“Julie,” I said, “that’s your mulligan. One more and I assure you, I will end your friend’s life in a heartbeat. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again.”
“Goddamn it! Listen to him,” she said.
“Well, what are we gonna do, Jasmine?” Julian said, looking desperate. “He knows our names and our faces. He’ll turn us in.”
“Here’s the deal, friends. I have much bigger fish to fry. Leave the six hundred I gave you, walk out of here, give your resignation to your boss effective immediately and hope we never cross paths again. If I do see you on the street, you’re already dead. Do you understand?”
Jasmine trembled against me. “Take the fucking deal, Julie! This guy is insane and strong as an ox.”
Julian nodded.
“My guess is somebody heard that gun shot and the police are on the way,” I said. “Empty the cartridge, leave it on the bed with the loot and your master key and walk out and close the door. Take the fire exit down to the first floor. When this is accomplished, I’ll let Jasmine go. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” He did as he was told and when the door slammed shut I looked at Jasmine and told her she should find some new friends. I asked if she actually had the coke on her and she said it was just part of the ruse to rob me. Julian knew I was a high roller since I was in the penthouse and throwing money around like John Gotti. I told her to get the fuck out of my sight.
EIGHTEEN
It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I got myself dressed and walked down the fire exit to the first floor. I busted open the doors and emerged onto Ringling Boulevard and into the bright sunshine. If I was starring in a movie, the viewers would have heard “Hurricane” by Bob Dylan accompanying my walk. I had one of the new plain white tees on and my fresh sunglasses Julian had dropped off. I killed time doing some window shopping and walking around downtown Sarasota. I knew Westwood would be on time to our dinner date and as it neared five o’clock, I ambled over to Marina Jack. The hours posted on the door said they opened at four for dinner. The blue hairs had to get their sirloin steaks and salmon and chardonnay after all. I’d been to this restaurant more than a few times in my life. As I made my way inside, I saw the same musician who had been playing there for years at his usual spot seated behind the piano to the left of the bar. I told the maître d’ I was meeting someone for dinner at six but I’d wait for him outside at the tiki bar and that I knew my way around the place so he didn’t have to show me. I sat at the near end of the u-shaped bar and ordered a Guinness.
I knew it would be a long night with my dinner companion, so I geared up for it. I had a few moments to reflect. I thought about calling Murph or Jen but I was too out of sorts. The guilt overran me, even though Murph said it was best to avoid contact until this whole thing blew over. I didn’t trust many people in my life, but I trusted him, goddamn it. I compartmentalized my grief again. I hoped my family was okay and that they didn’t hate me forever. I worried Vinny’s wife Cassie wouldn’t forgive me anytime soon for losing her soulmate and father of her children. How would she go on?
As much as I missed Vinny and longed for him to be seated right next to me, I knew deep down he was gone, even with my friend denial hovering over me. The heavy dose of sun and mild temps helped alleviate the pain. I ordered a club soda for the second round and took a gaze out over Sarasota Bay. A bartender with kind blue eyes and short blond hair named Martina approached and asked if I wanted something to nibble on. I wondered aloud if she could bring me some oyster crackers. She obliged and when she returned with a full basket she asked if I was in town for business or pleasure.
“A little bit of both, hopefully.”
“You’re well on your way to a night of debauchery with your menu choices. What’s your name?” She smiled, having no idea what kind of issues I was attempting to deal with.
“Barry. But my friends call me Bear.”
“I could see that. You’re a big boy. What can I call you?
“Bear is fine. Do I detect a Russian accent, hon?”
“Yes, working on losing it completely.”
“Don’t do that. It’s becoming of you. Why would you do that?”
She leaned in and rested her forearms on the bar top. “You know how immigrants are treated in this country, don’t you? Especially with our current president. I’m a citizen and everything! I wasn’t born here, but I’ve worked my ass off to stay here.”
“It looks like it’s still there.”
“What? My ass?” She seemed confused.
“Yeah, just an observation. I’m ready for that next Guinness now, Martina the great.”
She turned around and walked toward the tap handles. “You’d better watch it with those comments, Bear. A girl could get the wrong idea. How long are you in town, anyway?”
“It’s opened-ended. I should get back to Chicago soon and take care of something.” The bar started to fill in now with a large party of tourists fresh off of a boat tour.
“Well, if things change, or hell, even if they don’t, I need some help reaching some hard to clean places at my apartment. I’m not far from here. You could consider it an early Christmas present.”
I smiled a toothless grin, sipped my beer and glanced over the glass at her and then over her shoulder and out across the bay. “Duly noted.”
She smiled and turned to take some other orders from the new patrons. Leaving me to gaze longingly out towards the sea.
