The Emperors of Cabrillo Boulevard

By Harris T. Vincent

The three notorious Santa Barbara sailors…Tom, Ernie and Emmet are back and once again wreaking havoc and inadvertently uncovering clandestine plots in this third adventure by Harris T. Vincent. Only this time the action takes place in Paris, France.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483450681

Harris T. Vincent

Harris T. Vincent is a former advertising and publishing executive who has sailed most of his life. He has sailed in regattas in Santa Barbara, Bermuda, Hawaii and most recently sailed a sloop down through the Grenadine islands in the Caribbean. Although this work depicts an epic sailing journey, it is also a suspense filled thriller teeming with mystical elements and supernatural beings. In addition to being a salty sailor, Harris is an avid tennis and squash player.

Book preview

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THE INVADERS AND THE HUMMER

"The Invaders...their destination, the Earth...alien beings from a dying planet...their purpose...to make it their world. David Vincent has seen them...

How does a nightmare begin? For David Vincent it began one lost night on a lonely country road looking for a shortcut he never found. It began with a closed deserted diner and a man too long without sleep to continue his journey. It began with the landing of a craft from another galaxy. Now David Vincent knows that the invaders are here. They've taken human form and now somehow he must convince an unbelieving world that the nightmare has already started!"

Ernie hit pause on his MacBook laptop and placed it on the side table next to the La-Z Boy recliner. Time for another brew before the next episode he said to himself. The 1968 television series The Invaders had always been one of his favorites and he had recently discovered its availability on the internet. And after the incredulous journey back from Ensenada eight years ago, he wasn't so sure anymore whether this TV series didn't just foreshadow what was happening in the country today and not just a fictitious once a week hourly entertainment for America back then.

Pushing the lift switch downward with a brisk movement that practically launched him out of the iconic recliner, he landed on his feet like he had just completed a triple salchow. And waving his arms like Baryshnikov exiting stage right, he briskly danced his way through the arched kitchen doorway toward the new Sub Zero 650 which housed all of his worldly food items...two sixes of Stella Artois beer, a half empty bottle of Patron Tequila and some martini olives.

Pulling the door open swiftly with his right arm, he leaned into the fridge and grabbed the bottle of Patron with his left hand and then a Stella with his right just as his iPhone went off back in the living room.

Shoot...never fails he grumbled to himself as he slammed the two bottles back down on the granite counter and sprinted back to answer his cell.

Picking it up, he could see it was Tom calling. Yo, Nesto here... s'up dawg?

Ernie, what the hell are you doing? You do realize what day this is, don't you?"

Yep, it's Tuesday...so?

Ernie, what have you been smoking? It's not Tuesday, it's Wednesday.

Oh yeah, I knew that?

A deep sigh could be heard on the other end before Tom responded. "Right...well then you do realize that it's Wet Wednesday and the gun goes off in an hour and that we are on the boat waiting for your nautical expertise to arrive with your obviously already inebriated brain?"

I'm not inebriated yet. I was just preparing my evening cocktail.

"At 3:30 in the afternoon you're preparing your evening cocktail?"

Well... yeh...

Just get your butt down here ASAP, Ernie! Emmet and I are waiting.

Aye, aye captain...I'm on my way.

And bring the Jag down to the Marina. I'll need it tomorrow.

Well, aren't we in a wonderful mood today? No problem, Tomaish, Consider it done" he said as he clicked off the iPhone.

Waltzing back into the kitchen, he repatriated the bottles back into the fridge. I guess we'll catch you guys later he said as he slammed the refrigerator door. Now, where are my keys? he asked himself as he scanned the room. Ah, there they are. Betsy has them. he said as his eyes drifted towards the back door.

There, mounted on the kitchen wall by the door was a foot long plastic replica of a bikinied beach bunny in a reclining position. She was smiling lasciviously and exhibited long blonde locks that flowed sensuously over a huge pair of boobs skimpily wrapped in a red bikini top. Her right arm was bent at the elbow and the first finger of her right hand was held upright as if beckoning. And dangling from this object d'art like a limp Christmas tree ornament were Ernie's keys.

Thanks doll face he said as he snatched the keys from the come hither appendage on his way out the door. Once relieved of the weight of the keys, Betsy's arm suddenly snapped back into an upright position and an electric alarm bell went off from somewhere inside her voluptuous exterior. And like an over hyper fire truck, the bell resounded repeatedly with a sharp 'ding ding ding' as her boobs began to alternately flash off and on like a railroad crossing signal.

