Only Dangerous In The Breeding Season

By John Callaghan

My brother Johnny lives in Florida. He wants to keep it that way. To keep living, that is - the Florida part is negotiable.
What does family mean? Everything? Nothing?
Private detective Stevie McCabe finds himself 5000 miles from home answering a distress call, deserting the hard streets of Glasgow for the seductive palms of Florida’s Gulf coast. Brother Johnny is in trouble with the law, guilty of theft and fraud through a corrupt pyramid scheme, left to face the consequences by a partner who crashed his Cessna into a swamp, but that’s not Johnny’s biggest problem...his problem is that he laundered funds through the venture for a druglord, a high-value target for police. So: face the penitentiary for his financial crimes...or plea bargain for deportation by incriminating the gangster at the risk of his own life?
But it’s not just family loyalty that drives Stevie McCabe, because some of his brother’s fraud victims were organised crime figures from back home in Glasgow – and he “helpfully” mentioned Stevie’s name while doing it: both brothers are now threatened equally by law and disorder in two countries as cultures blend and clash in a melee where there are no victories, only flavors of defeat.
...and a hurricane is raging across the Gulf towards Florida, threatening to blow everybody’s plans away...

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Callaghan
• Release date: Apr 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301843558

John Callaghan

Vice Principal and English teacher in catholic school in Essex. Born in the East but raised in the West of Ireland. Married with two children. Writer of plays, short stories and two novels.

Book preview

Prologue - Only Dangerous In The Breeding Season

A night so black.

Running, scrambling, along a sodden swamp pathway hemmed on both sides by swaying vegetation I could barely see.

Somewhere in the dark behind me, I could hear voices, barking to each other in garbled syllables, the whistling sound of flails, flattening reeds and thrashing among the underbrush. Under the staccato human yelps, the constant quaking rhythm of the swamp at night...frogs, beetles, crickets, grackles, possums, alligators, nameless slithering things, all clicking, buzzing, hissing, creaking, whistling, croaking out there, somewhere in the limitless black.

I scrambled on across the damp, yielding soil. Out here, the pinewoods only a memory, the trail was bolt-straight and fringed with bulrushes, tangled soaking weeds and arching palmettos that reached out to flick the face. I had a clear path, but it ran only in one inescapable line – beyond the straggly mat of vegetation lay the water, still, viscous and so endlessly dark. The voices were still a distance away, but the overgrown dykes that split the swamp into parallel-edged rectangles guided them inescapably closer, even in the blackness, to their quarry.

Me.

I breathed in, controlled as I could, strangling any loud gasp that could draw them forward even quicker. They had no flashlights, no narrow beams lancing the dark, my one comfort in the doomed task of escaping them on the swamp railroad that let me, and the pursuers, travel only in straight lines. Now, they couldn’t be sure where I had gone, but eventually...they couldn’t miss on this unbending path. Suddenly, I had half-stumbled into a clammy thicket of reeds blocking my progress...reeds slapping me in the face meant I’d hit a T-junction in the path. Left? Right? Left!

I skidded left and the path continued at 90 degrees, clear enough for me to manage a half-jog but still with towering foliage close on both sides, rank-scented vegetation I could more sense than see. Wait...the voices were receding, or, better yet, no longer following. Maybe they were no happier in the dark than me? I stopped to listen.

I bent over and used the breathing space...literally, to breathe harder and quell the dull pounding in my chest. Voices, further away now, merging with the natural squeaks, groans and trills of the night swamp, pulsing cadences unceasing. A shout...no, more a guffaw. Why? I strained in the dark to identify shadows, to delineate earth from sky, movement from stillness. Then I saw it – a tracer of light lacing through the swamp undergrowth where none had been before. They hadn’t abandoned the chase, just waited for somebody to arrive who could send the piercing flashlight beam arcing along the pathways, animating the dark stage. I drew a deep breath and stumbled onward along the one path, the true path, the only path I could, my straight line through the swamp.

