The Adventures of Harry Morgan, Volume 1

By Clabe Polk

The Adventures of Harry Morgan is a collection of three interlocking, fast-action crime mystery novellas featuring an active adventurous retiree, Harry Morgan, who attracts trouble like a magnet. Harry, a retired businessman, lives in St. Petersburg, Florida and owns a sailboat. His friends and long-suffering wife, Jean, have given up trying to keep him out of disasters, but invariably they are also sucked into the story and endure whatever adventure Harry is into until the end.

The three novellas are:
Collegial Conspiracy: An old friend, dying of cancer, asks Harry to help him rob a bank...not just any bank; Harry's bank where he does business. Not just any old robbery, but a robbery just like Bonnie and Clyde would do it! Against his own better judgment, Harry risks everything – his life, his liberty, even his marriage – to keep a promise to his old friend. And then things really start to get complicated when his friend’s son, Tony, gets involved.
Emilio: What drove Tony to robbery . . . or worse? A drug addicted college girl and her boy friend apparently commit suicide. But what if it was more than that? What if it was murder? Tony finds himself on the hook facing manslaughter and blackmail charges and Harry finds himself playing detective...smack dab in the middle of an investigation that rubs up against the bank robbery he committed and is working so hard to forget. Can he solve the mystery and get away clean?
The Pirates of Cayo Pelau: Harry's heard all the stories of modern-day pirates along the Florida coast, but that's never slowed him down. As he teaches his friends to sail in his new boat, he expects mosquitoes and sand gnats . . . but he never expected to stumble onto a slave ring. Now he has to free the captives, put the slave smugglers out of business, and rescue his friends...before it's too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clabe Polk
• Release date: Nov 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370907847

Clabe Polk

CLABE POLK is into a second career as a writer of fiction. So far, he has written four novels, three novellas, several short stories, and has a couple of other novels in process. He is a lifelong reader with a great variety of life experience.With a background in biology and natural sciences, Mr. Polk has more than thirty-seven years in professional environmental protection program management and law enforcement.He lives in Powder Springs, Georgia with his wife, two daughters, and the family’s Cockapoo named Annie.

Book preview

Collegial Conspiracy

CHAPTER 1

Meet Wiley Middleton

Wiley Middleton downed the last of his beer and dug in his pocket for a credit card. There was no use putting off the inevitable. He had traveled more than a thousand miles, from St. Petersburg, Florida to Houston, Texas, for a second opinion. Now it was time to face the music.

When the headaches first started, he and Amanda were at a Tampa Bay Rays game at Tropicana Field. At the beginning of the second inning, he’d asked Amanda if she had any aspirin or ibuprofen. His head was pounding; he’d felt as though his head would split open like a cantaloupe on a cutting board. The ibuprofen hadn’t helped. By the end of the game, Amanda had to lead him by the hand to the parking lot, and then fought other drivers as she maneuvered to a place where she could pick him up. He couldn’t walk to the car.

That headache had passed, and life moved past the weekend and into the following week. The headaches recurred. Not every day, but a couple of times a week, and they were disabling. He didn’t tell Amanda about them, however, and in his third week of misery he went to the doctor, got a prescription for a strong painkiller, and endured for another two weeks. The painkillers weren’t helping, and he was becoming addicted to them. This time the doctor sent him for CT and MRI scans; the scans that clenched the rest of his life into a knot of fear and pain. The doctor was empathetic. He delivered the bad news professionally and with feeling, although no amount of regret would minimize it, no amount of vacillating would avoid it. It simply was what it was.

There was a recommendation for a course of radiation and chemotherapy that should begin at once, but Wiley didn’t hear it. He was already making plans for a second opinion. Amanda still didn’t know.

A waiter appeared. Paying his lunch tab with a casualness he didn’t feel inside, he walked out of the Irish pub and down the street toward the cancer center. If his life was going to turn into hell on wheels, he may as well not be late for the starting gun. More accurately, he felt like he was blindfolded, tied to a post facing the gun. At least, that’s what he dreamed about at night as he tossed and turned.