My kinda gal said Ernie as he ran down the stairs outside the back door and leapt into the front seat of the 1973 Jaguar convertible XKE Roadster OTS in primrose yellow which Tom had purchased at the Concours d'Elegance at the Santa Barbara Polo & Racquet Club the previous weekend.

Turning over the 3.4 liter flat line six, he jammed the round mahogany shift lever into reverse and floored the gas pedal. Flying out of the garage in reverse at break neck speed, he turned the wheel just in time to avoid smashing into the century old fig tree which stood implacably rooted in the median between the garage and the far side of the street. Friggin' tree needs to go he mumbled to himself. That things a hazard to safe drivers like moi. Slamming it into first gear, he pointed the classic vehicle down Micheltorena and took off like a bat on crack out of hell for the Mission freeway entrance leading to the Castillo exit. Roaring onto the freeway, he saw there was minimal traffic and by weaving in and out of sporadic congestion like a psycho banana, he made the Castillo Street off ramp in record time.

Speeding down the ramp at 40 mph, he fishtailed onto C Street and headed the Jag toward the marina. Flying over the railroad tracks before the Cabrillo turnoff, he could see that the light was yellow and just about to turn red. No worries, Nesto...you can make it he said to himself emphatically as he put the pedal to the medal and slammed the gearshift into third.

Approaching the light at warp speed, he downshifted into second and began to swing into the turn just as the light turned red. And just as he began to turn, he saw something foreboding out of the corner of his eye.

Ah...mmm...maybe I misjudged this a little he said to himself apprehensively There on his left, speeding through the light and bearing down on the little yellow Jag like a raging armored locomotive was a black Hummer H2, the driver of which was laying on the horn, obviously determined to assert his road dominance by demolishing any vehicle in his way, if necessary.

Realizing that Tom's new chic magnet was nanoseconds away from total obliteration, Ernie hit the brakes hard and quickly pulled the wheel left, causing the Jag to swing it's back end around sharply in a counter clockwise maneuver that resulted in the Hummer just missing it by millimeters. Laying on the horn and flipping Ernie off, the black bearded driver continued speeding down Cabrillo Blvd. like a T-Rex on crank, tailgating and hovering over any vehicles that would not get out of his way fast enough.

Deciding it best to pull over for a breather after the close call, Ernie quickly swerved the Jag into the East Beach Grill parking lot and switched off the engine. That was frggin' close he thought. Who was that dickhead, I wonder? Turning around and focusing on the fading black metallic aberration tearing its way down Cabrillo Blvd., he noticed that he could still make out some writing on the backside of it. And as he focused his eyes, he could just barely make out what appeared to be some sort of name and logo on the rear door wheel cover of the black monstrosity. The logo was the outline of a house with a gold coin on the interior over which laid a dollar sign. And over the logo, subscribed in an arc in gold were the words Got House? And beneath this cheesy attempt at creative marketing were the words Tab Vesco Real Estate.

Ernie had just had his first close encounter with Santa Barbara's most notorious and wealthiest entrepreneur. It was a brief encounter but also was one that would set off a series of events that eventually would change not only the destiny of this snoozy little California beach town but also eventually that of the entire world.

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THE FBI AGENT AND OPERATION MALICIOUS MORTGAGE

The Santa Barbara Newspaper headline was on page one with the masthead. It read:

FBI Mortgage Fraud Cases Involve Drug Gangs,

Organized Crime and Nets Hundreds!

FBI Special Agent Lynne Marris leaned forward and rubbed her temples. She was exhausted and hungry and it was 3:00 in the morning. She had managed to get through about half of the 100 or so case files that she had been assigned to review on Operation Malicious Mortgage and was due to report on first thing in the morning to her superior at headquarters.

Good God, why me? she asked. It was the same question she had asked herself many times over the years. I'm supposed to be a paranormal psychologist, not a desk jockey. I never should have taken that assignment in Ensenada seven years ago she groaned just as a text message chimed on her iphone. It was Peter Harrison and the text read Are you up? She hit the call back button and Peter answered immediately.

So you can't sleep either? he asked.

No, it has nothing to do with not being able to sleep. I'm just pushing papers again as usual...important meeting in the morning.

Shame...sounds frightfully boring.

It is, believe me! What's keeping you up?

I got a call from Stephanie.

So?

It's Christian. She got an email from him. If Echelon tracked it, they may have alerted Lamply and the Committee. They may know he's alive now.

