Time On the Fly: You Never Know What You Might Find Around the Next Bend!

By Paul Richardson

Italian by heritage, Australian by birth, a longtime resident of the United States, Antonio Vincini considers himself successful. He’s worked hard to become an internationally sought after financial adviser. He’s accumulated the trimmings of success, and at the age of thirty-six, Tony has everything he thinks a man could want. His world changes dramatically when he moves to the Fly River in the Western Province of Papua New Guinea. Tony anticipates the move, to fulfill a commitment to his now-deceased father, will be mundane and tedious. However, when he arrives, he’s confronted with unforeseen experiences. As well as being on an emotional roller coaster, he’s embroiled in undercover criminal activity, the type that may cost him his life. A year in Papua New Guinea teaches Tony about his father, his family, and love. As a rookie river man, a novice family man, and an estranged son, Tony learns much during his time on the Fly, mostly about himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483477763

Paul Richardson

Paul Richardson owns and manages a small farm and vineyard in western Spain. He is also the author of Our Lady of the Sewers and Other Adventures in Deep Spain, Cornucopia: A Gastronomic Tour of Britain, Indulgence: One Man's Selfless Search for the Best Chocolate in the World, and Williams-Sonoma Barcelona.

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RICHARDSON

Copyright © 2017 Paul Richardson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7777-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7776-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017918261

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 12/7/2017

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Italian by heritage, Australian by birth, but a longtime resident of the United States, Tony Vincini had worked hard to become an acclaimed financial adviser. At the age of thirty-six he enjoyed the trimmings of success. He lived in a luxurious Miami apartment. He drove a fast European car. Glamorous women played along with him, and his bank balance was the envy of most. Despite such a high profile existence, Tony’s life was superficial. Although he hadn’t realized it at the time, he longed for something more.

Following a family tragedy, Tony suspended his career and moved to Papua New Guinea. Cleverly arranged by his estranged father, Tony realized that spending time on the Fly River would prove to be a financial windfall. In the end it did make him a richer person, but in more ways than he had imagined possible.

Tony’s perception of the world changed the moment he arrived in PNG. He met people he never knew existed. He struggled with new and unexpected relationships. He tried to appreciate why his father had been such a different person after he had moved to the Fly. Most importantly, Tony tried to understand the notion of family, and the emotions it unlocked in him.

As well the captivating lifestyle that soon emerged, and his growing connections with the people who had become part of it, Tony found himself in the middle of a criminal operation that had been taking place under everyone’s nose. It almost cost him his life.

As a rookie river man, a novice family man, and an alienated son, Tony Visconti learned a lot during his time on the Fly. But most importantly, he learned about himself.

Whether you move with the flow or against it, you never know what you might find around the next bend.

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Also written by Paul Richardson

Diggin’ the Dancing Queen: An Adventure in the Land of the Unexpected.

Image1MudmapofDaPiskatoriRetreatlarger.jpgImage2HanddrawnmapofPapuaNewGuinea300larger.jpg

The Fly River is in Papua New Guinea. The land it flows through is renowned for its beauty, cultural diversity, and of course, fishing.

While the languages of the Western Province of Papua New Guinea are many and diverse, the language spoken by Papua New Guinean characters in this book is English with hints of Tok Pisin. Both are prominent languages throughout Papua New Guinea. The author acknowledges that languages other than English and Tok Pisin are also spoken along the Fly River.

Prologue

I T IS INTRIGUING THE WAY the human brain responds when it has less than a minute to live. Only this natural super-computer is capable of processing such a cornucopia of thought and emotion within a shard of time.