**********************
As I finished the final swallows of my beer, I noticed a giant boat approaching the area. It was headed north through Big Sarasota Pass and progressing parallel to Bird Key. I knew only one man who would attempt to navigate a yacht as ostentatious as that one. The man I was meeting for dinner. He maneuvered the vessel like a true pro. The thing had to be close to forty-five feet long and twenty-five feet wide. I was in awe just watching him dock the thing. The fact he was nearly twelve minutes early was also a feat of sorts. I presumed he piloted himself here in his private jet and then jumped right on the yacht to make a classic Westwood entrance. He walked down the dock toward the restaurant and I made my way over to the far side of the bar overlooking the water and gave him a quick whistle and wave. From that distance, he still looked trim and fit and as tan as a camel. As he entered the bar and walked toward me, I got a better view. He wore a pink linen shirt with the top three buttons undone. White linen shorts showed off his muscular thighs and calves and he wore no socks with his blue boat shoes to complete his outfit. His hair had gone completely white. I was still standing as I greeted him and we embraced as he joined me at our table.
“Jesus, Bear. What’s it been? Five years or so?”
“Actually, damn near eight.” We stood standing and facing each other.
“Wow. Time indeed flies. To what do I owe this great honor?”
Martina the great came around from behind the bar to take our orders. We grabbed our seats.
“I’d be careful spending too much time with this one, sir,” she said and nodded in my direction. She had a sharp tongue. I liked Martina.
“Believe me,” Westwood said, “I know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Drink orders, gentlemen?”
“I’ll do a glass of red wine. Do you have The Prisoner?”
“Only by the bottle, I’m afraid,” she said.
“Bear, do you want to split a bottle with me?”
“I suppose I can manage.”
“Thank you, gentleman, would you like to hear the specials?”
“That’s okay, Martina. I know what I want. Surf and turf. Make the turf mid-rare plus, please,” I said.
“And for you, sir?” she asked, looking at Westwood.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” said Westwood.
“You guys are easy. Be right back with your bottle and some bread.”
“Thank you, my dear,” I said.
As she turned to walk away, Westwood smiled. “First name basis with our girl already? H
ow’d you pull that off?” He ran a hand through his thick, white hair.
“Ah. You know my methods. It’s old hat. Anyway. Let’s catch up. I’d say I’m surprised at how big that boat is, but that would be a lie. What does astound me is that circular piece of platinum on your left ring finger. The great and powerful Brent Westwood isn’t the marrying type, I thought?”
Martina returned with the wine. She went through the whole routine of showing Westwood the bottle and letting him sample it as if he was going to spit it out and return it. She poured us each a glass, left the bread, said our food would be out in about twenty-five minutes and turned on her heels to leave us be. We cheered to each other and life itself.
“Things change, Bear. You know this. When you meet the right person, that is.”
“And where’d you meet…what’s her name?”
“Jacqueline. She’s from Paris.” He swirled his wine in his glass before sipping it.
“Of course she is.”
“I met her on one of my bike rides. It’ll be five years ago this July.”
“Yeah, where?”
“The Tour De France.”
“Yeah, sure. I mean, I know you’re a fitness nut, but you’re not a professional cyclist are you?” I leaned back in my chair a bit and straightened my back.
“No, but you pay enough money and you can ride all twenty-one stages of the course. You start a day before the actual event begins. They only allow fourteen riders in the group. She was one of the fourteen. So was her fiancé.”
“This is where it gets good, I bet.” I leaned in.
“Actually, it gets tragic right about now.”
I fidgeted in my seat and took a generous pull off my wine. I topped each of us off. “Go on,” I said.
“So we were on the twentieth stage. With one to go. This particular stage was all mountains. The total distance was one hundred and thirty-one kilometers with a total ascent of four thousand, four hundred and fifty kilometers. Not for the faint of heart.”
“Oh shit.”
“Jacquie could hang with anyone, but Jean Luc had a weak ticker. The doctors told him to listen to his body, but I think he was just an adrenaline junkie. We’d sit around at night after our stages and he’d talk about how much he loved the rush. He didn’t talk about his heart. Jacquie knew, nobody else in our group had any idea. Anyway, as we made our final ascent up the mountain, his heart just stopped. He was dead before he hit the ground. Jacquie didn’t finish the race. She got into the emergency van with him and they left. I never expected to see or hear from her again. The next year, I came back to celebrate my fiftieth birthday and race the course again. There she was. I told her how terrible I felt for her and if there was anything I could do to help, I would. We exchanged information. We took it slow. We dated long distance for a year. She in Paris, me all over the globe. We’d meet up here and there. I wasn’t sure how I’d tell her that I was in love with her even before Jean Luc died. She just has a way. You know?”
“I know of the way you speak. Some have it in more abundance than others. How old of a lady is she?”
“She’s younger. Twenty-nine. She’s thinking kids.”
“And what are you thinking, Westwood?” I took a sip of my wine.
“I’m not opposed to it. I’m no spring chicken. I’d like to leave behind some sort of legacy, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Maybe impart some wisdom to the next generation.”
Our meals arrived and we dove in. It took some time to get to the main reason I called this meeting. We talked some professional football. We talked about the holiday season. We talked about my family a bit. My gut tightened, but I pushed the dark thoughts away. He asked how Clark was getting along these days. I said I hadn’t really heard from him for a few months.
“What about Vinny and Murph?” he finally said.
“Well, Murph has my family at a safe house.” I glanced away, taking a giant gulp of wine. “Vinny is no longer with us.”
