Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (best novels to read for beginners txt) 📕

and watched—enraptured, like everybody else—as Nadirah’s soulful rendition paid homage to the storyteller and made the song her own at the same time. For a moment, her voice and the melancholy lyrics helped me to forget my predicament.

The band went into a softer song, and my attention unfocused into the liquid abyss. The bar was so close to the water I couldn’t even see the beach from where I stood—just aquamarine extending all the way to the horizon. It wasn’t enough to soothe me.

I’d been a total shit when Jack was in prison. Why hadn’t I gone to see him, sent a letter, a fucking postcard? Simple: because prisons terrified me.

The FBI had been on my ass since my parents got killed in a crash, just after they opened a numbered account at a Swiss Bank. I was scared to death that if I went anywhere near a prison they wouldn’t let me out.

“Buck Reilly, is it?” A deep voice came from behind me.

I turned to find Bankie Banx. I’d seen his picture before, but he was taller than I expected. Long braided hair poked out from under his blue bandana, dark sunglasses were perched on his forehead, and a fat gold cross that looked like it doubled as a pipe rested on his bare chest.

He wasn’t smiling.

“Thanks for coming out to meet me.”

“Staci said you was a friend of Jerry’s?”

“His uncle asked me to come to St. Barths, to check on his family and see what I can figure out about his disappearance.”

Bankie’s salt and pepper beard masked most of his expression.

“Was a gypsy soul, that one. Never comfortable in his own skin. But had a good heart, even if he was a little crazy.”

“Jerry liked to come hang out with you, I hear.”

Bankie lowered his sunglasses into place and nodded.

“Sure, man, we was tight. Jerry liked to spend money, buy people drinks. He was good to have around.”

“He ever mention anything to you about treasure?” I said.

A loud laugh. “All the time. In fact, we used to go out and cruise the islands. Jerry didn’t need no money, but he was obsessed with finding pirate booty.”

A tingle spread through my fingers. “He ever mention the Concepcíon?”

The smile on Bankie’s face vanished. “You ask a lot of questions, bro.”

Nadirah Shakoor finished her song and announced they were taking a break. She and Tina walked off stage with a wave to the standing crowd.

Bankie hugged both of the ladies as he walked past the stage, which had a roof made out of an old canvas sail. He poured himself a drink at the bar, then sat on a couch built into an alcove between the bar and the stage. Big vases of sand and seashells held candles, over them was a fiery-eyed photograph of a young Fidel Castro in uniform, taken during one of his speeches.

I sat down on the couch, and handed over Lou’s letter.

He read it and grunted. He wouldn’t care about an American entrepreneur like Lou Atlas. I glanced back at the photo of Fidel and felt silly for showing it to him.

“Jerry hated that old man.” He handed the letter back to me.

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “He’s an asshole. At this point I’m trying to help Jerry’s wife and their kids. Gisele got nothing because of a piece of paper she signed before they got married, and she’s in bad shape.” Bankie looked interested. “Plus, I’m starting to think Jerry may have been a victim of foul play.”

He gave me a long stare.

“We’d go around the small islands, all over, you know? Jerry liked to hike them and he carried this big metal pipe—pry bar, he called it.”

“For what?” I said.

“Moving shit around. Leverage, you know? Old logs, rocks, searching for something. He’d get so excited to find old bottles or things off boats, like they was some kind of clue.”

My heart double-clutched. “Did he ever find anything good?”

“Nah, man. Just trash.” He shook his head again and sipped the amber liquid on the rocks. “I miss him, though. He was good people.” He scowled. “And if he was killed, that’d really piss me off.”

“He ever say anything about Remy de Haenen?”

“That old thief?” He laughed. “No, man—only that he got ripped off when he bought Eden Rock from him.”

I took in such a long, deep breath that it broke Bankie’s reverie. He lifted the sunglasses again.

“You all right, man?”

I exhaled loudly. “As a matter of fact, I’m not.”

I gave him an edited run-through of all the trouble on St. Barths—Gisele and Truck beaten and hospitalized by a pair of Dominicans, the speculation about Jerry and the Concepcíon, and finally my getting Shanghaied and left on Anguilla.

“Some serious shit there, bro.”

“And my passport’s still on St. Barths.”

He hunched his shoulders at that.

“Any chance you could take me back across?” I said.

“No, man, got a gig here tonight.” He rubbed his beard between his thumb and middle finger. “But I know some people.”

I explained that the guys who’d kidnapped me had taken my cash and credit card, but Lou Atlas would replenish me and I’d happily pay someone to get me back to St. Barths under the radar. As if on cue, Bankie’s song Busted on Barbados started to play on the Dune’s sound system. Bankie gave me a handshake and a shoulder bump.

“You take care of Jerry’s family, let me know what’s going on. I know plenty people in these islands, the Dominican Republic too. Shit go down? I can help. I gotta go, but have some food, couple of drinks, and I’ll make a call.”

I sank back into the couch, grateful that Jerry had a friend in Bankie Banx. I was also grateful for some damned good barbecued chicken, a couple of ice cold Heinekens, and another inspiring set from Nadirah and Tina. But where was I going to sleep tonight? My $82.00 would cover my food and drink but not a room here. I’d already been eyeing some hidden spots in dark