Parker Strip

By Jeff Osterhage

Hot. Wet. Wild. If this erotic thriller had a mood gauge, itd read redline scorch and the mercury just keeps soaring as this torrid summer mind-bender scrapes nerves raw and hormones ragged.
Its peak vacation season on the beautiful, fifteen-mile stretch of the warm Colorado River, better known as Parker Strip, where short-tempered sheriff JIMMY WITCHITAW suddenly wakes up with a mysteriously brutal homicide on his hands. Unfortunately his only leads are a bloody, four-way trail of morbid retribution splayed out by...
...vengeful crime boss NICK SARVINO...
...loose-cannon FBI agent RICHARD CANAVERAL...
...the beautiful, lust-filled mob lawyer CLARITY CARLYSLE...
...and a viscous pack of heavily-armed tribal ghostriders
known as
THE HELLHAWK FREEDOM FIGHTERS...
...all of whom drive this normally peaceful resort town into a twisted labyrinth of high-voltage vengeance, power-driven greed and brain-scorching seduction.
Inspired by true events, Parker Strip is an explosive, thought-provoking confrontation of ultimate human deception on the level of Body Heat, L.A. Confidential and Two Days In The Valley.
KIRKUS REVIEWS
Osterhage excels at making the various storylines fall into step...
An endlessly diverting crime story featuring a wide array of characters and subplots.
...thoroughly detailed... ...wonderful interplay...
...shocking turns.
...continually teases an inevitable confrontation before delivering a blistering coda.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504928977

Jeff Osterhage

Jeff Osterhage is an actor best known for his starring roles in the Louis L’Amour classic western films “The Sacketts” and “The Shadow Riders”. He also starred in the films “South Of Reno”, “Taken By Force” and Edgar Allan Poe’s “Masque Of The Red Death” among many others...plus he played the lead role in the Universal Studios series “The New Dragnet” for 52 episodes. He’s been submitted to The Academy Of Television Arts And Sciences for an Emmy nomination and is honored in both the Oklahoma City Cowboy Hall Of Fame and the Gene Autry Western Heritage Museum for his many performances. He’s the author of a dozen screenplays and is an accomplished drummer, sculpture and painter published in “Actors As Artists”.

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© 2015 Jeff Osterhage. All rights reserved.

Interior Graphics/Art Credit: Jeff Osterhage

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/02/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2896-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2728-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2897-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015912941

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.

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.

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About the Author

Thanks to my dear sweet Gloria, whose patience,

support and unwavering encouragement helped

me pursue my dream.

And thanks to Captain Ray Edey, whose valuable input

added to the process, but most importantly

for introducing me to the beautiful Parker Strip

vacation spot in the first place.

1

Hot. Wet. Wild. Sizzling waves of tan bodies roasted dark in the midsummer heat, as thousands of sun-worshipping ‘river rats’ reached ultimate bake down on this fifteen-mile stretch of warm Colorado River water, better known as Parker Strip. Bikinis, boats, bars, booze, if there was a mood gauge in this paradise it would’ve registered ‘redline scorch’…and the mercury just kept climbing. Wave runners kissed white lace crests of turquoise swells. Topless beauties flaunted oil-slicked flesh across jet boat bows. Margarita soaked barflies rocked out to the throb of sax-driven blues perched along floating, shoreline cantinas.

Far upriver, through a two-mile, cliff-lined divide, referred to by the locals as ‘Dog Leg Rocks’, a high-powered, twin-turbo Scarab, with a twenty-foot roostertail, approached at a fast rate. The pilot was Jay Fallbrook, a seventy-six-year-old venture capitalist - powerful, shrewd and extremely charismatic - the quintessential CEO, with all the charm of an Italian matinee idol. He was a man’s man who would never hesitate to reach half way to heaven to guarantee a good time was had by one and all. When Mr. Fallbrook needed something done, however, it got done quick, if not by generous fiscal persuasion, then by strong physical diplomacy. He closed contracts quicker than Gotti closed coffins, and actually closed a few dozen himself during his early years with the mob.

This gentle giant had been raised just beyond the shadows of traditional, underworld corruption until one rainy afternoon on the sidewalk outside the restaurant of his sixteenth birthday party, when his father got whacked by a misguided, contract killer who had inadvertently been issued the wrong assignment. The devastated teenager was so enraged, he twisted his grandfather’s mob-soaked arm until the old guy finally taught him everything there was to know about fundamental, selective exenteration, and it didn’t take long before that misguided, contract killer lost his lower intestines along the edge of Fallbrook’s ten-inch, split-toothed, saber blade.

And that was only the beginning, because not only did the angry sixteen-year-old eventually seek out and execute the unapologetic mobster who had carried out the erroneous hit, but he made damn sure the guy’s equally guilty cousin paid a price by amputating both his hands, to serve, in Fallbrook’s words, ‘as a walking billboard’ announcing a new arrival in the unforgiving, incendiary world of organized crime.

Fallbrook wasn’t necessarily proud of his achievements, but he certainly didn’t lose any sleep over them. In fact, he didn’t lose sleep over any of his subsequent acts of retribution…and there were plenty to follow, many of which made that initial vendetta seem like child’s bedtime fantasy.

