Читать книгу Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt - Linn Wyllie - Страница 8

My office condominium contains four offices. There’s a file room, a bathroom, and a conference area too. Mine was the big window office in the back, and I used the conference room and the file room for my business. Once in a while. I rented out two other one-room offices as a full-service professional executive suites operation. The income helped with all the attendant expenses associated with owning a professional office condo. Lots of expenses. Association dues. Insurance. Taxes. Upkeep. Wi-Fi.

My private investigative work was mostly investigating personal injury insurance fraud cases, and they all paid scale. It was a minor scale too. You really couldn’t live on it. So I rented the suites. It was a little better than breakeven, but it was working for me. Besides, it added some much needed human activity to the office. At least when there was more than just me here.

I was tired of doing office clerical stuff. I was restless. I decided I’d done enough for the good of the cause for today. I left.

I went to the houseboat.

I used to live on the houseboat. It was relatively small and perfect for a reclusive, grumpy in-between-Mrs. Randalls-bachelor like me. The slip rent was cheap. And it included shore power. But that was before I moved in with Rebecca Lynn. She’s an up- and-coming litigation attorney. She was pretty good at it. Her arguments got written up occasionally in legal review publications. I’d read them, and they would always impress me. She had a great legal mind. But litigation attorneys can be vicious. Brutal. They can gut you like a fish. While they smile at you as you just watch your guts spill out. It’s unnerving. Everybody wants to be on her good side. Including me. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was once Miss Chamber of Commerce either. That was years ago. She still had it. Beauty and brains and success. It’s a deadly combination for a guy. We dated a bit, and the chemistry was definitely there. We fucked like muskrats for a couple years. Anywhere and everywhere.

She’d drag me around to all of those attorney bar and chamber of commerce functions, and I know her crowd pretty well. They knew me. We were certainly an odd couple. She was upwardly mobile. I’m less so. I’d chat up the attorneys and judges and social climbers that frequented these things. It was always fun. They’re basically focused on themselves, and I’m kinda philosophical about all that. Besides, once in a while I’d get a referral from one of them. But I always sent my soon-to-be-guilty clients to Rebecca Lynn. They knew I would. How could I not? She’d have to send some of my referrals out to others—conflict of interest, you know—and these attorneys always knew where that client came from. It was a symbiotic relationship, I guess. That’s why I’d even go. To these events, I mean. There were usually some hors d’oeuvres served. That meant neatly dressed wait staff meandering around carrying silver trays of beautifully crafted little morsels. Smiling. Free. I’d always take one. At least I’d get something to eat. Rebecca Lynn would have a wine and some crackers and cheese. I’d have a Jack-and-Seven and go hunt for shrimp or those bacon-wrapped scallops. Wine and cheese for her. Seafood and whisky for me. Described us perfectly.

Even though she’s twenty-some odd years younger than me, she had me move in with her. It was her demand. Who was I to say no? I quit trying to analyze the psychology years ago. I like slender younger women, and she’s probably got some latent daddy issues. Electra and Oedipus complexes merging. I get it. So what. We’re both brainy. We like to play chess with each other. I never let her win. She wins only occasionally. We discuss eclectic things like metaphysics and the meaning of life. Zen in all its forms. Dharma and karma. The relationship was working for the most part. Mostly. It was a resume enhancement for me. Everyone thinks I’m some kind of well-hung stud. Well, I am that. For her, I dunno. Maybe the same but in a different way.

Anyway, I keep the houseboat for times like this when I need to be away from the world for a while. So I clambered aboard and opened the slider aft of the cabin. It was dark and dank down below as boats typically are. I opened it up to air out. The smell of gasoline, salt air, and bilge was familiar and welcoming. Except when I was hungover. It was time to hunker down a bit and just mellow out. I popped a couple Ester-C tabs. Vitamin C in mega doses always works for me. Plopped down on the bunk and closed my eyes.

But I couldn’t shake the mysterious dame encounter. Bob Dylan’s belt? How do you solve a bad dream? What the hell was that all about? Was the dame loony? Why didn’t Messr. Astor ask for the money back? That’s what I called him. Did he even know about it?

