Exit Strategy

By F.B. Robinson

Roderick Malone has a problem...a big one.  That’s what happens when you con bad people and your con mysteriously falls apart. On the run, with five million dollars in tow, and a pair of hired guns hot on his trail, he encounters a young woman who just might prove to be the answer to his problems.

Meanwhile, a woman with advanced Alzheimer’s witnesses a hit-and-run accident involving a young mother and her infant son.  Dark politics and family wealth pave the way for a hit man to clean up the problem.

But things don’t always go as planned.

An unlikely nexus emerges and all paths lead to Rockhead Island, an opulent resort off the coast of North Carolina. As a hurricane approaches, it becomes clear to Roderick Malone that other forces are in play - and that maybe he was the one being conned almost from the beginning.

A riveting thriller by F.B. Robinson, 'Exit Strategy' is a tale of lust, greed, and revenge. Just when you think you have it figured out - you don’t. Jump in and hang on. The knot in your stomach will dissipate in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Nov 18, 2022

Book preview

Chapter One

THE NORTH CAROLINA COAST

The Shooter, Larry Smith, had placed himself near the front of the serpentine line to board the ferry. In front of him were a couple of soccer moms and three middle-school-looking kids. The moms wore stylish haircuts, tight-fitting pants and loose-fitting tops. Behind Larry were two guys who looked like they’d just left the golf course—khakis and polo shirts, healthy tans and expensive watches. They’d probably stopped by the clubhouse after the round. Larry could smell the alcohol on the nearest one. Usually, the close proximity would be a problem, but not at this particular moment. Larry was blending—like an Indian in a Bev Dolittle print—present, but almost invisible.

The Target, Roderick Malone, stood at the end of the boarding line. A wave of pain traveled up his leg; he gripped the cane in his left hand a little harder, set his jaw, and waited for the worst of it to pass. Behind dark sun glasses, he scanned his surroundings as he rifled through his coat pocket pretending to search for boarding passes.

Convinced of his talent for evaluating the human condition, Roderick assessed each person in the line. A diverted glance, a glint of smile or anguish, a casual three-sentence conversation was all he needed to distinguish predator from prey. He embraced his gift with the conviction of a religious zealot. The gift elevated him above others—bestowed him an advantage—allowed him to sleep at night.

The line before him: a pair of soccer moms, dark hair with sun-kissed highlights, one slightly less-average-looking than the other; two boys and a girl about twelve years old, soccer kids wearing cleats and shin guards, then three golfer types. Behind them was a dark-haired woman with a white German Shepherd, then eight or nine high-school kids. They were sub-divided into small, chatty cliques, most with cell phones glued to their hands. Just in front of him were a couple of grandfatherly-looking men in fishing vests. He scanned back over the line, this time from last to first, because you couldn’t be too careful.

That’s when he spotted the business guy. He wore an Atlanta Braves hat with a tweed sports jacket and carried a handsome leather briefcase. The briefcase guy glanced at his wristwatch, probably hoping he wasn’t late for dinner. Meatloaf or pot roast? Roderick thought.

The season simplified Roderick’s evaluation. In late October, Rockhead Island’s population consisted of a handful of full-time residents mixed with a small group of vacationers who didn't mind cooler temperatures and little prospect for a tan. He’d make a point to stay clear of the woman with the dog—a long-standing phobia of canines—his fear directly proportional to the size of the animal. The German Shepherd was a big bastard.

Aside from the canine, no one in the line caused Roderick concern and he felt himself relax. He shifted his attention to the array of expensive boats moored in the small harbor. Roderick liked expensive things, even those for which he had little or no use. The pristine decks basked in the orange hue of the late-afternoon sun. Motionless, like a page from a yachting magazine, the vessels waited patiently for the next round of rich and beautiful sailors. How much for one of those? Roderick wondered.

Austin Daley, stood next to Roderick, cocked her head and asked, Everything okay?