The immediate threat was the gun. If held steady on discharge, it would deliver the bullet’s maximum impact between the eyes. Equally, the aggression and determination in the stance of the gun holder heightened the situation. In calculating the realities it faced, this brain deduced that neither flight nor fight were options. After the initial involuntary swallowing and throat clearing coughs that followed the unexpected impact, the brain calculated that the lagoon water he had been pushed into, was warm and inviting despite the predatory dangers that lurked within. As it processed the reality of an almost certain death, it took in the clear and paling twilight sky behind the gunman, rich and earthly orange-pink, a tell-tale sign that tomorrow was bound to be a beautiful day. It chastised itself for such superfluous cerebral banter as it calculated that tomorrow was abstract, not needing contemplation, since a microsecond after the flash from the barrel, it would cease to be. The loss of its capacity to convert predictive thought into action would be terminal.

The brain didn’t generate emotion in this intensified state, but it let a barrage of thoughts, ideas, and reactive iterations pulse through its every room. It became introspective as it marveled at the complexities of its capabilities, but accepted, as a result of the pending shot that body-shock and oxygen deprivation would over power its might and shut it down.

Throughout its long existence it had lived content with the acceptance there would be no after-life when its time was up. Death would render it useless. Although at this critical moment it lamented the logic it had created during more rational times. It did sneak the faint hope of an out-of-body experience. It yearned for a semblance of a spirit which may rise up above the ensuing lifelessness that was soon to be left floating in an expanding water cloud of blood.

The expression of the aggressor on the pontoon was fearful, aggressive, distended and alarmingly intense. Perhaps the secret was even greater than either of them imagined. The one in the water knew too much and now, it seemed, as he waited silently, he was going to die because of them. He had tried to bargain before the scuffle, and had assured the anxious gunman that the secret would be kept, but obviously the man above him had not been convinced. He had thought they had been amicable business partners. Each benefited from the relationship. They had had many productive conversations in the past. The two of them had made many favorable deals. Now it had come out that one side of the partnership had been a front for what were much higher stakes than hosting clients’ fishing adventures. The verbal exchange had broken down. His longtime associate had become aggressive. In an off-balance moment he had succumbed to an unanticipated push and tumbled head first into the darkening murkiness beside the pontoon.

His arms rotated under the surface as he steadied himself in the tepid water. He took in what he accepted were about to be his last moments of life. He could feel the ooze of the mud between his toes as he managed to scrape at the bottom with a steadying treading motion. He was surprised at how calm and controlled he was as his brain managed the situation. One of its final faithful tasks was to support its sixty-seven year old body and allow the man the dignity of mental clarity and confidence, even in the face of death.

It didn’t have total control of him. In a reversion to an adolescent accent, he said, "Vai avanti allora signore, farlo in fretta! Get this matter over with if you must. If I have to spend my last living moments in this swamp, make them short."

The grip on the hand-gun tightened. Bushy eye-brows came together to assist the focus. The aim became direct.

But the one on the pontoon did not fire.

The one in the water said, Come on. You can trust me. Do you want to add murder to your list of lifetime achievements?

Without emotion the gunman said, I am sorry old man. I am not a natural killer, but I cannot allow you to share the secret. You must understand. There isn’t any other way?

The mind in the water again took over in a last desperate attempt at self-preservation.

It prompted him to say, as it tried to salvage reason from the humility, I am sure we could come to an agreement. I have copious amounts of cash. How much do you want? One million? Two million? Name your price.

My price is my dignity and my reputation. Besides, if what you know ever gets out to the world, I am a dead man. So I have a choice. It is either you or me. As you can see, I have chosen me.

The man on the pontoon tightened his grip on the gun. His back stiffened. His right eye closed. His left squinted to perfect his aim. He put his left hand onto his right to steady the barrel. His arm shook. His left leg shook. I am sorry old man, as I said, there isn’t any other way.

But there was another way.

The gunman lowered his barrel and relaxed. The shaking stopped. His narrowed eyes opened to a wide-eyed smile.

The swimmer felt a wave of relief. At last you have come to your senses. You know I will not tell anyone about this.

It seems luck is on my side more than it is on yours. I will not have to live with your murder on my conscience after all. It seems I will be able to allow you to die naturally my friend.

