2 Green to Go

by John H. Cunningham

  Table of Contents

  Driving While Blind

  Flyin’ for the Sea Lion

  Reluctant Goodbye

  Beauty or the Beast?

  When it All Falls Down

  Postscript

  JOHN H. CUNNINGHAM

  GREEN TO GO

  Copyright © 2012 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.

  Electronic Edition

  Published by Greene Street, LLC

  Electronic ISBN: 978-0-9854422-0-0

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9854422-1-7

  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.

  For more information, visit www.jhcunningham.com

  To my ladies,

  Holly, Bailey and Cortney

  Thanks for your love and support

  Driving

  While

  Blind

  1

  Geneva, Switzerland

  “You could’ve at least worn a suit, Buck.”

  Ben was wearing one of my old Armani suits. When you owe someone money, a lot of money, nothing’s sacred. If my linen pants and aqua green fishing shirt weren’t out of place here, my flip-flops were.

  On the table was today’s International Herald Tribune. Typical headlines: Raul Castro’s Funeral … United Nations Troops in Darfur … U.S. Warns Iran … There’s something different, Demonstrations in Peru.

  Just the name of that country brought back memories of fast friends and past adventures. The first paragraph stated that Javier Guzman, one of the candidates in the upcoming presidential election, demanded that the European nations who had stolen thousands of tons of silver from Peruvian soil centuries ago provide just compensation now. His rhetoric had launched a wave of frenetic nationalism across the country.

  Click-clack. Click-clack.

  A tall young woman in a tight blue skirt and starched white blouse marched through the cavernous lobby. Her high heels pounded the granite floor like ball peen hammers. I swallowed but had run dry of saliva. Her blond hair was cropped short and her blue eyes were shielded behind metal-framed glasses. She was a precise beauty.

  “Mr. Reilly?”

  “Yes?” Ben and I said at the same time.

  No smile.

  “Come with me, please.”

  No accent, either.

  We followed her through a metal gate and into a small waiting room. She directed us toward a computer terminal and instructed us to enter our account numbers. Ben went first, and I noticed a small bald patch on the back of his crew cut. My hair was still as thick as ever. Guess that gene must have skipped me. Ben finished, then moved aside.

  Once we were done, a green light lit the screen. So far, so good.

  The woman led us down another hallway and into a smaller room with a table and two chairs. We remained standing.

  “I’ll return momentarily.”

  Ben turned to me when we were alone.

  “I wasn’t sure they’d let us in, considering the investigations into your—”

  “It’s over, Ben. And now’s not the time.” I motioned around the heavily monitored room.

  He shook his head and shifted his focus to the door. With family, the past is always present. Once tagged good or bad, you’re forever judged in that light, especially when the media dumps gas on the fire.

  Moments later, Ms. Personality reappeared pushing a stainless steel cart with what appeared to be a keg sitting on top. She stopped the cart next to the table.

  “Your keys, gentlemen?”

  Ben pulled a chain up from inside the open collar of his shirt. His key was a duplicate to the one I’d stored in my waterproof pouch and hidden below the seat in my 1946 Grumman Widgeon. Mine had been stolen by a Key West art dealer cum Cuban spy named Manny Gutierrez and wound up on the bottom of the Florida straits just outside the Cuban territorial line.

  The woman and Ben stared at me.

  “I don’t have my key.”

  Ben closed his eyes and the woman stood even straighter.

  “I’m sorry, but you must have—”

  “I’ll be using the five-letter code established as an alternate.”

  “Dad’s ciphers? Are you kidding?”

  The woman opened a narrow drawer on the side of the steel cart and withdrew a small apparatus that resembled a credit card machine used in European restaurants.

  “Re-enter your account number, and when prompted, enter the five-space response,” she said.

  The machine nearly slipped from my glistening palms. I caught Ben’s head-shake out of the corner of my eye and his long sigh filled the silence.

  All the different five-letter combinations I’d considered tumbled through my head.

  “There were what, five ciphers?” Ben said. “I tried to figure them out, just out of curiosity, and got nowhere. How could you—”

  “They all led to a last one which was a statement, not a cipher,” I said. “‘Love of my life.’ Guess this is the only way to know for sure.”

  “That’s great, Buck. I financed this trip—you could have told me—this will be the last straw if—”

  “Mr. Reilly, please.”

  I licked my lips and my index finger hovered over the keypad that contained all twenty-six letters of the alphabet, along with the numbers zero through nine.

  “While we’re young, Buck,” Ben said.

  I turned away to shield the keyboard. I pressed a “B” and no alarm sounded, so I continued. “E,” “T,” “T,” “Y.”

  A phrase in what I assumed to be German appeared on the screen. I handed it back to our hostess, who read it and pursed her lips.

  Ben and I stared at her with open mouths.

  “I’ll be back in a moment.” She hugged the small machine as she left.

  Ben turned to me. “You lost the fucking key? Are you kidding me?”

  “Not now, Ben—”

  “After everything—”

  “Drop it.” My gritted teeth stopped him mid-bitch.

