor and plowing back nearly every penny that the business generated, Jane and I were beginning
to feel that we had accomplished our goal. We had hedged our investment against the run-away inflation that drove
us to invest in the first place.
One evening after an arduously long day we were just finishing dinner aboard our boat Dursmirg tied to our dock in
Hospital Creek at the end of Dufferin Street and across the open marshland from the Flamingo Apartments.
I mentioned to Jane that now the apartments were about to become cash positive that we might consider holding
them long-term.
No sooner did those words roll off my lips than we were distracted by the loud clamor of sirens. . I stood up to peer
out the porthole of our boat and…oh my God!
What I saw sent sickening chills and dreadful pangs of anxiety through my body.
I told Jane it’s the apartments and smoke is bellowing up.
The sirens we heard were from fire trucks rushing our way and responding to a call from the Flamingo Apartments.
In doubting reluctance Jane and I both got up and looked out our portholes to witness the absolute unthinkable.
Yes, our three years of hard labor and total cash commitment were indeed going up in smoke and flames.
The nightmare that followed was a trip into hell I never want to repeat.
On a dead run down our 580 foot long dock and across our lot at 56 Dufferin Street to the front doors of the
apartment building, Jane and I arrived just after the fire trucks.
We saw sights that still to this day make me totally disgusted. We watched firemen doing more damage than the fire,
smashing windows, screens, doors and walls with axes as I ran ahead with all the keys to open doors, I was pushed
aside by these berserk ax wielding fireman with no regard for property.
Why walk in the door when you can smash in the window?
By the time we entered the third floor apartment where the fire originated it was miraculously out.
At that moment I knew that I would need to take prompt action to keep these over zealous demons from doing more
destructive damage to our building than the fire appeared to have done.
At this point the fire had been confined to the third floor and only in the west wing.
As I opened that third floor apartment we were greeted with a huge rush of damp dark steaming smoke.
The blaze was already extinguished when the firemen arrived at the origin of the fire.
Make no mistake about it this had been a real sizzler of a fire that was very fast and hugely hot.
There in the bedroom lay poor Mrs. Weimar totally unconscious but still alive.
It was immediately evident that she had fallen asleep while smoking in bed. The run away fire sprang to life
accelerated by a powerful floor fan running wide open at the foot of her bed.
The fan had driven the fire into a furious raging inferno in seconds and generated so much heat so fast that the one
and a half inch PVC water supply pipe in the attic above the fire melted and burst sending a voluminous gusher of
water streaming down onto the fire, extinguishing it completely.
Mrs. Weimar surely would never have survived that incendiary bomb of fire that literally blew up in her face had it not
been for that PVC water pipe bursting and who knows how many more victims might have been incinerated.
Next I was on a dead run to the main water supply valve in the street to shut off the water to the building and limit our
losses.
When the smoke quit the firemen vanished leaving a path of destruction that nearly equaled what the smoke and
fire had done.
They never checked out electrical services that left bare wiring to eight apartments, a fire hazard and risk to life. I
personally had to check our each electrical service entrance and disconnect all the burned out services.
I was ready to drop dead from exhaustion when 24 hours later I had finally restored water and temporary electrical
service to all but three third floor apartments. They would require total new services.
In the entire building there were only three apartments unaffected by water, smoke or fire damage.
Ironically those three unaffected apartments were the only three we hadn’t completed restoration work to in our
years of toil.
What are the fateful chances of that happening?
Next we would get further education in the world of shyster business tactics with the insurance company and the
building contractor who happened to have some nepotistic dealings with the state fire commissioner.
Before they got done with us we would be net losers.
We were so sick of smoke and the stinking smell of it we implemented a new rule at our apartment building that I
think was the only one in town…no smokers allowed.
As my sweet wife Jane had said; “we could own the apartment house for another twenty years and have twenty fires.”
It was indeed time to sell.
The year before the city building department had come down on us like a ton of bricks.
Mental survival in this environment was going to be brutal. I must admit that we had never been to court with any of
our tenants, we had a 100% occupancy rate, a waiting list and not a single turnover the last two years we were in
business…not bad for 26 units.
We clearly did not need the kind of harassment we were getting from the city of St. Augustine.
It was time to flush this toilet, the crap had piled up, fresh air was required, we would step aside and let it flow.
Jane and I had been in business for self with owner financing so we thought it was only natural we sell the business
ourselves.
An interesting endnote to this fire episode was the fact that amazingly Mrs. Weimar who was unhurt by the fire and
smoke was two days unconscious before she sobered enough to know what she had done.
I don’t want to infer anything here but ironically Mrs. Weimar must have had a death wish because in less than two
weeks she leaped into speeding traffic and was flattened by a truck.
If she had had a suicidal death wish she was trying to fulfill then our sympathy for her in the fire was gone when she
could have taken an entire apartment building full of innocent people to the grave with her.
.
