Apollo Road

by Cliff Roberts

  “That room I use as the TV room, which I don’t get much use out of. Mostly Jacks and Giles use it for entertaining the ladies when I’m out of town. The door behind you leads to the kitchen, dining, gaming, breakfast nook, library and the elevators to the bedrooms on the second and third floors. I sleep in the penthouse. The staff quarters are back down that hallway we passed on the left, right after we came in. Through these doors,” he pointed off to his left, “are the formal sitting room, my office, my computer room, and the indoor/outdoor pool and spa. If we were to go for a walk around the grounds—by the way, there are fifteen acres here—you would come across the tennis courts, volleyball courts, a second pool overlooking the Intercoastal, the yacht dock, basketball court, batting cages and a workout cabana.

  “All that crap came with the house. Jacks and Giles get tons of use out of it. I don’t have the time or the interest in it.” Bill shared something about himself that didn’t include killing someone, which was kind of a shock, but at the same time I didn’t feel any less afraid to be alone with the guy. After all, he still had the gun tucked in his belt that he had just used to kill the people in the Porsche.

  “So, what? You’ve got a gym, dojo and a gun range in the west wing?” I blurted out stupidly. Now Bill would probably go into some weird ass diatribe and leave me feeling like if I closed my eyes, he would be right there trying to cut out my heart or my liver to eat with some garbanzo beans.

  “Say, do you want to see who our company is?” Bill asked almost shyly, ignoring my question about the gym.

  “Who stops by as ‘company’ at two o’clock in the morning?” I asked.

  “The best kind of company,” Bill quipped as he swung the doors open and walked briskly toward what appeared to be the pool area. He waved for me to follow, and so I did. Halfway across the room, I saw our ‘company.’ It was the two women from in front of the club, minus the hot dresses they were wearing when I last saw them. They were lounging in the hot tub stark naked.

  “Maybe one of them could be my next iron lady, you think?” Bill grinned his wicked grin and dropped his pants as Jacks walked up carrying a tray full of drinks.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning I awoke to find myself in a strange room. I didn’t remember much of what happened last night after Bill and I stepped into the spa room. There were a pair of much younger women in the hot tub. Beautiful women, naked as jay birds, and they giggled like little girls when we stepped through the doors. The last thing I remembered was taking a big swig of my drink and stepping closer to the women. They both were quite lovely. Did I mention I like women?

  As I lay there looking around the room, I became acutely aware of the fact that my head was pounding. Damn, I had a hangover. That was something I hadn’t had in years, and I was proud of that fact. Hangovers suck. I had just pulled the pillow back over my head when the door burst open, and Bill came charging into the room.

  “Hey! Hey, buddy, ol’ pal, time to get up! Come on, now. Rise and shine! We’ve got things to do and places to go.” Bill’s cheerfulness was enough to make me puke, but I held it in.

  “I need some ibuprofen!” I moaned from under the pillow.

  “I’ve got you covered, you old dawg! Damn, I didn’t realize what a ladies man you are,” Bill continued loudly, trying to engage me in conversation.

  “I need ibuprofen!” I practically screamed this time and regretted not just dying in my sleep.

  “Hold out your hand,” Bill directed without sarcasm, so I did and took whatever it was he gave me. It looked like ibuprofen when I glanced at it. Then he added, “Here’s a glass of water.”

  I grabbed the water, popped the two pills in my mouth, and then downed the whole glass of water. Well, most of it, as part of it went right down my chin and across my chest. Upon finishing the water, I held out the glass without looking and after a minute of holding it there, I dropped it. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but the glass landed on something soft because it didn’t break upon its collision with the floor.

  “I’ll be back in an hour, and I need you to be up by then,” Bill hollered, his voice fading away as if he had walked out of the room. I didn’t bother to look. I just closed my eyes and hoped the pills would help, or if not, then kill me.

  I couldn’t say how long I was out, but when I came to, I was still in the strange room and my head still hurt, but only a small a fraction of what it had hurt previously. I decided to try and sit up, which I managed with only minor difficulty. Looking at the clock on the night stand, it said it was 9:30. There was no ‘pm’ or ‘am’ next to it, and judging by how light the room was, I guessed it was 9:30 a.m. What? What time was it when he had been in here yelling for me to get up? What the hell is going on?

  I found my clothes from yesterday neatly folded on a chair in the corner, which I know for a fact weren’t left there by me. If I had put my clothes on a chair, they would have just been piled up and not folded at all.

  After dressing, I found my way to the kitchen where Bill was busy making breakfast with his two man servants. They all turned and said good morning when I stepped through the door. “There isn’t anything good about it. What the hell did I have to drink last night?” I asked curtly as I looked for the refrigerator. All I saw were a bunch of tall cabinets, a stove and a huge sink almost big enough to take a bath in. It had four faucets and a handful of sprayer type things. The counters were all blue-gray granite, I think, with traces of some other stone that gave it the appearance of having lightning bolts in the surface. The counters were truly unique.

  “Nice counters,” I mumbled as one of the two man servants, either Jacks or Giles, jumped up and asked if I wanted coffee. “No, no coffee. I’m allergic. How about a Coke?” I asked.

