Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt. Linn Wyllie
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my back.
Gnawing on my skull.
Damn.
I was majoring in philosophy when I dropped out of college late in ‘68. I ran out of money for school, and I got drafted as well. The Viet Nam conflict was beginning to get really hot, and me and a lot of guys my age were invited to go on an overseas tour. Courtesy of Uncle Sam’s draft. But the US Armed Forces couldn’t use a guy with a chronic medical condition. No matter how gung-ho he may be. So I got a 4-F classification. Unfit for duty. Damn. It was both a relief and an insult at the same time.
What I wanted was to go kick some commie ass. Get right down into the thick of things and slug it out. With some serious trigger time. Kill commies like my dad had killed Japs in the Pacific Theater during Dubya-Dubya-Duce. But it was not to be. Not in the military anyway. And not right now.
What I got was permanent shore leave.
So a different page opened in that chapter of my life. I was twenty years old with a genius-plus IQ. There was a world to conquer. Dames to fuck. Money to be made. I was invincible. I was unique. Just like every other dumbass, mouth-breathing, long- haired, guitar-playing swinging dick slouching around college campuses. I know different now. I didn’t then.
But I am reflective enough—that means aware—to recognize a philosophical conundrum when it comes into my office and lays ten grand on my desk. I took the dough. Offer and acceptance. That creates a contract. My work ethic required me to honor my contracts. And this contract was with the universe itself. Of that I was sure. Who else could it be with? So there’d be serious—and probably eternal—consequences if I fucked it up. Couldn’t charm my way out of this one.
Even if I had solved the case for her.
Did that satisfy the obligations of the contract?
My hands sweat. Stomach growled. Mr. Brain was scratching his head.
David hollered a goodbye as he left for the day.
Rebecca Lynn was in court all day today trying a big case. She’d be home very late. So my going home to a dark and empty house and scrounging a cold dinner of leftovers was out of the question.
And I needed a drink.
I headed to the houseboat.
As I left the office and headed back over to the marina, the Jeep purring along the causeway, Mr. Brain was poking me with a nagging concern. Hard. He was relentless in getting my attention. Then it dawned on me.
It was that black Suburban parked way back under the oak trees in my office condo’s parking lot. I saw it when I left. In the dark. Back of the lot. I saw it peripherally, but didn’t pay much attention to it.
But Mr. Brain had.
I had initially dismissed it. Just a client of one of my neighbors, perhaps. Maybe someone just pulled over, using his phone, finding an address.
Mr. Brain was having none of it. He finally got me to agree. It was pretty late, and I was the last guy to leave. That car just didn’t fit, and I had never seen it there before.
Red flags and bad vibes.
I executed a quick U-turn and aimed the Jeep back to the office.
Just to be sure.
In my line of work, you learn to trust your instincts. That’s the reptilian brain telling you to pay attention. So I did. I was back at the office in less than ten minutes.
As I walked up the walk to my office front door, I pulled Mr. Kimber from my holster. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I pushed on the front door. And it opened. Unlocked. Mr. Brain assured me I had locked it when we left just twenty minutes ago. Now it’s open.
Maybe John or David came back. Not likely, though. And there were no lights on. And Marie never meets clients at night.
I made my way slowly and stealthily past the receptionist’s desk, Mr. Kimber leading the way. Down the long hall. Past one empty office. Past John and David’s closed and locked office door. Check. Same with Marie’s office door—closed and locked. Check. But my office door was open. Wide open.
Then I heard something in there. A clatter. A bump? A grunt?
With my shoulder against the door jamb, I rolled silently into my office, following Mr. Kimber as I quickly scanned the empty room. Clear.
Years ago, when I bought my office condo, I had a small and discrete exterior door cut into the back wall of my office. It opens outside to the lush quadrangle. Then I built a little patio out of paver blocks directly outside. Had a deck chair and a small table out there too. I use it only rarely, like when I step outside to get some sun or some fresh air or to smoke a cigar.
Tonight it was standing open. Wide open. And I was looking through the back door opening at the common area’s landscaped and sculptured lawn in the quadrangle behind my office condo.
I stepped over and through the door. Looked outside. The quadrangle is well lighted at night. No prowler.
But my chair was knocked over onto its side
I swiveled around, looking for disruption in my office. Filing cabinets, computer, desktop. All seemed to be in order. Check. I closed and relocked the back door. Stepped over to the desk and pulled open the drawer.
The envelope with the one hundred hundred-dollar bills was still there. I nodded a curt hello to Ben. Closed the drawer.
Mr. Brain figured we came back too soon and spooked the spook.
Whoever was here got away. Clean.
Just then I heard the roar of the big American V-8 engine as the Suburban blasted out of the parking lot.
I sprinted back up the hall and bounded through the front door. Ran out onto the walk. Put the Kimber’s sights on the speeding SUV as it ripped by me. The Suburban fishtailed as it squealed out of the parking lot driveway and onto the street. The driver had the pedal to the metal.
It happened too fast to take a righteous shot. And beyond the target and across the street were other offices. The possibility of a stray round causing collateral damage was high. And I didn’t have reasonable cause to shoot anyway.
Worse, I couldn’t make out the tag.
Exasperated, I holstered Mr. Kimber.
Mr. Brain shrugged. Home team zip, visitors one.
Peachy. We lost. We had nothing.
I went back in.
Double-checked all the doors and locks.
Office was secure.
It was late. I was tired and pissed off.
So I headed back to the houseboat.
For the second time.
* * *
Some Yankee asshole motored his boat through the harbor pulling a heavy wake. Moored yachts rolled and pitched. My houseboat rocked and slammed against the pilings. Stuff creaked and clinked inside the cabin. Woke me up. There’s a no-wake zone in and around the marina, but there’s always some dickless fool who can’t wait to plane off. He probably rented it. It’s always a Yankee transplant, because real locals understand the effect of wakes on moored boats. They have respect. Yankees don’t. Or don’t care. Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department has a marine division, and they get to write tickets for excessive wakes. And nautical stupidity. There’s a lot of stupidity going on in Clearwater Bay. So they write lots of tickets. Liveaboards like me have no sense of humor when it comes to boat wakes.
I needed to get up anyway. What I wanted to do was to use the time to meditate. Use my metaphysical yoga training to attain an alpha brain wave state. That’s an altered and calm state of mind. Self-imposed. Reveals insight. It allows me to see things clearly. Used this method for years when I was with Collier County Sheriff’s Office. Solved cases that way. I was younger then. I had to work harder at it now. I needed clarity right now.