Amanda was irritated with his tossing and turning. He hadn’t told her, couldn’t tell her, about the diagnosis facing him. How could he condemn the woman he loved unconditionally to watch him waste away into oblivion a little more every day, until he faded away like a washed-out watercolor painting? Amanda’s father had died of cancer when she was a little girl. She had vivid memories of his sickness, his weakness, and the toll that radiation and chemotherapy had taken on his body. She was too young then to understand why, and it had left her with deep psychological scars and an ingrained fear of illness that Wiley had spent a large part of their thirty-year marriage trying to quiet. It’s not fair that she has to relive that with me, he thought.

***

So he’d asked for a second opinion to be sure whether his demons could be quieted, or whether they would eventually arise screaming, condemning him to death and Amanda to widowhood. Now, two days before New Year’s Eve when much of the rest of the working world was on vacation, as far as Amanda knew, he was in Houston on business instead of facing the inevitable alone. Two days until New Year’s Eve. Just fuckin’ wonderful. It was going to be a hell of a New Year’s celebration.

***

Thankfully, the doctor did not keep him waiting. With human concern but professional detachment, the doctor summarized the MRI and CT findings in light of his recurring symptoms. He concluded with one word—inoperable—and then launched into treatment recommendations.

***

Wiley, lost from the word chemotherapy, didn’t hear any of the treatment recommendations. Vaguely, he was aware of the doctor talking about a lifespan measured in months to a year or so. He didn’t want to be sick. The headaches were bad enough, but the chemo? The nausea? The hair-loss? He had a real fear of the effects of chemotherapy and radiation. While he understood that his life expectancy was probably less if he refused treatment, he couldn’t stand the thought of being sick all the time.

Was he being selfish? A few extra months was more time with Amanda.

Amanda can’t watch me die.

A few extra months would only make it worse on her.

Oh, God! Not only am I dying, but I’m going to have to leave my wife to protect her sanity…and that’s definitely not fair!

With a sinking heart, Wiley realized he needed a plan: a bucket list of things to do before he died. He didn’t know where to start. Maybe with his medical and life insurance; cancer was expensive and his medical insurance didn’t cover everything. Even if he left Amanda, he wouldn’t divorce her. He couldn’t. And he certainly wouldn’t leave her with his leftover medical bills. There wasn’t enough life insurance to cover everything if there were medical bills left.

The doctor was holding out his right hand. I’m sorry, Mr. Middleton. It has been a pleasure to meet you. If there’s anything I can do for you from here, please call.

Wiley stared at him blankly for a moment. Thanks, Doc, he finally managed to say. I appreciate your time.

***

He called a cab to take him to the airport. It was four hours until his scheduled flight. Maybe he could get an earlier flight, or maybe he’d get rip-roaring drunk. Or maybe not. Getting drunk would only make it worse. Perhaps the earlier flight was the better option, but then he would just have to face Amanda sooner. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. He felt every bit as damned as his circumstances.

***

At the airport, he learned that an earlier flight wasn’t available unless he flew standby. Sipping a double whiskey on the rocks, he waited in an airside lounge for a standby, his brain a jumble of disjointed thoughts. He noticed the bartender had switched the television behind the bar from the obligatory sports network to a movie, his favorite, Bonnie and Clyde. As the whiskey warmed his gut and dulled his brain, he idly wondered how Clyde Barrow would have reacted to a terminal diagnosis.

Hell, they had a terminal diagnosis from the very beginning, he thought. He took another sip, and could feel his headache returning.

Alcohol is as good as ibuprofen.

He took another deep drink. By flight time, he could barely stagger to the boarding gate and down the aisle to his seat.

A window seat, he thought, just my luck. I already feel like I’m caught in a straitjacket and here I am in a window seat. I guess the good thing is I can sit here and sleep with no one bothering me.

***

It wasn’t to be. The woman in the middle seat was a pastor’s wife who made it her life’s work to engage strangers in conversation and fill them in on the virtues of her husband’s church. She could smell the whiskey on Wiley’s breath, and before the plane reached cruising altitude, she had launched into the evils of alcohol and drugs and was inquiring about the salvation of Wiley’s soul. She was incensed by the two drinks Wiley ordered on the heels of her lecture, and by his raised cup and muttered "salud followed by Happy New Year." Her tight jaw had forced her to retreat into silence, punctuated with occasional sharp snippets of rhetoric aimed in his direction. By the time the plane began its descent into Tampa, he couldn’t take any more. As the plane lost altitude, and the ground came into view, he found an excuse to turn to the window and ignore her. He needed help. He pondered where he could find help, mentally counting down the list of his old friends in his mind. Where would he find help? And, help with what? He had to find a way to wrap his mind around it all.