But all the blood and bullets had fallen behind him during his later years, because his career was at a point, whereby if someone chose to cross him, all he had to do was give the word and that someone disappeared. He no longer had to ‘pull the trigger’ on anything except business, and this weekend the boatload of business he usually carried on his shoulders, had been relegated to the back burner.

Especially today. All was pleasure. No contracts, no strongarm, no blades…just fun. And he was having the time of his life, waving to passing boaters, smiling to bikini-clad water babes, totally proud of the hundred thousand dollar toy rumbling under his ass, and the thousand dollar rug stuck to the top of his head…which, at twenty-five knots, was barely hanging on.

Two miles downriver, high up on the cliffs on the California side of the waterway, a blond, spike-haired man was making his way across the massive, Baja boulders that lined the top edge of the river, like Mother Nature’s bathtub tiles…lending a transcendent beauty of sienna and gold to the deceptively dangerous landscape.

He had a metal Halliburton in his grip and a small, French Montecristo tight in his teeth that he barely drew from…evidently more for show than pleasure, because with his shirt off, this thirty-two-year-old stud, who went by the name of Pier, looked more like a GQ coverboy ready to hit the beach at the Cannes Film Festival, rather than some mountain climbing goat herder his current surroundings gave reference to. Tan, strong and ripped to the bones, he obviously didn’t lack for a dedicated workout regimen throughout his global travels. In fact, he was so buffed he was barely breaking a sweat, as he jumped from boulder to boulder, moving precariously closer to the edge with each step.

A chunk of granite suddenly broke away from under his right foot nearly sending him into a tumbling freefall down the side of the rock wall. Thankfully he was able to maintain his balance with little effort and watch in silence, as the busted stone dropped to the water far below, with a tiny dollop of a splash.

No big deal, he continued on, moving quicker with each leap. He finally came to a gnarled, almost mutated-looking Ash tree twisting out over the edge of the cliff, which, from his European perspective, offered an eerie exemplification of what an old west, hangman’s tree might look like. All it needed was a noose, he imagined. It was his landmark. He gave it a pat, then jumped out onto a large, flat ledge and looked down at the busy river sixty feet below.

Boats, jet skis, pontoons, catamarans, hydrofoils; watercraft of all shapes and sizes zipped past at various breakneck speeds, appearing from his elevation like quick snails laying out trails of white foam. His eyes darted fast across the quarter-mile wide channel, up one end and down the other. He was searching for something specific, or rather someone specific, and he needed to be at a lower vantage point to make that happen.

He jumped down onto another ledge, then another, descending at least thirty-five feet along a natural, rocky staircase. He finally found the perfect spot, one that he had obviously scoped out on an earlier occasion, in that he located it rather easily. To accomplish whatever ‘exclusive project’ he was pursuing, he would’ve definitely needed prior recon of the area to pull it off.

He set the steel case on a flat rock, squatted down in front and flipped open the lid. Inside was some sort of metallic, composite looking device, along with clamps, bolts and cables. He took one last draw on his cigar and wedged it between a couple small rocks behind, making sure to keep any residual smoke from interfering with his line of vision.

Back to the case, he pulled a pair of nitrile-coated gloves from a panel under the front lid and snapped them on with all the ease of a surgeon. He reached deep into the back corner and removed two, ten-centimeter, carbon-fiber brackets from polystyrene compartments, slotted the threaded end into the socket and began screwing them together.

Fallbrook continued to slice his boat through the waves at about thirty knots. He saw a pontoon up ahead loaded with college kids partying their grades away, so he angled off toward them just to say hi. He blew his horn and waved big. Half the group raised their beer cans in a toast to his beautiful craft and one young babe, not surprisingly, lifted the C-cups of her bright yellow Roxy, flashing him a gorgeous set of twin ‘power plants’. Twenty years earlier, he would’ve slowed to investigate, but now all he needed was a satisfactory eyeful and a hearty thumbs up, with the knowledge the kids were having fun. Just like he used to. He shoved the throttle up to forty knots and continued onward.

Suddenly a young jet-skier appeared just off his starboard quarter panel and began flanking him from behind. Fallbrook didn’t realize anyone was there at first, but when he finally noticed how close the kid was, he practically did a double take. He tried to veer left, but the Kawasaki 150 stayed tight with him and fearlessly closed the gap to within five feet of the Scarab’s aft rail.

Fallbrook had spent many long years on the river, but had no clue what the kid wanted. Considering his age, however, it appeared he was itching to race. Fallbrook juiced the throttle on his twin Mercs ever so slightly, like a top fuel dragster gunning the pedal at an NHRA burn line. Needless to say, the Scarab’s powerful deuce could’ve easily outgunned the sleek waverunner in a New York second, but the kid stayed right with him, making no effort to compete. Curious, Fallbrook thought. Wonder what the hell the boy was up to.