  The woman reappeared, alone. From her pocket she removed a key.

  “I’m sorry, I had to retrieve this from the vault. Normally account holders alert us when a key has been lost.”

  “There’s nothing normal about my brother,” Ben said.

  She inserted both keys into slots on top of the cylinder and turned them.

  A green light pulsed.

  “I’ll be in the anteroom. When you’re finished press the button by the door and I’ll return. You may use the briefcase on the cart if you need one.” She offered enough of a smile that I could see perfect white teeth peeking out from behind her thin pink lips. She closed the door behind her.

  Ben put his hand on the handle next to the keys.

  “Let’s hope you’ll be able to pay me back all the money I’ve lent you,” he said.

  My heart leapt and I slapped my hand on top of his.

  “Can we take a minute to think of Mom and Dad before opening this?”

  He laughed. “Now you want to get sentimental? They would never have had this account—or been in Switzerland at all—if your freaking company hadn’t been cooking its books and cratered. And if you hadn’t warned them—”

  “Then you wouldn’t have inherited all their wealth, so let’s leave it at that, okay?”

  “—There never would have been an accident that killed them, Buck, and I’ll never forget that. You’re just lucky Dodson took the fall.”

  “He was the one who cooked the books, Ben.”

  M
y partner from e-Antiquity, Jack Dodson, was still in jail after being convicted of fraudulent conveyance of assets. The FBI had been unable to prove the same against me, which is why I was able to flee to Key West with the airplane Ben had reluctantly bought me. Once there I started Last Resort Charters and Salvage. The old flying boat allowed me to make use of the copies of the treasure maps I’d squirreled away when e-Antiquity tanked, but they too were stolen by Manny Gutierrez and lost at sea along with my Swiss Bank key.

  With a tug Ben opened the vault. I saw his eyes widen.

  “Oh, my, God …” he said.

  “What is it?”

  He reached inside. “This can’t be …”

  As he withdrew his hands I recognized the contents. Not cash, not stock certificates, not precious metals.

  He pressed his face into the open cylinder.

  “That’s it?” he said.

  I smiled.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “So much for you paying me back, big brother.”

  The contents fell from his hands and landed with a thud onto the table. It was a notebook wrapped in plastic and secured with a rubber band.

  Our father had been a career Foreign Service officer who at one point was considered as a candidate for Secretary of State, but he was also a dreamer. He encouraged me to start e-Antiquity and was our original venture capitalist, so when I realized e-Antiquity’s financial fantasy ride was about to hit the wall—

  “Is this what you sent him as you hurtled toward insolvency? All your secret maps?” He paused. “The evidence the Feds need to prove the insider trading?”

  “For which you’re the sole benefactor, thank you very much.”

  The notebook contained the originals of all the maps and research information that could lead to many lost treasures.

  “I was going to let you have all of what was in here anyway, less what you owe me, but I don’t want anything to do with …”

  “History?”

  “Ha! Treasure maps, unauthenticated ones at that? Old letters and miscellaneous ramblings of ne’er-do-wells?” His mouth hardened. “This is what got Mom and Dad killed, you know.”

  I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Treasure hunting,” he said, “the original lottery, but with worse odds.”

  I peeled back the rubber bands and the notebook sprang open. Each of the archival plastic sleeves contained documents with unique stories, historic relevance, my team’s sweat from scouring the globe for them. Not to mention the dregs of our investors’ capital. All of it squirreled away to prevent them being sold at the bankruptcy auction with the rest of e-Antiquity’s assets—what’s this?

  A lone envelope stuck out from the middle of the plastic sheaths. Ben saw it at the same time and plucked it out.

  Written on the front: “Charles B. Reilly, III.”

  Ben tore it open.

  “Hey, I’m the one—”

  “It’s a letter from Dad,” Ben said.

  “Can I—”

  “Son—”

  “Okay, Ben, fine. You read it.”

  Son,

  If you’re seeing this for the first time, it’s because we never had the chance to discuss it. It never mattered to us, and it shouldn’t to you.

  Your mother was told early in our marriage that she couldn’t have children, so we set out on this course. Your brother was a surprise, a few years later. You have always been our son, even if you weren’t born a Reilly. We love you no different than had you been, so don’t let this change a thing.

  These papers are all we have from the adoption. The laws were very specific back when you were born, and the birth mother’s anonymity was always protected. We will not be hurt in the least if you choose to pursue your past, and given that you’re now over thirty, we encourage you to do so for medical history purposes, at least.

  We are your parents, and you are our son. That will never change.

  We love you.

  Mom and Dad.

  Silence.

  I was adopted?

  He dropped the letter on the table and I picked it up. It was Dad’s handwriting, for sure. Adopted? Really?

  “Wow.” Ben shook his head. “Must be a shock to the system, huh?”

  “You could say that.”

  “It does explain a lot.”

  What? I couldn’t believe I was adopted and only finding out now.

  “Good luck with all your maps, Buck. See you around.”

  I heard a buzzer, the door opened, then Ben was gone. I slumped into a chair. I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach, kicked in the nuts, hit over the head with a 2x4.