I felt kinda guilty about taking the money. For about twenty seconds. The envelope was still in my desk drawer. I solved the case, right? Obligation satisfied. But I just couldn’t make it work. Too many bizarre angles.

And somehow I felt that it would come back to haunt me. Easy money always does.

I needed a nap and, thankfully, I finally dozed off.

* * *

I awoke somewhat refreshed, and my work ethic kicked in. Either that, or Mr. Brain was nagging me to go back to work. He was usually right, so I got up and got dressed.

And headed for the office. Again.

One of the individual suites in my office condo was occupied by a mental health therapist. Marie Vaughn had a master’s degree in psychology and specialized in tutoring learning-challenged children. She was an ageless beauty who had it all: brains and style and class. She and I would spend hours comparing the merits and shortfalls of my psi functioning to her psychological analysis. Especially as it pertained to criminal motivation and mental makeup. Very heady stuff. Her eyes would twinkle in a certain way whenever she thought she had me in a philosophical debate. And I definitely noticed her eyes. She was intellectually stimulating, and I admired and respected her a great deal. We would debate issues, all in fun, and I guess she felt the same about me. Her husband, Ted, was a retired real estate investor who was chronically ill. Cancer or something. I had done some things for him in the past, and I introduced him to Mark-boy as a real estate connection. I always got the impression that there wasn’t much between Ted and Marie, but I never pursued it. You know—don’t ask, don’t tell. I could relate. Rebecca Lynn and I were in the same boat. Actually, Marie and I never delved into our relationships with our spouses. Not in any depth anyway. Not for any particular reason, really, other than personal discretion.

But Marie and I enjoyed challenging each other intellectually. We always seemed to be on the same page on most issues. But there was a noticeable current—a vibe, maybe—that ran through some of those discussions, and I know she was aware of it too. If Rebecca Lynn wasn’t in my life, well, let’s just say Marie would be.

I stepped out into the hall. I wanted to tell her about the dame with the Dylan bad dream. Just to see what she could make of it. But she had her Do Not Disturb sign on her closed office door. That meant she was in session. She was busy. Damn. I went back into my office. Picking Marie’s brains would have to wait.

Another office suite I rented out was to a couple of college dropout types who were into all things computer. Twenty-somethings aspiring to be the next digital tech gods. Not focused on it though. Smart guys, I guess, but intellectually all over the map. Spent most of their time searching the web and its deeper underbelly for conspiracies. The deep web, the dark web, whatever that is. They’d uncover some arcane bit of lore and then charge into my office breathlessly enlightening me about the Bilderberg Group, George Soros’ Nazi past, Area 51 sightings, alien moon bases, UFO encounters, or the bugs on Mars. Whatever. It was fun to watch that youthful exuberance. God knows mine was on the wane. They were partners in their company, an LLC I helped them create, and they did research for me sometimes. They were pretty good at finding stuff online. And sometimes they couldn’t quite make the rent. So it kinda worked out in a barter-based sort of way.

David Willis was a tall, lanky guy, and oh so serious. Wound pretty tight. Wore his hair early Johnny Depp. Everything had to have meaning, a purpose, and one had to be aware of this to get ahead and find enlightenment in life. He was opinionated and cocksure of everything. All the time. It was amusing for a while, then it got old. But you couldn’t ignore him all the time. Sometimes he was right.

John Cavanaugh, his partner, was a polar opposite. He was stocky, but not fat, and had a gentle humor and intellect about him. He had those sensitive eyes that chicks dig, was soft spoken and wore his hair business cropped. He was an artist type, in perfect contrast to David’s hyper and analytical persona. He had his art displayed in local coffee houses and in an occasional professional office. It was very good; he was a realist. His landscapes looked like photographs, they were so real. And he could do dinosaurs so well that some textbooks commissioned his artwork. But he didn’t draw or paint. He created them pixel by pixel on the computer. Digital art, I think it’s called. He’d sell a landscape occasionally for good money. It would piss David off no end. He hated to be upstaged. Together they were pretty adept at what they did. It’s just they really didn’t do it much. Intellectually spastic nerds. Living at home. Or in the office.

