Читать книгу Hidden Agendas - Paul Boardman - Страница 6

Phil Harrison and Michael Farris sat on comfortable deck chairs sharing a footstool on the stern of their eighty-foot steel ketch. They were laughing about how Phil had gored himself with his fishing rod while a powerful marlin launched himself into the air, before Phil had a chance of being strapped into a fighting chair.

“I was sure you were going to drop that rod,” mocked Farris, who was at least five years older than Phil, four inches shorter, but nevertheless a handsome man with Mediterranean good looks.

“So was I,” responded Phil with an easy, confident smile and a relaxed demeanor. “That fish was pulling like a pair of Clydesdales and then suddenly the line went slack. The rod got me right in the center of my six pack.”

“I wanted to feel sorry for you, but I was laughing too hard! Besides, I figure the marlin really wanted my bait and that he took yours by mistake. By the way, your six pack is looking more like a keg every day.”

“Come on, loser,” joked Phil. “I’ll buy you a beer with the fifty bucks I won off you. Maybe I can give you a few pointers on Marlin fishing.”

The two men lowered their inflatable off the stern, stepping into it from the swim platform. With Michael at the wheel and Phil casting off, they puttered across the bay to a ramshackle restaurant, built mostly on piers, overlooking the Atlantic. Beneath the deck were slips for a dozen boats on floating docks. In the center was an aluminum staircase wide enough for one person only. With handrails on either side, every part of the staircase was movable allowing it to fold up as the tide ebbed and flowed and the floating base rose and sank. It was apparent that the head of the stairwell, where it entered the bar, was a poor imitation of a submarine’s conning tower.

“Well look what the tide washed in!” said an attractive, well endowed thirty-five year old waitress, also the owner of the restaurant. She was decked out in short shorts, a checkered blouse tied around her mid-riff and a battered cowboy hat and boots.” Without asking she poured two draft beer and plunked them down on a table.

“Any luck today?”

Farris reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a Polaroid of Phil standing beside his catch. “This is for your “Wall of Shame”.

The waitress attached the picture to her photo wall above which a large tacky sign read, “Shame I Wasn’t Working Today”.

Phil reached down beside his seat. “We brought you a snack.” He handed the waitress a ten pound bag of marlin steaks for which he received a giant kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll fry these up for munchies and pass them around later. You fishermen may as well enjoy your bragging rights.”

Half an hour later a tall, thin, gangly looking man wearing thick glasses entered the bar from the parking lot. He looked around and headed straight for the table where Phil and Michael Farris sat.

“Hello, Mr. Harrison, Mr. Farris. My name is Tom Barrens. Mind if I sit down?”

The waitress returned. Tom seemed almost surprised to see her but quickly ordered a Budweiser. Although he appeared uncomfortable, he nevertheless, pulled out a chair and sat down. Neither Phil nor Michael spoke a word. Tom cleared his throat and said nothing as a beer was placed in front of him. The waitress left and Tom shifted in his seat.

“I’m here on business.”

“Too bad,” said Phil, dryly. “We’re both retired.”

“I’m aware of that. In fact, I know a good deal about both of you.”

“Funny we don’t know you, then,” said Phil.

“You wouldn’t.” Tom appeared to regroup. His voice became very calm and he spoke very quietly. “I’m here with a proposition for you. I need someone to smuggle something for me.”

“You have the wrong table, Mr. Barrens. It’s best you leave right now,” said Farris quietly.

“No, I have the right table. Please just hear me out.”

Phil and Michael looked at each other. Phil winked. The two men rose and went to either side of Barrens chair. Working smoothly, as if they had practiced the maneuver many times before, each man placed a hand on a chair leg and another on the back rail. Lifting the chair off the ground and tilting it backwards they carried Tom Barrens, chair and all, to the edge of the deck. Tom suddenly realized what was happening and leaned over, close to Phil’s ear whispering, “I’m with the DEA.” But it was too late. The two men were already dumping him over the railing. Gravity and physics took over and Tom Barrens plummeted awkwardly, face first, into the water twelve feet below.

Phil and Michael grinned at each other over the empty chair they still held.

“What did he say?” asked Farris.

“He said he was DEA.”

Tom had plenty of time to fill his lungs with air. The water felt cool and refreshing and he had had the foresight to grab his glasses as he fell. He made no attempt to swim to the surface immediately, taking time to run through his options.

“We just dumped a DEA agent over the rail?” asked Farris.

“That’s what he said,” answered Phil.

Suddenly Tom surfaced. Oddly, he was smiling broadly.

“Same time tomorrow, then,” he called.

Phil nodded. Someone threw a ring buoy to Tom Barrens but he chose to ignore it and began swimming to shore.

The owner of the bar rushed to the railing.

“Just what the Hell was that all about!” she spat accusingly. “You want me to lose my license. I don’t care if you are regulars. One more stunt like that and you are both barred. Is that guy OK?”

Phil pointed at the shoreline where Tom was climbing a ladder to the boardwalk.

The waitress cupped her hands around her mouth and called to him, “Beer’s on the house!”

Tom waved over his shoulder and walked, dripping, toward the parking lot. He appeared completely unembarrassed by the entire experience. It was as if he was used to being humiliated.

“He said he was coming back tomorrow,” volunteered Farris.

“To Hell he is!” said the waitress.

“Said he was. We didn’t invite him,” said Phil.

The waitress was vehement. “If anyone so much as spills a beer tomorrow, I’ll call the cops. She began to mellow. “Now you boys finish your drinks and leave. If anyone asks, I’ll say it had something to do with the Marlin … a bet or something. Now get out of here as fast as you can, before folks start asking you questions and things get rowdy.” Spinning on the heel of her cowboy boots she left.

