( 2011) Cry For Justice by Ralph Zeta

into.” I laughed. It was pouring now. A trail of headlamps and brake lights mottled the four-lane street below. The waters of Lake Worth looked black now, and clouds and thick rain obscured the towers of the Breakers Hotel. I thought about my vacation plans. I could feel my excitement to get away dwindling. Stepping back from the window, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection smeared over the dark rain: the not-so-young warrior. The years were finally starting to show: a bit of gray at the temples, and the ruddy face my mother used to tell me most men could only dream of owning now sported a few more lines and no longer glowed with all the radiance of youth. Time, I hate the ravages it brandishes on us all, on everything. It is our worst enemy.
    “Well, I better get going,” Sammy said, and sprang to his feet. It was amazing how, despite his injuries and his middle-aged frame, he always seemed as alert and energetic as a cat about to pounce. “How’s the rest of your day look?”
    “Tonight, the boat. Tomorrow, the Bahamas.”
    Sammy glanced at the window. “Hope you have a plan B ready, ’cause I don’t think you’re goin’ anywhere, chief.”
    I waved him off.
    On his way out of my office, took a moment to say, “You know, there’s another alternative.”
    “To what?”
    “What to do if we find Reichmann’s missing fortune, what else?” Standing in the doorway, he said, “How about this: I find the money, you and I split it fifty-fifty after my expenses, of course, and a hefty finder’s fee and we live happily ever after on some no-name island somewhere. Couple of nice beach shacks. The best stogies. Life of plenty, y’know.”
    I shook my head. This wasn’t Sammy. He would never take what wasn’t rightfully his. But it was tempting.
    “Attorney-client?” I asked.
    “What else?” He grinned and headed out into the rain.
     
     

Four
    Driving a motorcycle on I-95 during rush hour is always an adventure into the wild unknown. Add torrential rains with pooling water, gale-force winds, aggressive speeders, hulking eighteen-wheelers and older drivers poking nervously along at less than half the posted speed limit, and it can get downright scary.
    If all went according to plan, I would be spending the next five days cruising, snorkeling, drinking frozen mango daiquiris, eating fresh conch salad, sunning, and just lounging in the pristine waters of the Bahamas with the lovely Dr. Nora Burton. I was still hopeful that come morning, the worst of the weather would have scooted far enough south and the seas would have calmed down enough for a safe passage to the nearby archipelago. So, with a sigh and a prayer, at just past five in the afternoon I had tidied up my desk and headed out. After giving last-minute instructions and good-byes to Consuelo and Rene, I donned a rain suit, boots and helmet, straddled the bike, and nosed out into the hellish weather.
    I was driving north toward the town of Jupiter, a little behind schedule. I had already gotten the boat serviced: oil levels rechecked, cooling water hoses examined, bilge pumps, water pumps, batteries, electronics, and all trough-hull fittings double- and triple-checked, the 1,620-gallon fuel tanks topped off with diesel, internal freshwater reservoirs filled, and the two heads serviced and cleaned. (A malfunctioning toilet is not a problem you want when you’re at least a day’s sail out from a marina.) Now I just needed to check all the safety gear on board, make sure all electronics were in good working order and the required nautical charts stowed in their proper place, and, of crucial importance, see that we had ample stores and liquor tequila, rum, and beer for me, vodka for my companion to last the entire trip.
    The marina’s parking lot was mostly empty. No big surprise the rain was still coming down in sheets, and this close to the ocean, unimpeded by vegetation, dunes, or tall buildings, the strong winds drove the rain at an acute angle to