Roderick shifted his gaze from the expensive boats and looked down at her. Never better, he answered with forced cheeriness. The pain radiating from his ankle was beginning to slacken. He put his arm around Austin, gave her a comforting squeeze. He liked the way she felt next to him. Firm—supple—sexy. Thank you for asking.

He felt Austin press against him. Even in heels, she was nearly a foot shorter than Roderick. She angled her head upward and smiled a dazzling smile. Good, she replied.

The line began to move. Roderick and Austin were the last passengers to traverse the short, metal gangway connecting dock to deck.

Two identical ferries, The Ginger and The Maryanne rotated duty, cycling between Rockhead Island and the mainland. The boats, compact and sleek, at least by ferry standards, were designed for passengers only. Rockhead Island was smallish, a private expanse of land where forward-thinking developers had managed the improbable balance of opulent resort and ecological safe haven. Personal vehicles were forbidden; electric golf carts were ubiquitous.

Larry Smith—the briefcase guy with the Atlanta Braves hat—the guy Roderick Malone had casually dismissed as some late-for-dinner schmuck, positioned himself on the back corner of the upper deck, on the starboard side of The Ginger. The October sea air braced his face, occasionally tugged the brim of his cap. Over his right shoulder, the late-afternoon sun produced a fiery-orange blaze in the western sky over North Carolina.

Once everyone was aboard and the captain used the intercom to dispense his obligatory greeting along with a short list of dos and don’ts—mostly don’ts—mostly common sense. The twin Cummins engines rumbled to life and the captain maneuvered the boat from the tiny man-made harbor. Once clear, the boat gathered speed and began to slice through calm open water tracking towards Rockhead. The boat’s propellers churned a froth trail as seagulls rode behind the craft on currents of air—like kites without strings.

The boat headed toward the graveyard of the Atlantic: a stretch of sea near Rockhead Island that had claimed more than its share of victims over the past three hundred years. For a short, but glorious period, Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet, pirates at the top of the food chain, infested the coves and inlets of the treacherous coastline and ruled the waters.

Teach, better known as Blackbeard, had met his fate just north of Rockhead at Ocracoke Inlet. Witnesses claimed he’d been slashed twenty times, and shot five more—a tale Larry figured had likely been embellished over time. The fate of Bonnet, The Gentleman Pirate, was more succinct—captured in Charleston, South Carolina, then summarily hanged. Larry understood, just like with his profession, that pirating wasn’t for those focused on the long game.

The autumn air had ushered most of the boat's passengers into the warmth of the enclosed cabin below, leaving the upper deck mostly empty. Larry reserved most of his attention for the woman who sat on the other side of the deck, perched on the edge of her bench, back straight, as if posing for a picture. She didn’t look towards Larry. Her attention was divided between her surroundings and the canine lying at her feet.

Larry wasn’t a dog guy but subscribed to the theory that people owned dogs that reflected their personalities. The woman on the other side of the deck fit well into his premise. Her dog, a white German Shepherd, had yellow, predator eyes and teeth like those described in Little Red Riding Hood. Larry was self-actualized enough to understand his assessment wasn’t entirely unbiased. His view of women in general, and specifically women of beauty, had recently sustained some serious damage.

As The Ginger made her way, Old Rocky, the island’s lighthouse appeared as a tiny appendage on the hazy horizon. The boat’s intercom crackled as the captain informed his passengers of a school of dolphins off the port side. The woman twisted her body, turned her back on Larry, and gazed out to the open water. It afforded him the opportunity to openly stare.

She wore a tan overcoat that stopped just short of her knees, red shoes with enough heel to accentuate nicely-shaped calves. The coat’s belt cinched around her slender waist and strands of shoulder-length chestnut hair fluttered in the breeze under a large, floppy white hat. Larry sensed the hair was a high-dollar wig. For reasons he didn’t understand, his wife owned several of them. The woman’s hat was secured with red fabric she had tied under her well-defined jawline. Large, red-framed sunglasses covered her eyes. She looked like a movie star—or maybe a spy from an old movie. Larry Smith hoped the sight of her would stir something inside him.

