Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt. Linn Wyllie
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collar, but I got recognition in the paper next morning. Above the fold. Local hero saves damsel in distress. Shoots two bad guys in a foiled rape attempt in a dark Clearwater cemetery. It was a story made for going viral, which it did. It was offbeat, kinky, and macabre all at the same time. The press did a fine job with that, too, and the tongue-in-check references to Wyatt Earp and the O.K. Corral were rampant. But I got in print with full photos and biography.
It was a boost for my business reputation. And to Mr. Brain’s esteem.
It didn’t do jack for my bank account.
Mac had referred to it as the Shootout on Boot Hill. Gun fight in a graveyard. I get it. Very funny. The name stuck.
“Thanks, Mac. Lucky night, that’s all.” I sipped my drink.
“Luck is for old ladies and young lads, me boy-o. Men need to be ever watchful. You watch yourself or you’ll get that tight arse of yours shot off one fine day.”
“Never happen. I’ll die quietly in bed.”
“Aye. And probably with some fair lass who’s not yours.”
I just grunted and shook my head. Never verbally spar with a died-in-the-wool Scotsman. You’ll just look outclassed, and it annoys the Scot.
The whisky was doing its job. I was feeling a little better. Mr. Brain seemed like he was starting to function again.
The drummer in my head was on brushes now.
But the tinnitus hadn’t let up much.
I eyed the pub’s décor again. The Scottish flag, blue with the white cross of St. Andrew, hanging over the bar. Mac’s own MacFarlane clan tartan made up the backdrop for the very rare and expensive bottles of Scotch whisky stored in the ancient glass-front oak cabinet. It brought a little old-world charm to a very new-world Clearwater.
There was a reason.
Mac lived in Dunedin, just up the road on Ft. Harrison Avenue from the pub. It’s almost a Clearwater suburb. The name comes from Dùn Èideann, the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital. And Mac’s home town. So naturally his pub ended up being Scottish themed. That was just perfectly fine by me.
All was becoming right with the world. I was ready to head home. I figured I would have one more drink, then stop on the way home and pick up some takeout for dinner.
Chinese BBQ ribs and some wings. Pork fried rice. I could live on that. Maybe an avocado salad and some salsa and Melba toast for her.
We could eat light at home.
Open a nice wine.
Maybe just catch a movie on TV.
Lounge back. Nice and easy.
I just hoped Rebecca Lynn would be willing to be there too.
CHAPTER THREE
My office condominium contains four offices. There’s a file room, a bathroom, and a conference area too. Mine was the big window office in the back, and I used the conference room and the file room for my business. Once in a while. I rented out two other one-room offices as a full-service professional executive suites operation. The income helped with all the attendant expenses associated with owning a professional office condo. Lots of expenses. Association dues. Insurance. Taxes. Upkeep. Wi-Fi.
My private investigative work was mostly investigating personal injury insurance fraud cases, and they all paid scale. It was a minor scale too. You really couldn’t live on it. So I rented the suites. It was a little better than breakeven, but it was working for me. Besides, it added some much needed human activity to the office. At least when there was more than just me here.
I was tired of doing office clerical stuff. I was restless. I decided I’d done enough for the good of the cause for today. I left.
I went to the houseboat.
I used to live on the houseboat. It was relatively small and perfect for a reclusive, grumpy in-between-Mrs. Randalls-bachelor like me. The slip rent was cheap. And it included shore power. But that was before I moved in with Rebecca Lynn. She’s an up- and-coming litigation attorney. She was pretty good at it. Her arguments got written up occasionally in legal review publications. I’d read them, and they would always impress me. She had a great legal mind. But litigation attorneys can be vicious. Brutal. They can gut you like a fish. While they smile at you as you just watch your guts spill out. It’s unnerving. Everybody wants to be on her good side. Including me. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was once Miss Chamber of Commerce either. That was years ago. She still had it. Beauty and brains and success. It’s a deadly combination for a guy. We dated a bit, and the chemistry was definitely there. We fucked like muskrats for a couple years. Anywhere and everywhere.
She’d drag me around to all of those attorney bar and chamber of commerce functions, and I know her crowd pretty well. They knew me. We were certainly an odd couple. She was upwardly mobile. I’m less so. I’d chat up the attorneys and judges and social climbers that frequented these things. It was always fun. They’re basically focused on themselves, and I’m kinda philosophical about all that. Besides, once in a while I’d get a referral from one of them. But I always sent my soon-to-be-guilty clients to Rebecca Lynn. They knew I would. How could I not? She’d have to send some of my referrals out to others—conflict of interest, you know—and these attorneys always knew where that client came from. It was a symbiotic relationship, I guess. That’s why I’d even go. To these events, I mean. There were usually some hors d’oeuvres served. That meant neatly dressed wait staff meandering around carrying silver trays of beautifully crafted little morsels. Smiling. Free. I’d always take one. At least I’d get something to eat. Rebecca Lynn would have a wine and some crackers and cheese. I’d have a Jack-and-Seven and go hunt for shrimp or those bacon-wrapped scallops. Wine and cheese for her. Seafood and whisky for me. Described us perfectly.
Even though she’s twenty-some odd years younger than me, she had me move in with her. It was her demand. Who was I to say no? I quit trying to analyze the psychology years ago. I like slender younger women, and she’s probably got some latent daddy issues. Electra and Oedipus complexes merging. I get it. So what. We’re both brainy. We like to play chess with each other. I never let her win. She wins only occasionally. We discuss eclectic things like metaphysics and the meaning of life. Zen in all its forms. Dharma and karma. The relationship was working for the most part. Mostly. It was a resume enhancement for me. Everyone thinks I’m some kind of well-hung stud. Well, I am that. For her, I dunno. Maybe the same but in a different way.
Anyway, I keep the houseboat for times like this when I need to be away from the world for a while. So I clambered aboard and opened the slider aft of the cabin. It was dark and dank down below as boats typically are. I opened it up to air out. The smell of gasoline, salt air, and bilge was familiar and welcoming. Except when I was hungover. It was time to hunker down a bit and just mellow out. I popped a couple Ester-C tabs. Vitamin C in mega doses always works for me. Plopped down on the bunk and closed my eyes.
But I couldn’t shake the mysterious dame encounter. Bob Dylan’s belt? How do you solve a bad dream? What the hell was that all about? Was the dame loony? Why didn’t Messr. Astor ask for the money back? That’s what I called him. Did he even know about it?
I felt kinda guilty about taking the money. For about twenty seconds. The envelope was still in my desk drawer. I solved the case, right? Obligation satisfied. But I just couldn’t make it work. Too many bizarre angles.
And somehow I felt that it would come back to haunt me. Easy money always does.
I needed a nap and, thankfully, I finally dozed off.
* * *
I awoke somewhat refreshed, and my work ethic kicked in. Either that, or Mr. Brain was nagging me to go back to work. He was usually right, so I got up and got dressed.
And headed for the office. Again.
One of the individual suites in my office condo was occupied by a mental health therapist. Marie Vaughn