I was in my office reviewing an insurance case. I was figuring my time. Had to see how much money I lost. Six hours on surveillance should have paid me a per diem plus expenses. The insurance company only would pay an hourly. Take it or leave it. They didn’t care. For that reason—and others—this would be my last job for them. Watching some guy mow his lawn or hump his wife when he’s claiming to be disabled from a minor auto crash was not only mind numbing, it was beneath me. I had pride. But I did it anyway.

The phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Russell Davidson, the liaison from one of my insurance company clients. His job was to interact with us private eyes. Keep us interested in accepting his claims cases. My primary contact. Picked up the phone.

“Jake Randall.”

That’s how I answer the landline.

“Jake. Russell Davidson here.”

Davidson was no charmer. All collegiate arrogance and thinly veiled disdain for guys like me who actually work for a living.

“Hey, Davidson. To what do I owe this honor?”

No mister. No first name. Last name familiarity for him. I know he hates it when I call him that. That’s why I do it.

“Hey, I saw your write-up in the paper last week, Wyatt. Very impressive. You’re now a famous guy. But tell me: have you shot anybody lately?”

Did he just call me Wyatt? This shootout shtick was starting to chafe. He snickered into the line. I chortled along. That’s okay. Tit for tat, I guess.

“Ah. That’s a good one. No, I’ve already killed everybody around here who needs killin’.”

“I see. Well, Jake, all this cowboy shootin’ aside, I called because I wanted you be aware of how insurance fraud is such a significantly huge hit to the economy. According to FBI stats, the insurance industry—collectively consisting of some seven thousand companies like ours, as you probably already know—will lose some forty billion dollars or more a year through payment of fraudulent claims. Forty billion, Jake. Think about that. That’s a huge hit to America’s economy”

Oh, God. It was one of those oh-so-personalized, pump-up-the-energy calls. I’d get one every couple of months or so. Just to remind us lowly PIs that we’re doing God’s work in investigating and exposing insurance fraud. Saving the American economy. Worse, I knew he was reading it off his computer screen. I gave him a noncommittal response. I knew I’d have to endure yet more.

“Uh huh.”

He continued.

“While it’s true that the insurance industry as a whole takes in more than seven trillion dollars in premiums each year, you’re aware that some of that money goes back to our policyholders in order to make whole those who have suffered a regrettable and tragic loss. It’s how we protect our customers from life’s inherent risks. It’s what they’ve asked us to do. And what’s left over after we pay those claims, Jake, is invested back into the American economy in such rock-solid ventures as annuities, residential housing, and commercial real estate.”

More infomercial. I hated these calls. I hated insurance companies. But they paid the bills. Some of the bills anyway.

I pondered the dust and dirt on my alligator boots. Buffed them on my pants leg. Davidson wasn’t done yet. He had to get to the flag waving rah-rah close.

“So our hats are off to guys like you, Jake, who enable us to keep our policy premiums as low as possible by weeding out those illegal and fraudulent claims. And for that, we thank you!”

A comment from me was expected at this point in the spiel. His computer screen probably displayed “wait for comment.” I obliged.

“Well, that’s awfully nice of you to say, Russ.”

Davidson also hated it when I called him Russ. Like during these intimate moments we share over on the phone listening to these mandatory infomercials. So that’s why I did it.

But I wasn’t quite done yet, either.

“And, Russ, I can’t tell you how much that means to a small private investigator like me. But in all fairness, you know, if insurance companies weren’t so interested in making obscene profit on top of obscene profit, like funding annuities and housing and commercial real estate projects at confiscatory interest rates, perhaps those poor aggrieved policyholders of yours would not have such high premiums. Or those huge fucking deductibles.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. There probably wasn’t an appropriate prompt on his screen for a comeback like that. Which means he’d have to wing it.