She didn’t.

Too much damage.

Under Larry’s left arm, a copy of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal rode neatly folded and tucked. Beneath the paper and his jacket, a Beretta 9mm rode cradled in a custom-made shoulder holster. Next to him, on the white bench, sat a camel-colored Coach briefcase—a gift from his now-estranged wife, Jennifer. It might have contained legal briefs, or investment proxies, or maybe even patient files—but it didn't. Unbeknownst to Jennifer, Larry had modified the interior of the case, lined it with a precision-sculpted foam rubber. Sandwiched between the layers were the real tools of Larry Smith's trade—a Walther P22, an extra clip of ammo, and a titanium suppressor.

The weapon was designed for close-in work. The .22 long-rifle round would penetrate the skull on entry, but rarely exited. The slug usually bounced around inside the skull—a lethal pinball slicing through the brain. Larry preferred shots to the back of the head as not to see their faces. No last-second acknowledgment of their fate or the man about to deliver it. If he saw them at the moment of impact, their expressions never failed to haunt him. The images lodged in his subconscious for days—sometimes weeks.

Back of the head—always Larry Smith’s first choice.

Chapter Two

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE FERRY

Roderick Malone was on a roll. Though his ego would never allow such an admission, he’d gotten lucky—like win-the-lottery-two days-in-a-row-lucky. The Roman philosopher Seneca once said, luck is where opportunity meets preparation, but in Roderick’s world it was, where greed meets haste—or ignorance—or arrogance—or simply where greed meets more greed.

Roderick didn’t consider himself a con man, though in his early days he’d worked schemes simply to attain the basics: a hot meal, a place to sleep, or a suit of clothes. Those were his dark days, when his schemes were pedestrian, before he’d discovered the true depth of his talent. But even back then, he’d never been caught and along the way, he had refined his skills.

Now he viewed himself as simply an opportunist—a hybrid money manager, property developer, and talent agent rolled into one. Roderick Malone Investments. Those words, bold black in Broadway font, were stenciled onto the amber-colored, pebbled-grain glass on the top half of his office door. What the title failed to convey: the investments were one-hundred percent synthetic.

Now he sat on the biggest score of his career, by more than twentyfold. And it had mostly fallen into his lap. Greed had met arrogance and haste, but mostly greed had met more greed. Roderick’s partner would argue that she had set up the marks, but Roderick’s own greed and ego wouldn’t allow him to accept the possibility. Besides, there was no question who had closed the deal. This fact gave him both pleasure and angst. His was the face they would remember. Which was only a problem if he got caught, which was something he didn’t plan to do. It would be several days before anyone might suspect something was askew.

Reclined in the ox-blood leather chair behind an impressive mahogany desk, Roderick wrapped his manicured fingers around his coffee mug. He’d added a generous shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey, the Gold Reserve—nearly eighty dollars for the bottle. After all, now he could afford it. He took a sip and his handsome face relaxed into a smile of contentment.

That lasted until the phone rang.

Not the one on the desk, not the landline with all the buttons, which was merely a prop like everything else in the room. It was his cell phone—his new cell phone—with the new number and a really short list of people who knew said number. Roderick placed his feet back on the floor and carefully set his mug on the desk. His first instinct was to let the call go to voice mail, but two rings later curiosity prevailed. He slid the phone from the breast pocket of his Armani jacket and stared at the screen.

Restricted.

Again, instinct said to let the call go to voice mail—but Roderick was on a roll. He tapped the screen, and lifted the device to his ear.

Yes, he said, squeezing maximum sophistication and confidence into one syllable.

A short pause, then, Roderick Malone.

