3 Crystal Blue
Page 24
A cool breeze blew through the backstage at Foxy’s as I took in the scene: the roaring crowd, the cameras, the azure sea framed in coconut palms, and the harbor filled with boats of all size and shape.
John Thedford said that lost finger or not he still believed things happened for a reason, and even derelicts like Boom-Boom, Diego, and me had a purpose on this earth.
Maybe mine had been to save his life so he could change the world.
You never know.
A beach ball flew up from the stage and Buffett swatted it back over his head. It landed right in my lap. He glanced back with that trademark smile and gave me a wink.
I heard footsteps behind me. “You ready to take me up on that drink, cowboy?”
Avery Rose. She kissed my cheek and then looked back at the stage.
“This next song is one Matt and I just wrote.” Buffet looked right at me with a shit-eating grin.
Matt Hoggatt stepped up to the microphone.
“It’s called ‘The Ballad of Buck Reilly.’”
THE SUN WAS HOT on my chest and made the skin under my bandage itch. In front of me was nothing but blue water with wispy cirrus clouds drifting overhead. The Beast was beached up near the breakwater. Sweat ran down my torso and dripped into the sand from the teak lounge chair I’d been parked in for the better part of the morning since emerging from the private villa here on Guana Island.
A periodic buzzing sound came from the tall grass behind me, or maybe it was from the villa itself. I wasn’t sure and frankly didn’t care. The concert had ended last night, my charter for ISA was over, and I was back on my own clock. The warm breeze rustled the grass and a feather blew across raked sand so white I had to squint underneath my sunglasses.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that I’d decided to abstain from the charter side of my business and focus again on salvage. People and their problems tended to wear me out. Hell, this time they nearly got me killed. I smiled—not that I regretted one moment of this trip.
“Buck?”
Avery Rose ambled down the path from the villa holding a tray with a pitcher of fresh margaritas and salt-rimmed glasses. She moved with the delicate care of someone who’d gone to great length to create something they didn’t want to see ruined.
“I wasn’t sure if you were awake.” She placed the tray on a small teak table next to our chairs, bent down, and pressed her moist, full lips against mine. “You need to rest up to restore your energy.”
“Indeed.”
Ever fearful of paparazzi eager to spoil her public image of country innocence, she glanced up and down the private beach before sliding out of the sheer wrap that covered part of her body, leaving only a tiny bikini bottom and top that barely constrained her tanned chest.
A growing drone caused her to hesitate.
The sound grew louder, and a small powerboat rounded the long breakwater near where the Beast was beached.
“Not now,” Avery said.
“They’ll only be here a little while.”
The boat straightened out and followed a line directly toward us before Ray cut the engine and the boat slid quietly onto the sand. Lenny jumped off the bow, pulled the wood boat ashore, grunting and cussing under his breath as he did so.
“Damn, boy, all you bastards must weigh a thousand pounds!” he said. “If I hurt my back, the people in Key West won’t have the confidence to vote my ass onto the City Council.”
Boom-Boom, his head still encased in gauze, stepped over the side into the water and pushed the remnants of a joint against his lips. The tip of it glowed red before he spit it into the surf. Diego, his right arm in a sling, followed—helped out by Zachary Ober, who for the first time since I’d met him was wearing something other than his EMT uniform. His gold tooth caught the sunlight like a message from the heavens. Ray Floyd stumbled over the rows of seats to the front of the boat, climbed out, picked up the rope Lenny had dropped onto the sand, and tied it to a pygmy palm on the edge of the beach.
“Why are they here again?” Avery said.
Her voice was devoid of whining or bitchiness, and I thought yet again that she was just what the doctor had ordered.
“It has to do with some history on Tortola,” I said.
All five of my friends, old and new, were smiling as they stomped up the beach shoulder to shoulder, like a team of some sort.
“Let’s talk about that buried treasure!” Diego slapped his good hand against Zachary Ober’s back. “Hah!”
I laughed out loud. For the first time in years I was actually excited to hear those words.
“I’ll pour the margaritas,” Avery said.
“Sounds like a plan.”
The End
The Ballad of Buck Reilly
Cunningham/Hoggatt
TALK IN: This is the Ballad of Buck Reilly. You may have heard about him, or at least his past, because today, well, he’s just trying to stay under the radar. But back in the day, he was a global treasure hunter, a regular for-profit Indiana Jones. The Wall Street Journal even proclaimed him King Buck. Of course, that was before he lost his ass…
Buck Reilly’s Just a man, Just like you and me
Gave up everything he owned to the economy
Uncle Sam took his money, lost his parents and his girl
He woke up sleeping alone one day at the south end of the world
Now he lives in the La Concha, down on Duval Street
Flying charter and salvage, to keep him on his feet
No longer burning money, just trying to stay afloat
Taking anybody anywhere in his antique flying boat
No questions asked
Especially if you pay with cash
Bahamas, Key West,
Cuba and all the rest
Of the Caribbean island chain
Buck Reilly’s still trying,
Living and dying
To break a couple rules along the way
Buck Reilly, oh Buck Reilly
Fly me away
His airplane’s name is Betty; she’s been crashed before
Got a red float on her starboard wing and a green one on her port
Like constant channel markers, leading home or to his soul
Always headed for that treasure, that only Buck knows
No questions asked
He may be broke but hey, he’s having a blast
Bahamas, Key West,
Cuba and all the rest
Of the Caribbean island chain
Buck Reilly’s still trying,
Living and dying
To break a couple rules along the way
Buck Reilly, oh Buck Reilly
Fly me away
He only wants three things in life, that’s true
A plane to fly, a treasure to find and a woman to rescue…
Bahamas, Key West,
Cuba and all the rest
Of the Caribbean island chain
Buck Reilly’s still trying,
Living and dying
To make up his own rules along the way
Buck Reilly, oh Buck Reilly
Fly me away
About the Author
JOHN H. CUNNINGHAM has a background as eclectic as Buck himself. With over 20 years of experience in commercial real estate, he has also served as the editor of The Pro Review, a magazine for professional photographers. John lives in Virginia with his wife, two daughters, two Portuguese Water Dogs, a Havanese, a cat, his 22 year-old African Grey parrot and a few horses scattered around the countryside. He spends much of his time traveling. His choices for the places and plots that populate the Buck Reilly series include many of the things he loves: Key West, Cuba, the Bahamas, Caribbean settings, along with amphibious aircraft, colorful characters, and stories that concern themselves with the same tensions and issues that affect all of our lives.
John’s website can be viewed at www.jhcunningham.com.
Table of Contents
My Inner Voice is on Mute
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
With Friends Like These…
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16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
Next Time Skip the Reunion
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
Adios to Jost
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
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56
57
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