Fast and Loose

18

Erik Macher had just boarded what was now, effectively, his yacht when his cell phone rang.

“Macher,” he said into it. “This better be good.”

“It’s Jake,” the caller said, “and it’s not good.”

Macher listened as Jake played the recording of his telephone conversation with Stone Barrington the evening before. “Shit!” he screamed, alarming the two crew who were bringing his luggage aboard.

“This is what happens when we make empty threats,” Jake said.

“Are you saying that we’re going to have to up our offer by seventy-five percent?”

“It’s too late for that,” Jake said. “I’m informed that as of this morning, the Carlssons have accumulated about sixty-five percent of the stock in the clinic, and they’ll probably get more. And your secretary said to tell you that the board of directors has requested a meeting Monday morning at nine AM.”

Macher sat down and began taking deep breaths, trying to get his pulse and his blood pressure down.

“Erik, are you all right?”

“Not exactly,” Macher said.

“Tell me what you want to do.”

“Take out one of the Carlssons,” he said.

“Which one?”

“I don’t care, just make it look accidental.”

“Erik, they’ve got Strategic Services protection, every one of them, and I don’t have to tell you how good that outfit is. Now, I can probably get a shot at one of them, but the police will be all over us — make that all over you.”

“All right, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we lie low for a few days, wait for them to pull their guards off, then reassess. Or maybe, a more serious shot across their bows.”

“That’s good advice, Jake. Do the second one. Have my secretary call the board members and tell them I’m out of town, and I’ll meet with them Wednesday morning at ten.”

“Got it,” Jake replied, then hung up.

One of the crewmen was standing by, looking concerned.

“Bring me a drink,” Macher said.

“Certainly, sir. What would you like?”

“A great big single malt scotch.”

“Right away, sir.” The man was back in a flash with a double old-fashioned glass filled with scotch on a silver tray and an ice bucket. “Would you like ice, sir?”

“No.”

The man extended the tray. “There you are, sir. Would you like me to tell the captain he can get under way?”

Macher grabbed the glass and took a big swig. “Do it.”

“Yes, sir, and the chef would like to know what time you’d like lunch served.”

“One o’clock sharp. We’ll be four — the chopper has gone for the others.”

“Yes, sir.” The man dematerialized.

Macher took one more gulp of the scotch; he tossed the rest overboard and set down the glass. He couldn’t be drunk when his guests arrived; for one thing, he wanted to get laid this afternoon, and he couldn’t manage that with a load on.

Jake was having a sandwich for lunch when his phone rang. “Please, God,” he said, “not Macher.” It was not, it was one of his platoon of ex-FBI men. “Yeah?”

“Jake, I’m with Barrington and the Carlsson woman. You’ll never guess where they are.”

“Tell me.”

“They’ve just finished lunch at the Central Park Boathouse, and they’re getting into a rowboat.”

Jake brightened. “What’s the opposition like?”

“As far as I can tell, there isn’t any, but I think Barrington is packing.”

“Where are you, exactly?”

“At a table in the Boathouse. Zelda is with me.”

“I’ll be there shortly. Don’t lose sight of the boat.” He hung up, rang for a car, got a briefcase from his coat closet, and beat it out of the house.

Stone rowed slowly and reluctantly. “I feel like an idiot,” he said to Marisa. “I haven’t done this since I was in college.”

“Actually, I would never have known that — you seem quite good at it.”

“It’s like roller skating — I haven’t forgotten how, but I’d like to.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “Have you ever made love in a rowboat?”

“Maybe, but not in one in Central Park on a Saturday afternoon.”

“There are some bushes over there,” she said playfully, pointing.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Stone said, steering away from the bushes.

“Oh, come on.”

“I am unaccustomed to self-induced discomfort,” Stone said. “That’s why I gave up camping.”

“What do you have against camping?” she asked.

“I don’t like sleeping on the hard ground in a tent, and mosquitoes carry disease.”

“You don’t like the outdoors?”

“Not for some things. Think of me as a great indoorsman.”

Jake arrived at the Boathouse and found his two operatives there, lingering over coffee. “Where’s the boat?” he asked.

“Two o’clock and a hundred meters,” the man said.

Jake surveyed the scene. “See that clump of bushes, about thirty yards from the stern of the boat?”

“Got it.”

“Pick up the briefcase and get over there. Assemble the rifle and silencer inside and put a round into the boat.”

“Where into the boat?”

“Below the waterline,” Jake said, “and near the stern. Don’t hit anybody.”

The man picked up the briefcase and hurried from the restaurant.

“You want to sink them?” Zelda asked.

“Humiliation is almost as good as a gunshot wound,” Jake said.

Five minutes passed, and Jake saw the bushes move. Another two minutes, and he saw a splash near the stern of the boat.

“Stone,” Marisa said.

“What?”

“My shoes are getting wet.”

“Look around — do you see any waves breaking over the boat?”

“I’m not kidding.”

Stone looked down at the space between them and found that his own shoes were getting wet. “We seem to have sprung a leak,” he said, heading for the dock.

By the time he reached it and got Marisa out of the boat, Stone was ankle deep in lake water. With the help of the dockmaster, he wrestled the boat onto the pontoon and tipped it over enough to empty out most of the water. “Are all your boats this leaky?” Stone asked the man.

“None of them, until now. They’ve all been recently refurbished.”

Stone inspected the little hole in the stern, then the sun glinted on copper. He reached into the boat and came back with a jacketed slug.

“What’s that?” the dockmaster asked.

“Something that fell out of my pocket,” Stone replied, looking carefully around for opposition but seeing none.

“Shall we get another boat?” Marisa asked.

“Let’s go home and get some dry shoes,” he said.