There were more voices now – four, five? Too many, far too many, and they were armed. To defend myself, I had the wet clothes I stood up in and a sharp tongue.

I lose.

They hadn’t made the turn into my left branch of the path yet – maybe they’d go right at the junction. Was there a right? I didn’t truly know but they’d see quickly enough. In the thin glow of dead cloud under muted stars, I could see another bank of dense foliage dead ahead – another junction in the network. I turned left – an interlocking tangle. To the right, then – the same. The path had come to a full stop and the maze was at an end. There was no other way to turn. Behind me, closing as they must, the hunters.

Fatal.

There was only one way to go – straight ahead...beyond the path and through the vegetation, to the swamp itself, plunging into the terminal uncertainty of what lay beyond. I peeled apart two toppling bulrushes and inserted myself into the knotted jumble of plant-life, sharp-edged reeds nicking at my face and hands. One step inside the tangle, my feet sank into ooze. Forward, thrashing my way into the foliage, no longer caring about the noise, one fragment of my brain saying ‘it’s okay, they’re shouting themselves, they’ll never hear this above their own noise’...other fragments too scared to form thoughts at all. Four more steps and I was through the band of marginal vegetation and I was treading out into deeper water of the swamp, sinking slowly into the blank, shapeless, formless dark. Two feet deep, three feet, further yet...my feet touched bottom, water sluggishly ebbing around my chest now, feet half-sunk into a morass of muck. Here, I would be invisible from the path, no doubt.

Beneath me, around me, things moved and swirled in the black water.

Things.

My head rang with a piece of information somebody had told me once, half-remembered, half-digested.

Alligators, it went, are only dangerous in the breeding season.

When was that, exactly, the alligator breeding season...?

Chapter 1 – Welcome To The United States

"You might have noticed that we’ve had to swing a little to the west in preparation for landing, but that’s gonna give you the bonus of some nice views of the Gulf of Mexico and its crystal clear blue waters to your...let’s see...your left as we bank. As we complete our manoeuvre, you will see to your right the Sunshine Skyway Bridge across the entrance to Tampa Bay. Uh, the reason for our slight change of flight plan is that the runway at Tampa International runs north-south and heading out to sea lets us approach from the south...we don’t normally land that way, coming from New York, but we’re doing it today so we manage to avoid the worst of that tail from tropical storm Carlos. As your flight manager will have mentioned, we can expect a little turbulence, so strap yourselves in...temperature on the ground is a balmy 91 degrees and it’s a little humid. Thanks for choosing Delta for your flight today..."

Right on cue, the 767 juddered as though an irritable child was shaking us to see if we rattled...we definitely did. The crystalline azure waters we’d been promised had turned a matt denim in the flat grey light that penetrated the towering boil of cloud churning out in the Gulf and the plane trembled once more as that petulant toddler jiggled us again. The good-value whoops and groans from the passengers of Delta 2391 out of JFK would have delighted the obnoxious child.

Me, I was still engrossed in reading Sky Mall, with its dog trampolines and life-size Anubis statues. It wasn’t that I didn’t dislike the plummet-and-quiver – I did, but it meant we were close to landing and that was a destiny to be wished for. As promised, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge dipped into view, featuring no sunshine whatsoever and a sky presumably concealed somewhere behind the towering cumulonimbus. The image of the bay-framing structure vibrated in the window as more juddering updrafts and duelling bands of heat collided and agitated the 767 as it carved back to the north and sought its final approach path, a teeth-jarring swoop through a funnel of corrugated air.

Then, we were heading down and into TIA - sea, islands, St Petersburg to the left, bay, city, Tampa to the right...in the magazine in front of me, the opportunity to purchase a moral compass (literally, with a magnetic needle in the shape of a crucifix, $6.95 but awarded only two stars out of five by ungracious buyers) or a ten-foot illuminated palm ($350, with four stars, but try and get that bastard as carry-on). A skidding bump announced our arrival in cigar city, the impact of meeting the ground a good deal less than meeting some violent air currents of recent acquaintance.

