Forty-five-year-old Tammy Goss is sitting on a park bench in a small patch of green wedged between Dixie Highway and the FEC railroad tracks. Staring down from the southeast wall of the corner community center is a huge blue-toned mural of a man's face, his fingers curled around an electric bass guitar. She knows his name.
“Jaco Pastorius, I think,” says Goss.
But that's all she really knows about John Francis Pastorius III.