After the wearisome and lengthy labors of the rebuilding and restoration work we went
through just to return to the point we had been at before the fire we put this disgusting incident behind us. Jane and
I then unanimously voted to check out of the apartment business by promptly and actively putting the apartments up
for sale.
We began by placing an advertisement in the Sunday edition of the Miami Herald.
We received 27 serious responses and several representatives from large land holding companies came to look the
business over.
The most interesting and perhaps the most eager to buy was a pseudo religious cult that used marijuana as part of
their rituals. They also happened to own one of the islands in Biscayne Bay at Miami, Star Island, where their
ceremonial center was located.
We ruled them out even though they were in a position to put up a very large sum of money.
Another serious inquirer was a Jewish fellow from Tampa who kept up a wheeler-dealer negotiation with us until we
read in the newspaper that he was shipped off to jail for business fraud.
Another inquiring potential buyer was a very young Paki with a glib tongue and persuasive personality who came to
buy the business and pushed for a good deal but he didn’t have any down payment money.
Ironically two months later this young Paki again showed up, this time looking to rent an apartment and he couldn’t
even afford the deposit on an unfurnished apartment.
We found that buyers with no money can afford to pay your price and take any terms as long as you hand over the
keys and give 100% financing…no thanks, in God we trust and all other must pay cash.
A large Jacksonville real estate company sent out a feeler letter looking for listings and we responded.
John Senfield, dressed to impress was the agent that came with a super sized gadgetry laden Cadillac to call and
took our listing with all of the exclusions we listed from our Miami newspaper ads of prospective buyers.
Big suave dude John Senfield, the ex-football star gave every reason for us to believe in him. He epitomized clean
All-American values of mom, country and apple pie. This was the guy you wanted on your team, he beamed with self
confidence that said; “trust me!”
If ever anyone fit the perfect description of the all-time conman who played his hand of cards out in poker faced
premeditated cold and calculating remorseless and scandalous deception this was our angelical faced John Senfield.
Organizing a group of Navy officers John offered a free lecture seminar at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station and
rallied the troops to get onboard the American-way of capitalistic entrepreneurial investment.
This deal was made in heaven for Senfield who had gained the full confidence of the naval officers who had the
cash to invest and were eagerly anticipating a financially rewarding secure trouble free long term investment.
Jane and I in turn had a proven positive cash flow business generating a steady income with no client turnovers in
the past two years. Another plus was that our building and grounds were in impeccably perfect condition because
we had restored everything after the fire.
Everybody was happy at the closing. Jane and I would oversee the business as advisors for the first six months.
To close the deal and meet our criteria we asked for a hefty down payment but we gave a low for the times interest
payment and we would carrying the balance being the bankers for their mortgage.
Unbeknownst to us John Senfield was going to be one of the partners to be cut into the deal as an equal partner
with his investment associates, the naval officers. He was collecting a commission from us and at the same time was
partnering with the new buyers.
Senfield scam was that he came to the deal with no money only his expertise and he also negotiated with us while
we had no idea that he was one of the buyers and to be cut in for one eighth of the deal with the naval officers.
We paid his commission as representing us in the transaction.
This was flimflam skim-scam and business as usual in Florida.
Our trust was betrayed and we soon found out that John Senfield was grabbing and pocketing every cent in sight.
Senfield first started by commandeering the special bank account set up exclusively to hold the tenants deposit
money and wouldn’t return deposits to departing tenants.
Six months after we sold the apartment house we shockingly discovered that the monthly payments were two months
in the arrears. Jane and I were in Saint Petersburg on the west coast of Florida with our shrimp boat for the season
at the time. The Security First Bank there would give us our current bank balances and this is how we discovered
the shortfall.
I got on the phone to the Naval officer in Jacksonville that was overseeing the business dealings under John
Senfield and told him that if the payments weren’t current by nine the next morning that we would sue for
foreclosure.
Those Naval officers were very honorable, noble and honest people and they had been snookered just as badly as
Jane and I had been by devious John Senfield and the prestigious real estate business of Jacksonville.
Those Naval officers had no recourse under their contract with John Senfield but to sell out as painlessly as possible
and as soon as they could to stop the money hemorrhage that had now taken on a snowball effect.
The officers had been deceived, duped and defrauded, as we had.
Florida is like a magnet for confidence men like Senfield. We were lucky we didn’t get burned worse than we
did…$50,000. Senfield coerced us into dropped the price $25, 000 and the sales commission came to another
$25,000.
Over the rest of the term of that mortgage I must admit that after that incident we never had another problem with
monthly payments for the duration of the apartment mortgage.
Those naval officers were honorable, honest and sincere.
They just had to flush that toilet and leave.
next chapter
A brief history of this place known as the Fountain of Youth;
Yes, this truly is where Don Juan Ponce de Leon the Spanish conquistador first set foot ashore in North America.
On his seven month exploration cruise that began in San Juan, Puerto Rico, where he was governor at the time. In
the quest for the fabled Fountain of Youth and any other things of value this is where his journey would ultimately
lead him.