Billy was his name. A twenty-four-year-old ‘river rat’, who was known up and down the strip as The Kid, or Billy Bee Bop, being that he was such a fly-by-night, daredevil punk who’d snag any bet or take any challenge for a quick buck…a notorious free spirit, wild child, with a crazy reputation for living on the edge, always a heartbeat away from making short money as fast as humanly possible, just to get to the next party, or the next drug of choice, whichever came first. He gunned his jet ski forward and amazingly pulled even closer without actually touching the boat. He counted on the water being calm that day, at least on that particular stretch, otherwise one rogue wave could’ve easily sent the two crafts into a bash fest, with Billy coming out on the bottom…literally at the bottom.

Fallbrook was actually enjoying the joust and tried to keep his Scarab as steady as possible, while attempting to stay within the spirit of the crazy ‘river rat’ attitude. He started to rudder left, to avoid the small island looming ahead, but Billy suddenly backed off his throttle, swung around behind, shot boldly through the Scarab’s wake and accelerated along the port bow, forcing Fallbrook to go right. Nothing the experienced pilot couldn’t handle, so he went right.

Hey! Communication at last, as Billy glanced between Fallbrook and the water ahead. Aren’t you Jay Fallbrook?!

Even though Fallbrook was oblivious to who Billy was, he wasn’t surprised that the kid recognized him, because, well, most everybody on the river knew who he was, and he was always grateful when somebody paid him respect. He nodded a huge smile with a theatrical sweep of his arm and that was all Billy needed.

He returned the gesture with, Nice sled, buddy! then swerved his jet ski into a gushing turn, shooting a spray of water across the Scarab’s bow. He slowed to cruise speed, leaving Fallbrook’s machine to power on through the rocky doglegs alone. Fallbrook saluted a farewell, but Billy obviously had more important fish to fry than just a friendly visit. He grabbed an orange, skier-down flag from the back compartment, raised it high in the air and started waving it toward the distant cliffs, exactly where Fallbrook was headed.

Pier saw the signal and immediately snapped down the last bolt on what turned out to be a high-tech, titanium, compound crossbow with a Bushnell 400-1 digital sight. It was a unique weapon, in that Pier had designed and built it from frankensteined parts off several of the finest ‘hunting’ crossbows from the European world of espionage; composite and double-lined, remarkably precise, extremely deadly, and meticulously machined to a dull, lusterless finish to prevent reflective shine that could possibly compromise his position. He slid a sleek, twenty-centimeter, graphite arrow with a shaved, broadhead blade across the cables and raised it to his shoulder. For jobs like this he always made sure the hollow shaft was loaded with a fifty-grain, heavy-hit, bolt insert for more weight-forward distribution, assuring a longer flight, pinpoint accuracy and deeper penetration.

He rested his elbows on the flat boulder in front, looked through the lens and easily located Fallbrook’s boat. He made an adjustment, then dialed Fallbrook’s face dead center between the crosshairs. He calmly drew in a deep breath, through his nostrils only, then gently exhaled, bringing his pulse down to a tranquil sixty taps per minute, something for which he had trained extensively. He slowly squeezed the trigger.

Phhhtt…the arrow launched into a silent, deadly trajectory, about twenty-four degrees downward, with a velocity of two hundred eighty feet per second, straight over the river, like a low-altitude, Tomahawk cruise missile, directly for Fallbrook.

Thunk!…it slammed into his chest so hard it broke through his scapula and pinned his back against the seat. His mouth jolted open in gaping pain. Blood oozed from his sternum; his throat. He reached up with both hands and tried to pull it out - reminiscent of J.F.K. grabbing his neck in Dealey Plaza - but it was too late. His head and arms went limp, leaving his out-of-control Scarab cruising alone at full power, with him sitting straight up in the captain’s chair as if nothing sinister had even occurred.

Pier lowered the weapon and watched the Scarab thunder past. He never took much pleasure in termination itself; although the physical act of picking off a live target at long range always hit a soft spot with his reptilian brain and on rare occasion would give him a sense of sybaritic gratification that went beyond the job itself. This time it was a little of both. Another fine shot, he smiled to himself, and another proud notch on his deadly résumé. He swiftly, but calmly, started breaking down the crossbow, dispassionately placing the pieces back into the case.

2

Further downriver at Emerald Cove Campgrounds, one of the many RV parks along the California side of the strip, a camper loosened the winch on his fishing boat trailer. Chester Buckner was a middle-aged, middle-class, mild-mannered warehouse foreman, whose selfless goal of creating fun for his family, came second only to his struggle of keeping up the medical payments on his crippled, twelve-year-old son’s Muscular Dystrophy treatments.

Poor Ricky had been in a wheelchair practically his entire life and until ‘Jerry and the medical community’ could find a cure, Chester desperately wanted the young boy to live a full, happy childhood. Unfortunately that wasn’t always easy, what with Chester’s current position at the sheet metal stockroom back in Calexico, California, just this side of the Mexicali border. His job description was so industrial and blue collar the opportunity for advancement was close to nonexistent. In fact, Chester’s status along the lunch pail hierarchy had already reached its pinnacle and the only thing higher would be management. Needless to say, that wasn’t about to happen anytime soon, because that would take an education, something that wasn’t even in Chester’s bush league, ballpark playing field. Basically he was pretty much stuck where he was for the rest of his life, and until any kind of leap from blue collar to white collar was even remotely possible, all he could hope for were the occasional cost-of-living adjustments and sporadic, holiday bonuses.