  “Coming right up,” the guy cheerfully exclaimed as he flung open one of the cabinets revealing the refrigerator. He grabbed a Coke, and before he could grab a glass, I just took the bottle, twisted off the cap and took a big swig. God, that tasted great, and it felt good going down, too.

  “The counter top is from Ecuador. The copper ribbing in it is real natural copper. The copper is mixed in the granite, and it makes for some of the wildest designs,” Bill informed me as I looked for somewhere to sit down.

  “So, what was in those drinks last night?” I asked again as I looked right at Bill, who returned a blank expression for several seconds before he finally spoke.

  “Well, you didn’t complain last night. You had what I had. The typical, party hardy drink of the rich and beautiful on South Beach. It’s called a Southern Slammer. It’s Jim Beam, Coke, Viagra, energy drink and some GHB,” Bill casually explained. “I added the GHB.”

  “Well, keep that shit away from me,” I spat at him. I was pissed.

  “Don’t go getting all high and mighty with me, bucko. I run this show, remember? You didn’t complain when you were having sex with two thirty-year-olds last night or when one came back for a goodbye screw at four a.m. You were into it last night. Once you’ve had a Slammer a few times, you’ll get used to it, and you won’t get a headache. Until then, grow up, old man, and enjoy what time you have left.” Bill slapped down the paper he was looking at and stomped off toward who knows where. I could hardly remember which way the bedroom was.

  “So, what? Now you’re back to being all threatening again?” I bellowed as he disappeared down some hallway.

  “You better go make amends, sir. Mr. William holds grudges over the littlest of things. He was just trying to show you a good time last night, and if I may say so myself, you certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Jacks the man servant stated in an effeminate way. I knew it was Jacks because it said so on his name tag.

  “Oh, great. I was a porn star last night. Did we get it on film for future showings at family gatherings?” I snapped. “Hey, I know, we can show it on a big screen down at Coka Cola Charlie’s.”

  Yeah, I was in a great mood. After a minute, I got up and wandered off in the direction that I
had seen Bill wander off. The house was a maze, and it took me ten minutes to find him standing in his study, staring out the window at the Intercoastal.

  “So this is your hideaway spot, huh?” I said pleasantly, trying to start a more friendly conversation as I entered.

  “What? Have you thought up another insult and need to use it before it expires?” Bill sarcastically snapped, without turning to look at me. He almost sounded hurt.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to having a hangover or getting that lucky. I’m feeling great and like shit, all at the same time. Who were those two women anyway? Don’t tell me they were prostitutes,” I mumbled my apology, not because I was afraid he might kill me, but because he might take his time doing it, and I hurt way too much to put up with that.

  “Do I look like I pay to play?” Bill asked brusquely.

  “No, but I do,” I mumbled again, and Bill turned around giving me his blank stare again for several seconds. He then walked over to me and stood toe-to-toe.

  “Jake, you’ve got to change your thinking. If you don’t, I won’t be able to save you from yourself,” he stated, taking clear umbrage with my comment.

  I stepped back several steps, and he kept eyeing me as I made my way over to a winged back leather chair by the full wall bookcase. Once I had sat down, I asked, “What’s on the agenda for today?”

  “You don’t have any of your medications, do you?” Bill asked as if he was a real friend concerned with the well-being of his mate.

  “No. They were all at the house. I’ll need to see a doctor pretty soon to try and get some, or I’ll be down for the count,” I shared. Bill reached out and pressed a button on the wall intercom calling one of the man servants.

  “Giles, I need the bag on my desk in the computer room. It’s the one with the prescriptions in it.” Bill released the button and turned toward me. “I thought that might be the case, so yesterday afternoon I had a doctor friend get some new prescriptions prepared for you under your new name. I hope that’s all right with you?” Bill actually was acting in a kindly manner making me think, for just a minute, he wasn’t as bad as he seemed.

  Giles stepped in a moment later, and with a nod from Bill, he handed the prescription bag to me. It was more like a grocery bag. There were seven prescriptions in the bag, and I needed every last one of them to function halfway decently. I took all of the pills with a big swig of Coke and rubbed in the other one on my aching joints. When I had finished, I thought I felt better already, but I knew it was just my mind realizing I would shortly, and it was trying to speed things up.

  “Better now?” Bill asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “Okay, we start investigating the mob boss today. I need you to go down to the marina and find out everything you can about his yacht and any other pleasure craft he owns. I’m going down to city hall and see if there are any building plans for his house that I can check out. Hopefully, I can find some access point they haven’t covered.”

  “What kind of story should I give them as to why I’m asking the questions?” I asked, placating his ego.

  “I told you. Tell them you’re a writer and you’re just trying to get some background information about yachts and their owners. Tell them it doesn’t need to be about any one boat in particular, just general stuff. Can you do that? If you can’t, say so now. Because the Young Turk will have someone bust you up or maybe kill you if he thinks you’re snooping around asking questions about him.” Bill put the whole situation in a nut shell and cracked it wide open just that fast.

