The Rice Thieves

by William Claypool

  The Rice Thieves

  Copyright © 2016 by William Claypool

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  There are no real people represented as characters in this work. The names and personalities are fictitious. Any resemblance of any character to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and completely unintended.

  Cover design by eBookLaunch.com

  ISBN 978-0-9860637-7-0 (sc)

  ISBN 978-0-9860637-8-7 (e-book)

  Published by:

  Meadow Lane Press

  King of Prussia, PA 19406

  Printed in the United States of America

  OTHER NOVELS BY

  WILLIAM CLAYPOOL

  Windfall Nights

  The Cocaspore Project

  The House Beneath the Damen Off-Ramp

  NOTE

  There are no real people represented as characters in this work. The names and personalities are fictitious. Any resemblance of any character to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and completely unintended.

  Kill with a borrowed knife.

  Tan Daoji

  High General, Liu Song Dynasty

  PROLOGUE

  The day was very hot and humid, even for Augusta, Georgia. Shelly, the short New Yorker, and Buddy, the tall Texan, were drenched in sweat from the previous seventeen holes. Both men were ready for the long round of golf to end, although there was still the issue of the nine carryovers on their bet. The bet on the last hole would be for ten skins, and if they failed to decide it on the course, they would cast their fate to the golf gods and cut cards to settle accounts.

  On the eighteenth tee, Buddy said to Shelly, “I know we said ‘no presses,’ but this match has gotten very interesting. I might make back all the money I’ve lost to you over the years. How about we double the skins value now?”

  Shelly looked at him and shook his head. “Sorry, pal, that’s too rich for my blood. I’m just a two-comma guy, not a three-comma guy like you.”

  Shelly stuck his tee into the ground and placed his ball. As he addressed the ball, Buddy said faintly, “And that’s why you’ll stay a two-comma guy.”

  Shelly stepped away from the ball and glared at Buddy.

  Buddy raised his hands in mock surrender.

  Shelly took another practice swing, addressed the teed ball and then ripped his drive. The shot threaded the narrow chute to the eighteenth fairway and it just kept going. It was by far his best drive of the day.

  “Nice drive. Any seller’s remorse?” asked Buddy. “My offer is still on the table.”

  “You seriously want to play this for 200?”

  “I’m willing if you are.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “I know, but I only see you down here once a year, and I think it ought to be memorable.”

  “It’s already been memorable; still, no double.”

  “Suit yourself. No guts, no glory.”

  Buddy took the tee, placed his ball on the peg, and hit. His drive also found the fairway through the chute of trees, yet it was short, about sixty yards behind Shelly’s.

  Buddy watched the ball come to rest and turned to his friend. “I’ll give you one more chance to change your mind.”

  Shelly shook his head slightly, and looked carefully at the two balls down the fairway. He turned to Buddy. “Okay, we’ll double.”

  Buddy said. “Good. Nice to see you have a little spunk left in you. Let’s play golf.” He started walking down the fairway.

  The men, both tired, slowly walked the uphill finishing hole without saying another word.

  Buddy’s next shot, a fairway wood, was redemptive, and it almost made up for his short drive, although he was still well short of the green. Shelly’s second shot veered off the side of the elevated green, and landed without further trouble.

  Buddy hit a wedge for his third shot, although not well. His ball came to rest on the green fifty feet away from the hole.

  As Shelly addressed his third shot, Buddy yelled out to him. “Remember, we said 200. Right?”

  Shelly said nothing as he looked down on his ball. He was fifteen yards from the fringe of the green. He addressed the ball and made his swing. His club caught the ground well behind the ball and it traveled only five yards.

  Buddy saw the shot and yelled, “Ouch! You’re not feeling any pressure, now, are you? Do you want to re-double?”

  Shelly didn’t look at Buddy. He just cursed to himself and set up for his fourth shot with the same club after the caddy toweled off the mud.

  Shelly took a deep breath and made his swing. He clipped the ball cleanly. The ball cleared the fringe and released beautifully on the undulating surface, keeping just enough speed to power through the breaks. It came to rest momentarily on the lip of the cup and then dropped in.

  “Yes!” he screamed. “We call that par where I come from. Do you want to re-double now?”

  “No, not right now,” said Buddy quietly, as he and his caddy set up his putt.

  Buddy finally chose the line and addressed the ball. He made a smooth stroke, and the ball took off. The first break was right followed by a small downhill ride to a left break. The ball was on course. The last ten feet were straight. It rimed half the cup before it dribbled beautifully into the hole.

  Buddy let out a loud scream, “Yes! We call that a par, too!”

  He came over and shook Shelly’s hand. “Great round of golf.”

  Shelly said, “Yes, but our business isn’t finished yet.”

  “No, it’s not.” Buddy turned to glance over his shoulder. “Let’s do it here; there’s no one playing behind us.”

  “Okay,” said Shelly. “Do you have the cards?”