More a statement than a question, the voice arrived flat, non-descript, and gender-neutral. Suddenly tentative, Roderick responded, With whom am I speaking?

Look out your window, the voice instructed.

What? Malone countered. I’ve no patience for your nonsense. Tell me your name or this conversation is concluded.

Roderick counted in his head. One, two, three…then said, Hello?

Silence. The screen on his phone confirmed the call had lasted a mere fourteen seconds. Roderick placed the phone next to the coffee, stared at the device with sudden suspicion and played the conversation back in his head. The voice had been disguised. He was certain—sort of certain. Male or female? Probably female. As each moment passed, he became less certain. Roderick Malone. Look out your window. Only six words, but packed with information.

The caller knew his new number and his name. No chance of a prank call or a proverbial butt dial. Secondly, most disturbingly, the caller knew his location. Or did they?

Look out your window. A warning, or a ruse? Roderick’s imagination took off at a full gallop. He stood, and eased over to the fourth-floor windows that overlooked Fourth Street. Somewhere in the back of his mind, vaguely, he considered the possibility of a sniper. But other than in the occasional Tom Clancy novel, snipers didn’t live in Roderick’s world. Even so, he found himself scanning the rooftop of the building across the street and saw nothing but a row of pigeons perched on the pediment wall. Roderick told himself to relax, it was way too soon for the mark to know he’d been taken. He eased further until the far sidewalk came into view, then a little farther again, until he could see the street.

Fourth Street was still in sunlight, but the far sidewalk shaded. Traffic was sparse, the work day winding down. Parking spaces had become plentiful. To Roderick, it looked like every other day. Then a large, white SUV rolled into a space directly across from Roderick’s building and he watched two men get out.

That’s when normal ended.

They were like a pair of angry rhinos at a children’s petting zoo—big, scary and way-the-hell out of place. The white guy had a shaved head that glistened in the sunlight and swiveled on a short, thick neck. He wore a black leather jacket with the collar turned up. Dark, wrap-around shades covered his eyes. The black guy, who stepped out of the passenger side, appeared even bigger. He wore shoulder-length dreads, a black trench coat, and when he started across the street towards Roderick’s building, displayed copious swagger. The white guy closed the driver’s side door and fell in behind the black guy. Halfway across the street, the white guy shifted his gaze skyward. Reflexively, Roderick stepped back from the window. By the time he worked up the nerve to ease forward again, the pair had disappeared from his line of sight. Look out your window.

Fuck, Roderick said.

He’d understood the consequences from the beginning—but strictly on an intellectual, hypothetical level. He understood it like the guy understands a shotgun blast to the abdomen would be extremely painful—but didn’t understand it like the guy who’d actually been shot. The men Roderick had swindled didn't use lawyers, subpoenas, or writs of habeas corpus to settle disagreements. Arbitration? That was simply how long you begged for your life. The image stuck in his head as panic squeezed him. Roderick couldn’t move, as if his legs had lost function as his mind slipped out of gear. He’d read it once on a bumper sticker: Confidence: That feeling you have just before you understand the reality of the situation.

Roderick stood next to the window for a long moment, then suddenly, everything rebooted. It was not the timeline he’d planned, but Roderick Malone had chosen a profession where events sometimes didn’t follow the script. He plucked the cell phone from the desk. In his closet were two matching suitcases, rip-stop nylon with aluminum frames and sturdy, plastic wheels. Each case was filled with tightly-bundled cash totaling two and a half million. Roderick had done the math, then double-checked his work. A week ago, he’d purchased a day pass at the local Gold’s gym, and had walked around for a few minutes to appreciate the array of sculpted women in yoga pants and sports bras. Then he’d headed over to the free-weight section. After a brief struggle, he dislodged two sixty-pound dumbbells from the rack, which was close to what each case weighed. He took a few steps, then quickly decided—the cases were going to need some wheels.