“Uh, Jake. We’re all on the same team here. No need to get sarcastic.”

“Oh, that wasn’t sarcasm, Russ. That was a heartfelt observation.”

I loved tweaking him. I’m an ardent red-blooded capitalist, and I appreciate insurance companies being the source of capital for many a commercial project. But I loved keeping him off balance. For the two-hundred grand a year salary he was pulling in, he could put up with a little rebellious snarkiness from one of us lowly PIs.

Davidson decided to wrap it up.

“Well, nevertheless, Jake, I—err, we—appreciate your efforts in getting fraud reduced. And I’m looking forward to continuing to work with you. As always. And keep that six-gun loaded, partner. Yee-haw and take care.”

“You too, Russ.”

Fucking idiot.

I was primarily focused on the personal injury aspect of insurance fraud, but I still had to endure these infomercials periodically. And nothing would happen to me because of my little verbal rebellion. They needed me, and I just needed to get it off my chest. All that infomercial public relations bullshit notwithstanding, insurance companies hire guys like me to find a reason they don’t have to make good on their policy. I get paid so they don’t have to pay your claim. And don’t kid yourself. You’re never fully insured. Not really. I always felt I needed a shower after an insurance case. Goddamn vultures.

David Willis saved me from letting myself get seriously pissed off. He came blasting into my office and, in one fluid motion, slid into one of the overstuffed chairs. Threw a leg over the arm and stared at me. I was supposed to be curious. I was just miffed at the interruption. And still working on getting myself pissed off at the cheap-ass, greedy insurance company infomercial.

“Guess what.”

David loved to start conversations that way. It annoyed me.

“Bucs won?” The Tampa Bay Buccaneers were having a decent season, but I just said that to irritate him. Following sports was beneath him.

“What? No, I dunno. Guess again.”

Sigh. I looked up. Time to give it up and play along. After fifteen minutes of Russell Davidson’s nauseating and insultingly patronizing spiel, I wasn’t in a very good mood anyway.

“OK. What?”

“Somebody just shot Bob Dylan.”

He could have said that an asteroid was going to hit Earth in ten minutes. Or that the San Andreas Fault had ruptured and California had slid into the Pacific. It could not have hit me any harder. I just looked at him, mouth agape. Mr. Brain was trying to wrap his arms around what David was telling me. I could only stare at him for what seemed like minutes. Finally I managed to speak.

“What? Dylan? Whaddaya mean?”

“Jake, dude, wake up. Somebody shot Bob Dylan.”

To anyone else that would have been just another celebrity news oddity. Click bait. Dylan’s shot. Or Mick Jagger’s latest wife had another baby. Or Lady Gaga performed with her clothes on. Or Rosie O’Donnell uttered something intelligent. Or Michael Moore is on a Jenny Craig diet. Big yawn. But to me it was catastrophic. Illusion had just become reality. And it wasn’t even my illusion.

“Who? I mean, how do you know?”

He just gave me one of those condescending looks. How does he know anything? I already knew. This was serious. I just couldn’t believe it. Precognition? Psychic functioning? How could . . . I realized I didn’t even know her name. The dish. The hot dame with the bad dream. And that gentleman. Didn’t get his name either. How could she or he or they know about Dylan getting shot? From a dream? I was sold on that dream-story case. In, out, and paid. Case closed. Was it merely a coincidence? I didn’t believe in coincidence. I resisted the urge to check the desk drawer for a large white number 10 business envelope. But this was beginning to seriously spook me.

I must have looked pale.

“You all right? You’re pale. What, were you, like, a Dylan fan?”

I just stared at him. Mr. Brain was doing calculations. No time for idle chatter.

“Jake?”

David laughed nervously. He looked concerned. I was rarely without a witty and acerbic response. This was one of those times. He asked again.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Was it news? Rumor? I had to confirm the veracity of this astounding news. I tried it again.

“How do you know this?”

“Wow, man. It was just an alert on the newswires. There was a video too. It just happened. They don’t know if he’s OK or dead. Why are you so freaked?”

