Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

A half-hour later I was knocking on the door to Nicky’s moldering cottage. The door was glossy with a recent half-inch-thick coat of brown paint. The paint couldn’t hide the fact that the door was full of dry rot. If I knocked too hard I had the feeling the door would crumble.

Almost before I finished knocking, Nicky was yanking open his door.

“Billy!” he bellowed. He eyed the brown paper bag under my arm. “Perishables? And I should feed the cat?”

I blinked. It seemed like the whole world was moving twice as fast as my best speed. “Yeah. How’d you—”

He was already shaking his head. “Mate, mate—din’t I just finish telling you? Your rising sign, Billy. In Aquarius, lad. Think I make this shit up?”

“Yes,” I said, with as much firmness as I could manage. I shoved the bag at him. “I’d really rather think you do. Table scraps are fine for the cat.”

“And then what’ll I have for breakfast?” He laughed, then stopped when he saw my face. “All right, Billy, take a deep breath, boyo. It’ll be fine. Cat’ll be fine. No worries, mate.”

“Thanks, Nicky. There’s beer in the fridge.”

“Not for long, mate. Come back to us, Billy. Come back safe and soon.”

Art was a little harder to manage.

“The fuck are you saying, Billy? Got two charters in the next four days.”

“Cancel for me, Art. Give ’em to Tiny.”

Art shook his head mournfully, just slowly enough to get his two outside chins rotating in opposite directions. “Tiny’s a dickwad. Couldn’t find a fish if it was blowing him. You’re just getting started, Billy. Building up some momentum. Take off now yer gonna fuck it up.”

“I can’t help that. I have to do this, Art.”

“I’m telling ya, you’ll drop two, three grand you leave now.”

“I have to.”

“That kind of money, it can smooth over a whole lot of have to.”

“Not this time. Keep an eye on my boat?”

Art spat at his ashtray. The tin tray rang like a gong. “Goddamn stupid son of a bitch. Serve you right the fucking boat sinks.”

“Tiny can handle two charters.”

“Tiny can’t handle tying his own fucking shoes without tyin’ ’em together and falling on his goddamned stupid ass. You leave now, Billy, goddamn it, you’re not gonna work again until next year this time, that’s a promise.”

“I’m sorry, Art.”

He slammed a fist on the glass countertop. There was weight to the move, but very little force. It made a flabby slapping sound, like dropping a large chunk of bacon on a butcher block. “Sorry don’t mean shit, Billy! You got to take care of business! Is what I’m saying.”

I’d had enough. I liked Art, and he was throwing enough work my way to make me grateful, but I was beginning to feel like I was facing a very large school principal.

“Art,” I said, leaning in close enough to count the pores on his nose. “I am leaving. I have to. I’ll call when I get back. Please keep an eye on my boat. Thank you.” I looked him in the eye for a long beat. He looked back. He sighed heavily.

“Go,” he said finally. “Go on, get outa here. Go.”

“I’ll see you, Art,” I said. I turned for the door. The latch felt frosty as I pushed the door open. “Butthole,” Art mumbled behind me. It seemed mild under the circumstances.

There wasn’t much to pack. It all fit into one small suitcase. The suitcase fit into the battered basket on the front of my bicycle. I pedaled over to the airport, chained my bike to a signpost in front of the American Eagle building, and went in.

I just had time to make the feeder flight to Miami. The same overly made-up woman sold me a ticket, with a tight professional smile that said even if she remembered me from the last time when I came in to ask about Roscoe, she would never admit she noticed me now.

I shuffled out the gate, up the stairs into the airplane, and buckled up in a window seat at the back of the small jet.