Roderick extended the handles and took one last look around the office. Nothing would point anyone in his direction, except for fingerprints and some DNA. Not much he could do about that now. Six seconds later and he was out the door—the cup of coffee still steaming on the desk.

In the hallway, Roderick paused. He felt the knot in his stomach continue to tighten. He needed to make a decision—a big one. Most of the offices on the fourth floor were rented to young up-and-comers. They worked hard, but allowed themselves plenty of time to recover. It was a quarter to five and the floor was empty. No witnesses to point the goons in his direction.

At each end of the hallway, a staircase descended to the lobby, and there was an elevator that bisected the structure. Definitely not the elevator. If the door opened, and one of the goons was inside, there would be nowhere to run. Roderick stood in the hallway and clicked through the possibilities as the clock in his head prodded his fear.

These guys were big—maybe lazy—but most importantly, they wouldn’t figure on being spotted before getting inside the building. They were elevator guys, Roderick decided. He walked quickly down the hallway to the staircase on the east side of the building and passed under the red and white exit sign, the suitcases trailing behind him.

Roderick considered the security guard in the lobby. It was his job to clear any visitors before letting them upstairs. But the guard was old, periodically apathetic, and partially crippled from a car accident a decade earlier. Roderick couldn't count on him to slow the rhinos, much less stop them.

The stairs were a challenge. Roderick collapsed the handles for better control and began to roll them over the concrete steps. Thump, thump, thump. It was a loud and cumbersome process. Before he reached the third-floor landing he realized he’d guessed wrong; heavy footsteps trudged steadily from below. The sound reverberated off the stark concrete walls, mixed with the softly-whistled tune—Sweet Georgia Brown. Not elevator guys after all.

Roderick hoisted the cases and struggled down to the landing, then eased open the heavy metal door to the third-floor hallway. The door made a soft swooshing sound. Roderick slipped into the hallway and was relieved to see it was empty. Centered in the top third of the door was a small pane of glass reinforced with thin, diagonal wire. Roderick placed the suitcases on the tile floor and pressed his back against the wall so he could see a sliver of the staircase. Though the hallway was cool, a thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead. A few seconds later a hulking shoulder and several strands of dreadlock crossed his field of vision. Roderick waited for the second guy, but he didn’t appear.

Neither lazy, nor simple. The rhinos had split up. The bald-headed one could be stepping off the elevator about now. Or maybe he held back—waiting downstairs in the lobby. That would be a problem. No, Malone told himself. That would be too conspicuous; the guard was there.

Roderick eased the door open an inch, heard the footsteps continuing to climb, the sound of the whistling fading. Another whoosh followed by the metallic clank of the closing door. Dreadlocks had reached the fourth floor. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out Roderick wasn’t there. Stepping back into the stairwell, he held each suitcase barely high enough to clear the stair treads and moved down the steps as quickly as his aging knees allowed.

Shoulder muscles bunched and starting to burn, Roderick continued his descent. His breathing became labored, his cadence became jerky and less certain. Halfway down the last flight of steps, Roderick’s left heel slipped over the edge of the tread. His left ankle contorted to an angle for which it had never been designed. He pitched forward, twisted in the air. The thought of grabbing the handrail was overridden by his desire to hold on to the cash-filled case. At the last instant, Roderick released the case in his right hand and tried to brace himself. It was too late; he did a hard face plant on the concrete landing. On impact, Roderick saw flashes of white light—then nothing at all.

Roderick, face down on the floor, stared into the blurry gray concrete. His pain, followed by a wave of panic, hastened him back to reality. How long had he been out? His right arm pinned under his body, he struggled to free it, then turned his attention to his Rolex watch. Best guess: he’d been lying at the bottom of the staircase for no more than a minute or two. Given the situation, that was a very long time.

