3 Crystal Blue

by John H. Cunningham

  Other books in the BUCK REILLY ADVENTURE series

  by John H. Cunningham

  Red Right Return

  Green to Go

  Praise for John H. Cunningham

  and the BUCK REILLY ADVENTURE series:

  “Red Right Return is a high-energy romp through the streets of Key West and the skyways of the Florida Straits. Cunningham’s treasure-hunting, amphibian-flying hero, Buck Reilly, could be a reincarnation of Travis McGee with wings. RRR is the first in what will surely be a series of classic Florida adventure novels. Great fun, highly recommended.”

  – Robert Gandt, author of the Brick Maxwell series

  “Green To Go is a rip-roaring, lock-you-to-your-seat adventure that careens through the Caribbean with the momentum of a crash landing. Great characters, excellent suspense, just enough romance, and lots of action, all bound together with the author’s crisp writing style.”

  – Michael Reisig, author of The Road To Key West

  “John Cunningham’s Crystal Blue will make you a Buck Reilly fan, if you’re not already. Cunningham’s ability to take tropical Caribbean islands and turn them from sandy beaches and bars of Paradise to a precarious locale whenever Buck Reilly shows up is unique. Along the bumpy and exciting ride, you can expect Reilly’s eclectic group of friends and miscreants to show up, along with his nemeses FBI Special Agent T. Edward Booth—who is not above blackmailing Reilly to get what he wants.

  “Of course, Reilly ends up in a misadventure that threatens his life, his seaplane, a charity rock concert and a beautiful woman. As he tries to sort out what’s happening, deal with Booth, and protect his plane, Reilly has to say alive to accomplish it all. He finds out it’s not as simple as sippin’ a mojito on a barstool in Key West. You’ll be reading all night because the page-turner of a book will keep you wondering until the last pages.”

  – Michael Haskins, Author, Mick Murphy Key West mystery series

  CRYSTAL BLUE

  Copyright © 2013 John H. Cunningham.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Greene Street, LLC

  Book design by Morgana Gallaway

  This edition was prepared for printing by

  The Editorial Department

  7650 E. Broadway Blvd.

  Suite 308

  Tucson, Arizona 85710

  www.editorialdepartment.com

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9854422-4-8

  Electronic ISBN: 978-0-9854422-3-1

  The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but have been used fictitiously, and all other characters and events in the book have been invented.

  www.jhcunningham.com

  For the peacemakers

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Matt Hoggatt who wrote a great song and got a record deal on Mailboat Records, followed me on Twitter and we struck up a friendship and have co-written a song together. He also introduced me to Mike Ramos (where’s the hidden track?) who connected me with Nina Avramides of HK Management, who kindly got me permission to feature Jimmy Buffett in Crystal Blue. Where and when? Read on and find out.

  Songwriter and friend, Dave Miller, who connected me with Thom Shepherd, who along with Key West-based musician, Scott Kirby, both agreed to appear in this yarn.

  For their help in scouring the Virgin Islands for great locations and facts to include in the story, thanks to Valentine Hodge on Tortola (who agreed to have his name used, but everything else about him, or his family in Crystal Blue, is pure fiction), and Captain Jay Rushing of St. John.

  John Thedford, thanks for your support of Foxcroft School by bidding on and winning the use of your name in a Buck Reilly Adventure.

  Thanks also to my publicist, Ann-Marie Nieves of GetredPR, Tim Harkness, illustrator extraordinaire, the team at The Editorial Department: Renni Browne, Ross Browne, Peter Gelfan, Shannon Roberts, Morgana Gallaway, Jane Ryder and Chris Fisher. Also to John Wojciech of C-Straight, my webpage designer, webmaster, Internet guru and all around solid dude. Thanks to Darcy Woessner for her research into adoption, unplanned pregnancy and the subsequent choices. The Seaplane Pilot’s Association and Captain Chester Lawson, technical advisor on Grumman amphibians, world renowned seaplane instructor and owner of the beautiful 1946 Widgeon I’m leaning on in my picture on the back of this book.