Up a small creek known today as Hospital Creek there is a monument to commemorate this monumentally historic
landing at this very spot on Easter Sunday March 27, 1513.
(This monument is within the premises of the present day tourist attraction known as the “Fountain of Youth” on
Magnolia Street a few blocks north of the old Spanish fort on St. Augustine’s waterfront.)
This story wouldn’t be complete without a mention of one of the previous owners of this particular piece of historical
property where the present day tourist attraction is located.
Luella Day McConnell also known as “Diamond Lil, The Lady named Lou”.
This extraordinarily provocative lady found her way to St. Augustine around 1900 at the height of Henry Flagler’s
extravagant expansionism along with a large bundle of money.
Sporting a diamond in her front tooth “Diamond Lil” quickly became St. Augustine’s number one most colorful female
character in the hay-day of Henry Flagler’s wildest spending spree as St. Augustine shed its isolated past.
She wrote a book entitled “Tragedy of the Klondike”.
Reputed to have been educated as a physician she also claimed that she was the “Lady named Lou” from the
famous poem by Robert Service; “The Shooting of Dan McGrew”.
Meet the real Luella Day McConnell here in this all-time favorite classic poem by Robert Service;
The Shooting of Dan McGrew by Robert Service
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a rag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.
When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There’s men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that’s known as Lou.
His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway,
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play.
Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars? —
Then you've a hunch what the music meant . . . hunger and might and the stars.
And hunger not of the belly kind, that’s banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowded with a woman’s love —
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true —
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that’s known as Lou.)
Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil’s lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart’s despair, and it thrilled you through and through —
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew.
The music almost dies away . . . then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill . . . then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell . . . and that one is Dan McGrew."
Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark;
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that’s known as Lou.
These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it’s so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —
The woman that kissed him — and pinched his poke — was the lady known as Lou.”
Diamond Lil purchased the land at 155 Magnolia Street according to the city directory and there built a palatial
home. In 1909 while having a well dug on her premises she also discovered an old Indian burial ground.
It has been said that she was not beyond slight fabrications in her perpetuations of old history tales.
During WWI Diamond Lil was jailed as an “enemy agent” after she attempted to do business with some German
developers to build a hotel on her property. She was not released until after the war was over.
War hysteria and terror driven obsessive paranoia knew no limits and this poor woman was locked away without the
slightest hope of rational resolution.
This clipping appeared in the St. Augustine Record Nov 1, 1980;
(Photo above of “Louella” Day McConnell, “Diamond Lil’s home located on the Fountain of Youth
grounds. This photo was taken in the early 1900s. The house was later moved to another site on
Magnolia Street and used for a time as a military academy before demolition after WWII. )
“Diamond Lil McConnell” continued to fabricate stories about Ponce de Leon’s discovery of the Fountain of Youth
and amuse and appall St. Augustine’s residents until a car crash took her life in 1927.
Her legendary status lives on in the pages of Page Edwards’s novel “American Girl” and is one of the characters in
Karen Davey’s “Darling Daughters, St. Augustine’s Feisty Females 1565-2000
This dynamic dame of Klondike fame came to St. Augustine to re-discover Ponce de Leon’s historical claim.
Here is a brief narrative of how Jane and I became involved with this intriguingly controversial and very
historical Fountain of Youth property;
We had just completed six fabulous years of sailing and cruising while living aboard our 46 foot dream boat
Dursmirg which we had built by ourselves.
We went where the wind blows when the spirit moved us and where the price was right.
Now we were forced to shift gears in life and seize the moment to our advantage.
With run away inflation in the late 1970s eating up our savings Jane and I had made the painful decision that it was
time for us to look seriously for an inflation proof investment. We needed one that would save our financial nest egg
from the post Vietnam War 22% run-away inflation that was literally destroying our fixed pension plan and savings
account.
This led us to a serious search for the most leveraged investment with a positive cash flow to see us through this
very distressful financial time in our nation’s history.
Upon looking through the places we knew so well it quickly became apparent that the most economically depressed
place in the entire state of Florida at the time was St. Johns County mostly because of the fact that in the1960s four
months of race riots and martial law brought about a ten year federally sanctioned withdrawal of all funds for federal
loans and other projects as punishment. The two Arab oil embargos in the 1970s did the finishing touches to the
local economy…St. John’s County was in financial shambles.
Now it would be up to us to put this inflationary action to work for us instead of against us. We were looking for
owner financed income property with a positive cash flow plus the possibility of a handy man special we could
upgrade at the same time.
We got busy and dedicated our full efforts to scouting out possibilities in and around St. Augustine and made this
hunt into our full time focused project.
After several weeks of failed attempts and a large number of investigations on our own and with realtors that lead to
dead ends our hopes were sinking but I was following up on all possible leads.
Our good friend and boating associate Bob Baker stopped over to our boat Dursmirg one night for a chat as we
were anchored out in the Matanzas Bay near the City Yacht Pier. I told Bob of our exasperations in finding income
property that was owner financed and he then told us about a deal he had been looking at and working on but
couldn’t raise the down payment for.
