Killerfest by Lawrence de Maria Page A

shape than most because of the jetties.”
     The stretch
of beach front on which the Mack house sat was bordered by two long rock
jetties that helped the area retain at least some sand. They also provided
ideal habitat for striped bass, many of which eventually ended up on Mack’s
dinner table.
    “Come on,
let’s get some lunch,” Mack said. He turned to the contractor and peeled off
some bills from a roll in his pocket. “Tell everyone to take a break. There’s a
deli down the street. Buy them anything they want.”
    He grabbed
Scarne’s arm.
    “You drive.
Bobo has the car.”
    “Where is he?”
    The hulking
Bobo Sambucca was Mack’s, friend, driver and frequent bodyguard.
    “I sent him
down to A.C. to talk to some guys.”
    Scarne knew
that if Bobo was in Atlantic City, the guys he was talking to probably owed
Mack money. But not for long.
    “Oh, Jesus, I
forgot you still drive this green teacup,” Mack said when they got to Scarne’s
car.
    “British
Racing Green teacup, if you don’t mind,” Scarne said. “Paint job cost a bloody
fortune.”
    The truth was,
Scarne had been thinking about getting a new car. He loved the nimble two-seater
but finding parts for it was becoming more difficult. He also suspected he was
nearing that point in his life where practicality and dignity trumped
nostalgia. That didn’t make him particularly happy. But since the drive to D.C.
might be the MGB’s last hurrah, he was determined to enjoy it.
    “You’re even
talking like a Limey. Get a grip.”
    Mack groaned
as he gingerly squirmed into the passenger seat.
    “We’re getting
too old for this, Cochise. Damn, it’s been a while since I hefted lumber. I
wish my dick was as stiff as my back is right now.”
    ***
    “You have to
protect Sebastian Quimper from Islamic terrorists?”
    Scarne and
Mack were sitting in a booth in Kubel’s, the venerable tavern near Barnegat
Light on the north end of Long Beach Island. Kubel’s, reportedly the
inspiration for the seafarer’s tavern in the movie, The Perfect Storm ,
had survived Sandy basically intact. They were sharing a pitcher of beer and a
bucket of steamers.
    “Just for the
conference.”
    Mack shook his
head.
    “How do you
get these cases? Put an ad in the paper saying you want to get blown up?”
    “I doubt if it
will come to that. There will be plenty of security. In fact, that’s why I’m
going to D.C.”
    Scarne told
him about Safeguard Security.
    “Cowboys,”
Mack said. “Make sure a couple of them are standing between you and the suicide
bomber. I can’t believe you’re working for Randolph Shields. He wanted your
head on a platter not too long ago.”
    “Strictly
business. Besides, he listens to Emma.”
    “And you saved
her life.”
    “That helped.”
    “Tell me about
Quimper. What kind of guy is he?”
    Scarne told
him about the meeting at the author’s house.
    “From Here
to Tehranity ? You must be joking.”
     “Wish I was.”
    “And he porked
his assistant in the middle of the meeting?”
    “Apparently.”
    “Even I’ve
never done that.”
    “I’m so
proud.”
    Their main
course arrived. It was the start of the bluefish season in the northeast and
they had both ordered the “catch of the day,” broiled. Mack and Scarne had been
friends a long time and at various times had saved each other’s lives, but one
of the reasons Mack said he kept Scarne around was because he also liked
bluefish, an acquired taste that can be oily in larger specimens. It was early
in the bluefish runs, so the juvenile one-pounders they were served hadn’t yet
gorged on the schools of menhaden that sometimes colored their flesh. They were
delicious and the men clinked their beer mugs in appreciation.  
    “I read a
couple of Quimper’s books,” Mack said. “Want to know what I think? If they
really want to fuck up this country, the towel heads should make sure nothing
ever happens to him.”
    That was the
last of the literary discussion. They spent the