In between that, he relied on prayer and lottery. Every Sunday - at least the ones when they weren’t at the river - his family would attend the Calvary Baptist chapter two miles from home, and every Wednesday and Saturday, until those heavenly petitions were answered, he religiously played his favorite numbers in the Mega and Super Powerball Sweepstakes. At a dollar a ticket, it was well worth the expense. Sometimes he’d even play more than one line at a time, but not often. He knew the chances of winning were astronomical and he needed every penny to put toward gas for his monthly river sabbaticals.

Ricky maneuvered his wheelchair behind the trailer and dad threw him the dragline. He was so excited to be at the campgrounds again, he even managed to get his wheels unstuck from a tire rut left in the dirt by the previous boat launcher without any help from the old man. They both shouted a well-rehearsed countdown, Three…two…launch sequence initiated! Chester snapped open the winch release and gave the cheap, aluminum, bass trawler a shove, sliding it smoothly down into the water.

Alright! Ricky shouted with glee. Sure, they had done it dozens of times before, but the fun never ceased to amuse, especially with the anticipation of all the fish they were planning to catch over the busy, July Fourth weekend. Chester watched to make sure there were no new leaks in the freshly welded panel joints, where rust had been settling over the years, then he climbed back into the twenty-year-old station wagon and drove the trailer out of the water, leaving Ricky to take care of matters all by himself.

The young paraplegic rolled his chair further down into the river, coiled the line in his hand and started wrangling the boat closer to shore, not caring that his wheels were already two feet under water. He loved it. The cool waves felt great on his bare legs and he couldn’t wait to get settled back at camp, where he could actually go swimming off the shallow side of the dock…with dad’s help of course.

Mom, on the other hand, didn’t even like Ricky anywhere near the river, because it was her opinion that the closer he was, the higher the chances of him getting hurt, and the last thing she wanted was something else to go wrong for the poor boy. It was bad enough he’d been dealt a lifelong disability blow by being born with a congenital muscle defect, and she wasn’t about to add to that trauma by letting him go unwatched.

She stacked the last paper plates and cups into the flimsy, plywood cupboard inside the cramped kitchen of the twenty-four-foot Keystone Hideout; same one they always rented while they were at Parker. It wasn’t necessarily their mobilehome of choice, it was simply the only one, like all their other amenities, that fit within their budget. Chester had always suggested they invest in a large, second hand, two-room tent instead, because, he would explain, it would be cheaper in the long run and tons more fun. But Helen wouldn’t have anything to do with that. Her tolerance for adventure was already at its limit by the mere fact she even accompanied them to the river once a month, and she wasn’t about to add to that discomfort by living out in the wild like some sort of Neanderthal. Her idea of fun was sitting in bible study on Thursday evenings discussing the immoralities of what the Apostle Paul might’ve thought about postnuptial, conjugal ‘expectations’ from middle-aged, married women.

She pulled a cobweb from the sun-cracked window shades and caught a glimpse of Ricky’s head just above the hedge of Lantana bushes that were blocking her view of the launch site. Ricky! she shouted, cranking open the window. You stay away from that river, you hear me?! Where’s yer father?! You tell him to roll you away from that water, right now!

Yeah, yeah, Ricky mumbled like he always did. He saw her face disappear from the window and figured he was safe. Lucky for those Lantana bushes, because had she known he was actually in the water, she would’ve gone ballistic. Even if she did, though, he didn’t much care anymore, because he was getting too old to be taking orders from his uptight, overbearing mother. And just to prove it, he actually wheeled his chair out a little further. It didn’t matter that the dilapidated set of wheels was nearly ready for the scrap heap, with missing spokes and torn seat pads. It was the perfect demolition derby vehicle for all his preteen needs.

He raised himself up and looked inside the boat to confirm what Chester had already concluded, and just when he was about to announce everything was still watertight, he suddenly heard something out on the river. It was the sound of an approaching boat. A powerful boat. He glanced out across the main channel, but the only thing he could see with an engine that size was a Chris Craft Split Hull…and it was clear on the other side, traveling at a sluggish ten knots. He looked further upriver and finally spotted the source.

Fallbrook’s enormous Scarab was no more than three hundred yards away, heading straight for him at a commanding fifty knots. Wait a sec, Ricky deduced, the water’s too shallow at that point for a boat that size, traveling at that speed to be so close to shore. On second thought, it was a heavy-duty, Scarab jet cruiser with twin Mercs, and could probably travel anywhere it wanted, especially planed out at top speed like that high on the surface.

Ricky was a nautical fanatic and was proud that he could identify most any boat just by the sound, even from a distance. Hey, dad! he shouted to Chester, who was returning from parking the station wagon under the shade of an Oak tree. Look at that Scarab! It’s headin right for us!

Chester was more concerned with how far out in the river the adventurous kid had already rolled his chair. Ricky! he scolded, throwing up his arms. Your mother’s gonna have a fit!

I don’t care, dad, look! Ricky pointed with both hands making it absolutely clear he wasn’t screwing around.