This was an old apartment house that was definitely a handyman special but the owner was nearly impossible to
negotiate with.
The next morning while Jane was working at the St. George Tavern filling in for her sick friend, Mary Metter, I got on
my bicycle and headed north to the Flamingo Apartments.
The structure was a huge imposing three story building that dated back to the 1940s. The location was tucked away
on a very quiet side street in a heavily wooded neighborhood of ancient oaks and towering magnolia trees adjacent
to the fabled Fountain of Youth tourist attraction with a very lovely uninterrupted sea breeze and ocean inlet view.
I knocked on the door of the bungalow cottage house hidden away from the street behind the apartment building in
a well established but neglected garden filled with ancient oaks eerily hanging with Spanish moss, lofty palms and
fragrant scented aromatic southern red cedars that had a small unimposing sign that merely read “office”.
A petite, pleasant gray haired little woman with ghostly white skin near 60 years of age answered the door with a
condescending but arrogant and at the same time gracious smirky smile of the cat that had eaten the canary and
asked me if there was anything that she could do for me.
As I sized her up and scrutinized her, my first impression was that she was in total control of the household and knew
her position well. She at the same time was making some judgments of me with my straw hat, shorts and sandals.
Having arrived by bicycle I am sure her evaluation was that I probably couldn’t afford the security deposit on one of
her antiquated apartments. She was at least going to humor me for the moment when she heard that I was
interested in buying the business and invited me to come in to their glassed-in Florida room stacked high with
unopened packing boxes she was curious to hear what my story could possibly be.
As I stepped into the house I had the distinct impression that Mrs. Falconer was the lady spider enticing me into her
awaiting web and I was there to be feasted upon.
In a half hour we both had sounded each other out enough so that she thought it would be good to meet my wife
and for me to meet her husband so we made an appointment for that evening.
In spite of the fact that the Falconers thought that Jane and I couldn’t possibly afford their business they were at
least getting desperate enough to hunt down all leads and after all, we were at least interested.
Over the next few weeks I made contact with the Falconer’s several times but found a lukewarm response to my
further inquiries. All this time I was diligently pursuing every possible lead that we had but nothing worth our
commitment materialized.
The fall season was approaching and Jane and I both decided that we wouldn’t find what we were looking for in St.
Augustine so we would set sail with our Dursmirg for yet another winter season down in the Florida Keys.
Before we pulled anchor I left a brief note at the apartment building stating that we would be leaving the following
morning but we were still interested and that they could contact us by mail.
That evening I was surprised to find a note attached to our dinghy at the City Yacht Pier saying that we should come
over to the apartments that evening to talk serious business. Well, we went over to the apartments with our bicycles
that evening and sure enough Ken and Helen were eager sellers but wouldn’t budge one single cent on the price.
We gave a security deposit in exchange for a buy-sell agreement and made arrangements for the closing to take
place at the office of their lawyer, Sonny Weinstein two days later…the story continues.
A word about Sonny Weinstein;
Sonny Weinstein; good lawyer and perhaps the best that St. Augustine had to offer back in the 1970s.
It was said about Sonny Weinstein that even the devil was afraid of him.
A Spanish saying; “A good lawyer makes a bad neighbor”. Well, in the end Sonny Weinstein became our neighbor.
Sonny Weinstein’s only son had recently shot and killed someone with a high powered rifle who was driving past
their home in a car.
Sonny eventually got his homicidal son off this murder rap, but he spent a huge fortune doing so.
This only goes on to prove the saying about America that it is far better to be rich and guilty than poor and innocent.
We first met Sonny Weinstein when we closed the deal on the purchase of the Flamingo Apartments located next to
the Fountain of Youth on Dufferin Street.
Sonny represented the sellers, Ken and Helen Falconer as their lawyer and didn’t mind slipping in a few extra
clauses favoring the Falconers in the signed closing statement before he recorded it.
The addendums snuck into the recorded mortgage made Jane and I responsible for the Falconer’s adjacent
property that included the upkeep, mowing and cleaning of it.
Sonny was a nice guy, he was friendly and cordial but the buck stopped with him and he always made sure that
every deal had a little something in it for him.
When we later bought a piece of waterfront property from the Falconers we asked Sonny to guarantee the riparian
rights to us. We told Sonny that we didn’t care how he did it and we wouldn’t ask any questions but we wanted those
property rights for river access easements to be a contingent of closing the deal.
This was no problem for a very savvy and sharp Sonny Weinstein.
We got 640 feet of riverfront property from our 100 foot lot that happened to have a pie shaped piece of property
adjacent that was not clearly defined as belonging to anybody at the end of Dufferin Street. The marsh front lot had
an expanse of natural salt marsh grass extending out more than 400 feet to Hospital Creek.
That small wedge near shore became an enormous pie after 400 plus feet and thus we wound up with our 640 feet
of river frontage.
We were happy.