The tears escaping Roderick’s taut face were beyond his control. It took every fiber of resolve not to scream in pain. He was certain his wail would travel to every crevice of the building and serve like a homing beacon to the pair who were upstairs. Roderick reluctantly released the suitcases and used the railing to pull himself from the floor. He stood on one foot, then tried it with two. Searing pain—excruciating. For a fleeting instant, he considered leaving one of the suitcases at the bottom of the stairs. One in the hand, two in the bush… he told himself. Greed dismissed the idea.

The take had started out at nearly eight million dollars, but that was before expenses. And expenses had been a bitch. Nearly three million to fence the three small pieces of art, to convert the money to US dollars, to pay off a couple of shadowy middle men, and to create an avenue of escape. The costs had been high, but Roderick had priced the overhead in from the beginning. But now, to leave two and a half million in a stairwell… That was karma spitting in his face. Unacceptable. It didn’t matter how much it hurt; Roderick Malone wasn’t taking a fifty percent loss.

He cautiously cracked the door at the bottom of the stairs and placed one eye in the opening. Watched. Listened. Nothing. The lobby was empty—no rhinos and no security guard. The old man’s chair was abandoned, the small bank of black and white screens mounted around the desk unmonitored.

Roderick extended the handles and pushed his way past the heavy metal door. He tried to use the handle in his left hand for support, but it offered no relief and slowed him even more. The clock in his head ticked frantically. The two rhinos would be coming downstairs soon; Roderick was half surprised they weren’t in the lobby already. Outrunning them seemed absurd. Halfway across the lobby, Roderick’s fortune changed—ever so slightly.

The security guard was splayed on the floor, semi-conscious, groans emanating from his prone body. But it wasn’t the old man’s plight that captured Roderick’s attention. He hobbled over to the semi-circular desk. Careful not to step in the small puddle of blood next to the man's head, Roderick Malone reached across him, took the old man’s crutch leaning against the wall, and positioned it under his left armpit. With the weight off of his damaged ankle, the pain immediately dialed down. Then he balanced himself, reached over again and slid the .38 special Smith and Wesson from the guard’s weathered holster. He stuck it inside his own belt as the old black man managed to open one eye—twitching, squinting, attempting to focus. The man’s lips moved under his closely-cropped gray mustache. No words formed.

Roderick looked down at him and without a trace of empathy said, Bad day for both of us, huh?

Moving awkwardly through the double glass doors, Roderick hobbled on one crutch, dragging suitcases like a well-dressed Quasimodo. The clock in his head continued to tick. It seemed like eternity since he’d seen Dreadlocks in the staircase. He leaned heavily on the stolen crutch, repositioned the suitcases, and struggled up the sunny side of 4th Street toward the parking garage a half a block away. The plastic wheels were loud on the concrete sidewalk. Inside the parking garage elevator, he pushed the button for the third floor and took in air with deep, ragged breaths. By the time he reached his car, sweat had seeped through his shirt and jacket. Pain, fear, and fatigue reduced him to a sobbing heap and he felt like he was about to vomit.

Roderick fought the suitcases into the back seat along with the crutch. Once behind the wheel, he turned the key and switched the AC on high. He rolled the Mercedes down the ramp towards the exit expecting to see the rhinos leap out from behind every car he passed—but they never appeared. On the street, he could see the white SUV still parked in front of his building. Roderick steered the car in the opposite direction and drove away—slow and steady—feeling like he’d just bitch-slapped Death.

Chapter Three

ONE DAY BEFORE THE FERRY

Their meeting had been unlikely at best, Roderick Malone and Austin Daley. It was a convergence of two people with little in common, lives tracking in opposite trajectories. Less than twenty-four hours after Roderick’s escape from his fourth-floor office, he sat in a bar two hundred miles away. Rebranded as Irish Mike’s, it had been one of those ubiquitous franchise joints popular twenty years ago—brass railings, silk plants, an incessantly-gurgling fountain. The subdued lighting did little to disguise the ambiance of imminent failure.

