computer, dropped the Cat 5 cable down behind the dresser, and strolled back out the way he came.
I shared this thinking with Angel Valero.
“All I gave a shit about was leveraging Donovan’s wandering dick into a takeover of Con Globe assets and a quick liquidation,” he said. “I liked that girl. I didn’t kill her.”
I put down the computer and took the digital recorder out of my inside jacket pocket. I shut it off and set it on the ground.
“Maybe not directly, but you played your part. So did everybody else. Even the ones who loved her,” I said.
We heard sirens in the near distance. Angel’s face had reddened considerably during our conversation, but the tone now shifted toward purple. I hoped he wouldn’t pop an artery before the various authorities were done with him.
“I might forgive you for nailing a brain to my door and sending two of your countrymen to kill me,
TWENTY-FOUR
HODGES’S BOAT ISN’T MUCH of a speedster but it’s easy to handle in heavy air, which is what we had that day out on the Little Peconic Bay. Burton was at the helm, his preferred location. Hodges was below cooking lunch and the rest of us were sprawled around the cockpit trying not to spill our cocktails as we dug fresh fruit out of the plastic bowl Amanda was passing around.
Eddie was forward, warning creatures of the deep to stay clear, and occasionally monitoring the sky for incoming birds of prey.
The Nat King Cole Trio was on the stereo and the only discordant note was coming from Jackie Swaitkowski, who was trying to engage Burton in a legal debate.
Jackie thought I still had a good case for pursuing my share of the intellectual property settlement from the shattered remains of Con Globe, most of which had now been absorbed into the Societe Commerciale Fontaine. Burton differed, citing the clarity and underlying validity of my original severance agreement, though he pointed out that the indictment and subsequent resignation of George Donovan, and the fraud he help perpetuate, might render the entire agreement moot.
With Angel Valero, Mason Thigpen and Marve Judson selling Donovan and each other out as fast as their lawyers could write up their statements, it looked like Honest Boy would get his wish. Everything and everybody relating to Con Globe was blown to smithereens and scattered on the wind.
Including Jerome Gelb, though the FBI had yet to discover where the wind had scattered him to. They felt the circumstantial case was strong enough to charge first-degree murder, but my better hope was that one of Angel Valero’s remaining Venezuelan associates would get there first and render that argument permanently moot.
“Well, I’m not ready to give up on Sam’s financial prospects,” said Jackie. “It’s the only way I’m going to see any money out of that client.”
I didn’t have the heart to argue with her, but the fact is, I was happy with things they way they were.
I worked my way from amidships to the pulpit, where I sat down to watch the water race under the bow, put my arm around my dog, and ponder the ineluctable modality of pure dumb luck.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Mary Farrell for indispensible help and understanding. Thanks to Marty and Judy Shepard, wonderful editors, publishers and human beings. Likewise, Marion Garner of Random House Canada, and her associate Anne Collins, who put a lie to the notion that there are no great editors left in the world.
Beloved readers Randy Costello and Sean Cronin were again critical to getting the book off the ground, with special thanks to Sean for instruction in lethal weapons of personal destruction. Thanks to Bob Willemin for a tour of the financial lunatic fringe, and to Rich Orr, Cindy Courtney and Norman Block for legal guidance (all fiction-related, mind you).
Abiding thanks to Anne-Marie Regish for astounding logistical accomplishments, and my Mintz & Hoke partners Bill Field and Ron Perine for the airspace and generous support.
Heidi Lamar and Laurence Willis helped me understand what you can and cannot do with secure data streams and laptop computers. Susan Ahlquist continues to fiercely attend to production detail. My brother Whit, with tweaks from Randy Costello, cleaned up my Spanish. Paige Goettel was responsible for the profane French, so if you’re offended, blame her.
CHRIS KNOPF is a principal of Mintz & Hoke, a marketing communications agency. Occasional copywriter and cabinet maker, Knopf lives with his wife, Mary Farrell, and their wheaten terrier, Samuel Beckett, in Connecticut and Southampton, Long Island. He is the author of three other Sam Acquillo novels.
VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2010
Copyright © 2009 Chris Knopf
