Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

“Yippee,” I said to myself.

I dozed off in my chair. I woke up to an unearthly roar outside my window. I blinked a few times, but the sound didn’t go away and I was awake. I got up and looked out the window.

Art was seated on a Harley Davidson 1250 Electroglide, as far as I know the biggest bike Harley ever made. Nicky was perched behind him. Art was revving the motor. I had heard Art owned a Harley. He had supposedly ridden it into town thirty years ago and decided to stay. I had never seen him on it. I had never seen the bike at all.

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In fact, the shock of seeing Art anywhere but on the stool in his dockmaster’s shack made my jaw sag.

He revved the engine a few more times, kicked down the stand, and climbed off. Nicky bounced off and followed him up to my front door.

I swung the door open. Art stood there gasping like a spent fish.

“Billy,” he wheezed. “The hell you doing in here.”

I just stood holding the door, still too shocked to speak.

“The hell out of my way, then,” he said, and lumbered past me into the house. He barely fit through the doorway. “Got a chair in here?” He answered his own question by sinking deep into my easy chair. The chair groaned and settled several inches lower than it ever had before.

Nicky scuttled in behind Art, hopping anxiously around like a very small puppy following a St. Bernard. “G’day, mate,” he murmured and whisked off into the kitchen, looking guilty.

“Billy,” Art puffed from deep within the chair. “Nicky says you’re watching television.” He said the last word with disgust, like he didn’t really believe it was possible. He made it sound like somebody had accused me of having sex with farm animals.

“I was,” I told him.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the hell for? Can’t have that shit. Billy,” and he pointed a huge plump finger at me, “got to get the fuck off your ass and get back to work.” He shook his head, sending several chins whirling in opposing directions.

“All right, Art.”

“Just like that, huh?” He turned towards Nicky, who was hovering in the kitchen door, and let loose a rattling laugh. “This little shit weasel was shitting his pants,” he said, pointing an enormous, drooping arm at Nicky.

“He was catatonic, Art, I swear it.”

“I’m okay, Nicky. I was just—tired.”

“Horseshit.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Art rumbled. “Important thing is to get to work, make a little money.” He winked at me, looking like Santa’s evil brother. “Got a call this morning. Asked for you by name. Tomorrow morning, brother. You’re going fishing.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Art.”

“Thanks.” He looked insulted. “The fuck is that, thanks. Gimme a fucking beer, you want to thank me.”

I looked at Nicky. “Do I have any beer, Nicky?”

He shook his head sadly. “Not a drop, mate. Not even one of those horrible weak pathetic American imitation beers.”

Art snarled at me. “What kind of dickless dumbo runs out of beer, time like this, Saturday morning?”

“Nicky,” I said.

He cackled, his huge eyes almost out of his head with glee. “I’ll just pop next door and get a few, mate.”

Several hours after Nicky and Art left, I was stretched out on the bed asleep when the phone rang. I fumbled up out of dreamless rest and grabbed at the receiver beside the bed.

“Hello?” I managed.

There was a familiar hiss of breath down the wire. “Well,” said a smoky voice. “Thought you’d gone fishing or something.”