When Jane and I had problems with city hall regarding our Flamingo Apartments that were thanks to the cat that ate
the canary, Helen Falconer, the previous owner and mortgage holder who complained to the city building inspection
department that we were doing our own work; it was Sonny Weinstein that got those city hall extortionist bastards off
our back.
Back to our convoluted purchase of the Flamingo Apartments;
The wheels were now in motion and we would have to have a cashiers check for $40,000 to cover the down
payment at closing time. We sold stock and cashed bonds to make up the money that turned out to be the largest
check that Jane or I had ever personally written at the time.
Mrs. Helen Falconer confidentially told us that we could make a lot of extra money collecting forfeited deposits from
disgruntled tenants leaving early before their contract period was up.
We soon found out that Helen knew exactly how to grab every last buck, and she was indeed the cat that ate the
canary.
The problem was that we would soon be her next canaries as we stepped into this entangling financial spider web.
We were told that the Chamber of Commerce would be a big help to our new business and that we should keep up
the membership so we did and found out we were not members and were only paying the Falconer’s
membership…now that did not pay.
Ken Falconer after the closing told me that he read the water meter every day and kept an accurate chart of water
consumption in the event of a water leak somewhere in the building. Come to find out the pressure water system
was in dire need of total replacement, something we sadly found out early one morning when the police came to
awaken us aboard our boat at 2 AM. The policeman advised us that water was pouring down the three story
staircase of the apartment house.
(We had an arrangement at that time with San Sebastian Marine to tie our boat at the boatyard in exchange for
being the night watchmen and that was where we slept aboard our docked boat.)
When we bought the apartments we bought a job and I became among other things; “The skin diver for Rotor-
Rooter”.
Our old hippie sailing buddy and vagabond traveling companion Bubba Schill when he heard that we had purchased
the apartments maintained that now we were “born again capitalists” and “slum lords”.
We had never thought of it in that perspective before but upon taking an objective view thought that Bubba just
might be on to something with his witty and cynical remarks.
The first day we were owners of the apartments Jane was washing clothes in the laundry room when Helen, the
previous owner stopped by. Helen excitedly told Jane that someone was washing clothes and it was Sunday, oh my
god!
Jane explained that the clothes were hers and we were the owners now and free to set the rules. Helen stomped off
in a stormy and snooty snit of a huff and never called us again.
The mysterious ceramic tile story;
One quiet afternoon in 1980 after we had owned the apartments several years I was sitting in our recently renovated
office at the Flamingo Apartments for our traditional PM coffee break.
This is when I spotted a curious elderly gentleman modestly dressed lurking and from all intent appearances
suspiciously snooping around the premises.
I immediately sprang up and went out to inquire;
“Are you looking for something?”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
The inquisitive old fellow nonchalantly addressed me like I was some underling flunky employee. He indifferently and
casually seemed to size me up in a fleeting glance like he was preoccupied with some vital mission that had him
distracted in deep thought.
My sudden appearance threw him off for an instant and I could see him fishing around in his mind for a likely
response.
He cleared his throat, stammered slightly and then came out with his response. “I am Mr. Chaires. I am the former
owner of the Flamingo Apartments”.
I was surprised because I had never laid eyes on this man before but recognized the name from the mortgage
documents we had signed with the closing statements upon our purchase.
I invited him into our newly finished office and offered Mr. Chaires a seat.
He began by giving Jane and I a recapped history of his years at the Flamingo Apartments, originally a WWII military
school, which he had divided up into apartments.
Next old Mr. Chaires related a story of a tenant he once had who worked with the crew that replaced the ceramic
floor tiles in the old cathedral.
We heard some of the colorful stories that surrounded those floor tiles that were installed back during the British
occupation in the early 1800s.
We were told that the tiles had been manufactured at Stoke-on Trent, Staffordshire in central England and then they
made their arduous way to St. Augustine. First they traveled by canal boat along the narrow canals drawn by horses
that plodded the tow-paths. They went all the way to the seaport city of Liverpool. Next the tiles were conveyed with
physically manual labor from the narrow canal boats to the waiting sailing vessel that would ply the heavy cargo
across the Atlantic Ocean to the remote and isolated out post city of St. Augustine at that time only accessible from
the sea.
After arriving in St. Augustine harbor the British sailing ship would anchor and its freight be loaded into lighters and
rowed ashore. Then the tiles would be loaded into horse drawn wagons and transported to their final destination at
the Cathedral Street location. This was a very strenuously onerous and extremely protracted voyage before the age
of steam power.
Back to Mr. Chaires and the mysterious ceramic tiles;
Mr. Chaires asked me if I discovered the two crates of tiles under the south patio trace.
I told him, “No I had not”.
He then asked me if I wanted to part with them and again I said, “No”.
After Mr. Chaires left that afternoon I dashed over and sure enough right where the two cases were supposed to
have been two owners previously…there they were.
Those authentic old tiles held a mysterious story linked to St. Augustine’s twisted and convoluted past.
