Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

Other books in the BUCK REILLY ADVENTURE series

by John H. Cunningham

Red Right Return

Green to Go

Crystal Blue

SECOND CHANCE GOLD

Copyright © 2014 John H. Cunningham.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Greene Street, LLC

Book design by Morgana Gallaway

This edition was prepared by

The Editorial Department

7650 E. Broadway Blvd.

Suite 308

Tucson, Arizona 85710

www.editorialdepartment.com

Print ISBN: 978-0-9854422-7-9

Electronic ISBN: 978-0-9854422-6-2

The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but have been used fictitiously, and all other characters and events in the book have been invented.

www.jhcunningham.com

This book is for Marius Stakelborough

“A sailor can’t just go to bed at seven o’clock in the evening, so we decided to open a bar. There wasn’t one on the island. There we could get together, play dominoes and cards, just shoot the breeze for awhile.” Le Select opened in 1949.

Merci, Marius.

Contents

Familiar Names, Different Faces

This is Not My Beautiful Beach Trip

My Reputation Exceeds Me

The Gold, The Guy or The Girl?

The muddy trail of the Hudson led me past Manhattan, a civilization now foreign to me, as the voice of Air Traffic Control whispered vectors into my headset. I followed instructions and banked east over Central Park. Just south of the Queensboro Bridge, I was given clearance to land. The brown channel was free of boats, ferries, and trash barges, so I added flaps and held my breath as the Beast splashed down into the East River. I’d salvaged her a year ago, a forgotten relic from a CIA operation gone awry. The G-21 Goose had been designed and built in the late 1930’s to accommodate businessmen coming from Long Island to New York City at the same seaplane base where we were now headed. Hell, she’d probably landed here in her eighty-year existence.

I decreased power, still a thousand feet from my destination. I hadn’t been in New York City since the crash of e-Antiquity, my former treasure-hunting company. Losing e-Antiquity had only been the first domino in a cascade of failures that included divorce, bankruptcy, the death of my parents, and a still open FBI investigation into insider trading. Returning here now made me cringe. I’d gone from the cover of the Wall Street Journal to living one tank of gas at a time, chartering tourists, and salvaging the occasional lost soul just to pay my bills.

I had no regrets.

I kicked my heel against the safe beneath the seat that held the old treasure maps I’d spirited away before the creditors descended upon e-Antiquity. I had yet to give them my full attention, but today’s return to the Big Apple was in response to an old friend and investor who’d summoned me. The entire flight up the coast had me wondering if he was interested in getting back into the treasure game.

The seaplane base was hidden behind a huge residential complex, the only building on the east side of the FDR highway. I taxied past it and hoped there’d be room for me to—

What the hell?

A Grumman Widgeon was already tied up at the dock.

By last count, there were fewer than a hundred Widgeons worldwide, but that’s not what caused my white-knuckle grip on the wheel. My first flying boat was a Widgeon I’d named Betty, after my mother. I’d lost the boat a year ago. The odds of seeing her twin here, now, seemed astronomical.

I aimed the Beast toward the pier and rushed through the checklist to shut her down. With repeated glances out the starboard side window, I could tell the Widgeon’s paint was fresh, a nice porpoise-gray with blue floats. She was equipped with factory standard radial Ranger engines, just like Betty had been. And I could tell from various details, that this plane had been built in 1946—just like Betty. Aside from the color, she was the spitting image of my old flying boat.

I glanced back at her N number: CU-N-1313. CU was the registration code for airplanes from Cuba—which was where I’d lost Betty and salvaged the Beast.

There was a knock on the hatch.

I swung around to find the heavily clothed ramp agent waiting outside. He’d already secured lines to my bow cleat and to the ring below the tail.

My fingers tingled as I turned off batteries, closed off fuel lines, and took a deep breath. The restoration of the Beast’s interior was nearly complete, and if not appointed for luxury, she was now presentable enough so passengers didn’t balk at riding in her.

Cold air hit me in the face when I climbed out. I hiked up the zipper on my old leather jacket.

“Great old plane,” the man said. He thrust a clipboard in my face with a contract flapping in the breeze. “Can’t believe we have two old Grummans here at the same time. Bet that hasn’t happened for fifty years.”

“I can’t believe it, either.”

I handed him back the clipboard. He nodded toward the Beast.

“Love your silver and black color scheme,” he said.

“Thanks, just finished it.”

I stepped up to the Widgeon, peered inside the left side window and found an orderly cockpit. The fuselage windows revealed a few duffel bags and a metal storage locker on the starboard side, with seats on the port. I started to reach toward the hatch, then balled my fist and turned away.

Every detail of her fuselage stirred memories.

I glanced back at the tail. CU-N-1313. Two eighty-year-old flying boats from Cuba. Here at the same time.

“How long you going to be here?” the ramp agent said.

I checked my old Rolex Submariner—I’d be late if I didn’t get moving.

“Only a few hours.”

“Need a yellow?”

“Supposed to be a car here to get me.”

“Let me guess, the Rolls?” He laughed. “It’s out front. Follow me.”

The man had the logo of the New York Skyports on the back of his