  “Yes, in my bag.” He turned to his caddy. “The cards are in the top pocket.”

  The caddy walked to the bag and returned with a deck of playing cards. Buddy handed them to Shelly. “You look them over and decide who cuts.”

  Shelly looked over the cards. “Roy cuts for me, and Charlie cuts for you.”

  “Okay,” said Buddy.

  Shelly held the cards in his hand and looked at the caddies, who understood their game.

  “Do you know how much you’re cutting for?” Shelly asked.

  “200 dollars,” said Roy.

  “I wish,” said Shelly. “Cut a good one for me.”

  Roy took his card and held it. Charlie followed.

  “Let’s show ‘em boys,” said Buddy. “What did you find me?”

  Charlie showed a ten. “Good job,” said Buddy. “Okay, Roy, let’s see that little card; make it a five for my friend from New York.”

  Roy turned his card and showed a queen.

  “Damn!” said Buddy. Shelly let out a whoop and hugged Roy before shaking Buddy’s outstretched hand.

  “We’ll settle up in the clubhouse,” said Buddy, walking away from the others.

  * * *

  After showering, dressing, and now sitting over an iced tea at a table in the clubhouse, Buddy gave Shelly the check for $200,000.

  “I enjoy spending these afternoons with you. However, you’re becoming an expensive date,” Buddy said.

  Shelly smiled at him, the check in his hand. “I could almost retire and just come down here once a year to play you in golf. You’ve been a steady annuity for the last five years.”

  “I did beat you six years
ago.”

  “Yes, but it was only for ten grand. Dollar for dollar, you’re way behind.”

  “I know exactly how far behind I am, and I’m going to make it my life’s work to even it up. I’ll figure out a way to get my money back from you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t count on golf for that. I don’t like playing poker or pool, and I sure as hell won’t play basketball with you. How are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s sure gonna be fun to figure it out. Are we on for next year?”

  “Our eighth anniversary in the club. It’s on the calendar. Are we going to see one another in New York?”

  “We’ll see.” Buddy looked at his watch. “I gotta go. I have a dinner date in Houston. Believe me, I’ll be thinking about you, my friend.”

  “I’m flattered. Safe travels home.”

  “Thank you, you too, Shelly. I promise that somehow, someday, you will pay.”

  “I’m curious as to how you’ll make that happen.”

  “So am I. It may take a while, but I guarantee we’ll come back to this in the future.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Despite the persistent cold rain and the inviting comfort of the small bar, there were few patrons enjoying the warm fire and quiet music within. In Oban, rain and cold were no strangers and people understood it; actually, they embraced it. It was their way of life. Lying in what sailors knew as the “roaring forties,” the climate and setting of Oban, New Zealand was not for everyone. In truth, it was not for very many people at all, with only about 400 hardy souls calling Stewart Island their home.

  Oban was the jewel of Halfmoon Bay on Stewart, the southernmost inhabited island in New Zealand. Unlike its Scottish namesake, Stewart’s Oban was better known for its great white sharks than its single malt scotch. However, it was beautiful, friendly, quiet, and that suited him just fine.

  Mike Franco had arrived three months before. It took only a short time before he learned his way around the little village and met everyone in the town’s small service industry—barber, grocer, wine store owner, and bartender in ascending order of importance to him. His small rented house was working out perfectly, and he had extended his visitor visa for the full twelve months of his lease. It was all generally going as planned—the plan he had made throughout his long rehabilitation for a shattered femur. He didn’t enjoy thinking about his injury or the circumstances around it, and he tried not to look back.

  The plan was simple. Leave the Navy, put his financial house in order, throw away his cell phone, and go to where he could quietly discern what he should do with the rest of his life. However, a small variation to the plan occurred with the appearance of Ani, a striking Maori beauty he met during one of the ferry runs back to the mainland.

  Ani’s reasons for coming to Stewart were largely the same as his—R&R for TBD. She left the North Island early in life and grew up in Melbourne and went to university there. She returned to Wellington after college and worked for a few years, became tired of it, put her cash aside, and went south, far south to Stewart, to glide for a while on her savings. That wasn’t exactly his story, although the gliding part was the important overlap.

  She was cold to him at first, then she gradually thawed, moving from almost hostile, to formal. It got interesting when she continued to warm to friendly and then to very friendly. After a month of sharing wildlife tours, park hikes, seeing the Kiwis and making the obligatory shark dive, their relationship became much more involved, and she now spent more time at his place than she did at her own. The plan had changed, and he was happy it had.

  They sat in a back booth nursing drinks before dinner. In deference to the cold night, she was wearing a cable knit sweater, a departure from her collection of deep V-neck shells. It suited her, but then again, anything suited her.

  The gentle light of the pub shaded her face in a soft, mysterious way that reminded him of a beautiful background figure found in a classical painting. She could be the old master’s mistress and would have been captured on canvas as a secret known only to them. The painting would have ensured her beauty was preserved for as much of forever as the artist could control.