City building inspectors; Jim Pranks/Dick MacMall (Oct 27, 1979)
Over the years Jane and I built a number of homes and developed several properties in and around the St.
Augustine area so we became well acquainted with the building department in a big and intimate way.
One of our first lessons was that the building department had their own set of rules that could comply with the
“Southern Building Code” or St. Augustine’s very own special set of rules that contradicted the “Southern Building
Code”.
The thing that made this an ideal situation for extortion was that these rules were enforced selectively. If you
happened to be selected for a shake-down there was positively no way on earth that you could ever meet their
standards because whatever you had or did they made sure that you were wrong and would have to pay blood
money.
St. Augustine had its own dynasty political power that controlled all commerce with a silent iron hand.
If you happened to be one of the powerful insiders or could pay off city hall or actually “owned” the politicians good
things could happen for you like zoning variations or permits and licenses. There were even police that used their
power of extortion for favors.
This was all part of the dangerous and very corrupt game of influence peddling and extortion.
An elite closed circuit group enacted the Historic Preservation and Zoning Board and wrote their own rules to suit
themselves within the Old City’s downtown section.
I used to joke about their historic preservation rules that had no basis on any particular timeline in the cities history.
“This wasn’t colonial America it was early depression!”
As part of their land grab they adopted a political shell-game designating real estate as a “Passive Park” to
condemn it much like “eminent domain”. These rulings were used at their own discretion when it became profitable.
One interesting thing that I noted in the Southern Building Code was the mandate that potable water was to be
supplied to all homes via copper piping soldered together with lead solder. The argument that I received for this was
that in the event of a fire PVC pipe would emit harmful gases.
Well, that is so terribly ironic because it so happens that the poisonous heavy metals of copper and lead when in the
environment of chlorinated water especially if it is heated like it is in a hot water heater that leaches out deadly toxins
that kill slowly. These deadly heavy metals the government mandated that you must have in your home drinking
water supply if they were going to give you your permit to occupy.
What ever lobbyist could possibly have passed that insanely disgusting law off on the American public should be
sued for health crimes against humanity…but then this was Amerikkka with the very best politicians that money
could buy.
The Building Department came down on Jane and I like a ton of bricks and if they had their way we would be shut
down in our apartment business because for one thing we were not allowed to do any of our own electrical or
plumbing work that happened to comply 100% with the Southern Building Code. They told us that we couldn’t legally
even swing a paint brush around there; “You can’t even paint your own building”.
Well, push did come to shove because this was our whole lifetime’s accumulated nest egg and all of our earthly
assets so we just had to stand our ground though they definitely made us feel like cornered rats.
I went before the city council to plead our case and also went to our shrewd and crafty lawyer, Sonny Weinstein who
was no stranger to these shake down tactics and wasn’t afraid of the Devil himself.
Well, the next week one of the building inspectors was looking for a new job and I got several gray hairs in the
process but our nerves were stressed beyond the limit.
Who needs this crummy treatment?
Aren’t these guys getting paid enough? Isn’t this America with Liberty and Justice for ALL?
I found out early on in life that bully bastards have to be stopped because there is absolutely no limit to how far
these situations can degenerate.
Feeding an extortionist only generates an industry that has no limits and you become a slave to the lowest form of
scum-bag unmerciful blood sucking bastard with a badge and government license to steal.
On the subject of the St. Augustine building department I have to tell about this little incident. At our Flamingo
Apartments we had a coin laundry and I wanted to discharge the wash water out to water the yard which was large
and most of the year drought stricken.
The dictators down at City hall said absolutely NO!
The reason I mention this is because across the state in St. Petersburg, Florida anyone that waters their yard with
wash water gets a sign from the city to display in their yard commending them for being good citizens and
conserving water.
We built a triplex with a large parking area across the street from the apartment house. Our intention was to use
paving blocks like they do universally throughout Europe because rain water perks through freely and they can
easily be picked up and re-laid back for plumbing and electrical service.
Not in St. Augustine! You don’t!
“If you don’t use poured concrete you will never get your permit to occupy” and no utilities would then be hooked
up…and so city hall got their pig-headed way!
This was our introduction to a totally different class of social misfit.
This 1950s brochure advertising the Flamingo Apartments pitched their most admirable attributes that
included; reasonable rates, the world’s finest beaches, cheery outside rooms, splendid
accommodations and restricted clientele.
SELLING THE FLAMINGO APARTMENTS;
First I must tell what it was that prompted us to sell.
Jane and I had a total commitment to this project financially, physically and I must admit emotionally. Our first three
years of ownership we not only invested all of our assets but plowed back every cent that the business generated...
and it showed. Our third year in business we didn’t have a single turn-over of tenants.
Physically we were totally hands on beginning each day at 6 AM and not signing off until after 6 PM. We took no
vacations, seven days a week. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries we worked all and always on a dead run.
The results were amazing but progress was slow.
We had 26 units on 12 city building lots that were kept like a pristine park.