“Jesus Christ! What the hell happened, Bear?”
“I’m hoping you can help me figure that out. Apparently, I pissed off somebody and now people I love are starting to die. One by one.
First it was my little old grandma, then my friend Chill, then Vinny, and now there’s a target on my daughter. I have to put an end to this.”
“What do you know so far?”
“Not much. Except this guy is an animal. He chopped off Chill’s head. He slit Vinny’s throat. He left behind a pen he used to carve Hannah Jane’s initials into Vinny’s forehead. Fucked up shit. What the fuck could I have done to this guy?”
“You tell me.”
“I have a vague physical description. No prominent marks or tattoos. He has a sidekick named Rufus and his initials are A.W.” I pulled the pen out of my pocket. I’d transferred it to a Ziploc storage bag when I was back in my hotel room.
“Do you still have some toys and trinkets to pull some prints?”
“Yeah, I always have my mobile kit. Let’s finish up here and head out to the yacht for a nightcap and some discovery time.” He smiled.
“Can I invite Martina the great?”
“Who? The bartender chick?”
“Who else?”
“Bear.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We’ve got work to do.”
I glanced at my Cubs watch. “Look, it’s only eight thirty. She’s done at eleven. I’ll put our bill on the Underhill account. You and I can go do our thing and then I’ll tell her to bring a friend and meet us on the starboard side. Eh?”
He thought about it and sighed aloud. “Only because I can see how much pain you’re in. I’ll play wingman. You’re still married though, right?”
I pushed thoughts of my wife aside. “Yeah, a hundred percent. This is just a way for me to cope. I probably won’t do anything anyway.”
“My ass you won’t.”
Martina brought the check. I left her a hundred dollar tip and wrote her a note on the bill that invited her and a female plus one to join Westwood and me for a nightcap on the big ass boat docked in the harbor. I wished upon a star that I’d see her under the cloudless Sarasota sky.
NINETEEN
As Westwood and I walked side by side down the dock and towards his boat, we discussed how he acquired such an impressive vessel.
“It’s a buddy’s boat. I’m out of the boat-owning business—though it’s always great when a friend offers up a loaner.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Probably. Stephen King.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“Yeah, he’s got a place off of Longboat. Right there at that little bridge. His place is on the west side. On the east side is the Salty Dog.”
“I know the area. Ready to be one-upped?”
“Go ahead, Bear.” He turned his hands to palm-side up.
“It’s a well-known fact that President George W. Bush stayed the night in the Sarasota-area on September tenth, two thousand and one and visited a school the next morning on the eleventh.”
“Right. I remember,” he said, nodding.
I leaned in. “Well, what if I told you he actually stayed at The Colony Beach and Tennis Resort in Longboat?”
“I’d believe it.”
“The craziest part about it—aside from the fact that it’s now been abandoned for seven years—is that the terrorists knew he was there and tried to get through the security gate in a box truck the morning of nine eleven.”
“Holy shit.” He cracked his knuckles. “To blow the place up?”
“Word on the street.”
He shook his head. “It’s a fucked up world indeed, Bear.”
We arrived at Stephen King’s yacht. “Let me show you around Steve’s place. It’s actually fairly modest once inside.”
**********************
He was right. Once on board, there was nary a sign of grandiose avarice. A few high-end paintings were the only things of any value from what I could deduce. Most of the furnishings looked
like they were purchased at Ikea. Made sense, though. In most of the interviews I saw of Mr. King it looked like he bought his clothes off the clearance rack. He never really lost his “man of the people” look or attitude. He did have a nice hi-fi stereo and a record collection that would make even the most diehard audiophile take notice.
“What are you in the mood for, Bear?”
“A Jameson and some rock & roll.”
“Coming right up.” Westwood nodded in agreement and then fished out a winner and put the needle on the record. I knew what it was from the instant the first note rang out. The classic “Whole Lotta Love.” Led Zeppelin II.
“Damn! That sounds good, Westwood.”
“You’re telling me,” he said as he walked my drink over. “Think those girls will show up?”
“At this point, I don’t really care. Let’s get cracking on pulling the prints on this pen.”
“Right. Right.”
He walked over to the master bedroom and came back out with his suitcase. He pulled out what looked like a toiletry bag and his laptop.
“It’s crazy how simplified this stuff is nowadays,” he said. “Even with a partial print, we should be able to find out who this A.W. fellow is.”
“And then I can put a bullet in his brain,” I said unsympathetically.
“Bear?” Westwood looked up. “Are you sure you don’t want to just hand him over to the authorities? Why dirty your hands?”
“It’s my brother we’re talking about here, Brent. My kid brother. He’s going to pay. If I go down too, then so be it.”
“Permission to speak frankly?”
I waved my hand. “Granted.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem to have a death wish yourself. Or at the very least, a wish to go off the rails. First with the bartender chick you invited over here and now with your brother’s killer. Not for nothing, but you have a pretty stable life at home. You should really weigh your options.”
I felt my gut twist at his words, but I pushed the feeling down. “I’m out of options. You’re not going to rat me out, are you?”
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