CHAPTER 2

The Bucket List

Amanda waited anxiously while passengers walked slowly through the gateway. She could see down the arrival corridor, could pick out Wiley trudging up the loading ramp from the plane. He was near the end of the crowd. She was oblivious to the other passengers greeting one another or simply hurrying, weaving through the crowd, dragging carry-on bags behind them.

She waited patiently. Wiley was an imperfect man, but for their entire thirty-year marriage, he had been her imperfect man. She could scrub away at his imperfections, knowing that he loved her unconditionally and that no matter how hard she scrubbed, he would always come up smiling. Today, she knew as soon as she saw him that something was wrong.

He smiled when he saw her, but it was a crooked smile, one that didn’t reach eyes that seemed somehow older and lacked the luster they always had. The luster in his eyes was one of the things that had always set Wiley apart from other men. Today it was gone, replaced with a worry-wrinkled forehead and extra lines at the corners of his eyes. He wrapped her in his arms and held her with a desperation that had not been there before. What the hell was happening?

Hey, honey, welcome home, she said, kissing him.

It’s good to be home. I’m tired and I missed you.

Smelling the alcohol on his breath, Amanda drew back and looked deeply into his eyes. You do look tired. Was the trip that bad?

The woman next to me talked my ear off the whole flight. You know the kind; they can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

Knowing you, I’m sure that made your day.

It capped off the whole trip perfectly.

Well, let’s go home and I’ll see if I can make it better.

Wiley slipped his arm around her. Can we stop at Leroy Selmon’s for dinner? I’m hungry and my stomach needs food to dilute the booze.

Yeah, but why the booze?

Just a hard day, that’s all, he answered.

***

Wiley didn’t sleep that night. He and Amanda had made love into the wee hours of the morning, but it didn’t relax him. He tossed and turned, considered going downstairs and drinking until he passed out, but the idea of a worse hangover on top of one of his headaches discouraged him. Finally, he got up, went downstairs and searched through his collection of DVD movies, eventually inserting his all-time favorite, Bonnie and Clyde, into the player. Settling into his armchair with a deep sigh, he watched Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow begin their life of crime that would eventually end with their deaths at the hands of Frank Hamer, a former Texas Ranger. Sometime during the movie, he drifted off to sleep. Amanda found him there the next morning, sound asleep with a blank TV screen, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow having met their cinematic ends hours before.

Amanda brought him breakfast on a tray. She knew something was bothering him, but she also knew that if he didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t, even to her. Talking about things was one thing she particularly prized about their marriage. The challenges, and there had been many, seemed manageable when they could talk about them together. She knew he wasn’t ready to talk about whatever was bothering him now, so she minimized the pressure.

Happy New Year’s Eve, honey. I’m playing tennis with Caroline, Jen, and Deb this morning and lunch after, so I’ll see you this afternoon, she told him.

He looked up at her. Okay, have fun. Happy New Year’s Eve to you too, he said distractedly. I’ll call you later.

***

Wiley ran the shower as hot as he could stand it. He needed to wash the alcohol out of his system. More importantly, he needed to wash the taint of bad news out of his attitude and move on with what he had to do: Make a bucket list. He thought about his favorite outlaws, Bonnie and Clyde. They had little hope, few prospects, and a short life expectancy, but they had each other and a zest to live the short lives they had. He thought maybe that was the secret; maybe living one breath ahead of disaster was the secret to feeling alive. Why would dying matter, if you never felt alive? He had felt alive when he had first fallen in love with Amanda, and for thirty years after he felt alive whenever they made love, whenever they hugged, or kissed, or whenever he simply sat and watched her when she didn’t know it. If loving her made him feel alive, it wasn’t fair to bring her down by asking her to share his death.