Jane and I pulled together and each fulfilled our lists of projects each day, only sitting down together for coffee
breaks and meals.
We had completely remodeled all but three of the 26 apartment units after three years of toil and 100% financial
reinvestment. The end was in sight and we had built a monument to our mutual efforts.
After dedicated labor and plowing back nearly every penny that the business generated, Jane and I were beginning
to feel that we had accomplished our goal. We had hedged our investment against the run-away inflation that drove
us to invest in the first place.
One evening after an arduously long day we were just finishing dinner aboard our boat Dursmirg tied to our dock in
Hospital Creek at the end of Dufferin Street and across the open marshland from the Flamingo Apartments.
I mentioned to Jane that now the apartments were about to become cash positive that we might consider holding
them long-term.
No sooner did those words roll off my lips than we were distracted by the loud clamor of sirens. . I stood up to peer
out the porthole of our boat and…oh my God!
What I saw sent sickening chills and dreadful pangs of anxiety through my body.
I told Jane it’s the apartments and smoke is bellowing up.
The sirens we heard were from fire trucks rushing our way and responding to a call from the Flamingo Apartments.
In doubting reluctance Jane and I both got up and looked out our portholes to witness the absolute unthinkable.
Yes, our three years of hard labor and total cash commitment were indeed going up in smoke and flames.
The nightmare that followed was a trip into hell I never want to repeat.
On a dead run down our 580 foot long dock and across our lot at 56 Dufferin Street to the front doors of the
apartment building, Jane and I arrived just after the fire trucks.
We saw sights that still to this day make me totally disgusted. We watched firemen doing more damage than the fire,
smashing windows, screens, doors and walls with axes as I ran ahead with all the keys to open doors, I was pushed
aside by these berserk ax wielding fireman with no regard for property.
Why walk in the door when you can smash in the window?
By the time we entered the third floor apartment where the fire originated it was miraculously out.
At that moment I knew that I would need to take prompt action to keep these over zealous demons from doing more
destructive damage to our building than the fire appeared to have done.
At this point the fire had been confined to the third floor and only in the west wing.
As I opened that third floor apartment we were greeted with a huge rush of damp dark steaming smoke.
The blaze was already extinguished when the firemen arrived at the origin of the fire.
Make no mistake about it this had been a real sizzler of a fire that was very fast and hugely hot.
There in the bedroom lay poor Mrs. Weimar totally unconscious but still alive.
It was immediately evident that she had fallen asleep while smoking in bed. The run away fire sprang to life
accelerated by a powerful floor fan running wide open at the foot of her bed.
The fan had driven the fire into a furious raging inferno in seconds and generated so much heat so fast that the one
and a half inch PVC water supply pipe in the attic above the fire melted and burst sending a voluminous gusher of
water streaming down onto the fire, extinguishing it completely.
Mrs. Weimar surely would never have survived that incendiary bomb of fire that literally blew up in her face had it not
been for that PVC water pipe bursting and who knows how many more victims might have been incinerated.
Next I was on a dead run to the main water supply valve in the street to shut off the water to the building and limit our
losses.
When the smoke quit the firemen vanished leaving a path of destruction that nearly equaled what the smoke and
fire had done.
They never checked out electrical services that left bare wiring to eight apartments, a fire hazard and risk to life. I
personally had to check our each electrical service entrance and disconnect all the burned out services.
I was ready to drop dead from exhaustion when 24 hours later I had finally restored water and temporary electrical
service to all but three third floor apartments. They would require total new services.
In the entire building there were only three apartments unaffected by water, smoke or fire damage.
Ironically those three unaffected apartments were the only three we hadn’t completed restoration work to in our
years of toil.
What are the fateful chances of that happening?
Next we would get further education in the world of shyster business tactics with the insurance company and the
building contractor who happened to have some nepotistic dealings with the state fire commissioner.
Before they got done with us we would be net losers.
We were so sick of smoke and the stinking smell of it we implemented a new rule at our apartment building that I
think was the only one in town…no smokers allowed.
As my sweet wife Jane had said; “we could own the apartment house for another twenty years and have twenty fires.”
It was indeed time to sell.
The year before the city building department had come down on us like a ton of bricks.
Mental survival in this environment was going to be brutal. I must admit that we had never been to court with any of
our tenants, we had a 100% occupancy rate, a waiting list and not a single turnover the last two years we were in
business…not bad for 26 units.
We clearly did not need the kind of harassment we were getting from the city of St. Augustine.
It was time to flush this toilet, the crap had piled up, fresh air was required, we would step aside and let it flow.
Jane and I had been in business for self with owner financing so we thought it was only natural we sell the business
ourselves.
An interesting endnote to this fire episode was the fact that amazingly Mrs. Weimar who was unhurt by the fire and
smoke was two days unconscious before she sobered enough to know what she had done.
I don’t want to infer anything here but ironically Mrs. Weimar must have had a death wish because in less than two
weeks she leaped into speeding traffic and was flattened by a truck.
