a degenerate neo-Nazi child molester. He’d been delivered to Rainbow Bend wearing unlaced combat boots, a shredded white undershirt and baggy, low-flying board shorts that displayed not only his ass crack but the tattoo of a snake-entwined swastika.
Cherry Pye said, “Know what? Let’s split up, dude.”
“Shit, baby, I can barely stand. Gimme an arm.”
Briskly she began walking down the street. The drummer hobbled after her, cussing under his breath.
A silver four-door sedan was idling at the downhill end of the block, facing away. A heavyset civilian sat behind the steering wheel, his capped head lolling. Cherry walked up and tapped her fingernails on the trunk, startling the driver so much that he knocked the Bluetooth out of his ear.
When he rolled down the window, she said, “Can you give me a ride?”
“Me, too,” chimed Methane from behind.
The man asked where she was headed.
“Holmby Hills,” Cherry replied. “Then Burbank.”
“Hey, what happened to the beach?” said Methane.
The driver looked curiously at Cherry. “You mean Burbank airport?”
“If it’s not too big of a hassle. I’m totally good for the gas.”
“No problem.”
“I got, like, a major meeting in Miami.”
“Sure. Hop in.”
Cherry Pye slid into the front passenger seat. “Nice wheels. Is this the new C-Class?”
“S,” said the driver.
“Killer.” It’s an expensive car to be stinking of french fries, Cherry thought. The guy looked familiar, although she couldn’t place the face.
Methane rapped on the side of the Mercedes and said, “Back door’s locked, bro.”
“Let’s roll,” Cherry said to the driver.
“What about your friend?”
“Mental defective, I mean big-time. Just drive.”
“Absolutely.”
“Hey,
Cheryl!”
Methane shouted snidely. “Tell him to open the fuckin’ door!”
She didn’t bother to look back as they sped away, leaving the drummer gesticulating in the middle of the street. Laying an adorable smile on the paunchy driver, Cherry said, “Thanks. My name is Cherish.”
“I know who you are.”
“Yeah?” She glanced over the seat and saw among the crumpled McDonald’s wrappers a large camera bag and a pair of binoculars. She said, “Oh, don’t fucking tell me.”
The man extended a greasy hand. “Claude Abbott. Big fan.”
5
The real-estate crash couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time for Jackie Sebago, whose privileged circle of investors collectively had sunk more than nine million dollars into Jackie’s condominium project. To allay their concerns, the Sebago Isle Limited Partnership, LLC, invited the investors to a lavish retreat at the exclusive Ocean Reef Club on North Key Largo, a legendary haven for rich, fretful white guys. On the recreational agenda were tennis, golf, deep-sea fishing, Pilates classes, hot-stone massages, a private concert by Michael Bolton and—if necessary—a tour of the development site, located along County Road 905 only a few miles south of the club. The tour would be brief, as only two slabs had been poured.
It was Jackie Sebago’s plan to keep the investors playing during the day and drinking all night, thereby minimizing the opportunities for fiscal probing. Jackie had taken their money and purchased four one-acre lots upon which he’d intended to build a total of twenty-four luxury town houses, within strolling distance of the Atlantic. The property alone had cost four million; rather than deal with a nosy bank, Jackie had paid with cash from the investors’ stake. He had appropriated the remaining five mil, preferring to finance the phased construction with future down payments from eager buyers. It was a classic bit of Florida smoke that worked finewhen there was an abundance of flush, gullible customers; in a busted market, it was a formula for disaster.
With reluctance Jackie Sebago had dipped into his own Luxembourg stash for the 250 G’s that the Ocean Reef clambake would cost. Based on
Cherry Pye said, “Know what? Let’s split up, dude.”
“Shit, baby, I can barely stand. Gimme an arm.”
Briskly she began walking down the street. The drummer hobbled after her, cussing under his breath.
A silver four-door sedan was idling at the downhill end of the block, facing away. A heavyset civilian sat behind the steering wheel, his capped head lolling. Cherry walked up and tapped her fingernails on the trunk, startling the driver so much that he knocked the Bluetooth out of his ear.
When he rolled down the window, she said, “Can you give me a ride?”
“Me, too,” chimed Methane from behind.
The man asked where she was headed.
“Holmby Hills,” Cherry replied. “Then Burbank.”
“Hey, what happened to the beach?” said Methane.
The driver looked curiously at Cherry. “You mean Burbank airport?”
“If it’s not too big of a hassle. I’m totally good for the gas.”
“No problem.”
“I got, like, a major meeting in Miami.”
“Sure. Hop in.”
Cherry Pye slid into the front passenger seat. “Nice wheels. Is this the new C-Class?”
“S,” said the driver.
“Killer.” It’s an expensive car to be stinking of french fries, Cherry thought. The guy looked familiar, although she couldn’t place the face.
Methane rapped on the side of the Mercedes and said, “Back door’s locked, bro.”
“Let’s roll,” Cherry said to the driver.
“What about your friend?”
“Mental defective, I mean big-time. Just drive.”
“Absolutely.”
“Hey,
Cheryl!”
Methane shouted snidely. “Tell him to open the fuckin’ door!”
She didn’t bother to look back as they sped away, leaving the drummer gesticulating in the middle of the street. Laying an adorable smile on the paunchy driver, Cherry said, “Thanks. My name is Cherish.”
“I know who you are.”
“Yeah?” She glanced over the seat and saw among the crumpled McDonald’s wrappers a large camera bag and a pair of binoculars. She said, “Oh, don’t fucking tell me.”
The man extended a greasy hand. “Claude Abbott. Big fan.”
5
The real-estate crash couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time for Jackie Sebago, whose privileged circle of investors collectively had sunk more than nine million dollars into Jackie’s condominium project. To allay their concerns, the Sebago Isle Limited Partnership, LLC, invited the investors to a lavish retreat at the exclusive Ocean Reef Club on North Key Largo, a legendary haven for rich, fretful white guys. On the recreational agenda were tennis, golf, deep-sea fishing, Pilates classes, hot-stone massages, a private concert by Michael Bolton and—if necessary—a tour of the development site, located along County Road 905 only a few miles south of the club. The tour would be brief, as only two slabs had been poured.
It was Jackie Sebago’s plan to keep the investors playing during the day and drinking all night, thereby minimizing the opportunities for fiscal probing. Jackie had taken their money and purchased four one-acre lots upon which he’d intended to build a total of twenty-four luxury town houses, within strolling distance of the Atlantic. The property alone had cost four million; rather than deal with a nosy bank, Jackie had paid with cash from the investors’ stake. He had appropriated the remaining five mil, preferring to finance the phased construction with future down payments from eager buyers. It was a classic bit of Florida smoke that worked finewhen there was an abundance of flush, gullible customers; in a busted market, it was a formula for disaster.
With reluctance Jackie Sebago had dipped into his own Luxembourg stash for the 250 G’s that the Ocean Reef clambake would cost. Based on
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