Hard Stop

TWENTY-FOUR

HODGES’S BOAT ISN’T MUCH of a speedster but it’s easy to handle in heavy air, which is what we had that day out on the Little Peconic Bay. Burton was at the helm, his preferred location. Hodges was below cooking lunch and the rest of us were sprawled around the cockpit trying not to spill our cocktails as we dug fresh fruit out of the plastic bowl Amanda was passing around.

Eddie was forward, warning creatures of the deep to stay clear, and occasionally monitoring the sky for incoming birds of prey.

The Nat King Cole Trio was on the stereo and the only discordant note was coming from Jackie Swaitkowski, who was trying to engage Burton in a legal debate.

Jackie thought I still had a good case for pursuing my share of the intellectual property settlement from the shattered remains of Con Globe, most of which had now been absorbed into the Société Commerciale Fontaine. Burton differed, citing the clarity and underlying validity of my original severance agreement, though he pointed out that the indictment and subsequent resignation of George Donovan, and the fraud he help perpetuate, might render the entire agreement moot.

With Angel Valero, Mason Thigpen and Marve Judson selling Donovan and each other out as fast as their lawyers could write up their statements, it looked like Honest Boy would get his wish. Everything and everybody relating to Con Globe was blown to smithereens and scattered on the wind.

Including Jerome Gelb, though the FBI had yet to discover where the wind had scattered him to. They felt the circumstantial case was strong enough to charge first-degree murder, but my better hope was that one of Angel Valero’s remaining Venezuelan associates would get there first and render that argument permanently moot.

“Well, I’m not ready to give up on Sam’s financial prospects,” said Jackie. “It’s the only way I’m going to see any money out of that client.”

I didn’t have the heart to argue with her, but the fact is, I was happy with things they way they were.

I worked my way from amidships to the pulpit, where I sat down to watch the water race under the bow, put my arm around my dog, and ponder the ineluctable modality of pure dumb luck.