The swimmer sighed. His brain remained alert. This sudden reprieve invoked caution. He said, "Grazie, and yes I intend my passing, when nature does take its course, will be many years from now."

The gunman remained calm. He looked out beyond the swimmer. Bye my friend. It is a shame you couldn’t leave our little arrangement the way it was. He turned. He walked back toward the store shed.

The man in the water called out after him. Let me get out and dry myself. We can talk this through. I am sure we can continue to do business. The man on the pontoon stopped his ambling. He looked back over his shoulder. He grimaced. He held his breath. He watched as the man in the water began to stroke toward the timber pontoon. He watched the sudden change in the stroking action.

The pull backwards confused the swimmer’s focused mind. It was unexpected. It was silent. It was aggressive. The swimmer’s head was dragged under the water. He thrashed his arms to keep his airway above the surface. Flight and fight were simultaneous. Instinct overcame him. Adrenalin filled his age-worn muscles. It forced out a burst of energy reminiscent of a youthful past. But it was no match for the might and force that had taken him. His legs were being crushed. He was being twisted and rolled like he was caught in the vortex of a giant agitator. There was pain but his mind suppressed it. It had programmed his body for fear: it might be able to think better that way. The grip on his leg released. Pain stabbed at it, a conflict for his brain. The grip came in on his body again. This time it was around his hips. He could hear bones crunching. They were his. He was pulled down. He floated up. His body felt lighter. His right leg was missing. Shock began to shut him down. His brain forced a final blast of consciousness, but waves of euphoria swept through him. The pain was there but his brain suppressed the sensation. Hurting was irrelevant in the circumstance. For now he had to get away. The grip tightened. He was twisted again. The pressure on his chest was immense. His head and shoulders were thrown about like a dog tugging at a rag. He gasped for air but he couldn’t breathe. He sucked at the water. Below the surface he could hear the thrash and the splash of the manic maelstrom that had consumed him. There were deep guttural grunts within the murkiness.

He drifted in and out of consciousness. His brain kept updating itself as it assessed each macabre reality. Loss of limbs and loss of blood had to mean loss of life. It told itself to accept the mortality it was experiencing. His eyes lost focus but continued to register the orange glow of the evening sky and the silhouette of the adversary watching on. Yes, if death was to be by natural causes, the man on the pontoon could live on guilt free. It would be a perfect outcome.

In a last cognitive reflex the brain contemplated the aftermath. There were bound to be questions about why the end had come in such a gruesome but careless manner. It was out of character for this experienced river man.

Someone was sure to work out this was not an accident.

Surely an investigation into his death would find . . …

The lifeless torso disappeared beneath the surface, wedged in enormous jaws. The human head lolled at the end of tattered flesh, tossed in the turbidity of the current created by the spasmodic flicks of an enormous leathery tail. His remains would be consumed, brain and all.

Chapter 1

T HE CANARY YELLOW CONVERTIBLE CRUISED casually through the clutter of Miami traffic. The smooth eight-cylinder accentuated the sun swathed Florida afternoon. It headed north along Collins Avenue in a traffic-light staccato commute toward 83 rd Street and the Sunset Apartments. The car was a statement of the driver’s success. The exhaust note suggested power. The polished shine of the sleek rounded panel work advertised its driver’s capacity to partake in such indulgences. To his right, her free-flowing blond hair comet-tailed through and around the passenger seat head-rest. The scrolling streetscape reflections in the Fendi sunglasses hid the contentment of her eyes. Glacier blue sapphires swung from her lobes. The chunky rose-gold choker wavered in rhythm with the subtleness of a finely tuned suspension and augmented the sun soaked pigmentation and shimmer of her bare-shouldered Caucasian skin. She was further evidence of his personal success. At fleeting second to third gear changes, or during burbling fourth to third decelerated intersection approaches, the pedestrians they passed easily deduced that, for the couple in the open top car, life treated them well.

And it did.