Some of the passengers burst into applause. That must be why boys and girls dream of becoming pilots – an accountant barely rates an attagirl when her spreadsheet tallies and nobody’s high-fiving the postman when he dramatically succeeds in finding the mailbox and narrowly avoids spilling the vital junk circulars on the sidewalk. Then again, people sometimes tried to hurt me for doing my job – maybe I should deliver letters?

The line for immigration was modest, compared to real tourist gateways, because Florida’s visitor throngs headed for Orlando and Miami, not Tampa. A beagle-eyed woman awaited me in her glass booth, Melindez the name on her badge. Anybody who ever doubted that the US was possessed of a national sense of irony only ever needs to consider why, other than irony, this nation of positive, can-do, shake-your-handers would populate its Department of Homeland Security with joyless misery founts. Then, Ms Melindez let me down...

Hi! How are you today?

I’m, ah, good – you?

I’m just great – what’s the purpose of your visit to the United States?

Visiting family – got a brother over in St Pete.

So that’d be a vacation?

Eh...more family stuff than a holiday.

Okay, you mean like you have a funeral to go to?

No, just visiting...him. My brother. He’s still alive.

What do you do for a living Mr McCabe?

I’m a private detective.

"Oh? Oh...you know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before. You don’t plan on doing any of that in the US, I don’t guess?"

Juuust family.

Okay, I’m gonna mark that as vacation anyway. Now, if you could put your right thumb on the glass...

*** *** ***

The rental car was promised to be Hyundai Sonata or similar and it achieved that similarity with something to spare by actually being a Hyundai Sonata. There is a certain comfort in discovering that some things are exactly as promised, like Rome being full of nuns. Installed in the parking garage, air-con gusting in my face, I dialled my brother’s number. He answered, half-yelling over the roar of some bar, club or livestock auction he happened to be at.

It’s Stevie, I’m here.

Hello? Uh...hello? Who’s there? I can’t...it’s loud...mibbe leave a message?

"It’s Stevie!"

Wha’? Really? Where you callin’ from?

Go somewhere quieter.

Canny hear you – listen, I’ll go somewhere quieter...doing that now. Hey, got the spare room all ready for you...right, okay, I’m outside now, what you got?

I’m in a parking garage at Tampa airport. Had a bumpy trip, met a really friendly immigration guard – and I’m not just sayin’ that cuz she had a gun. That’s about my day – you?

"No, Stevie...what? Tomorrow you’re comin’! Whaddye mean you’re here the now?"

"This is like the conversation I had a wee while ago with Ms Melindez. Listen, this is not a vacation here. If you’re in anything like the trouble I think you are – and, Johnny, I’d guess you might be in a lot more – then you need to get your head on straight. This is the first lesson."

Aw, I canny get my head round this, I wisny...

"John – listen to me. If you don’t know when I’m comin’ into the country, then nobody else does either – right? And I won’t be stayin’ in your spare room – this is not a fuckin vacation. And if you don’t know where I’m stayin’, ergo...come on..."

Nobody else does either, I get it. When did you turn into fuckin 007? It’s just me, it’s just here, y’know? Just a thing.

Aye, well, that’s exactly the problem, that attitude. You act as if this is like Eddie Gormley gave you a kick up the arse at the ice-cream van and you’ve got your big brother to come and stiffen him. This is serious - I wouldny travel five thousand miles just to get your double-nougat back.

Aye, you’re right, I know, sorry...uh, listen? This means a lot to me, you comin’ all this way cuz of, y’know, me gettin’ in a situation here. Sorry if I got hold of the wrong...if I didny react right. Just surprise, know? Had a wee bifter an’ all.