Chester finally looked out and saw the powerful cruiser bearing down hard on them. What the…? He started moving along the beach toward it, waving his arms as he went. Hey, buddy! he shouted, Wake up! He jumped up onto the rickety, wooden dock and carefully, very carefully, made his way about half way out. Wake up, buddy! There’s people over here! Chester knew the driver couldn’t actually hear his voice from that distance, but he kept waving anyway, hoping the guy would at least catch a glimpse.

Fallbrook wasn’t waking up for anybody. He was stone dead, still pinned against the captain’s chair by the arrow…and the way he was propped up, it was no wonder he could easily be mistaken for alive.

What the hell was the guy doing, Chester deliberated. Was he drunk?…stupid?…blind? If he was purposely powering his craft on a collision course straight for the dock, what was he expecting to accomplish? He sure as hell didn’t appear to be slowing down anytime soon, so Chester started moving back up the dock, with his brain grinding through all possible survival scenarios. He knew he could get himself to safety easily enough, but to push Ricky’s wheelchair out of the sandy beach would be another story.

He jumped into the shallow water and sloshed his way toward his son as fast as he could. He got to the chair and started pushing hard, but it wasn’t easy. He had to fight both surf and sand. Ricky even used his arms as oars, ineffectually slapping at the water to help move them along.

Chester glanced back and saw the Scarab closing to within seventy yards. He shoved with all his might, but the harder he pushed the deeper the wheels buried themselves. The Scarab was at fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. Chester wasn’t going to make it. He scooped Ricky into his arms and turned to run, but the Scarab was faster than he thought and the only thing left was to drop to his knees and protect his son with his own body. He closed his eyes, hugged Ricky hard and waited for impact.

Suddenly, as if God himself was hovering over that section of the river, the Scarab thumped over a ten-foot, partially submerged, crosscut log, knocking it into a last second, sweeping turn out toward the middle of the river. It actually came so close to the dock, it clipped a pylon with its starboard ski mount on its way past.

Chester heard the crunch and thought it was the end, but as soon as he noticed the sound of the engine change course, he looked out and couldn’t believe his eyes. The damn thing was heading away from them. And before he could even give any thought as to why, the wake of the powerful boat knocked hard into them, dumping both into the water. He quickly climbed to his feet, never once letting go of the boy, and the two of them watched in soaking wet amazement, as the Scarab continued out to the middle of the river.

From that angle they could see that the driver was no longer sitting up in the chair. His body was slumped off to the side with an arm flopping over the rail with every bounce of every wave. Poor fella must’ve had a heart attack, Chester deduced, but had enough strength to heroically steer the craft away from imminent catastrophe at the last second. Thank God, he thought, as he squeezed Ricky tighter. That was way, way too close for comfort.

3

Yeah, they were safe, all right, but it was no compensation for the folks on the opposite bank, because the Scarab was on a collision course straight for the Road Runner cantina; one of the many notorious, floating bars along the Arizona shoreline.

The place had been a popular spot for any and all over the years and Popeye, the old, grizzled bartender who ran the joint, had a reputation for holding court with customers no matter what time of day or night it was. He’d been there for several decades - hell his tenure was approaching the half-century mark - and he looked like he’d lived every day in high gear. Gray beard, bag-laden, bloodshot eyes, an anchor tattoo on his left shoulder, a naked mermaid on his right, and leathered, sun-beaten skin so corrugated it had more lines than the tanned, alligator, hippie braid he wore around his waist. And of course he’d never be caught dead without his shredded, liquor-stained, captain’s cap, always cocked back at the perfect, warped angle on the crown of his head.

There were at least two-dozen patrons sitting at the tables and up at the bar; half-drunk boaters, sun-baked skiers, even a couple families who tried to keep their children’s eyes off the UV-pleated cleavage that dangled from the fifty-year-old waitress’s chest. The families were simply there for a casual morning breakfast, but all the others were there for fun, and Popeye was entertaining all of them.

He stood behind the bar and shot down another round of kamikazes with a group of college kids. Then he flipped his glass upside down, tossed it in the air and actually caught it between his teeth; at least the teeth that were still left in his head, being that most of them had either rotted away over the years from a chronic case of trench mouth, or were busted loose by tricks like the one he’d just demonstrated.

The kids cheered, so he lowered his head with a big grin. Not for long, however, because as soon as he saw the Scarab approaching from across the river, his smile dropped faster than a ship anchor in dry dock. The shot glass fell from his mouth and his eyes popped wider than the Looney Tunes wolf gaping at Betty Boop’s ass. Holy shit, he whispered, barely able to get the words pushed through his whiskey-numbed vocal chords. Then the adrenaline finally kicked in, fast and hard. Incoming! he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Everybody saw the imminent catastrophe and the entire place busted into a mad scramble, bodies flying in all directions; diving, jumping, running, crawling under tables, belly flopping into the river. Then KABLAM!…the Scarab hit the lower dock with the force of a hurricane, launching it like a sled across the upper dock. It skidded fast, crushing rails, smashing lights, piers, posts, pylons, destroying everything in its path, then it slammed directly through the middle of the Road Runner with a thunderous, tooth-rattling crash, and finally thudded to rest directly on top of the bar, with the engine whining loud, like a giant, beached whale gasping for air.

