Read Online A Dangerous Harbor by R.P. Dahlke - Free Book Online Page A

The drunk reeled back, grunting and swearing.
    Damn, she thought, too drunk to get the message, but let's see if he gets thi s. She turned, grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed her knee into his groin. Satisfied to see him jackknife to his knees, she backed into the shadows and hurried along the passage only to bump into another male body. This one was shorter, sober, and put up his hands to keep her from colliding into him.
    Booth.
    He nodded at the lighted porthole behind her. "Enjoy the peep show?"
    The question was obviously rhetorical, since she was getting the picture that Booth made it his business to keep tabs on her. But did he know she was a cop, one who was here to see if she could get the goods on his friend Spencer Bobbitt?
    She sighed. Might as well see what I can do to fix the damage.
    "Can we talk someplace else?"
    "Sure. Foredeck should have cleared out some by now." He indicated they were to head back the way she came.
    She stiffened, remembering the drunk she'd left heaving his guts out on the deck.   "I'd rather not go that way, if you don't mind."
    Booth laughed. "I didn't take you for the prudish kind, but okay, top-deck is nice and quiet this time of night." Doing an about-face, he took a staircase to the next level up.
    He pointed her to some deck chairs set out for daytime sunbathing. "Take a chair and I'll get us a coupla Cokes."
    Katy enjoyed the few minutes of quiet to admire the inky darkness of the Mexican night and the brilliant stars in the Baja sky.
    Booth came back and handed her a cold can. "Noticed you don't drink. Gets in the way, don't it? So, where were we? Oh yeah, guess you got an eyeful down there, huh?"
    "The magician in the salon keeps the women entertained while the men go downstairs for a strip show. What're they signing up for…Nigerian blood diamonds, shares of nonexistent gold mines in Canada?"
    "Want to know how Spencer got his start?"
    She waited. He was going to tell her anyway.
    "He had a secret formula for copying French couture and sold it to gullible housewives."
    "This is a far cry from gullible housewives," she said, waving a hand at the expansive yacht.
      "It's a fun story, if you wanna hear it."
    He was too smart by half, in spite of his folksy speech pattern. What was Booth to Spencer? Sycophant?   Surely not just a gofer. It reminded her of a cheap parody of The Godfather with Booth as consigliere to Spencer Bobbitt's Don.
    "As Spencer tells it to his friends," said Booth, "of which I count myself one, he'd roll into some Midwest burg, get himself on the local radio station and with a heavy French accent proclaim that he was sick of France, hated the French." Booth stopped for a moment to hack out a wet cough that he tried to disguise as a laugh. "Midwesterners hate the French, so they were ready to listen." The cough caught him again and he reached in a pocket, pulled out a couple of tissues and spat. Putting it back into his pocket, he continued. "He's stolen the secret of French couture, see, and if the fine women of Bum-fuck Missouri wanted it he'd meet them at such and such time at a local auditorium or high school gym, whatever, and reveal the secret that every French woman knew; how to make beautiful couture with only a simple pattern and a sewing machine."
    "Did it work?"
    "Boy, howdy, did it. He would fill up a high-school auditorium and then pretend to measure off his assistant, consult his secret book, cut a pattern and in minutes he'd have haute couture. But that last town went wrong on him. He'd misjudged his target in that last town and climbing outta bathroom windows to escape the law taught him a good lesson. See, women are not as proud as men when it comes to admitting they've been had. That's when he decided to switch his game for the weaker sex—primarily married, wealthy, retired men with a taste for very young flesh. Eventually the men wise up to the con. Land or condo or whatever deal he has them hooked up to is all smoke and mirrors.