"Aye, well, listen...surprise is on my side. I’m a long way from home here and I have next to no idea what I’m doin’. I’m gonny make mistakes cuz of ignorance and what’ll prolly look like stupidity and that’ll make everything much more difficult. Only two bulbs lighting up in my favour, mibbe – that surprise thing, and tryin’ to control whatever I can. Jist those two things. Which is why I’m here today, not tomorrow, and why it’s me tellin’ you what to do. Now, listen, tomorrow -"

"- hey, what about tonight? You can get over here in, what, twenty minutes? This place is -"

"Here’s a word you’ve heard me use before, John – listen. Do it now, cuz you didny up ‘til now, not to anythin’ I’ve said in the last five minutes. Or forty years. Tomorrow, noon, get to the St Pete pier, park in the north lot, get out of your car and start to walk along the pier...once you’re out in the open, stop and fiddle with your phone for a coupla minutes, then walk to the pyramid building at the end of the pier. Wear somethin’ dark, black preferably, do not wear sunglasses, bring those, but keep them out of sight, and wear jeans, just your standard blue jeans. Make sure you have your phone. Simple enough – got that?"

Yeah – but this is crazy, Stevie.

You reckon? Well, it’s not me’s got the FBI indictment on my back. But we’ll talk about that tomorrow, noon. Don’t be late, John. And this is obvious, but I’m gonny say it anyway – don’t tell anybody about me.

Okay. Hey...is this dangerous?

"I dunno, Johnny. It’s your life – is that dangerous?"

I rolled the Sonata, brand new and smelling like (I assumed) South Korea, out of the parking garage to discover night and rain had both fallen; rain still was. Adjusting to the darkness and the springy controls on the new vehicle, I eased it north for the 60 and hit cruise control for the eight-mile run across the causeway, Roman-straight in the dark, black waters of the bay slapping unseen below.

On the Pinellas shore, I crossed the peninsula and headed north for Dunedin, small town, small motel, twenty miles from St Petersburg, my brother and all his problems. My strategy – onionskin-thin, I knew – of unpredictability would be holed amidships if I’d walked into the Hampton Inn, where I had actually booked a room, although even that would have been a substantially better idea than Johnny’s spare bedroom. Actually...he’d said spare room. Knowing him, it would be 50-50 whether there was any way of actually sleeping in it.

The owner of the Gulfheart Motel was named Candy, that much I knew from our exchange of emails, and she did indeed look like she might have been a minor starlet in the 60s, parking-garage hair in rainbow tones held together by gallons of product. She gave me my key (Jesus, an old-school, flat metal object!) and introduced me to Benjy, who failed the starlet test by being a hyperactive Jack Russell and not a languid dog-that-lives-in-a-purse. They were both happy to see me, all the same - no surprise, given that the hurricane-threatened parking lot suggested the only guests were me and whoever drove the Ford F-150 pickup that glimmered in the rain.

The room was...fine. I flicked on the thousand-channel TV and let the local news drone as I showered off the patina of grease that transcontinental airline travel bestows on all travellers, regardless of status. The water began drilling on my face in time for me to miss a feature on ...everyday heroes - Bay News 9 profiles people making a positive difference in the Bay area and beyond... and I stepped out of the shower to a baffling local mystery ...neighbors in a Land O' Lakes community are ‘wondering’ if a group of teens they saw in the area are responsible for burglarizing a home...

I looked at the TV and nodded. Guilty, I said.

Chapter 2 – The Home Of The Brave

Bell pepper omelette with Monterey Jack cheese, organic red-potato home fries, some chilled OJ? Aye, I’d call that breakfast on this sunny morning. I’d parked the Sonata in Dunedin Main Street and sat outside, eating at a sidewalk table. Nobody watched, nobody paid me any attention (aside Corrina, who told me - truthfully - that she’d be my server today). None of that was surprising – if anyone other than my brother knew I even existed, that would be surprising...ah no, hold on, not so simple...that list would actually consist of my brother and whoever else he’d told, which could be everybody in the state.

The ubiquitous TV straight-facedly told the tale of an area man convicted for the theft of golf-cart batteries ...investigators said he took 18 golf cart batteries from three golf carts, then sold them at a local recycler for $252. He reportedly provided his own Florida ID and his right thumbprint for identification... I paid Corrina and wondered whether a golf-cart battery was something truly distinctive or just a battery, in a golf-cart. Still, it was comforting to realise that the international brotherhood of stump-dumb petty criminals was thriving in Citrus County. Wherever that was. And that some golfers might actually have to stroll a few static-fraught yards in their plaid polyester slacks.