He thought about his estranged son, Tony, the ultra-liberal in a strongly conservative household. Tony, who used his liberal beliefs to be a police officer to protect people’s rights, only to be crushed by the conservative atmosphere of a southern municipal police force; a victim of his own beliefs fleeing to work at a small liberal arts college in Oregon. Wiley shook his head. Tony and his damned ideology.

Ideology doesn’t rule the world, thought Wiley, the fucking accountants rule the world.

Tony could never get that through his thick head. The last time he’d heard from Tony, he was living in some type of commune on the West Coast.

Fuck Tony anyway, he thought. I haven’t even heard from him since he went to Oregon.

Sitting at his desk, he dug into his files until he found his insurance policies and began to read, then he did internet research until, after three or four hours, he began to feel a little better.

***

Amanda’s vibrating cell phone made the water in her glass shiver with expectation. Hello?

Hey, good lookin’, this is me sayin’ it’s New Year’s Eve, let’s go out tonight!

Wiley? Have you lost your mind? It’s too late to get reservations now!

I don’t think so! I’ve got reservations at Risotto’s. Wear your red dress. A little pasta, a little vino, a little dancing, some champagne at midnight; what do you say?

I say you’re crazy. Let’s do it tomorrow night instead.

"I say carpe diem—seize the day! It won’t be New Year’s Eve tomorrow night! C’mon, let’s break all the old habits. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die!"

Wiley, you’ve lost your marbles. If you’re determined, though, I can be ready by seven.

Seven is perfect, my love. The reservations are for seven-thirty so you’ll be right on time.

That’s good to know. I’m at lunch right now, so I need to go.

Until tonight, then! Wiley hung up.

What was that about? asked Caroline.

That was Wiley. He wants to take me to Risotto’s tonight.

You go, girl! It’s New Year’s Eve and you tried to put him off ‘til tomorrow? I’d kill for a chance to go to Risotto’s on any day of the week! I could screw Ron silly every day for a month and he still wouldn’t take me to Risotto’s.

It’s not Wiley’s kind of place. It’s something he’d never do, and that bothers me.

***

True to her word, Amanda was ready by seven. Her red silk dress fit like a glove, matched perfectly by her shoes and purse. Wiley found driving tough; he kept glancing at her sitting beside him in the passenger seat.

She’s still as beautiful as the day I married her, he thought.

Why do you keep staring at me? Amanda asked.

Because you’re so beautiful!

Bull crap, Wiley. Sunsets are beautiful, flowers are beautiful. To you, a six-pack of beer is beautiful. I’m just a woman wrapped in a red dress.

Yeah, like a red-wrapped Christmas package Santa left under the tree!

Wiley, we’ve been married thirty years. There are no surprises wrapped in this package.

Maybe not, but I love seeing you wear that dress and you never know how many times I’ll get to see it.

What’s wrong with you? Why are you thinking that way? I’ll wear the dress anytime you want.

You’re wearing it tonight; that’s what’s important. Let’s think about that, okay?

Whatever, Wiley. You go right ahead and enjoy the dress. I’m going to enjoy the food and the dancing.

***

Amanda lay in bed watching minute dust particles dancing in the sunshine that peeked through the bedroom blinds. It amazed her how little she was aware of what was in the air she breathed. She could still feel Wiley’s hands on her body from the night before. She shuddered slightly, relishing the memory, getting a little excited at the feelings the thoughts brought to mind. Her nipples rose. Where was Wiley? He wasn’t in bed with her. He should be there, in bed, teasing her and getting her ready. She sat up in bed, wanting him and listening for the sound of running water from the bathroom.

If he’s in the shower, there’s company coming, she thought.

There was no water running. The bathroom door was standing wide open. Wiley never went into the bathroom without at least partially closing it. He must be downstairs.

Amanda got out of bed and crossed to the bathroom, passing her dressing table on the way. There she saw a handwritten note. Trembling, she picked it up and read:

Dearest Amanda,

I know there is nothing that I can say that will make you understand why I am not here this morning. Know that I am facing something that I must deal with alone. For me to involve you would be selfish and unfair to you.

What you need to hold in your heart is that you have