Bloody hell, that's not good.

Yes, well, if Echelon intercepted the email Christian's life is in danger. After seven years it would appear Christian let his guard down a little.

But sending an email from Paris? You'd think they would ignore it. It's not like that country is a military threat exactly.

'Lamply somehow still has the heat on. He must still think Christian has the original documentation that will fry his bum if it's ever released. And now, more than ever, because he's head of IGA, he will do everything he can to get his hands on Christian if he discovers that he's alive."

And if they do find him, Lamply will surely eliminate him and then our ass is grass.

It's a bit dodgy, indeed. That piece of documentation which he thinks Christian has is the only thing that stands between us and Lamply's firing squad.

Wow...seriously Peter...now what?

What say we meet tomorrow at the usual place...say around noon?

I guess so...alright, I'll see you then she said with a sigh.

Bon nuit...

Seven years had flown by and not without a certain degree of paranoia. It had been an incredible journey from there to here and she could write a book about that journey but no one would believe it. In fact, no one did believe it. Her superiors didn't believe her report on the Ensenada assignment and as a consequence, she was given leave time to undergo psychological evaluation resulting in the Bureau relegating her duties strictly to research and statistical investigations. A demon from another dimension, magical tablets, a black relic of a flower that has the power to curse people and allegations against the Vice President of the United States that he was involved in a nuclear materials smuggling scheme was too much for anyone to believe. No good deed goes unpunished she had thought many times over the years.

And the rest of her law enforcement comrades on the Ensenada adventure had met with similar responses from their various agencies. Curious lateral movements within their departments or suspicious terminations had been the result of their reports.

It was a story that no one was willing to believe. As a result, the four had formed a sort of secret coterie in their continuing efforts to thwart the spreading cancer that the invaders had injected into the political fabric of American society.

Christian, upon his return to Sweden realized he was being followed. Then after exiting a night club one night he was accosted by two thugs with black jacks and was saved only by a fire alarm which had gone off nearby drawing the authorities. He knew someone was trying to kill him and he had to go underground or stage a mock fatal accident to save his own life.

I can't do this anymore. she thought to herself. I better get some sleep she said as she straightened the last file of the night and stuffed it into her brief case.

Clicking off the Stiffel lamp, she arose from the Rococo Revival parlor chair which she had found at a Georgetown garage sale and began to make her way from the study through her early 18th century antique laden living room to the contemporary loft above which housed her Serta Suite Dreams Mattress and box spring set smothered in plush downy comforters and innumerable billowing pillows.

That bed is going to feel so good she thought as she began to climb the winding staircase leading to her boudoir.

But as she reached the first step, a sudden white light flashed in her brain and she sensed an image. Being a paranormal, she had these occurrences frequently but usually they were little more than glimpses of what the next day's mundane activities might have waiting for her. But this one was different. It was a beatific and colorful image. The image she perceived was one of a blend of magnificent colors and light. And the image seared a word in her brain like a Circle Bar B brand on a heifer. The word she perceived was Baudy.

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THE REGATTA

The black Hummer flew into the left turn lane. Ignoring the red light, it banked left blasting its way into the intersection at Harbor Way. As cars and trucks honked and screeched to a halt to avoid a crash, Tab Vesco flipped them off and completed his one man assault on the parking lot with a wheelie lunge at the marina parking gate. Sensing that some sort of mad man was about to destroy the gate arm, the gate guard managed to raise it just in time to avoid a collision that might have launched it into the stratosphere.

Screw that stupid gate he screamed. Howling with laughter, he maneuvered the black behemoth into a handicapped parking space, making sure that two spaces would be occupied at once. Throwing the shifter into park, he reached beneath the seat, pulled out a bogus handicapped card and tossed it on the dash. The Nazis had the right idea he thought. Eliminate the weak and the disabled. Now let's go win this regatta, Vesco.

Swinging open the door he placed his size 13 shoe on the side step and leapt to the ground. Slamming the door with a loud bang, he hit the remote lock and made his way to the breakwater sidewalk where he proceeded to crash his way through the pedestrians there like a juiced up Oakland tailback playing in the Super Bowl.

Outta my way, I'm in a hurry he yelled as people moved to the side thinking he was some sort of psychotic fugitive from Shrekville. Reaching Marina 1, he inserted his key and threw open the metallic blue wrought iron gate with a force that nearly knocked a sailor and his girlfriend who were on the