I drove through increasingly heavy traffic towards St Petersburg, wondering precisely how stupid my brother was, and how petty his law-breaking....one could definitely amplify the other, for certain. I parked the Sonata in a downtown surface car-park two blocks from the designated shoreline parking lots that served St Pete pier and walked towards the bay. Still, nobody paid me any attention, in my wide-o shades and Panama hat. I strolled the 500-yard length of the pier, water beneath starting to chop in the rising wind, with only scavenging pelicans and cormorants for company. Their optimism was misplaced, as I carried no fish, only a change of clothes.

Once my business was done in the pier building - a curious inverted pyramid filled with souvenir shops, dining opportunities and an aquarium – I strolled back again, disappointing anew the cast of seabirds. I sat in the shade of a generous palm, on a sidewalk bench opposite the pier parking lot and opened my Tampa Bay Times, to read about four young men gunned down at a block party. Four? Shit. I reminded myself to get sincerely armored up for my next Bay-area barbecue and I waited.

There was no chance on earth that Johnny would recognise me, Panama-hatted, shaded up and half-behind a newspaper as he cruised past, attention focused on finding the entrance to the shore parking lot. At 11.57 (good job!) he followed his script, head rotating as he turned off the boulevard in a predictably easy-to-follow red jeep. At least he was dressed as required.

Johnny deposited the jeep in the almost-empty car-park and went to pay for his stay while an anonymous sedan with two men on board followed him into the lot and parked absurdly far from the entrance and the jeep. Unless they were heading for the tiny triangle of unoccupied beach, the purpose of the long-distance parking could only be to keep out of Johnny’s line of vision. They stayed in the car and slouched down while he legitimised his presence and headed for the pier. As arranged, he paused when he got onto the walkway and pulled out his phone. The two men slid from their car and didn’t pay for a ticket. Sloppy. My phone rang.

No, Johnny, don’t phone me! Just play with the thing, you clown! I don’t want to talk to you now, just to make the guys do the dance of the unprepared in the parking lot. I hit red to disconnect the call and I could see Johnny frown. Meanwhile, the two had stopped walking and shuffled around in fake-conversation like extras rhubarbing in a badly-reviewed am-dram. Johnny looked up and around, although not at his twin tails, and then began to amble along the pier, followed at a distance by his illegally parked pursuers.

I crossed the road towards the lot and waved around my half-folded Times, phone switched to camera, as my path intersected guy 1 and guy 2; at the nearest point, I could have clicked once, twice and caught them perfectly full-face and profile. Focused on Johnny, they were oblivious to guy-in-hat-with-paper. What guy? What paper?

The principle of an eye witness equals a shitty witness was in full effect, but I didn’t press the shutter symbol – these guys were doing a good enough job of fucking up for me not to risk jeopardising their incompetence by drawing their attention to me, the unconnected passer-by.

Passing close to them made me none the wiser. They were, of course, strangers to me. Both white, clean-shaven, thirties/forties, one dark-haired, the other...slightly less dark-haired, both carrying a little weight, casually dressed. A description worth roughly nothing, to anybody.

I watched them two-step after my brother, ambled over to the parking-lot, checked no-one was watching, hefted the nearest garbage-bin and tipped its contents over the hood of their...what type of car was it? I don’t know – call it their two-guy car. With Subway wrappers, Pepsi cans, bananas and nameless detritus spread over the hood, I dumped the bin itself on the car for good measure and headed back towards downtown and my Sonata. I phoned Johnny.

Hey, I just tried to call -

"- listen to me...go into the men’s room and the stall on the right – there’s only two. There’s a plastic bag behind the cistern with clothes in it, shirt, hat - change into them, hat and all, put your shades back on and wait until I call. When I do, walk straight back off the pier, use the south – that’s the left – sidewalk, go brisk but don’t rush, and go right across Bayshore onto 2nd – I’ll be in the parking lot behind the chamber of commerce, the building with the bank on the ground floor."