The night before, a series of phone calls and three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills had netted Roderick a bottle of Vicodin. Supposedly. The pills had been delivered by a skinny, tattooed woman: a friend of a friend, with skin the color of death. She handed him an unlabeled orange vial—he handed her the cash.

No assurance of the contents, but, if he didn’t move around too much, the pills rendered the pain barely tolerable. The tradeoff was twofold: the fog in his head and the relentless beckon of sleep. He’d spent the night in a motel, one that had no qualms taking cash, with parking off the street in a room that smelled of Lysol. Roderick managed three hours of interrupted sleep. His decision to stop at Irish Mike’s at 2:30 p.m. on a Wednesday had been born from fatigue. He figured 2:30 was the sweet spot, after the lunch crowd, and before anyone less than ninety years old would consider dinner. The place was nearly empty. Roderick sat in a booth next to the window, his back to the wall. His eyes swept back and forth between the front door and the mostly-deserted parking lot. Next to him, resting on the worn, red vinyl seat was the vintage S & W .38 he’d taken off the security guard. Roderick had never fired a gun. Prior to yesterday he’d held those who used them for nefarious purposes in great distain. Today, he felt better having the .38 within arm’s reach.

On the booth’s scarred wooden table, a half-empty mug of light beer sweated into a cork coaster. Roderick wasn’t much of a beer drinker, particularly light beer, but at that moment, it seemed a prudent choice. A stiff drink on top of the pain killer might put him over the edge. The last thing he needed was to awaken to a local cop telling him to blow into a tube or asking him to walk a straight line. He took a sip of beer and thought back to the phone call just before the rhinos had shown up. The voice echoed in his still-tender head. He wondered, after his fall and the pain killers, if the voice he remembered sounded anything like the actual voice. Look out your window. Nearly twenty-four hours later it remained sage advice.

Roderick worried about the security guard, not about the guard in particular, but if the old guy had been conscious enough to recognize him. There were the cameras, too. Possible recordings of the rhinos headed up to his office—and Roderick hobbling off with the old guy’s cane and gun. Roderick’s original plan, to disappear into the Black Hills for a few weeks seemed now implausible. Time to adapt and improvise.

As he nursed the beer, trying not to think too much about his damaged ankle, a road-weary Pontiac Sunbird rolled into Irish Mike’s. It parked at the edge of the lot, near the line of diseased-looking evergreens. The car had faded to an awful shade of pink. A young woman climbed out of the driver’s seat and moved across the parking lot with short, purposeful strides. She wore form-fitting jeans and a red sweater, loose at the neck, snug everywhere else. Her strawberry-blonde hair, pulled back in a pony tail, glistened in the sunlight. She wore aviator-style sunglasses. The young woman was deliciously curvy, and even in heels, short.

Roderick lost sight of her as she approached the entrance, then she reappeared near the deserted hostess station. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head—scrunched her face and squinted, probably letting her eyes adjust to the gloom of the restaurant. A waiter with a long pony tail of his own approached her. Dressed in black, he reminded Roderick of a Ninja—with a serving tray.

Is Heather working tonight? Roderick heard the strawberry-blonde ask. Her voice had a girlish lilt Roderick found pleasant and slightly seductive.

The waiter shook his head and said something Roderick couldn’t make out. The woman stood for a moment, looked back towards the parking lot, looked at her watch, and back to the parking lot. Then she slid her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, swiped it and stared at the screen for a moment. She raised her shoulders and took a deep breath that pleasantly expanded the fabric of the red sweater. Then she walked over to the bar area and sat with her back to Roderick, two booths away.

Before she took her seat, Austin Daley glanced at the man in the back booth. He was still handsome but starting to show some age. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair longish, brushed back from his tanned, angular face with a day’s worth of grayish stubble. Scruffy, she thought—but scruffy with a bank account. He wore a Greg Norman golf shirt the color of eggplant and the watch on his right wrist looked like a Rolex. A cane leaned on the wall next to him.