The journey was short on conversation but it didn’t detract from the playfulness in the car. She knew her skirt had ridden up her slender legs to expose a swatch of red satin. The bend of her knees and the angle of her legs, as they straddled the brown paper fashion-store bag on the red-carpeted floor in front of her, widened the triangle, and teased his intermittent glances to the right. It was a game she played and enjoyed. It was a game he played and enjoyed. When the road was clear and smooth enough for safe wheel control, or if they were stationery at traffic lights, he slid his right hand up her left thigh. It was slapped away the moment it reached the white material of her skirt. If she felt generous, his hand reached the smoothness of the red between her legs. At that point she pretended to be embarrassed. She scolded him for his boldness. His hand was whipped away to rest back on the steering wheel. It reconnected with her leg after the next gear shift or lane change, and the game continued.

His ability to create wealth as a financial adviser was appreciated by his clients. It was also appreciated by the casual partners he entertained, like the one who sat beside him. She knew this relationship was not long term, but if she continued to live in the moment it didn’t matter. With him, life was flirtatious, entertaining, and materially rewarding, even if she played the role of a glamorous sidekick. It got her into social circles. It gave her connections. It allowed her to indulge in the niceties of life and, most importantly, enjoy herself. She knew he searched for more. There was intensity, ambition and purpose in everything he did. She knew, while she was part of his immediate intimacies and companionship, she was not the first woman who had slept in his bed, and she would not be the last. In the meantime she took life day to day, lived for the moment, loved the lavishness, and enjoyed the games they played.

During the third round of this current game the phone rang. The music in the car was replaced by the amplified ringtone of his cell phone. His right hand slipped up off her thigh and pressed at the phone icon in the steering wheel arm.

The ringing stopped.

He didn’t know where the hands-free microphone was in modern motor vehicles so when he answered the phone while driving, he spoke louder than necessary, usually to the steering wheel.

Hello!

There were muffled scratchy noises, but no evidence of human interaction.

Hello, he repeated.

More noise, then tentatively, Tony?

"Maggie! Come è mia bella sorella?" His dark hair, olive complexion and classically handsome facial features complemented his northern Italian DNA, but his accent was raspy and distinctly Australian.

Hello?

Maggie, yes this is Tony. Can you hear me?

Oh, hello Antonio, it’s Margharita.

Margharita, wow that’s formal. Last time I heard you called that name was at your wedding.

Sorry, it is a formal call.

Must be. I am sure you wouldn’t be calling at six in the morning Auckland time just to say hello. What is the weather like across the ditch? How is Andrew? And the kids? How are they?

They are well. Tony I need to talk to you about Papà.

Dad. That old bugger? What about him? I sent him three text messages this week, and he hasn’t replied to any of them. Probably too busy, or buggered from having too much of a good time with that bimbo he shacked up with.

Like father like son. How many bimbos have you shacked up with this week? Have you still got the lanky blonde hanging off your elbow? Or have you moved on, maybe a brunette for a change?

He looked to his right. She was offended but managed a vengeful smile. She raised her voice and said, the barb controlled but condescending. Hello Maggie, it is Carly. Yes I am still around. Tony is persevering with the lanky blonde. He is being very good to me. I have had sex three times already this week. When is the last time you got lucky?

There was no response through the speakers.

The driver looked at the passenger.

Disbelief.

The passenger looked at the driver, and in response to the fire that flared from his penetrating stare, she removed her sunglasses and said, What?

You can’t say that to my sister!

Why not man? She called me a bimbo. If she wants to call me a bimbo I might just as well behave like one. Why not complement your over-posh Kiwi sister’s mental picture with some verbal realities? Beside it’s true.

I don’t care if it is true! You can’t say those sorts of things to my sister!

I will repeat. Why not?

Because she is my sister. Now put your legs together and show a bit of a respect.

Me? Respect! What about her? She is the one who called me a bimbo! Carly’s mouth remained open for some time. It closed. Her lips tightened. With a slap of her inner thighs she shuffled in the seat. Her elbow moved up to the window sill. Her right forearm was at an angle. She propped her head and nursed her frustrated mind, and her dented ego. She stared out toward the intermittent file of pedestrians on the sidewalk.