Phil and Farris guzzled their beer, left a fifty dollar bill on the table and climbed down the narrow staircase.

When they arrived back on their boat, they were greeted by two women who had obviously just arrived and were having a glass of something cool after a day of shopping. There were a few bags with designer names printed on them resting against the cabin wall.

The older of the two women spoke first. She was a classical, beautiful woman. She had a full figure, wore a good deal of expensive jewelry, and was casually but immaculately dressed in a light summer, designer, dress. It was difficult to pinpoint her age because she was so attractive. You had to be up pretty close to guess that she was over thirty-five. The younger woman, her hair a bit messy, was dressed in cotton slacks and a colorful print blouse. Her appearance was much more casual. No make-up, medium length brown hair and dark eyes highlighted her high cheek bones. But it was when she smiled that hearts melted. She had a full fledged smile, a grin that showed lots of teeth.

“Who won? You, or the fish?” asked Linda, the older of the two women.

“Didn’t catch a thing,” said Michael as he put his arm around her and they looked out over the water together.

Behind them Judy pointed at Phil and pantomimed a question mark. Phil mouthed “Marlin” and raised his hand to chest height. Judy clapped silently to show her congratulations.

“Good for the fish! Who would want to be tortured like that?” said Linda.

“Any luck shopping?” asked Michael.

“None at all. Everything looked like last year’s leftovers.”

Behind them, Judy pointed at the bags and slid her hands along her sides, from her breasts to her knee. One foot came off the deck and she made a judo chop at her ankle. Then she drew a deep V with her finger from her shoulder to slightly below her breasts and back to the other shoulder.

Phil nodded, grinning and pointed at Judy.

Judy mouthed “A blouse” and received a thumbs up from Phil. They both looked at Michael and Linda, linked arm in arm against the rail, staring out at the water. Phil took the opportunity to give Judy a warm, wet kiss.

Judy pulled away after a few seconds. “Cocktails, anyone?”

Michael and Linda turned away from the water, toward the younger couple.

“Absolutely!” said Farris. Without hesitation he moved into the salon. A few moments later, he returned, riding a bicycle style ice cream cart that had been skillfully converted to a wet bar, complete with ice and a full supply of liquor. The cart had wooden spoke wheels with bicycle tires and sported a nickelodeon that played when the motorcycle style hand grips were cranked. Farris rolled onto the stern deck with the nickelodeon tinkling its cheery melody.

“Do you ever tire of that tune?” asked Phil.

“Never!” responded Farris. “I associate it with alcohol and I never tire of alcohol.”

Everyone placed their drink orders while Michael mixed them. He always decorated drinks with a bit of fruit, an olive, or a tiny umbrella.

When everyone was served Michael proposed his favorite toast. “To Alcohol.”

As everyone took their seats around the boat, Linda, who could read her husband’s moods almost clairvoyantly, asked, “So what happened?”

Michael looked at Phil, giving him an almost imperceptible nod.

“Someone approached us to see if we could do a little smuggling for him,” answered Phil.

“Then what? What did you say?” questioned Judy, who was immediately intrigued and never reluctant to show her curiosity.

“It happened over at the bar. We picked up his chair and tossed him over the rail.”

“You what?”

“Just picked him up and dumped him overboard. Nothing to it, really.”

Judy gasped and started to laugh. Linda was grinning, too.

“Just picked him up …. And dumped him over the railing?” repeated Judy addressing her question to Phil.

“Yup. Problem was, he was DEA. And he made a date with us for tomorrow just before he hit the water,” added Phil.

“DEA?” said Linda, shock emanating in her voice.

“You threw a DEA agent off the veranda at the bar?” said Judy, almost giggling. “You’re lying … you are making this up … aren’t you?”

“No. It was just the way Phil told it,” said Farris.

“Funny thing was, he didn’t look much like a DEA agent. He was skinny, kind of nervous. A bit of a nerd. He looked like he’d be more comfortable carrying a laptop than a gun,” commented Phil.

“He wasn’t carrying a gun,” said Michael, quietly.

“What about under his arm?” asked Judy.

“No.”

“OK. His ankle. Bet you couldn’t see that?”

“No ankle holster. Nothing in the small of his back, either.”

“No gun, nothing?”

“I think we ruined his cell phone,” said Michael.

That brought a weak laugh from everyone.

“So what do we do?” asked Linda.

Farris looked at Phil, waiting for his decision.

Phil responded. “We either slip out of harbor after dark … or we meet him again tomorrow.”

“Who needs the DEA? Let’s head back to the Bahamas. We’re not under arrest,” said Judy.

“Perhaps we should find out what this is all about,” said Linda in a very businesslike fashion.

“Sorry Babe,” said Phil, his eyes resting on Judy’s face. “I’m voting with Linda.”

“I’m curious as well. Three to one,” said Farris.

“No problem. Tomorrow we meet the DEA. The next day we meet the FBI. Then the next day, we meet the CIA. Fine by me. Sounds like fun. On Saturday we can all get together and eat Alphabet soup.” Judy brought her feet up on the bench seat and hugged her knees. She was clearly troubled.

“Do you think we should all be there, tomorrow?” asked Linda.

“Not me!” answered Judy. “No way Jose! I’m going to be in the parking lot with the car running when the guy arrives. I’ll get a photo if you want, get his plate numbers and run them through to find out if this guy is legit.”

“Good thought,” said Phil. “How will you do that?”

“You know me, hun. I can make my computer dance.”