can give Sandi a nice raise, and temporarily refer your listings to another real estate agent. Sandi can mind the store, and with her free time she can attend community college and get her own license. At your expense, of course. At the end of the day, you’ll still be a couple of hundred thousand ahead of the game. No matter what happens.”
“I don’t know.”
“Sam, all I’m asking is that you think about it. Please?”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
Ellen kissed Sam and ran her fingertips along the side of his face. “Now how about that champagne?”
She’d been gone for three days. Sam was in a fog. The whole thing with Ellen didn’t make sense. His gut and his instincts were telling him to back away. The office was dead, so he’d left Sandi in charge and gone home. Although the long mountain shadows of late afternoon had already begun to settle on his small cabin, Sam left the lights off as he rambled about. As he walked by his computer, he noticed his list of favorites and the Google icon. Sam sat down and typed his name.
Dozens of articles, mostly from the San Diego Union, appeared on the screen. The articles from the 1990s touted his success. The later articles brought back all of the old memories he’d been trying to forget. Sam was going to that place he thought he’d escaped from. Then the telephone rang.
“Sam, its Sandi. Sorry to bother you at home, but my Mom called. I wanted to ask you before the drug store closed. The doctor said Dustin has strep and prescribed some antibiotics. But they’re not generic. And . . .”
“Sandi. It’s okay. Put it on my card.”
“Sam, I really appreciate it. You know I’ll pay you back on Friday.”
“It’s okay. Really okay. You better get moving. I’ll call later to check on Dustin.”
“Bye. Talk to you tonight.”
Sam hit the end button and sat quietly for several minutes before finally reaching into his pocket to retrieve a slip of paper. He unfolded it and dialed the number Ellen had written there.
CHAPTER 6
Marc Mason preferred waitresses for several reasons. Mainly it was the challenge. An attractive waitress was hit upon dozens of times a day, and became adept at delivering polite rejection. He thought of an attractive waitress like many aspiring actors and professionals thought of New York City. If you could make it with a hot waitress, you could make it with anybody.
The waitresses Marc preferred over all others worked at The Crab Shack off the causeway near his office. The Crab Shack was a throwback to Old Florida. A collection of weathered cypress boards and rusting tin sitting on huge timbers driven into the muddy floor of the bay. This edifice to a bygone era would never have been allowed under current zoning laws; it was grandfathered in as a preexisting use.
The Crab Shack was favored by the young professionals of Tampa Bay, and was a whirlwind of activity. A whirlwind of huge platters of blue crab and shrimp cocktail and trays of longneck bottles of beer and cocktails of strange neon hues normally found in the coral reefs of tropical waters. All of this was carried by young and very pretty girls who were in fantastic physical shape. And, of course, clad in remarkably skimpy outfits. Marc thought the rejects probably ended up at Scooters. The tips were huge at The Crab Shack - Scooters was so blue collar.
Marc scanned the crowd. People were shoulder to shoulder in the bar area - typical for a Friday afternoon. The patrons were mostly young and energetic. Happy that the weekend had finally arrived. The rest were desperately trying to appear younger than their chronological age. The handsome male bartender had a practiced eye for the affluent and the big tippers, and figured he’d paid for his Harley with tips from the slightly more mature women. He always demanded ID, and sometimes put on a show by
Learning to Kill: Stories