She said, Asshole.

He said, I heard that.

The car’s speakers crackled and said, I heard it too!

He spoke to the steering wheel. Sorry about that Maggie.

The international conversation continued. No, my bad, I didn’t realize you had her in the car.

No, I will apologize. I am sorry. She shouldn’t have said stuff like that to you. It was uncalled for. It is not true and Carly was being a bitch.

Tony, I don’t care if it is true. Good luck to her and good luck to you if it is. I am not interested in your sex life. So can we get back to why I called?

But she didn’t. Apart from muffled sounds the phone line was quiet. The convertible had traveled a full city block before Margharita spoke. The passenger remained silent and sullen and stared into the sidewalk crowd. Driver gear changes tweaked the tachometer. Exhaust rumbles crackled under his aggression. When the voice came through the speakers it was composed and purposeful, but full of anxiety. Previous comments from both sides of the connection either ignored or dismissed.

Tony. Margharita hesitated. The warmth of the Atlantic breeze, the bustle of the traffic, and the summery feel of the open top car couldn’t suppress the anticipation created by her voice.

Tony became serious. Maggie, what’s up? The passenger turned to look at the driver.

Through the speakers, Tony it is about Papà.

What about him?

Well, he couldn’t reply to your messages. The waver in her voice pre-empted what she had to say.

Tony’s body tensed and alerted his emotions. He waited.

Tony. Papà is dead.

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It took considerable concentration to re-adjust but, by the time he had crossed the Gateway Bridge, he felt he could manage to keep the hire car safely to the left. Fortunately the drive through to Miami was along a dual carriageway and would annul the habitual tendency he may harbor to drive the car on the right. He struggled to keep the BMW at one-hundred rather than the sixty he was used to driving at in Florida. Kilometers and miles were initially confused on this antipodean road trip. The satellite navigation map in the panel to his left indicated he was on the right road heading the right way and going to the right place.

Antonio Vincini was going home. Well, he was going to his mother’s home. It used to be his home. With his sister now living in New Zealand, his father long departed from Australia, and his mother, the petulant self-indulged woman she had grown to be, he had not ventured back to the Gold Coast for many years.

Tony found it amusing that he had grown up in Miami, Australia, and after several career advancing moves, now lived in Miami, Florida. While it was an annoyance when post codes, zip codes, and sometimes countries were mixed up, he found great joy in the confusion the situation caused his friends and business associates. Many of them questioned how a person who declared he grew up in Miami could have such a broad Australian accent. He had a rehearsed response. It included lessons on geography, opinions of American ignorance, and defense of the Australian town planners who had named a place in Australia the same as what was considered by most to be the real Miami. Regardless of the confusion, he was comfortable with his present lifestyle. He was proud of his achievements. His work had brought him success. He was valued by his clients, respected by his peers, and because of his casual spendthrift ways, popular with the many women eager and willing to be part of his life.

This contentment had been shattered. Initially it was not the fact his father was dead. Tony had accepted his parents’ mortality and had subconsciously prepared himself for such inevitability throughout his adult years. Living so far away from loved ones as he did, he had guarded himself against any guilt for doing so. It was the suddenness of it that had upset him and more to the point, the way in which his father had died which had shaken him. Papà had been fit and healthy. He had been living out his dreams. He was an experienced river man. He knew and respected crocodiles. To be taken by one didn’t make sense.

Tony had been summoned to a family gathering to hear the reading of his father’s Last Will and Testament. With such a large estate which consisted of bonds, shares, a huge property portfolio, unknown bank deposits, and unimaginable bank vaulted safe-box curios, it was sure to be an interesting meeting. With the only known beneficiaries of his father’s wealth being his sister, his mother and himself, Tony had already contemplated being the recipient of an inheritance that would make him a very wealthy man.