  And as always, to my lovely ladies Holly, Bailey and Cortney; my brothers Jim and Jay and their wonderful families.

  Never give up on your dreams, some day they may actually come true…

  The world breaks everyone, and afterward,

  some are strong at the broken places.

  Ernest Hemingway

  Contents

  My Inner Voice is on Mute

  With Friends Like These…

  Next Time Skip the Reunion

  Adios to Jost

  THE AIR WAS TURBULENT over the lower keys, both in and outside the Beast. Towering cumulus clouds had built throughout the day, and now squalls caused me to zig and zag my way toward my charter customer Goodspeed’s destination of Fort Lauderdale.

  “When I heard you were running a charter service in Key West,” Goodspeed said, “I expected something first class. With as much money as you ripped off at e-Antiquity, I figured you’d be living large.”

  I bit my lip.

  He’d started the verbal attack right after we took off out of Key West. Rather than watching the turquoise water and islands pass under us like most charter customers, he stared right at me.

  “Hell, the engines don’t even match the wings. What’d you do, build this thing out of scrap?”

  He was a big man, probably a former high school or university sports star who’d gone soft but still had the big frame. A bully all his life, I’d bet on it. He had money—or at least he dressed to make sure you thought he did—and wore his generation’s symbols of prosperity: golfer’s tan and a bulky gold watch. Judging by the wrinkles around his downturned mouth he’d never had a kind word for anybody, certainly not me.

  I gripped the wheel and glanced down to my left. The seven-mile bridge was below. On and on he yapped.

  “Are you going to keep this up the whole way to Fort Lauderdale?” I said.

  Goodspeed smiled. “I’ve only just got started, boy. You cost me several hundred thousand—”

  I shoved the wheel forward and added 20 degrees of flap. The Beast nose-dived toward the thin strip of land below.

  “What the hell’re you doing, Reilly? We’re going down—”

  I flicked off the intercom.

  Halfway up Marathon Key was the small airport where I set the Beast down hard on the tarmac, military style, which bounced Goodspeed in his seat. His arms were crossed now, his mouth a thin line. We taxied to the small terminal, a hundred miles from his destination, where I reduced the RPMs and pulled off my headset. He stared at me, squint-eyed.

  “This is your stop, Mr. Goodspeed.”

  “I paid for a round-trip flight—”

  “You should have read the fine print in the contract.”

  He just stared at me. I took off my sunglasses and quoted from it word for word. “‘The pilot has the authority to deviate from, or alter the flight plan at any time, for any reason, if in his sole judgment the aircraft is in danger, in which case the pilot can terminate the charter.’”

  I unclipped his seatbelt, pulled him up, and all but tossed him out of the hatch.

  “This charter’s terminated.”

  Once he had both feet on the ground, he scurried to the wing tip, turned and shook a fist at me. “You’ll regret this, Buck Reilly!” Someth
ing else about how he had a contract this time and he’d have my ass, but I didn’t hear the next threat because I’d slammed the hatch shut.

  Airborne and headed south, I envisioned the deserted island out in the Marquesas. I’d be there tomorrow, alone, camping for as many days as my water would last, or at least until Lenny Jackson’s first political debate next week.

  I was done with charters. Time for some snorkeling, spear fishing, and solitude under the starry skies above the little no-name Key out in the Marquesas.

  As I flew over the old Bahia Honda bridge, I remembered jumping off the lower section as a teenager when my family vacationed here. We’d rent old conch houses in Key West and drive the thirty-odd miles north to picnic at Bahia Honda. Legend had it that a fifteen-foot hammerhead shark cruised the channel. My brother and I would walk out along the bridge’s old rusted spans, twenty feet above the waterline, and jump in. We convinced ourselves there was safety in numbers. Until the time, a couple hundred yards from shore, when we counted to three and jumped into the gin-clear waters and I surfaced to find myself alone. I searched a terrified few seconds before Ben’s laughter sounded above me.

