The Seventh Wave
Page 29
I just wished I could see the look on Ronnie’s face when she saw that Mr. Justin Case of New York City would be arriving at Sangster International Airport in Montego Bay, Jamaica, in one week. I was betting she would be the DEVEAUX CHARTER SERVICES representative to meet Justin at the airport.
~~~
Before I left, there was one thing I wanted to do. One beautiful afternoon I drove out to Long Island. I took the Wantagh State Parkway across the bay to Jones Beach, went 270 degrees around the traffic circle at the Jones Beach Tower, headed east for six miles, and pulled over. This time I was wearing shorts, a Yankees World Series Champions 2009 T-shirt, and a pair of flip- flops. I walked over the dunes to Garbage Cove and sat at the same spot I was sitting at that fateful day in early June.
There was an offshore wind and the tide was coming in—perfect surfing conditions. Sure enough, there was a handful of surfers, four guys in their baggy shorts and three surfer girls. I wondered if any of them were members of the bunch I had deputized that day to protect Frankie Finacci’s washed-up body from the gulls.
As I sat there watching, one of the guys caught a wave and headed toward me. He paddled frantically and jumped on his board as it slid down the face of the wave. He had his right foot forward on the board. It could be none other than my goofy-footed friend Dante Immelman.
He caught a good ride and kicked out almost directly in front of me just before the wave sectioned out into white water. As he sat straddling his board he happened to glance up my way.
As he looked up, I waved and shouted, “Hey Dante, nice ride. Howzitgoin’?”
That got his full attention. Who was this gray-haired geezer sitting on the dunes (not a common sight at GC) waving to him and calling his name? He walked up the beach toward me, dragging his board.
“Dude, do I know you?”
I stood up and grinned.
Then a smile of recognition cracked his tanned face. “Hey, you’re the detective dude from that day we found the dead dude that washed up on the beach. Hey, tell me, did you ever find out who he was? How he ended up out here? Did he fall off a cruise ship or something like that?”
“Yeah, it was something like that.”
We chatted for a while and he waved three of the others over to us. It turned out they were also present the day Frankie came ashore. They were all very interested in how it all turned out. I was vague. No need to start these kids thinking, not that they’d think much further ahead than their next wave, next joint, or next sexual encounter.
After a while they drifted back to the waves and resumed their surfing. The waves were about six to seven feet, pretty good for Long Island.
I sat and watched them surf for a while longer, my eyes drawn to Dante, clearly the most skilled of the bunch. He sat on his board looking over his shoulder at the incoming waves and let several roll under him. Then, he lay down prone and started paddling furiously. The wave picked up the back of his board and he was on his feet, right foot forward racing down the face. He raised one arm, looked my way, and screamed, “Cowabunga!”
It was the seventh wave of the set.
*******
About the author, cover artist, and editor
The Seventh Wave was written by Fred Galvin, the author’s nom de plume. He was born and raised on Long Island and retired in 2008 after a career in banking systems in upstate New York and Dallas, Texas. He has two grown children, four granddaughters, and lives the quiet retired Florida lifestyle in Bradenton, Florida, with his wife Margaret.
~~~
The cover was designed by the author’s good friend Rick Papineau, Fine Art Painting and Illustration. Rick is an accomplished and talented artist from upstate New York. He is semi-retired and lives in Sarasota, Florida, with his wife Lois. Rick’s website is rickpapineau.com.
~~~
Additional books by Fred Galvin:
Follower
Retribution (sequel to Follower)
What Goes Around … (sequel to Retribution)
Nine Dreams to Dallas
Doppelgängers