Why, indeed.

I wondered if I should tell him. I wondered if it even happened at all. The dame and her dream, I mean. I was in a sorry state when I learned of Dylan’s demise. Maybe it was all just a hallucination. Mine. Or maybe the dame’s. Or for that matter, maybe this second Dylan shooting didn’t happen either.

Mr. Brain needed some time to work out what the hell was going on.

“Newsfeed, you say? Can you forward that to me?” I didn’t want to waste time with an internet search that would give me everything about Dylan except this.

“Sure. Stand by.” David unfolded himself out of the chair and headed back down the hall to his office.

I opened the desk drawer. The worst feeling came over me when I saw the envelope. That part of the bizarre scenario was true, it seemed. Gently opened it. Hundreds. Crisp. OK, now I knew the dream dame incident actually happened. The rest I’d have to sort out. Something told me to keep the money on the down low. I don’t know why. Instinct, maybe. One thing that was still bugging me was why I was paid so much. Ten times my normal retainer. To solve a bad dream? And in cash? And literally in the first thirty seconds of the meeting? Was it tainted money? Blue dye from a bank robbery job? Counterfeit? I’d wait until the office was deserted, then I’d check. Sequential serial numbers? I hoped so. I could at least track that part of the source. Or maybe not. Cash transactions over five grand are tracked by the feds. Naturally I didn’t have a source at . . . wait. What government agency is it that does that anyway? Tracks deposits? I’d have to find out. I bet this money didn’t go through a bank. Nowhere near a bank. That was the one thing about this crazy deal that I was absolutely sure of.

The envelope went back in the drawer. The drawer closed. I looked up.

David was back. Stuck his head in the door.

“Yahoo News. Google it.”

I nodded.

Just great. That was the last thing I was going to do. I didn’t have time to sort through a search, knowing the returns would be everything in the world about Dylan except this. And I sure as hell didn’t want any more of the Bob Dylan’s belt mystery. Too fucking weird. Somebody would most likely come for the money. They’d want it back. Maybe.

Mr. Brain was working on the cosmic meaning of this surreal deal. He thought it was just a series of events that seemed to have causation. But what cause? Maybe it was a catalyst for something else. But with serious cosmic overtones. Or worse, maybe it was karma emanating from dharma. The universe reminding me who was boss. Who was really in control. Testing me with a philosophical puzzle.

I was just a peripheral player in the universe’s random number generator. Dealing with the reality of things. Deism as observed by a modal realist. And I didn’t want any part of this weighty and confounding mystery. But it had happened. I was there; now it’s done. Move on. Next. But sometimes you get events in life that are unfathomable. Things that make you wonder about inevitability. Fate. Predetermination. Hand of God. Things like that. This was one of those times.

Anyway, what I wanted was for it to just go quietly away.

What I got was a screaming monkey climbing on my back.

Gnawing on my skull.

Damn.

I was majoring in philosophy when I dropped out of college late in ‘68. I ran out of money for school, and I got drafted as well. The Viet Nam conflict was beginning to get really hot, and me and a lot of guys my age were invited to go on an overseas tour. Courtesy of Uncle Sam’s draft. But the US Armed Forces couldn’t use a guy with a chronic medical condition. No matter how gung-ho he may be. So I got a 4-F classification. Unfit for duty. Damn. It was both a relief and an insult at the same time.

What I wanted was to go kick some commie ass. Get right down into the thick of things and slug it out. With some serious trigger time. Kill commies like my dad had killed Japs in the Pacific Theater during Dubya-Dubya-Duce. But it was not to be. Not in the military anyway. And not right now.

What I got was permanent shore leave.

So a different page opened in that chapter of my life. I was twenty years old with a genius-plus IQ. There was a world to conquer. Dames to fuck. Money to be made. I was invincible. I was unique. Just like every other dumbass, mouth-breathing, long- haired, guitar-playing swinging dick slouching around college campuses. I know different now. I didn’t then.

