Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3) by John Cunningham (novels for beginners txt) 📕

I opened the sliding glass door and retreated to the balcony to think. Looked past the beach and pool area below to the bay, boat to boat, and after that dark blue all the way to the horizon. The sun was well into its downward arc.

A fat pelican flew close to the balcony and sparked an idea.

I needed help, lots of help, different kinds of help. Maybe my go-to mentor could be of assistance. I dug into my backpack and removed my notebook and cell phone, in the process spotting the piece of tape I’d found on the Beast’s hatch this morning. The note instructing me to call.

Whether it was the rum, the lack of clues in John’s briefcase, the aftereffects of those brass knuckles to my chin, or just overwhelming fatigue, I was for the moment at a loss—which number should I call first? I finally opened the notebook to my list of phone numbers and found the G’s. Dialed, sat back in the chair, and waited.

“Harry Greenbaum here,” came the familiar voice.

“Hey, Harry. It’s Buck Reilly.”

“You’ve caught me in a bit of a rush, dear boy—next block up, Percy.” A car horn sounded in the background. “I’m in New York and late for a board meeting at GVI.”

“What’s that stand for? Greenbaum Ventures? One of your sixty-four companies?”

Harry’s chuckle had the same refined British subtlety as his voice.

“That’s what most people assume GVI is, and I never share what the acronym actually means. But legally the name of the company is Greenbaum Vulture Investors.” He snickered. “The board doesn’t even know that—and by the way, I’m down to sixty-three companies now.”

Harry’s candor warmed my heart. We’ve always been close, and even though he lost tens of millions when e-Antiquity tubed, he made many millions more and sold it off before that happened. After my parent’s sudden death, Harry was the closest thing to a paternal role model I had left.

“Down one?” I said. “Not another e-Antiquity-type failure, I hope.”

“No, no, no, nothing of the sort. I sold London Inks to an Indian firm and doubled my money. So today’s—take a right, Percy—today’s meeting is to review what next to acquire and how best to deploy the capital.”

Harry’s British style and manners were all the more successful given his Yiddish drive and ability to pick diamonds from piles of coal others refused or abandoned.

“Real quick then, Harry, I’m in St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands—”

“I trust you’re not mixed up with that kidnapping, dear boy? The movie star, what’s his name, Jugs Mengle?”

I choked back a laugh.

“Stud Mahoney, and no, not directly, but I am helping the promoter of the event Mahoney was here to support, and it’s all unraveling—”

“Buck, I truly am sorry, but I must depart. Percy here will take notes on what you need, and I’ll get back to you once I can fill the request with whichever of my companies might have insight into your current dilemma. Cheers.”

With that Harry was gone, and another familiar British accent came on the line. I provided a concise query I thought Harry might be able to feed through his sources and come up with some guidance. The question was so random Percy had me repeat it three times before he rang off.

For as long as I’d known Harry, Percy had been his driver, professional to the core like most of Harry’s corporate leaders—with the exception of me: his only failed investment, far as I knew.

I GRABBED THE FILE with the guest arrival schedule, contact numbers, and other logistics, stuffed it into my backpack, and shoveled the rest of the piles back into John’s worn briefcase. Who knows, maybe he’d return to the hotel. Or maybe he disappeared on a boat with an exotic island woman or a Hollywood starlet. I hustled down to the lobby and asked a bellman to call me a cab. A shrill whistle later and one of the pick-up truck taxis lumbered out of the shade of a broad royal palm.

“Ferry dock,” I said. The driver just sat there.

Once on the rear bench seat, I realized he was waiting in hopes of more passengers. I leaned over, knocked on the sliding window at the back of the cab, and pointed up the street.

The driver released the clutch, which sent me flying toward the gateless edge of the truck bed.

Wise guy.

The road to town had little traffic but wound over steep hills that had me clinging to the railing, then chugged through local neighborhoods, then a basketball court where the fence was lined with spectators and players awaiting their turn. It wasn’t until we were descending into Cruz Bay that I remembered I hadn’t called the number on the piece of masking tape. I retrieved the phone and the tape, then dialed…

“What?” A man’s voice.

“Did you leave this phone number on my plane at the harbor in Charlotte Amalie early this morning?”

“Plane? What the fuck? Who be—”

A loud noise sounded—I thought he’d dropped the phone, but a second later another voice was on the line.

“Who this?”

“Buck Reilly. Did you leave a phone number on my plane this morning?”

A deep quick laugh.

“Last night they left the number for you. ‘Bout time you called, brudda.”

The taxi reached the circle just above Cruz Bay and turned down the hill that led to the harbor.

“What do you want?” I said.

“What I want?” Could this be the person who’d been calling John Thedford? “I want to talk to you.”

“We’re talking now—”

“Face to face. In person.”

“I’m pretty busy, what it’s about?”

“Where you at? I have someone get you.”

Cagey. I don’t like cagey. Dammit, I wanted to know if this had anything to do with Thedford.

“If you’ve been to the harbor today,” I said, “you probably noticed I left—”

“Right. Plane’s at Cyril King now. You back at Frenchman’s Reef yet?”

It had to be the guy who woke me up this morning.

“I will be later,” I said. “Where can we meet?”

“I have someone pick you