  I was adopted?

  2

  Key West, Florida. A month later …

  “Keep it on the line,” I hollered. “Damnit, line … quit … moving.”

  Lights pinwheeled through my fogged vision as I concentrated with all my might on keeping the bike upright on Whitehead Street.

  Stay awake … concentrate … Sing a song ….

  “Oh say can you see? Just barely …”

  The bike swerved right.

  “By the dawn’s early light—almost dawn, anyway …”

  I swerved back toward the middle. No cars at this hour.

  Good thing, too.

  The Pier House had been packed for Karen’s going away party. She’d rather be in New York than Key West? And I was too … what? Chicken? Fucking-a, chicken’s right! She told me she wanted to be with me, and what did I say? Ha!

  The bike swerved hard—

  Too hard.

  Everything spun—I hit the curb, tumbled, stars lit the night, but my eyes were closed. I rolled up onto my knees, but felt as if I were still spinning. I gagged once, and suddenly puked on the sidewalk … Sorry about that, tourists.

  I rolled onto my back and concentrated on breathing.

  “Don’t fall asleep. You’ll wake up in the drunk tank.”

  A small voice in the center of my alcohol-saturated brain noted that speaking to yourself, out loud, is normally a bad sign. But when you’re really, really drunk, it helps get you through.

  “Get up, there’s not a soul here to help you,” I said.

  I got up—and stood weaving.

  What’s that? A man … a big man. Hey, it’s—

  “Truck,” I said. “Truck Lew-is!”

  I veered to the right, looking at my feet to keep from falling. Boxer’s feet. Dancing feet. All the while telling the world, “Won’t go down … stay off the ropes!”

  Truck was carrying something, and somebody was helping him.

  “What’s that, a coffin?” I laughed. “You an undertaker now?”

  Truck and the other man lowered the crate. They blurry-walked toward me. My eyes flickered, and then they were in front of me.

  “You’re drunk,” Truck said. “Real drunk.”

  “What makes you … think … that?” I swallowed acid reflux.

  The other man whispered something to Truck.

  “Who’s your buddy? Buddy pallbearer?” I giggled

  A flash of Truck with his arm cocked back. Hey, what the—

  Boom!

  I took a blow to the face, and was back on the ground. I saw the other man’s shoes. The right leg lifted.

  “Hey, what are—”

  WHEN MY EYES OPENED I saw light. Not sunlight. Not the light from the windows in my suite at the La Concha. Light from a naked bulb, high in the room. There were bars on the walls ….

  Crap.

  My head pounded, way beyond a bad hangover. I moved my hand over my scalp and winced: my fingers had found a massive lump amidst the matted hair in the back.

  Had I been in a fight?

  With one eye open I scanned the room. There was another drunk, snoring like an idling chainsaw. With great effort I sat up.

  What the hell happened? My mouth was dry-sealed shut, and my throat felt as if I’d swallowed battery acid. A vague recollection of endless shooters with silly names caused a spike
of pain behind my eyes. I should have stuck to rum.

  My watch was gone. What time was it?

  Karen, my quasi-almost-totally-girlfriend, had left. By now she’d be halfway up the Keys. New York awaited, with a management job at a top hotel and a publishing deal pending. Would she have stayed if I’d asked her to? Last night she’d pulled me aside, and her eyes had searched mine, waiting, while the only thing that ran through my head was ‘Can’t we be happy like we are now?’ Bullshit. So I said nothing. I didn’t need to. She knew. So I drank, way too much, instead.

  Hello, drunk tank.

  I saw movement beyond the bars.

  I saw a policeman peering into the cell.

  “You alive?”

  “So it appears.” I rubbed the knot on the back of my head. “How’d I get my head smashed in?”

  “The officer who brought you in found you lying on Whitehead Street next to your bicycle in a puddle of booze you barfed up. Lucky you didn’t puke while you were on your back—you’d be in the morgue instead of here.”

  Did I smash my head falling off my bike?

  “What time is it?” I said.

  He checked his watch. “Seven-fifteen. You were brought in at nine past three, so you’ve been asleep for four hours. I need to keep you until your blood alcohol content is back to legal, and in your case that might take a while.”

  Oh, God. I just wanted to be in my own bed.

  “Has Currito Salazar shown up yet today?”

  “Curro? The bail bondsman?” he said. “Client of his?”

  “Am now,” I said. “He’s more of a friend, though.”

  “There’s no bonding process for drunks, Bubba.” He twisted his mouth to the side. “But hey, Curro’s my cousin. I’ll call and see if he’s up.”

  The guard strolled around the corner. He was a large guard, probably too large to be out on patrol. And if he was Curro’s cousin, that meant he was an old-time Conch, so maybe the rules were more malleable than if I was just another drunk tourist.

  The chainsaw sputtered next to me, then revved again with renewed intensity.

  The guard returned and said Curro would be here in a half-hour or so. I settled back against the wall and dozed off. I was awakened soon by another man, in plain clothes, who shook my shoulder. His eyes burned brightly and his motions were quick, determined.