Stevie, is this really -

Aye. Or, there’s two guys following you. If you like, we could both chat to them...no? Okay, then, go!

St Pete pier, you should understand, is not a holiday resort fairground on stilts, fronting a long esplanade of frothy amusements; instead, it juts into Tampa Bay from the very heart of downtown, so the transition from pier to corporate towers is only a matter of crossing Bayshore Drive...which I did, immediately anonymous in the city streets. I phoned the pier management office, in my best generic north American accent.

Reporting for you on an incident in the north parking lot. You wanna alert the driver of car, Florida plates, N26 33W, it is being attacked by a hobo, he’s dumping garbage on it, also that car has not paid for parking. Okay? November-2-6 3-3-Whiskey, you can announce that in the building – happy to help.

I waited and trained my binoculars on the pier. In roughly two minutes, the offending car occupants – oh yes, both of them! - stutter-walked out of the pier building and back towards where the imaginary hobo had vandalised their vehicle. I called Johnny and simply said now! I waited until I could see him emerge wearing the lurid Hawaiian surfer shirt and cowboy hat I’d left for him in the bag. I trusted that the two generics would never notice him walking past them, across on the other sidewalk, dressed quite differently, while they cursed the mystery hobo.

They didn’t. One more success for the uselessness of eye-witness information.

A few hundred yards and half a world away, I waited for my brother to follow his updated script – which he managed, again, heading directly to the correct parking lot. Maybe I’d been too pessimistic...

Over here, John! Ignore the hat and I won’t take a picture of yours.

"Stevie! Steeeevie! Great to see you man! You’re lookin’ -"

Aye, great, love you too, just get in the car. We can do the hugs when we get to where we’re goin’.

"Okay, here I come – don’t mind sayin’, that was a buzz. An easy buzz, too – you say there’s guys followin’ me? Just felt like I was walkin’ down the street."

"How should it feel – a car chase?"

Dunno, s’pose so. You think these guys are FBI or somethin’?

No, anythin’ but. I guarantee you the FBI would (a) not care about some dumb announcement about their car (b) not send out both guys if they did and (c) immediately realise the misdirection when they saw what was happening. The next thing they’d do would be to look for the thing they were bein’ directed away from – you. These guys were comedy, they walked into it all headfirst and never saw a thing – they’re amateurs at this game. And anyway, the FBI’d have your cell phone wired, and all this would be pointless, they’d be way ahead of me. And they’d’ve paid to park.

I manoeuvred the Sonata out of the bank’s parking lot and headed south, then west. Through two green lights, nothing seemed to be on our tail; I exhaled...hold that result, a sedan just slid through the stoplight after it must have turned red. Okay... right again, left, left, left and still the sedan hovered in the rear-view. I’d gone right round the block and he was clearly following.

Okay...plan B. I thought we might catch some coffee on a chilled bayou somewhere, but it looks like the FBI might have had something on you after all. There’s a car following us now, nothing to do with those two guys.

For real? How’d you know who he is?

I don’t, but I never saw him at the pier, and he didny follow you at all – so he must’ve known you’d be there at noon anyway, and went straight to the bank. He waited until we made our move before he did anythin’. Which means either he heard the call or you told him.

Jeez, paranoia, Stevie.

It’s not that, it’s fear. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been doin’, or who with. I’m a stranger here and mibbe there’s a bulldozer I canny see headin’ straight for me – the least I can do is not lie down in front of it.

So what’ll we do?

"Let’s go to the baseball – stadium’s right...here. Go to the ball game often, Johnny?"

No.

Good. Nobody should be lookin’ for you here then.

They’re playing the Yankees – no way there’s any seats.

Well, lucky I already got two tickets then.

Aw, whit? Paranoia on fuckin stilts, man. You...you organised tickets for a game you prolly wereny going to? And spare hats? What’s the point? If this is the FBI, they know where I live and everythin’.

