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

The sound of endless ringing finally penetrated my train of thought from inside the hot shower. I slid across the floor to grab the phone, worried it would be Truck calling to cancel.

“Reilly, that you?”

“What do you want, Booth?” I stood with water puddling below me on the floor. I thought of Jack’s package and held my breath.

“Listen, after you called yesterday, I double-checked the news on Jerry Atlas.”

I wrapped myself in a towel.

“And?”

“All his money’s still on deposit at the Banque Nationale de Paris branch in Gustavia—freaking eight figures, I might add, so nobody’s cleaned him out—”

“Wouldn’t his wife have access?” I did remember Lou Atlas mentioning that Jerry was worth more to his wife alive.

“She’s not on the account. Typical for the super-rich—but hey, you ought to remember that, right?” He laughed.

My ex-wife, former super model Heather Drake, had been on all my accounts—and she’d cleaned them out before the IRS could do it.

“The French authorities have totally abandoned their search efforts, but the money will stay in the account until the body’s found or the equivalent of a petition of probate is made by his family to release the funds. I’m not really up on French estate laws.”

I glanced at my alarm clock. Is that why Lou Atlas wanted me to find him? To free up the frozen money? A dull ache began to throb in my right temple.

“Not much help …”

“You’re welcome, hotshot. The money being there tells a story, so figure it out.” He paused. “And if you learn anything, let me know. The French don’t much like non-licensed investigators poking around.”

“Thanks for the call,” I said. “I’ll let Lou Atlas know you were helpful.”

“That would be—”

I dropped the phone on the cradle. Booth pandering in the hopes of getting an audience with Lou Atlas was predictable, and one of the reasons I called him yesterday. And it kept me semi in the loop if Jack dropped my dime.

I’d taken more care in packing my bag last night than I usually did. St. Barths at high season required me to dig out what few decent clothes I had left from back in the day. After a quick check-in with Flight Services, I grabbed my bags and took the elevator to the lobby. The door opened—

“Buck Reilly, there you are!”

Damn. It was Bruce, the day manager.

“I’m kind of in a hurry, Bruce—”

“All I need’s an answer, Buck. Are you going to renew your lease here, or are you moving out on the tenth?”

“That’s in, what, three days? I’m leaving town—”

“I need an answer.”

“Is it even legal to triple my rent?”

A smile turned the corners of Bruce’s pinched lips.

“Not my call. After spending millions on the renovation, management out of Dallas isn’t happy with this month-to-month deal, and it’s way below market, you know that.”

I took in a deep breath. “I can’t afford—”

“They want a year commitment and security deposit if you’re going to stay.” He held his palms out. “So what’s it going to be?”

Dammit!

“I don’t have the money right now.”

“They’re up my ass, Buck. They want an answer before the tenth. So if you can’t tell me now, and I don’t hear from you by then, we’ll put your stuff in storage, okay?”

The headache that had quietly begun to throb when Booth called now pounded like a jealous boyfriend on his girl’s door.

“I’ll call you, Bruce. And thank those sons of bitches in Dallas for me, will you?”

I pushed past him into the blinding sunshine behind the La Concha.

“Fuck!”

Heads turned toward me as I hurried through the parking lot. My throat burned with rage, or from throwing up after viewing Jack’s video. What could be worse than having the chance to be rich again but knowing that if I pursued it I’d end up in jail? Thanks to my ex-best friend and partner, Jack Dodson. But once I finish this wild goose chase to find information about Jerry, then at least I could pay my rent and not get evicted.

“I’d tell you boys not to do anything stupid, but I’d be wasting my breath,” Bruiser said.

“You just worry about training for Petro Kamikov, little brother,” Truck said. “Buck and I’ll be just fine.” He brushed his hands down the nicest shirt I’d ever seen him wear. “You get past Petro and you got a title fight, man. Don’t fuck it up.”

“And don’t you fuck up the clothes you borrowed,” Bruiser said. “That shit’s Ferragamo.”

Truck snickered. “I read up on this place, man. Movie stars and billionaires be hanging out there. Gonna find me a French model, maybe a Swedish princess. Or even better, both.”

I opened the front door to their Patterson Street duplex.

“We’ll be back in a week, maybe less. Good luck with your training.”

Bruiser groaned but I didn’t wait to hear him complain. Training for a fight like that would be a 24/7 effort, and all forms of recreation, including booze and women, would be off limits the minute he arrived at camp.

I’d picked up a double buche and Cuban sandwiches from the Cuban Coffee Queen on the way to get Truck. Once we arrived at Key West International Airport I packed the plane, did the pre-fight check, measured the fuel level, and glanced around the tarmac.

Wasn’t the same without Ray here.

We climbed aboard and slammed the hatch shut.

“This old bird looking pretty good since you got it painted,” Truck said. He was pressed into the right seat, built for a man half his size. I heard a hissing sound as he breathed in. “Smells good too, all leathery like a new Escalade.”

His face turned serious.

“Hope it runs like one.”

As we flew, I filled him in on what I knew about Jerry Atlas, but Truck was more interested in his uncle, the former presidential candidate. I reiterated what Lou and Booth had both inferred—that this was a perfunctory investigation to ease