Everybody carefully came out from their hiding places, one by one, from under chairs, around corners, out of restrooms, most covering their ears from the deafening scream of the engines. The folks who had jumped into the water, had been dragged a hundred yards downriver by the fifteen-mile-per-hour current and were climbing out onto the beach, dazed and confused. Miraculously, except for a few scratches here and there, nobody appeared to be hurt.

The Scarab’s engines suddenly knocked hard, chunked loud and abruptly cranked to a grinding halt, with the horrible clatter of metal binding to metal. Thick, black smoke spewed from the exhaust portals, indicating the pistons had locked solid from no river water coolant. Everybody stood silent, looking around in eerie tranquility, like Munchkins from Oz wondering who the hell Dorothy was. But where was Popeye?

Strangely, the sound of a board cracked from under the hull of the huge boat, then glass crunched. Two college kids immediately jumped behind the smashed bar and started pulling debris away, scared to death of what they were about to find. It was the last place Popeye had been standing, directly in the path of the deadly transport, and they knew all too well nobody could’ve survived a collision like that, at least not without serious injury.

They heard a moan from underneath, so they worked faster. They yanked away a final, splintered shelf and, much to their amazement, a full bottle of liquor rolled out from under the rubble. Then a body rolled out onto its back. It was Popeye, and astonishingly he appeared to be perfectly fine. In fact, there wasn’t a mark on him. But how he survived such a heavy collision had to have been a phenomenon of miraculous intervention. He must’ve ducked at just the right time, or maybe he’d fainted from fear just before impact. Maybe it was the anesthetizing effects from all the alcohol he’d ingested over the years that deadened the blow.

Whatever the reason, there he was, being helped to his feet, brushing the dust and glass from his clothes, as if he’d simply fallen off a late night barstool. He looked around in a daze, then his eyes finally settled on the Scarab. He stared in awe for a long moment, and as soon as he realized what had happened, he smiled big, like he’d just embarked on a sixties acid flashback of psychedelic proportions. Far out, man. Even more astonishing, no more teeth were missing. He grabbed a bottle and drank deep.

4

Steam floated from the upstairs bathroom of this nouveau-chic, beachfront condo located in the opulent, Moovalya Keys development community. The peninsula project, as it had come to be known, was built back in the early seventies with the intention of stirring interest from all the affluent, Arizona vacation money that had gradually been pouring into the area since Parker Dam had been completed way back in 1938.

The original agenda for taming the Colorado had been fourfold: irrigation, filtration, recreation, and hydroelectric, but when the local land developers saw how successful the third branch had been playing out, it didn’t take long for them to tap into the higher end markets by creating prestigious bedroom communities for serious resort owners to have places they could call their own. Neighborhoods that catered only to them. Cozy little niches in which to hide out, especially from all the wild, weekend-warrior activity. Mini Beverly Hills sort of places with waterfront access.

Prominent businessmen and notable socialites purchased the precious parcels at an alarming rate, which allowed the developers to raise the price at an alarming rate, which in turn kept out the riffraff. Subsequently the site enjoyed the reputation of being the most affluent community on the strip. Some of the homeowners had come and gone over the years and many of the condominiums had become timeshare deals. Others were rented out on a monthly basis as per owners availability, but for the most part, it remained the most luxurious spot money could buy within a thirty-mile radius.

The blond, spike-haired Frenchman, Pier, was laying on the bed in the master suite, talking on his cell, meticulously counting a stack of bills, almost like a waiter totaling his tips at the end of a long shift. Except in this case the bills were Euros. He always made sure he was paid in Euros because he didn’t trust the American dollar. It had nothing to do with current market fluctuations, bank fuck-ups or real estate downsizing, he simply believed Euros were more dependable for concealment purposes. They were more readily accepted by offshore banks, more easily hidden from government taxes, and most importantly, no bureaucratic agency could stick their nose into anything having anything to do with where they had come from, at least not without a struggle. It had to be that way because of his business.

He was a diehard, middle-European transplant, who made a living at delivering coercively threatening scare tactics for anybody who would meet his fee; a gun-for-hire maverick, who had no problem diving head first into the middle of a snake pit as long as the price was right. He had a trail of blood a mile long and a kill record to prove it.

"Juste une petite faveur pour un ami, he continued on the phone. Aucune affaire, hein. He heard the shower shut off. Adieu." He quickly hung up, tossed the phone onto the pillow and waited intently, casually flipping through the bills, as if he were still counting. His attention, however, was focused on what was about to emerge from the bathroom.

Twenty seconds of anxious anticipation laboriously crawled past, until a brunette finally stepped out, drying her hair with a beach towel. But it wasn’t just any brunette. It was a strikingly gorgeous, dreamy-eyed creature, wearing lace panties and an open man’s dress shirt, obviously Pier’s. No wonder he’d been so anxious. She went by the name of Clarity, at least on that day, but Pier only referred to her as ‘angelface’. She wasn’t much older than thirty, thirty-five tops and, except for a small, half-inch scar above her left brow, her flawless, olive skin made her look twenty-eight. Her cheek bones were Vogue cover perfect, ideal bookends for the luscious full lips that pouted beneath a stunning set of emerald green twenty-twenties which, with a single glance, had probably singed many a man’s retinas over the years. Sensuality flowed from her pores like a fountain of hot cream, dripping all the way down her five-foot, eight-inch frame, that looked more like it belonged on the steps of a Victoria’s Secret catwalk rather than a condominium carpet.