But I am reflective enough—that means aware—to recognize a philosophical conundrum when it comes into my office and lays ten grand on my desk. I took the dough. Offer and acceptance. That creates a contract. My work ethic required me to honor my contracts. And this contract was with the universe itself. Of that I was sure. Who else could it be with? So there’d be serious—and probably eternal—consequences if I fucked it up. Couldn’t charm my way out of this one.

Even if I had solved the case for her.

Did that satisfy the obligations of the contract?

My hands sweat. Stomach growled. Mr. Brain was scratching his head.

David hollered a goodbye as he left for the day.

Rebecca Lynn was in court all day today trying a big case. She’d be home very late. So my going home to a dark and empty house and scrounging a cold dinner of leftovers was out of the question.

And I needed a drink.

I headed to the houseboat.

As I left the office and headed back over to the marina, the Jeep purring along the causeway, Mr. Brain was poking me with a nagging concern. Hard. He was relentless in getting my attention. Then it dawned on me.

It was that black Suburban parked way back under the oak trees in my office condo’s parking lot. I saw it when I left. In the dark. Back of the lot. I saw it peripherally, but didn’t pay much attention to it.

But Mr. Brain had.

I had initially dismissed it. Just a client of one of my neighbors, perhaps. Maybe someone just pulled over, using his phone, finding an address.

Mr. Brain was having none of it. He finally got me to agree. It was pretty late, and I was the last guy to leave. That car just didn’t fit, and I had never seen it there before.

Red flags and bad vibes.

I executed a quick U-turn and aimed the Jeep back to the office.

Just to be sure.

In my line of work, you learn to trust your instincts. That’s the reptilian brain telling you to pay attention. So I did. I was back at the office in less than ten minutes.

As I walked up the walk to my office front door, I pulled Mr. Kimber from my holster. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I pushed on the front door. And it opened. Unlocked. Mr. Brain assured me I had locked it when we left just twenty minutes ago. Now it’s open.

Maybe John or David came back. Not likely, though. And there were no lights on. And Marie never meets clients at night.

I made my way slowly and stealthily past the receptionist’s desk, Mr. Kimber leading the way. Down the long hall. Past one empty office. Past John and David’s closed and locked office door. Check. Same with Marie’s office door—closed and locked. Check. But my office door was open. Wide open.

Then I heard something in there. A clatter. A bump? A grunt?

With my shoulder against the door jamb, I rolled silently into my office, following Mr. Kimber as I quickly scanned the empty room. Clear.

Years ago, when I bought my office condo, I had a small and discrete exterior door cut into the back wall of my office. It opens outside to the lush quadrangle. Then I built a little patio out of paver blocks directly outside. Had a deck chair and a small table out there too. I use it only rarely, like when I step outside to get some sun or some fresh air or to smoke a cigar.

Tonight it was standing open. Wide open. And I was looking through the back door opening at the common area’s landscaped and sculptured lawn in the quadrangle behind my office condo.

I stepped over and through the door. Looked outside. The quadrangle is well lighted at night. No prowler.

But my chair was knocked over onto its side

I swiveled around, looking for disruption in my office. Filing cabinets, computer, desktop. All seemed to be in order. Check. I closed and relocked the back door. Stepped over to the desk and pulled open the drawer.

The envelope with the one hundred hundred-dollar bills was still there. I nodded a curt hello to Ben. Closed the drawer.

Mr. Brain figured we came back too soon and spooked the spook.

Whoever was here got away. Clean.

Just then I heard the roar of the big American V-8 engine as the Suburban blasted out of the parking lot.

I sprinted back up the hall and bounded through the front door. Ran out onto the walk. Put the Kimber’s sights on the speeding SUV as it ripped by me. The Suburban fishtailed as it squealed out of the parking lot driveway and onto the street. The driver had the pedal to the metal.

It happened too fast to take a righteous shot. And beyond the target and across the street were other offices. The possibility of a stray round causing collateral damage was high. And I didn’t have reasonable cause to shoot anyway.

Worse, I couldn’t make out the tag.

