Uncle Pringle and the Squatters(Martin Green) 2024Squatts
Uncle Pringle and the Squatters

It was a nice fall day in upper New York state so we were out on the patio with our friends, John and Jill Stewart. The story that the Stewarts, both teachers at our local school, had to tell was not so pleasant. They’d gone on a two-week Caribbean cruise and when they returned had been shocked to find out that their house had been occupied by squatters. As far as they could see the squatters were a family of four, a large father with a beard, his two large sons, one in his twenties, also with a beard, another son in his teens and a diminutive wife. There was also a large, savage-looking dog who’d tried to bite John when he confronted the family. The dog’s name was Brutus.

The squatter family of course refused to leave the house so John had summoned the sherriff and then came another shock. The squatters could not simply be ordered to leave. They had squatters’ rights. The Stewarts would have to get a court order and the average time to enforce it was two years. “We can’t afford to get a lawyer and get into all that legal business,” said John. “We’re staying at a motel now and we can’t even afford to do that much longer.”
“That’s terrible,” said my wife Eleanor. “What can we do to help?”
“Well, we’ve heard about your Uncle Pringle,” said John. “He’s helped some of your other friends and seems to have a knack for solving problems. We were hoping he might be able to help us.”
“We really don’t have any other place to turn,” said Jane.
“I’ll call him today,” Eleanor promised.

* * *

So that’s why a week later on another nice fall day we were out on our patio again, this time with the addition of Eleanor’s Uncle Claude Pringle. Uncle Pringle was a rather small man with white hair and neat hands and feet who I always thought resembled the English actor Claude Raines whose first name he shared. He had worked for some kind of secret government agency and now that he was retired acted as a consultant although who consulted for and what he consulted about was never clear. What was clear was that he had a lot of contacts, both high and low, and, as John Stewart had said, had a knack for solving people’s problems.

John had just finished telling his story. “It’s unbelievable,” he said. “They just moved in and now we can’t get them out.”
“And the law seems to be on their side, not ours,” said Jane.
“Yes,” said Uncle Pringle. “It does seem that the law nowadays favors the criminal and not the victim, all in the name of social justice.”
“So is there anything we can do?”
“Hmmm,” said Uncle Pringle. “I think I may have to get in touch with my friend Sam Malone.”
“Who’s that?” asked John. “Slick Sam Malone,” I said. “He’s the town’s crime boss and owns the town’s casino. He provided some assistance in another recent matter.”
“A crime boss. Are you going to get some hoodlums to evict our squatters?”
“No, I had something else in mind, although that’s always a last resort.”

At this moment Uncle Pringle’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to take this. Hello, Bibi. Yes, I know. I’m afraid I don’t have much influence in this White House. Yes, I understand. My advice is ---.“ Here Uncle Pringle dropped his voice so that we couldn’t hear what his advice was. He then said, “You’re welcome, Bibi. Yes, you can call me at any time.”
When he hung up I said, “Was that ---“
“An old friend in a difficult situation,” said Uncle Pringle. “Now, back to the matter in hand. No, I don’t think we need to use violence; I had something else in mind. What’s the old saying? You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Let me confer with Sam, er, Slick Sam, and then we’ll proceed.”

* * *

Uncle Pringle had again enlisted Slick Sam Malone’s assistance (he’d mentioned something about not starting a federal investigation) so the following Monday he and I were outside of the Stewart’s house. Uncle Pringle had briefed me on what we were about to do. The large savage-looking dog Brutus that John Stewart had mentioned was chained outside of the front door. He snarled at Uncle Pringle and attempted to bite him. Uncle Pringle nimbly stepped aside and gave Brutus a look I’d seen him give hostile humans which meant don’t give me any trouble and evidently it worked as well on animals as on humans because the dog subsided.

“Good boy,” said Uncle Pringle. The door opened and a large bearded man in his undershirt appeared. Two large younger men appeared behind him, one holding a shotgun, the sons I assumed. The father said, “Whatever you’re selling we don’t want any so beat it.”
In reply to this, Uncle Pringle smiled and said, “We’ll only take up a few minutes of your time and for your trouble I have a $50 gift card for you.”
“A $50 gift card,” said a woman’s voice from inside. “Let’em in.”

Uncle Pringle seated himself in a chair opposite the woman. The man in the undershirt sat in another chair. I took a chair next to Uncle Pringle. The two sons arranged themselves behind their parents, the older bearded one keeping the shotgun visible. Uncle Pringle took out a catalogue and, as he’d told me he would, began a sales spiel about a gutter guard that would work wonders. The father interrupted him, giving me a suspicious look and saying, “What’s he here for?”

Uncle Pringle said, “Oh, he’s my assistant and will be taking over for me. I’ve been very lucky, I’ve won a million-dollar jackpot in a lottery by the local casino and so I’m retiring.” Here he patted his inside jacket pocket. “Better not lose that lucky ticket,” he said. “Now, where was I?” He finished his spiel and asked, “Are you ready to buy?”
“We’ll think about it,” the father replied.
“What about that gift card?” asked the mother.
“Oh, yes” said Uncle Pringle. “Mustn’t forget that.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, took out a card and handed it to the father. At the same time an envelope came out of the pocket and fluttered to the floor. Uncle Pringle evidently didn’t notice this as he stood up and thanked the husband for his time. We left quickly, walked past the dog Brutus with no trouble, and got into my car. “Well,” I asked. “Did they bite?”
“I’m sure they did,” said Uncle Pringle. “I noticed five pairs of eyes following that envelope as it fell to the floor. People who are squatters are governed by greed. They also like to think they’re smarter than other people who are suckers they can swindle. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already called the casino to make an appointment to go there and pick up their big prize. Of course as soon as the appointment is made, Sam Malone’s crew will get into the house, change the locks and secure it for the Stewarts.”
“Will the whole family go to the casino?”
“They’ll be told the whole family is wanted for the picture of the prize-winners. Yes, I’m sure they will. ””
“What will happen then? Will Killer Pelosi and Malone’s other goons beat them up?”
“Not at all. As I told you, violence is not necessary in this case. No, they’ll be given bus tickets to New York City. They’ll be told that it’s a sanctuary city and will provide them with food, clothing, shelter and whatever else they need. Of course, Malone’s, er, assistants will escort them to the bus station and see them off. In the meantime, the Stewarts can return to their house.”

* * *

Everything happened just as Uncle Pringle said it would. The Stewarts moved back into their house with no trouble. John Stewart said that at the next city council meeting he would ask that a law preventing squatters taking over a house as they’d done with theirs be passed. It wasn’t everyone who had an Uncle Pringle who was able to evict them. Nothing was ever heard from the squatters again. Slick Sam Malone’s chief enforcer, Killer Pelosi, turned out to be a dog lover and took in Brutus. Uncle Pringle meanwhile was off on another one of his mysterious trips overseas. I believe he said he might make a stop in Israel.

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