And she wasn’t just beautiful. Her intelligence could easily put her in the Suze Orman school-of-smarts, but unlike the financial whiz chick, Clarity was a high school dropout; never made it past the tenth grade. That, however, didn’t stop her from always getting what she wanted. Her voracious appetite for knowledge and her highly geared penchant for ambition, driven by a severely exaggerated lust for money - and by money she went by the Bill Gates definition - enabled her to pass the Louisiana State bar exam on her first attempt. Of course, she had all her necessary school records, documents, certificates, and any other required manuscripts, meticulously forged and falsified, along with a healthy bribe from a Louisiana congressman, who she had strategically dated for eight long months, just to set the whole thing in motion.

The poor, old sap had been waiting in the wings for her hand in marriage and as soon as his upcoming reelection had been locked down, he planned on springing the news to his well-to-do, socialite wife, then file for a lightning divorce, and subsequently live happily ever after with the, then, twenty-three-year-old, model-perfect, gene-blessed arm piece. All had been going according to the congressman’s plan, until he delivered the final, anonymous envelope full of cash to his connection at the state legal board, at which time Clarity not only dumped him like a bad disease, but threatened to fill his wife in on their illicit affair, along with a promise that, if he so much as even thought of seeking any kind of retribution, she would call the New Orleans Times-Picayune and send them a transcribed, first-hand testimonial about the bribery scandal. She also promised to fill her brand new employer in on any attempts at vengeance, and that was pretty much all the congressman needed to hear.

It was a known fact, at least among the dark world of nefarious legislators, that her new employer was the lead consigliore for the French Quarter thoroughbred family known as the ‘Genicello Unit’, an underworld Cajun institution that never hesitated to protect their own with whatever means necessary; including unannounced, late night visits involving rattlesnake filled pillow casings. And so, the poor, old senator was stuck no matter how he sliced it, and could only watch, as Clarity got everything she wanted, including the healthy chunk of cash she had requested from him just to help keep her sensuous, full lips shut.

As it turned out, Clarity remained on the payroll of that very same ‘Genicello Unit’ throughout the years and continued to work for them to the present day, as one of seven contract counselors with a salaried rate at just over six figures. She’d been earning that amount for the last couple years, but even those numbers weren’t enough to quench her thirst for money. Subsequently she had set the job aside for the time being and rented this place on Parker Strip for the better part of a month, to relax, to soak in the sun, but mainly to pursue an alternate, possibly more lucrative, financial agenda.

Pier didn’t take his eyes off her, as she picked up a hairbrush from a nineteenth-century Victorian armoire on her way across the room. She stopped in front of a matching full length mirror and started brushing the tangles out of her pin straight, velvet fleece.

He regarded her as an angel of exquisite splendor for sure, but even her stunning looks couldn’t keep his thoughts away from business. He held up the wedge of bills and waved them in the air ever so slightly, making sure she could catch a glimpse of them in the mirror. Something seems to be missing, no? he said, with his heavy French accent and raised, condescending eyebrows.

She stopped brushing just long enough to fire a dispassionate gaze right between his eyes. Nothing came out of her mouth for a few uncomfortable seconds, then she returned to her hair. You were only supposed to scare him.

People scare a lot easier with holes in them.

Pier was right. She had no response. People do scare a lot easier with holes in them, or rather the people around them. But that’s not what she had paid him for. She had paid him to deliver a message of fear only, not death. Fear meant weakness, and weakness meant no control, and the one thing Clarity cherished more than anything in the world, even more than money, was control. Absolute, unequivocal dominance…over everyone and everything. If she didn’t have it, the frailty would creep up her spine like an overwhelming wave of ugly euphoria, an inadequate euphoria, an unacceptably horrible euphoria, so strong that over the years it had morphed itself into a phobia that straddled that razor sharp edge of paranoia. It was such a powerful weakness - if those two feelings could actually coexist in one body - she felt like she was getting sucked into a spiral vortex, which she often described only to herself and to her therapist, as being pulled under the surface by the tentacles of an enormous squid.

And the subsequent dreams that haunted her because of it were occurring more and more frequently, terrorizing her in the middle of the night, causing her to jerk awake at all hours in a drenching sweat, as if a warm, steamy swamp was actually rising up from her mattress to drown her. The more she had them, the weaker she felt she was becoming, and as much as she tried, she could never really figure out where it all came from. Maybe one of her mother’s drunken rages when she was an infant. Or perhaps abandonment from her heroin-addicted father who had disappeared soon after she got out of diapers. She was pretty sure, however, she’d picked all those traumatic scabs over the years and salved them over to the point of simple emotional scratches.