If she had had a suicidal death wish she was trying to fulfill then our sympathy for her in the fire was gone when she
could have taken an entire apartment building full of innocent people to the grave with her.
.
After the wearisome and lengthy labors of the rebuilding and restoration work we went
through just to return to the point we had been at before the fire we put this disgusting incident behind us. Jane and
I then unanimously voted to check out of the apartment business by promptly and actively putting the apartments up
for sale.
We began by placing an advertisement in the Sunday edition of the Miami Herald.
We received 27 serious responses and several representatives from large land holding companies came to look the
business over.
The most interesting and perhaps the most eager to buy was a pseudo religious cult that used marijuana as part of
their rituals. They also happened to own one of the islands in Biscayne Bay at Miami, Star Island, where their
ceremonial center was located.
We ruled them out even though they were in a position to put up a very large sum of money.
Another serious inquirer was a Jewish fellow from Tampa who kept up a wheeler-dealer negotiation with us until we
read in the newspaper that he was shipped off to jail for business fraud.
Another inquiring potential buyer was a very young Paki with a glib tongue and persuasive personality who came to
buy the business and pushed for a good deal but he didn’t have any down payment money.
Ironically two months later this young Paki again showed up, this time looking to rent an apartment and he couldn’t
even afford the deposit on an unfurnished apartment.
We found that buyers with no money can afford to pay your price and take any terms as long as you hand over the
keys and give 100% financing…no thanks, in God we trust and all other must pay cash.
A large Jacksonville real estate company sent out a feeler letter looking for listings and we responded.
John Senfield, dressed to impress was the agent that came with a super sized gadgetry laden Cadillac to call and
took our listing with all of the exclusions we listed from our Miami newspaper ads of prospective buyers.
Big suave dude John Senfield, the ex-football star gave every reason for us to believe in him. He epitomized clean
All-American values of mom, country and apple pie. This was the guy you wanted on your team, he beamed with self
confidence that said; “trust me!”
If ever anyone fit the perfect description of the all-time conman who played his hand of cards out in poker faced
premeditated cold and calculating remorseless and scandalous deception this was our angelical faced John Senfield.
Organizing a group of Navy officers John offered a free lecture seminar at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station and
rallied the troops to get onboard the American-way of capitalistic entrepreneurial investment.
This deal was made in heaven for Senfield who had gained the full confidence of the naval officers who had the
cash to invest and were eagerly anticipating a financially rewarding secure trouble free long term investment.
Jane and I in turn had a proven positive cash flow business generating a steady income with no client turnovers in
the past two years. Another plus was that our building and grounds were in impeccably perfect condition because
we had restored everything after the fire.
Everybody was happy at the closing. Jane and I would oversee the business as advisors for the first six months.
To close the deal and meet our criteria we asked for a hefty down payment but we gave a low for the times interest
payment and we would carrying the balance being the bankers for their mortgage.
Unbeknownst to us John Senfield was going to be one of the partners to be cut into the deal as an equal partner
with his investment associates, the naval officers. He was collecting a commission from us and at the same time was
partnering with the new buyers.
Senfield scam was that he came to the deal with no money only his expertise and he also negotiated with us while
we had no idea that he was one of the buyers and to be cut in for one eighth of the deal with the naval officers.
We paid his commission as representing us in the transaction.
This was flimflam skim-scam and business as usual in Florida.
Our trust was betrayed and we soon found out that John Senfield was grabbing and pocketing every cent in sight.
Senfield first started by commandeering the special bank account set up exclusively to hold the tenants deposit
money and wouldn’t return deposits to departing tenants.
Six months after we sold the apartment house we shockingly discovered that the monthly payments were two months
in the arrears. Jane and I were in Saint Petersburg on the west coast of Florida with our shrimp boat for the season
at the time. The Security First Bank there would give us our current bank balances and this is how we discovered
the shortfall.
I got on the phone to the Naval officer in Jacksonville that was overseeing the business dealings under John
Senfield and told him that if the payments weren’t current by nine the next morning that we would sue for
foreclosure.
Those Naval officers were very honorable, noble and honest people and they had been snookered just as badly as
Jane and I had been by devious John Senfield and the prestigious real estate business of Jacksonville.
Those Naval officers had no recourse under their contract with John Senfield but to sell out as painlessly as possible
and as soon as they could to stop the money hemorrhage that had now taken on a snowball effect.
The officers had been deceived, duped and defrauded, as we had.
Florida is like a magnet for confidence men like Senfield. We were lucky we didn’t get burned worse than we
did…$50,000. Senfield coerced us into dropped the price $25, 000 and the sales commission came to another
$25,000.
Over the rest of the term of that mortgage I must admit that after that incident we never had another problem with
monthly payments for the duration of the apartment mortgage.
Those naval officers were honorable, honest and sincere.
They just had to flush that toilet and leave.
next chapter
I made this trivet from
those lovely mystery tiles
that measure 5.5 cm on a
side.
those lovely mystery tiles
that measure 5.5 cm on a
side.
