The Shop

Indigo Island looked real.

There were similar palms. There was a small golf course, but it appeared shoddy and neglected in the bright morning sunlight, like a paint-by-numbers set. The trees encroached. A very tall wrought iron fence made a sporadic and halfhearted ring of the island, punctuated by No Trespassing signs.

Landry squinted past the black bars of the fence. He spotted stables and a good-sized riding ring through the trees. The octagonal house Franklin had told him about looked like a wedding cake. It reminded Landry of Dickens’s Great Expectations, a book he’d read in high school and one that had fascinated him by its pure weirdness. The house looked like something Miss Havisham would have kept in her refrigerator—if they’d had refrigerators in her day.

The other three structures were painted to match the octagon house, yellow with white trim. Rectangular swimming pool, chaise lounges lined up razor-straight facing the pool, like you’d find at a high-class hotel. Three permanent cabanas. Golf cart paths ran through the compound like ant trails. Plenty of parking.

Landry noted a causeway, maybe two hundred and fifty meters long, linking Indigo Island to the mainland. Narrow. Landry guessed the causeway had been built early in the last century—the only way onto the island by land. There was a guardhouse situated on the small spit of land that led onto the causeway. Dark uniforms, ball caps. The security company. The E-Team.

They tied up at the dock opposite an ancient, beat-up skiff—had to be twenty years old. Landry thought it must have sentimental value. In his travels, he’d noticed that rich people didn’t seem to throw away their old possessions. He’d seen plenty of stud farms breathtaking in beauty but still containing the odd rusty pickup or old shed.

The boathouse, a real antique, was empty. Frank had mentioned they’d sold a lot of their toys recently. The jet. The expensive cars. The picnic boat. The only thing they hadn’t cut back on, according to Frank, was Grace’s Hackneys. She still had plenty, and they were eating him out of house and home.

“Where are your agents again?” Franklin asked.

Landry motioned to the houses and the boats tied up to the long docks on the peninsula, and to the trees and bushes onshore.

Franklin nodded. “And why do we need to get rid of my security people?”

“This is an FBI operation. Your people would only get in the way. They’re the E-Team, remember?”

Franklin nodded again. “The Keystone Cops, only dumber.”

Franklin handed over control of the boat to Landry. Landry enjoyed the docking procedure on the Hinckley. He’d done it before, but of course Franklin didn’t remember that. The jetstick was a lot like the joystick on the video games Landry grew up with. Docking the Hinckley was just like parallel parking.

The morning was sunny, but there had been some chop in the open bay. Weather reports did not lie.

A storm was coming.

43

As they tied up, Landry spotted a girl lying on the other dock. She looked exactly like a Barbie doll. Tanned Barbie, maybe. She was lying on a chaise cushion that had been dragged out to the dock, talking to a member of Franklin’s security detail. Big guy, biceps that only came from hours in the gym, his Danehill Security cap sitting atop a bulging shaved neck like a child’s beanie. He dangled his feet in the water. Landry could hear hip-hop music coming from somewhere. He detested hip-hop music. He glanced at Franklin. The man’s face was grim.

“That Riley?” Landry asked him.

“Uh-huh.” The way he said it showed he was simmering. “She’s after the help again.”

The help, Landry thought. Like Luke Perdue. He hopped down from the boat to the dock and started walking in their direction.

Franklin rushed up behind him, trying to keep up. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” He crossed to the other dock and strode toward the two people at the end. He didn’t pause when he reached them but let the momentum carry him right up to the moment he pushed his foot into the security man’s back, toppling him into the water.

The man had time to say “Hey!” before he hit. He made a big splash—probably weighed 240.

The guy stood up in the waist-high water. His face was red, either from the sun or from anger, except for the white triangle of zinc oxide on his nose. “You mother fucker, what’d you do that for?” he yelled, trying to get up on the dock. He had to pull with his arms and hands.

Landry stepped on one of the hands. “You know what my wife’s favorite TV show is?”

The guy just stared at him.

“Celebrity Apprentice. You ever watch Celebrity Apprentice?’”

“What the fuck? What are you talking about? Get off my fucking hand!”

“Donald Trump? Remember the part where he says, ‘You’re fired’? Well, that’s what you are, chum. You’re fired.”

“Get your foot off my hand!” The guy looked at Franklin. “Who the fuck is this fucker?”

Franklin looked nervous, but said, “He’s my new security.”

Landry was really starting to like Franklin.

“You can’t fire me. We’ve got a contract—”

Landry’s foot came off the man’s hand and toed into his larynx. You could overdo it, so Landry pulled back at the last moment and tipped up the chin, just enough pressure to send the man back into the water.

“Daddy!” screamed Riley.

The guy stood up again. He looked up at Landry and let out another string of profanities laced with obscenities. Landry felt uncomfortable with that. He was raised the old-fashioned way, and you didn’t curse in front of a lady. But a glance at Riley told him she wasn’t one, so he let it go.

She looked avid. Like a cat waiting for a mouse’s next move.

Landry returned his attention to the security guy. For a moment Landry thought the guy would lunge at him, but then he thought better of it and waded to shore. He emptied his cap into the water and slapped it against the dock, then glared at Franklin. Franklin took a step back.

“You don’t have to fire me. I quit!”

“Daddy, what are you doing?” demanded Riley.

Franklin glanced at her and then back at the security guard. “I want all of you off-property ASAP. I’ll settle up with your boss.”

“Fuck you.”

The E-Team.

Riley tagged along as they went to the security center situated in a metal outbuilding not far from the main house. She wasn’t the only one who tagged along. A pack of dogs joined them, mostly terrier types. Yapping and snapping, making Landry wonder how thick his socks were.

In the security center, Frank reiterated his position, this time to the chief of security, whose name was Melvin Graus. He told Graus that Danehill was no longer providing protection for the island. The chief was understandably upset. First he tried intimidation, then he tried logic, then wheedling, and back to intimidation. To his credit, Franklin stood firm.

“You know there’s a provision in here about premature termination of the contract,” said Graus. “You’re going to have to pay us a substantial amount in penalties.”

“You can talk to my accountant about that.”

“I’ve never heard of Salter Security.” He glared at Landry. “Are you sure of this guy’s bona fides?”

“His bona fides are fine,” Franklin said.

Landry liked Franklin better all the time.

“Okay then. You’ll be hearing from our attorney.”

Franklin said to Graus, “I want you off the property by noon today.”

Landry leaned near Franklin’s ear and said, “Eleven.”

“Eleven today. Eleven sharp.”