It had been suggested at one point that her dreams were merely a result of normal teenage fragility experienced by many young women concerning their appearance and how others perceived them, especially boys. But she wrote that one off quicker than water-over-the-dam, along with a healthy laugh in her therapist’s face, because she knew damn well she was gorgeous, always was, always would be, and she knew she could use that beauty to get whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

No, Clarity’s fear of powerlessness came from somewhere else, and until she felt like taking the time to delve into one of Freud’s hot servings of deep-dish, exploratory, psychoanalytical brainfucks to unscramble the mental ulcer that drove her spirit toward bone-crunching annihilation, she really didn’t give a shit anymore. She simply concluded that it was something she had to live with and would continue to do everything in her power to avoid at all costs.

Unfortunately one of those overwhelming feelings was approaching fast, because she was about to confront Pier, a man who hadn’t done what he was told. He had taken things too far, on his own accord, without the slightest bit of approval from her, and that meant she might be losing control, and no force in the world was going to allow that to happen.

She took one last look at herself in the mirror, then slowly moved back to the armoire and swung open the heavy doors. There was her duffle bag sitting on one of the shelves; a red leather High Sierra that she never let out of her sight, especially on business trips like this one. She spun the numbers on the tempered-steel combination cylinder under the handle and pulled it open. Clothes were inside, mostly beachwear, along with notebooks full of paperwork. Just off to the side was a 50-caliber Desert Eagle ‘gutbuster’, one that had been given to her for protection by the ‘Genicello Unit’ back in New Orleans. It was a surprisingly powerful revolver for such a feminine looking woman. Actually it was a powerful weapon for anybody, but Clarity knew how to use it, and she knew how to use it very well.

She stared at it a second, but only for a second, before she dug deep past the bikinis and pulled out a metal box. She set it on the shelf and snapped it opened. Inside was a stack of bills; more Euros along with U.S. She flipped through a wedge, slid them from under the paper strap and closed the lid. She put the box back into the duffle and made sure to lock it tight, then she slowly turned, not, however, without allowing one of her breasts to peek out through the open shirt.

Pier anticipated the come-on and moved to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He’d only been with her for a few short days now, only met her two weeks ago, but he’d never experienced more quality sex from any one woman in his entire life and he was loving every second of it. She slinked her way in front of him, angling the exposed nipple directly at eye level.

He stared at it, like a little boy transfixed on the cherry lollipop offered by his mother. He leaned closer causing the delicate aureole to actually become erect under his hot breath, as if it were silently screaming to be wetted by his attentive tongue. His mouth inched nearer, but just like the tease of some experienced burlesque dancer, Clarity slowly raised the Euros in front and conveniently blocked his line of access. A little test perhaps, to find out which was more important to him…the money or the flesh? Then to make matters more difficult, she slowly slid the bills, ever so gently, down across her stomach, all the way inside the top of her panties. His gaze followed, like a cat on a flashlight, and now both money and mammary had become secondary.

Pier was quite confident he would eventually get everything anyway, including her unwavering submission. His enormous ego and chiseled good looks were proof positive, at least to himself, that he could obtain emotional capitulation from any woman he desired, but he didn’t want to appear too anxious. He looked back up into her large, Mediterranean eyes to make sure she knew that he understood completely that she was the important one. Okay, long enough, his point was made, and now it was time to indulge.

He lowered his lips to her stomach and started kissing the top of her panties. His tongue found one of the bills. He slowly slid it out and let it flutter to the carpet. Another. Then he reached up and placed his hand on her inner thigh. He gently worked the panties aside. He could feel her excitement had already dampened the lace. He slid his fingers inside and easily found home.

She gasped ever so slightly. Her blood raced hot, but she wasn’t about to give into the passion so easily. She reached down and lifted his chin. Money and love, she softly whispered. God’s two greatest mistakes. She let him linger for a moment, then she dropped the rest of the cash on the bed and gently backed away, leaving him empty-handed. Another game perhaps, but this time he wasn’t going to let it get too far.

He rose to his feet and stepped toward her, face to face…eye to eye…bringing his lips inches from hers. She could feel his heart beating hard, and considering that he only had on a pair of linen, drawstrings, there was no hiding the fact that his heart wasn’t the only thing that was throbbing.

He leaned into kiss her, and now she knew she had him. She knew the control was hers again. She touched her lips to his ever so slightly, then deeper. The passion flared. Longer. Hotter. And just to make extremely sure she was calling all the shots, she put on the brakes one more time and backed all the way across the room to the mirror.

She turned and stared at herself, contemplative, meditative, as if to confirm with her own reflection that the control had been there all along. She looked further, past her own subconscious, into a fourth dimension, light years away. A distant universe perhaps, as if there was another person other than herself staring back. She ran a delicate finger over her own lips, both feminine, then phallic, as she inserted it into her mouth, soaking it with the warm saliva that had gathered on her tongue, like a spring of sweet nectar. Then she reached down and slid her hand into the top of her panties, and slowly, gently, began to manipulate herself into a state of self-gratifying affection, keeping her eyes riveted on her own image.

Pier could practically taste her from across the room. His pulse raced fast. He was ready to explode. He quietly stepped up behind and stared