  “Better get your ass moving before that hammerhead eats you!”

  I swam as hard as I could, convinced the shark would rise from the depths and rip me in half. With what strength I had left I chased Ben down the shore and throughout the campsites until I caught and pinned him in a patch of briars. He was still laughing, and before long I was too. But I never again trusted him to jump with me below that bridge.

  A noise my engine shouldn’t have been making brought me back to Goodspeed’s bad-mouthing my old amphibious Grumman. Yes, this 1946 era Goose was a work in progress, and no, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to the roundtrip flight—the first since the Beast was deemed airworthy—but dammit, I needed the money. It didn’t happen often, but every now and then a former investor in e-Antiquity, my bankrupt former treasure hunting business, showed up and dug at my scar tissue.

  Nearly back to Key West, a familiar voice sounded in my headset and called out my N-number.

  “What are you doing in the tower?” I said.

  “Got an important message for you,” Ray Floyd said. As the head mechanic at Key West International Airport, he was usually banished from Air Traffic Control, but Donny the controller was a friend known to bend a rule.

  “Such as?”

  “How does your customer like the Beauty?” Ray said.

  “He didn’t.“

  “Didn’t? You can’t even be to Miami yet—”

  “Let’s just say he was a little too critical of the Beast’s comforts. I dropped him at Marathon.”

  I imagined Ray’s shoulders sagging. He’d worked hard to get the Goose back into condition, and even with the new seats, the in-depth aesthetical renovation had yet to commence, thanks largely to the fact that I was broke.

  “There goes the money for the paint job,” Ray said. “How’s Last Resort Charter and Salvage ever supposed to be profitable if you leave customers stranded?”

  “I’m done with charters, Ray. Pompous assholes like Goodspeed are too hard to swallow. I just want to go—”

  “Done with charters? What, you’re now just Last Resort Salvage? How will you afford—”

  “What’s so important, Ray?”

  He was silent a moment, then cleared his throat.

  “There was a beautiful woman here just now, looking for a multi-day charter to the Virgin Islands.”

  “The only reason I’ll end my camping trip will be to witness the release of Lenny Jackson’s political aspirations on his unwitting competitors in next week’s debate.” The thought made me smile. Conch Man was primed to give them hell. “When I get back, I’m heading to the La Concha to get my stuff together. I’ll be back at the airport bright and early tomorrow, just like we agreed.”

  “She was sexy.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “Even her name’s sexy—Crystal. Said a famous musician referred her to you and that it was for a charity—”

  “No charters and no charities!”

  Mechanical genius, social philosopher, and video game ace, Ray had become a close friend in the time I’d been living in Key West. Eccentricities aside, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about my past, and he provided ballast to my occasional overly aggressive endeavors. But he could also be a pain.

  I’d made a plan and I was sticking to it, even if I couldn’t afford to blow off a call for a multi-day charter. I deserved a break. The stress of pouring my energies into fixing up the Beast had taken its toll. I needed a deserted island—alone with my snorkel gear, a Hawaiian sling, and hammock—a lot more than another charter customer.

  Even a beautiful one.

  BACK IN KEY WEST, and after a quick exit from more of Ray on the subject of dumping my charter, I was stuck in stop-and-go traffic. In an old Rover 88 like mine the gear ratios, indelicacy of the clutch, and rigid suspension make for a jarring ride. Key West is now a 365-day-a-year destination, but in winter it gets even more crowded. Cruise ships, snowbirds, bikers, zillions of tourists—more people, more traffic.

  Duval Street was lined with pedestrians sporting garish outfits and bright colors along with lots of exposed, sunburned skin. Once the swell of oncoming mopeds and pedi-cabs passed, I turned left at the La Concha hotel. When I first got to Key West a couple years ago, I thought I’d stay here a few weeks, then figure out something more permanent. But I worked out a deal with management for one of the suites, long-term. Plus it came with maid and room service, a pool, and was on the middle of Duval Street.

