terrorism funding is eradicated within the borders of the United
States of America?” says Tanner.
“I haven’t seen or heard from,” I pause
slightly, “’Mister’ Greene for about three years, now.”
I try to keep my voice steady, so the
fucker doesn’t realize how much I really and truly miss Derek.
I hear another murmur, and a chuckle.
“We’ll send a limo to your office at four
p.m. sharp. I think you will find what we have to say to be very beneficial to
you. And also to your stepbrother.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to have dinner
with you, asshole…” I say, then realize that he’s already hung up.
Shit.
*****
The Clevelander is one of those
tony spots where all the stars and paparazzi hang out in South Beach, so it’s
actually a good place to meet.
There is little likelihood of anything
sinister occurring, because it would be all over the tabloids within the hour.
One of the perks of social media fame, I
guess.
The interesting focal point of the place
is the rooftop pool.
It looks out over Miami to the west and
south, and gives a nice view of the Atlantic to the east.
It’s also famous as a watering hole for
Versace, (when he was still alive) and other icons of fashion.
I’d been there a few times over the years.
It’s pricey, and the crowd tends towards
young professional types, or the occasional group of loud girls, looking to get
drunk and laid by some pro sports team.
The decor is pretty nice.
There’s an elevator to the rooftop bar,
and to get there, you’d better be ready to drop a couple of grand. That keeps
the riff-raff out.
The limousine that picked me up was one of
those horrible Hummer conversions. Talk about gauche! I guarantee that the
owner and driver of that thing don’t have visible penises. Overcompensating,
for sure…
When I get into the limo, there’s not
anyone else waiting. I look around, and it’s a typical lux road yacht, with a
full bar, the Jacuzzi tub, and mirrors.
Flat panel televisions are plastered all
over the place, and are playing CNN, sports channels, and even some kind of
closed circuit loop. There’s also a guide on one of them that has every
late-release movie.
It looks like the marquee at the local Cineplex…all
the blockbusters from every studio.
I wonder how they get some of these
movies.
Three of the titles are for films that
aren’t due for release for months.
As the limo cruises downtown, I look at
the other traffic in the slow lanes.
I never realized that these things somehow
have their own traffic lanes, as the cars part like the Red Sea for Moses to
let it pass. I guess the police escort helps a bit…
I wonder if all that is to put me at ease,
for some reason or other.
I think over the case histories I’ve
reviewed.
I mentally check off all the no longer
alive people who were unfortunate enough to get on the wrong side of Mr. King.
It’s a pretty long list.
I’m not exactly scared, but I am uneasy. I
guess I’ll just see where this goes, and how it will play out.
I told my receptionist and two of the
other office gang that I was heading to SoBe for dinner.
Predictably, they were immediately
jealous.
At least I know that someone might get
worried if I don’t show up at work tomorrow.
*****
“Ms. Greene, how good of you to make it!”
I hear King’s florid voice as I step out of the elevator.
He’s at the bar, a gin and tonic in one
hand, and a cigar in the other.
He puffs a huge gout of grayish smoke out
of his face, and it wafts out towards the ocean.
“A magnificent view, won’t you agree?” he
says.
His smile is as inviting as a shark’s.
He doesn’t offer to shake my hand, or even
really act all that civilly.
What an entitled ass, I think to myself.
George Tanner is standing a bit away from
us, talking on his cell phone. He looks up, and nods at King.
“We have five minutes before the ride gets
here, Bobby,” says Tanner.
I find his familiarity with his
States of America?” says Tanner.
“I haven’t seen or heard from,” I pause
slightly, “’Mister’ Greene for about three years, now.”
I try to keep my voice steady, so the
fucker doesn’t realize how much I really and truly miss Derek.
I hear another murmur, and a chuckle.
“We’ll send a limo to your office at four
p.m. sharp. I think you will find what we have to say to be very beneficial to
you. And also to your stepbrother.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to have dinner
with you, asshole…” I say, then realize that he’s already hung up.
Shit.
*****
The Clevelander is one of those
tony spots where all the stars and paparazzi hang out in South Beach, so it’s
actually a good place to meet.
There is little likelihood of anything
sinister occurring, because it would be all over the tabloids within the hour.
One of the perks of social media fame, I
guess.
The interesting focal point of the place
is the rooftop pool.
It looks out over Miami to the west and
south, and gives a nice view of the Atlantic to the east.
It’s also famous as a watering hole for
Versace, (when he was still alive) and other icons of fashion.
I’d been there a few times over the years.
It’s pricey, and the crowd tends towards
young professional types, or the occasional group of loud girls, looking to get
drunk and laid by some pro sports team.
The decor is pretty nice.
There’s an elevator to the rooftop bar,
and to get there, you’d better be ready to drop a couple of grand. That keeps
the riff-raff out.
The limousine that picked me up was one of
those horrible Hummer conversions. Talk about gauche! I guarantee that the
owner and driver of that thing don’t have visible penises. Overcompensating,
for sure…
When I get into the limo, there’s not
anyone else waiting. I look around, and it’s a typical lux road yacht, with a
full bar, the Jacuzzi tub, and mirrors.
Flat panel televisions are plastered all
over the place, and are playing CNN, sports channels, and even some kind of
closed circuit loop. There’s also a guide on one of them that has every
late-release movie.
It looks like the marquee at the local Cineplex…all
the blockbusters from every studio.
I wonder how they get some of these
movies.
Three of the titles are for films that
aren’t due for release for months.
As the limo cruises downtown, I look at
the other traffic in the slow lanes.
I never realized that these things somehow
have their own traffic lanes, as the cars part like the Red Sea for Moses to
let it pass. I guess the police escort helps a bit…
I wonder if all that is to put me at ease,
for some reason or other.
I think over the case histories I’ve
reviewed.
I mentally check off all the no longer
alive people who were unfortunate enough to get on the wrong side of Mr. King.
It’s a pretty long list.
I’m not exactly scared, but I am uneasy. I
guess I’ll just see where this goes, and how it will play out.
I told my receptionist and two of the
other office gang that I was heading to SoBe for dinner.
Predictably, they were immediately
jealous.
At least I know that someone might get
worried if I don’t show up at work tomorrow.
*****
“Ms. Greene, how good of you to make it!”
I hear King’s florid voice as I step out of the elevator.
He’s at the bar, a gin and tonic in one
hand, and a cigar in the other.
He puffs a huge gout of grayish smoke out
of his face, and it wafts out towards the ocean.
“A magnificent view, won’t you agree?” he
says.
His smile is as inviting as a shark’s.
He doesn’t offer to shake my hand, or even
really act all that civilly.
What an entitled ass, I think to myself.
George Tanner is standing a bit away from
us, talking on his cell phone. He looks up, and nods at King.
“We have five minutes before the ride gets
here, Bobby,” says Tanner.
I find his familiarity with his
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