  Of the mixed genes that formed the ancient Maori, the Polynesian and the Melanesian, Ani was the lucky receiver of a breathtaking mix of both. Her long dark hair was an auburn blend, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She had unblemished hazel-toned skin, full lips, and a fine straight nose that all worked together for a devastating effect on him. As he took it all in, he studied her, noticing again that she had the most alluring blue eyes.

  They had been exploring family; her parents were still in Melbourne, and her brothers had come back to New Zealand and were working in Auckland. It was his turn, and he deftly changed the subject.

  “Your eyes are so beautiful,” he said. “How do you come to have blue eyes?”

  “Is this is the first time you’ve noticed my eyes are blue?”

  “No, of course not,” he said uncomfortably. “Your eyes just knock me out tonight. I just mean…they look radiant. Isn’t that rare?”

  “What do you mean ‘rare’? You mean blue eyes for a Maori?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure. It’s not that rare among my relatives. I think it might be convict blood in me from generations back.”

  “Pirates in your past?”

  “Maybe.”

  They both reached for their glasses and took a drink.

  She laughed.

  “Is this truly the first time you’ve noticed my eyes are blue?”

  “Oh no, certainly not. They just seem to shine tonight.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m wearing this sweater.” She gently pulled at the heavy garment on her shoulder.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Perhaps your focus tonight is on my face, rather than my chest.”

  He stalled. “My attention is always on your face.”

  She looked amused as she took another sip of her drink. “No, it’s not,” she said quietly.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, I guess it’s in my genes.”

  “It’s okay,” she reached across the table to pat his hand. “I think my boobs are my best feature.”

  “Your ‘boobs?’” he repeated.

  She grinned and made a sweeping gesture looking down her chest. “Yes, these,” she said, and added, “You know ‘boobs’… knockers, jugs, titties, gigglies, hooters, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” She looked up to meet his eyes and broke into laughter.

  He was laughing too, but managed to say, “I do think your eyes are lovely.”

  After she stopped laughing, she said, “Yeah, thanks.” She held his hand now, still smiling at him. “You know, you weren’t supposed to be this cute.”

  He looked puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “Take it on its face.”

  “Did you have an interesting premonition about me? Did my mauri come to you in a dream, or was I foretold to you by a wise ancestor?”

  She laughed. “Right, maybe. Anyway, you are cute.”

  “Thank you, so are you.”

  They were quiet for a moment, then he looked toward the kitchen, hungry, and ready to move on to his meal.

  He turned back to her. “Well, I think your eyes are your best feature,” he said emphatically. “And, as they might say in a court of law, I’ve seen all the evidence and it would be hard to say your eyes are more or less beautiful than your breasts. It’s like asking a parent who their favorite child is. They’re different, yet you love them all.”

  He took a sip of his drink before adding, “I also like it that you don’t have a tattoo on your face.”

  “Oh, my ta moko. We moved to Melbourne before I got to the age where I would have jumped into that. Maybe I’m not a good Maori, but that idea never appealed to me.”

&nb
sp; “Well, I think it becomes you to not have a tattoo on your chin.”

  “That’s because you’re not Maori.”

  “I think I’d have support on this from a lot of your people.”

  “Maybe,” she said casually. “What else do you like?”

  He thought about the question and realized no good would come of this if he gave a clumsy answer.

  When he decided on the answer that would give him the least trouble, the wall-mounted telephone on the back wall of the bar rang loudly. He waited until the bartender answered and waited longer when he saw the bartender suddenly looking his way.

  The bartender laid the phone on the counter, and walked toward them speaking almost in a whisper. “Mike, there’s a woman on the line with an American accent calling for a Michael Franco on behalf of some bloke named Pauling. You want to take the call here?”

  Mike, surprised, hesitated before speaking. “Oh, shit,” he murmured quietly. “No, tell her I’m not here and that you haven’t seen me for a week or two.” Franco reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill, handing it to the bartender as he said it.

  As the bartender walked away, Ani asked. “What was that all about?”

  Mike didn’t answer her until he heard the bartender finish with the caller. “You don’t want to know. It’s about a guy I worked for a while ago. I don’t know why he’s calling. Let’s just say I don’t need to hear from him right now.” Mike took a drink. “Now, we were talking about your other parts…”

  “Yes,” teased Ani. “What other anatomical feature of mine sets me off… or should I say, gets you off?”

  Franco quickly said, “I love your hair—the length, the color, the way you wear it.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “You have those beautiful legs; toned, long, and perfectly proportioned.”

  She was enjoying the conversation. “Thank you. Anything else? This is interesting.”

  “Well, there’s your…”

  Franco stopped in midsentence when the telephone rang again. He listened to the bartender take the call. The bartender said, “Just a minute, I’ll check,” and walked back to their booth.