He looked her over, but Austin Daley was used to that—that’s what men did when she was around. At least he wasn’t leering—more subtle—trying not to stare. She slid into the booth and busied herself with the lunch menu. In a couple of minutes, the waiter she’d talked to about Heather came to the booth.

What can I get ya’? he asked, pad and pen in hand.

Austin glanced over the brightly-colored menu. Rum and Coke, she said, then remembering she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. ….and a baked potato.

Loaded? he asked.

Do you have broccoli?

Sure.

Can you put that on the potato?

Sure. Anything else?

Mushrooms?

Got that, too, he replied. On the potato?

Please.

No butter, cheese, or sour cream?

Austin gave the phone another glance, then answered, Just the broccoli and the mushrooms. A dollop of sour cream on the side.

The waiter replied, You got it.

A few minutes later, he delivered her drink, and left. She heard the man in the booth behind her say, "I know that rum is the only drink suitable to mankind."

Phone still in hand, Austin twisted the upper half of her body to look over her left shoulder.

Sorry, he said, flashing a quick smile. Whenever I hear someone order rum, it reminds me of an old song.

His voice had a refined quality, not quite Shakespearean actor, but maybe the timbre of someone who was paid to speak.

James Taylor, Austin said quietly, thought a moment, then added, Captain Jim’s Drunken Dream.

The man in the back booth raised his eyebrows half an inch. You are correct, he replied in a game-show host tone. "But that was waayy before your time."

Austin, still contorted, stretching the red sweater across her torso, looked directly at him. My mom had good taste in music. The sting of her words registered in the stranger’s expression. That’s probably where you heard it, too, she added with a conciliatory smile. On your parent’s old stereo.

Yes, he replied, clearly amused. I’m sure you’re right.

The waiter came back and told her, Potato will be out in a few minutes.

She nodded then turned back to her table. Using her thumbs, she fired off a quick text:

Where r u.

Roderick studied the strawberry blonde ponytail and the sliver of red sweater that appeared over the horizon of the bench. A glimmer of an idea was beginning to form. Are you from around here? he asked the back of her head.

Again, she turned to face him, mildly evasive and answered, Not really.

Roderick nodded. Okay, he replied, like she’d missed the test question, but that he was willing to give her partial credit.

What about you? she asked. From around here?

No.

Didn’t think so.

Why is that?

I’ve seen plenty of people from around here, she said flatly. You don’t have the look.

Roderick offered a quizzical expression.

Take it as a compliment, she said as she turned back in her seat.

Would you care to join me? I’m certain there are plenty of complimentary things I could say about you.

Chapter Four

Austin Daley slid into the booth and carefully rearranged her glass and napkin in front of her. She set the phone off to her side, but close enough to read any incoming texts. I’m Austin, she said, her eyes not quite meeting his.

Even though he carried expensively-obtained paperwork for two aliases, he replied, I’m Roderick Malone. He extended his hand across the table. Her handshake was firm, with no linger. Do you have a last name, Austin?

Daley.

Austin Daley, Roderick said contemplatively. Sounds a little like a newspaper.

I know.

Not the first time you’ve heard that? he added with a smile.

Hardly.

The waiter returned, placed the potato in front of her and the ticket on the edge of the table. He nodded to her drink and Austin shook her head.

Roderick extended his hand. Let me take care of that.

Austin stabbed the ticket with her index finger. She wore pink nail polish that matched her lip gloss. She slid the paper closer to her. Thank you, she told him. But no thank you.

I didn’t mean to imply anything, Roderick said. I’m just happy to have your company, if only for a short while.

Thank you, Austin replied. It’s just a thing I have. I got caught once…well, in a situation. She paused, took another run at it. In a situation where a person thought I owed them. Then I started thinking the same way. Ended up doing some things I didn’t particularly want to do. I promised myself not to get into that situation again. She took a sip from the rum and Coke then added,