Exasperated, I holstered Mr. Kimber.

Mr. Brain shrugged. Home team zip, visitors one.

Peachy. We lost. We had nothing.

I went back in.

Double-checked all the doors and locks.

Office was secure.

It was late. I was tired and pissed off.

So I headed back to the houseboat.

For the second time.

* * *

Some Yankee asshole motored his boat through the harbor pulling a heavy wake. Moored yachts rolled and pitched. My houseboat rocked and slammed against the pilings. Stuff creaked and clinked inside the cabin. Woke me up. There’s a no-wake zone in and around the marina, but there’s always some dickless fool who can’t wait to plane off. He probably rented it. It’s always a Yankee transplant, because real locals understand the effect of wakes on moored boats. They have respect. Yankees don’t. Or don’t care. Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department has a marine division, and they get to write tickets for excessive wakes. And nautical stupidity. There’s a lot of stupidity going on in Clearwater Bay. So they write lots of tickets. Liveaboards like me have no sense of humor when it comes to boat wakes.

I needed to get up anyway. What I wanted to do was to use the time to meditate. Use my metaphysical yoga training to attain an alpha brain wave state. That’s an altered and calm state of mind. Self-imposed. Reveals insight. It allows me to see things clearly. Used this method for years when I was with Collier County Sheriff’s Office. Solved cases that way. I was younger then. I had to work harder at it now. I needed clarity right now. What I got was to lose my concentration and fall asleep. It happens occasionally. It did this time.

I was up. I didn’t get to the alpha state I wanted. Didn’t get any insight into my present conundrum. And I never got my drink. I was busy straightening up the disruption caused by the dickless Yankee boater’s wake.

Then Mark Forrester came by.

“Permission to board.”

Mark-boy and I go way back. That’s what I call him. Don’t really know why. Just one of those things that grows legs and sticks. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went all through school together, did all kinds of guy stuff. Inseparable. Raced cars. Rebuilt Porsche engines, raced them. Raced boats. Skied all day. Raised hell. Shot guns. Sailed the Gulf and some of the Caribbean. Imported some contraband. Screwed a lot of dames, smoked a lot of weed, hiked a lot of mountains. Amazing, we never got arrested for any of it. Or killed doing it.

“Come ahead.”

Mark-boy stepped into the cabin and looked around. Then looked at me disapprovingly.

“When you gonna clean this rat’s nest up?”

I just shot him a look. He likes to fuck with me. I’m ship shape and squared away at all times. Despite dickless Yankee boaters.

“So. What are you up to?”

I asked that, ignoring his barb. Mark-boy was a member of the idle not-so-rich. His time was his own. He was a builder and a real estate broker, but he only did any work when he was cash shy. Or felt like it.

“Huntin’ you down. Figured you’d be here in your sanctuary.”

“That I am. What’s up?”

He looked around the cabin expectantly.

“Where’s my drink?”

That was Mark-boy. He’d been aboard about ninety seconds before he hit me up for a drink. After he ragged me about the boat. He liked to show off. Drank his whisky neat. But only when he was showing off. Like that time we were at that early 1800s historic cowboy bar in Gruene, Texas. Mozie’s Saloon. He was knocking them back like there was no tomorrow. In Gruene, there wasn’t.

I poured a one-ounce shot for each of us.

“Next time you come by, bring a bottle.”

I slid one of the shot glasses towards him. He knew I usually drank mine with Seven-Up. Today I had a shot glass. It was that kind of day.

“You’re not gonna put mixer on that? No Coke or nothin’?”

Mark-boy can sometimes play that raggin’-your-ass scene a little too effectively. I wasn’t in a good mood anyway, and this was one of those times.

“You gonna drink, or are you just gonna stand there and annoy me?”

Mark-boy grinned and raised his glass. At least he knew when to shut the fuck up.

“Cheers.”

We tossed back the shots.

“So. What brings you out here to my yacht?

“Ah. Glad you brought that up. Several things.”

He waited for a response. He didn’t get one.