  In my room on the sixth floor, I exhaled a long breath. I was 98% mentally checked out, ready for a break. The remaining 2% was focused on deciding what to take with me.

  The phone rang.

  I reached toward it, hesitated. But it might be Ray with some concern about the Beast, so I picked it up.

  “Hello, is this Buck Reilly?” Female.

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Crystal Thedford, I left you a few messages on your machine and at the airport.”

  I noticed the red light blinking on the box next to the phone.

  “Sorry, just got in—”

  “No problem, but I’m pressed for time. I need to charter you and your plane for a few days to fly to St. Thomas, then around—”

  “Sorry, Ms. Thedford, but Last Resort’s closed next week.”

  “Please, call me Crystal. Is there a problem with your plane?”

  I considered lying.

  “No, she’s fine. I’m taking a few days off to clear my head. It’s been—”

  “Perfect!” she said. “What better place than the Caribbean!”

  “Sorry, I’ve already—”

  “Buck—I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, Jimmy said you marched to your own beat and not to get my hopes up, but also that you were the perfect guy to help.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “My husband and I are putting on a big charity event in the British Virgin Islands—”

  “Who gave you my name?”

  “One of the performers participating in the event—there are quite a few—that’s the problem, we need to shuttle them around and don’t have enough planes or boats. It’s a big deal, especially for us as we’ve got everything riding on—sorry—” I heard her take in a deep breath. “I’m rambling.”

  “Miss—ah, Crystal, I don’t—”

  “You see, I need to be in St. Thomas tomorrow afternoon. I could fly commercial, but once I’m there, I’m stuck. The other plane charters are full with our participants, and the ferry boats we’ve chartered are slow and can’t do what I was hoping you could.”

  Why had I answered the damn phone?

  “You said this was a charity event, right?” I said. “I’m not in a position to donate any—”

  “Oh, gosh no, we can pay you! And you’ll have plenty of free time to chill out on the world’s most beautiful beaches, but y
ou’ll be getting paid while you’re doing it!”

  A sudden image of my ex-wife splashing in the waters of Peter Island during our honeymoon took me back to one of the happiest times of my life: e-Antiquity had been on a roll, the Wall Street Journal had just dubbed me “King Charles,” and I’d just married supermodel Heather Drake after a globe-trotting whirlwind romance.

  Times had changed.

  And an all-expense-paid trip to the Virgin Islands suddenly sounded good. I’d have to pass through Customs on Tortola, and the memories from my last visit there were far from pleasant. But I’d been allowed to leave, eventually. And that was a long time ago.

  “Please, Buck?”

  I could always go camping in the Marquesas, right?

  “Okay, Crystal, I’m listening.”

  As she spoke, images of flying down-island clicked through my mind. I explained my rates. She reiterated that she and her husband would pay all the expenses but said they were on a tight budget.

  “I’m staying at the Casa Marina tonight,” she said. “Why don’t we have dinner and I’ll tell you about the event and our schedule?”

  “You have business here, too?”

  “No, I just figured it would be easier for you. Let’s meet at Louie’s Backyard at seven.” She paused. “Thanks again, Buck. This’ll be a great week.”

  I put the phone down. She had already flown to Key West on the assumption that I’d accept her charter? Pretty confident lady. Good taste in restaurants, too.

  Damn! Lulled by turquoise waters, flour-soft beaches, and some of my favorite beach bars, I’d forgotten about Lenny’s debate.

  I SHIFTED MENTAL GEARS and dug out my old charts. Plotting a course to St. Thomas made me smile. I had personal history there from my e-Antiquity days. Treasure ships had passed through those waters in the 1500 and 1600’s, imported and exported wealth from sugar plantations, and colonialism followed for centuries thereafter. So did wrecks, piracy, and opportunity.