Aye, but they don’t know me.

*** *** ***

Tropicana Field was indeed theoretically sold out, but it seemed swathes of the crowd were buying beer and hot dogs, so our bank of seats – located...eh...I don’t know what it would be called, but the pitcher was to our left and the batter way to our left – were only half full. The dome was noisy but much cooler than the sticky precincts of pier and shore.

Okay, here we are, so why don’t you...oh, national anthem...

We stood as the beer and wiener-fest was briefly interrupted by a Bay-area country singer asking us whether we could still see the flag. It seemed we could.

Here, Johnny, what’re the last two words of the national anthem there?

"Eh...‘the brave’. That’s it, home of the brave."

"Wrong – it’s ‘play ball’. And they’re just about to, see? And FYI, that guy made it in after us – I can see him, he hasny seen us yet, but he will. Sold-out game, means he had to badge his way in, so he’s the law, one way and another. At least he won’t be shootin’ at us...oh, guy’s out already...three strikes, right? Since we’re nice and comfortable, why’n’t you take the time to tell me, your own words but as clearly as possible, why I’m here. And remember, I already know mosta your best tunes, I didn’t travel this far to get a best-of. Start with why the FBI...."

Well, for some reason, those guys think -

Seriously, Johnny, no bullshit.

"I had a business...still do, s’pose...sellin’ real estate – that’s what you’d call houses, ha, wee joke in case you -"

"John..."

Aye, okay. Me and this guy, local guy called Brady Pike, we set up this company.

Where’d you meet Pike?

Just...around. I’ve been here a while, done this and that, met a few people, some ex-pats but mostly yanks, y’know? So, you’d go to parties and cook-outs or bar nights, charity fund-raisers and such, havin’ fun. You’d see some people, get to know them, maybe do them a wee favor, one hand washes the other kinna thing. It’s good to be connected.

Favor? Fuckin brilliant. And you’d be a guest at these things because...?

"I get on with people - always have, you know that, it’s my talent. How’r’ye? I’m Johnny! Don’t mind if I do. Saturday, you say? Sure, I can make that, I’ll bring some suds. What else can I do for you? Like that – just like that. It’s jist personal.

And these ‘favors’? Felony favors?

Christ, no. Just simple stuff – house-sitting. Pass on some packages...

"Shit, John. Sit in as many houses as you like, but if there’s a dump-truck filled with coke in the garage, you’ll go down hard. Oh, home run...look at that thing fly."

"No, I mean it – absolute gen-up. Just a mate who goes up to NY for business, he goes - hey, look after the place, would you? That’s it."

Aye, right – and what’s in these packages you pass on? Bibles?

Okay. Okay, sometimes it might be a bit hooky, but it’s...it’s what you do, y’know? And most of it was legit – I did some importing jet skis, that was pretty good but we got a bit tangled in some tax ‘hing, drained the money out. And we sold experience opportunities at discounts –

"- whit? ‘Experience opportunities’? "

"– aye, like Groupon and them, but we could never get the PR we wanted, so that went tits-up. And plants – d’you know the money you can make on those New Zealand tree-fern ‘hings? Amazin’. But they don’t grow so great in Florida. Damp. Wrong kinna damp, actually."

So, you met Brady Pike, jist ‘around’?

Yeah, friend of a friend, knew the face, like that. And one time at this pool party over in Clearwater, he says how about this business ‘hing – he knows guys’ve got land zoned for residential, builders’ll throw it up, all we have to do is find the money and sell the properties. So, we set up this company.

"Aye – ‘all ye have to do’...and this great opportunity is comin’ to you why?"

Cuz most of the buyers’re Brits and they like to hear the accent.

"Johnny, you’re from Glasgow and you’ve dropped half your accent in the Atlantic – nobody wants to hear that noise."

Say what you like – it went great.

Tell me about the money bit.

"That was Brady, him and his brother. And me, too, actually. We spoke to a lot of people – the kinna ones I talked about, the ones you see