  “I can handle it,” I replied with plenty of self-confidence. Of course, that self-confidence might just disappear when a couple of the Young Turk’s goons started taking an interest in me and my little novel I was supposedly trying to write.

  “Good. You’ll find the Escalade out front,” Bill dismissed as he turned to look at the Intercoastal once more.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As I drove down to the marina where the Young Turk’s yacht was docked, I wondered just what the hell I thought I was doing. Here I was, running errands for a psychopath after having partied until dawn with him. I knew I was losing my grip on reality. It was the only way I’d let myself hangout with this guy. I had to figure a way out of this mess, but how?

  How do you escape someone who has contacts all over town and is probably having you watched this very minute? How can you run away from someone who basically has unlimited resources and can follow you wherever you go? I was trapped. I didn’t know a soul who I could turn to. I could go to the police, but I was wanted for the murder of my wife and her lover. Well, that was actually a point in his favor, I had to admit. If I would have been forced to go through with the divorce, I would be living in my car, quickly becoming a drunken, homeless bum. Bill had saved me from that, and part of me was grateful. What am I saying? Grateful? For what? That he’s not killed me yet? For being framed for two murders? Oh, and what about last night? I was also an accomplice to at least two more murders, thanks to Billy boy.

  Maybe I’ll get lucky and the Turk’s boys would just shoot me on sight because I looked like the total sucker I was. Yeah, and I’ll lose fifty pounds and marry a supermodel in the next life. I was screwed, but I had better figure out how to get unscrewed before I got myself killed by this psycho.

  Surprisingly, the marina didn’t have a guarded gate. I couldn’t believe it. The ships that docked here were huge. Yet, I was able to drive in, get out and walk around. I had brought a camera that Jacks had found for me in Bill’s office. It was a really nice digital, and I had it dangling around my neck as I wandered about. I stopped now and then and took pictures of the mega yachts. I made notes about the color and the number of lines that were used to tied it off to the dock. Stupid stuff that wouldn’t have helped anyone write anything, except a how-to book about how not to gather intelligence.

  I was taking my sixth picture of a yacht when this guy dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt walked up. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked sternly.

  I dropped the camera from in front of my face and turned toward him. “Hi, there. I’m just gathering some information for an upcoming book I’m writing about a criminal who uses his yacht as his base of operations. I haven’t decided yet if it’s going to be drug smuggling, diamond smuggling or maybe gun running. Oh, by the way, I’m Wilbur Bennett. You’ve probably heard of me.” I did my best to sound like a writer would sound. Well, at least what an idiot thought a writer would sound like.

  “Never heard of you, old man. Our members don’t like having pictures taken of their ships, so you’ll have to leave,” he stated firmly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll stop taking pictures,” I offered and held up my note pad and started to write on it.

  “Buddy, you have to leave. Now!” He was quite insistent.

  “Okay, I’ll go; but before I do, could you help a fellow out? I need a few questions answered about the yachts—nothing specific about any one boat, but just general information about them. I’ll mention you in the book,” I added as a last second thought, thinking people are always wanting to find a way to become a celebrity.

  “Look, this is a private marina, and if I let you hang around, I’ll get complaints. The owners don’t want people bothering them. Some of them even have their own security guards and they aren’t very friendly,” he stated as he looked at me, as if staring at me would make me go away.

  “Well, maybe you have an office where we could talk? Surely, they don’t complain if someone comes to your office? You could tell them I was inquiring about a slip. That’s the right term isn’t it? A slip?”

  “No, the term is anchorage. Slips are for smaller boats. Yachts are ships!” The guy actually seemed pissed I got the term wrong. “Ships have an anchorage; boats use a slip to tie up at the dock.”

  “Okay. See, that’s the kind of stuff I need! I hate it when I write a book, and I get stuff wrong.” I gave him credit for helping me, hoping he’d be flattered and talk with me, but
he didn’t look too impressed. He stepped a bit closer and did his best to give an intimidating look so I mumbled, “It’s worth a hundred bucks to me.”

  Bingo! That made an impression. He rolled his eyes up to the right and then he looked around as if he expected someone to be watching him. After a moment, he said slyly, “You got the hundred on you?”

  “I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t have it,” I said as he started to walk away, nodding his head sideways, which I assumed was a signal to follow him.

  His office was in the marina store, which was actually quite nice. It had all the usual stuff you’d find in any store down at the beach. Tanning oil to ice to beer to post cards—they had it all. His office overlooked the marina and was a two story affair. The ground floor held his desk and a bank of monitors that showed various views of the marina including the parking lot. So, he’d seen me the minute I pulled up. The second floor was an observation deck. He could stand up there and see across the marina and into the Intercoastal. In New England they called a similar type of platform on the roof or room at the top of the house a Widow’s Walk because in the early days of New England fishing, the wives of the fishermen would go up there and pace back and forth when the husbands were late returning from sea. More often than most people would like, the husband didn’t return because he had been lost at sea, thus the name the Widow’s Walk.

  We sat down at his desk, and I pulled a hundred out of my pocket and dropped it on the desktop. He promptly scooped it up and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He then leaned back in his chair saying, “What do you want to know?”