Read Online Everglades by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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organizations, and you know what happened to them.”
Izzy allowed himself to smile. “Who you think you’re talking to— Jerry? I’m the one who makes it happen. Which is why you’d better be telling the truth about the money.”
“You’re worried? It’s already been deposited into a numbered account. The trustee I’ve appointed—”
Izzy interrupted, “I’ve talked to him.”
He had, too. The man’s name was Carter—a banking tycoon before he’d joined the Church of Ashram and was soon elevated to Shiva’s inner circle: the Circle of Twenty-eight.
To Carter, Izzy had said, “If you don’t answer your cell phone the instant I call, if the account numbers aren’t kosher, guess who I’m gonna come looking for first? Don’t even try to hide.”
Shiva referred to the money as a “bonus” not a payoff.
Izzy made a good salary working for the church. He’d invested in stocks and property. He’d done okay.
A few years back, he’d done what he’d always dreamed of: bought his own island. Made a sizable down payment, anyway. The island was in Lake Nicaragua, just a mile off the coast from Granada, a fun little town. His island was a hundred acres of palms, waterfalls, a beach so white that it hurt his eyes.
The bonus was big enough that he could pay off the island and build the house he wanted: native stone, tile roof, ceiling fans. Big enough that he could quit, hire servants, enjoy the local women, do anything he desired for a long, long time. Which meant no more hanging out at Palm Beach’s Chesterfield Hotel. No more dancing at the Leopard Lounge, seducing aging socialites. No more crossing the bridge into West Palm, searching for hookers.
Which is why Izzy patiently listened to Shiva say, “All I’m telling you is, if it works, we both benefit,” before he replied, “The question now is, when do you want the second blast?”
Izzy got up off the couch, adding, “You gave me some dates, if you can stop being pissed-off long enough to listen.”
He pulled a spiral notebook from his inside jacket pocket, and began to read, “May second is the last day of Ridvan—that’s three weeks from now, a Friday.”
He looked up. “What the hell’s Ridvan?”
Mulling it over, Shiva said, “A prophet, Baha, found enlightenment near Baghdad in the Garden of Ridvan. That’s where God spoke about another messenger. A prophet who would usher in an era of peace for all mankind.”
Izzy said, “Meaning you, of course.”
Shiva wasn’t listening. “May second . . . yes, that could work. It’s not a well-known holiday, though. And there’s a pretty long gap between it and Palm Sunday. What’s the next date I gave you?”
Izzy looked at the notebook. “The eighteenth’s Good Friday. A week from now. Sunday’s Easter, then Shavuot—that’s Jewish. Or we could wait for the Green Corn Dance in late May. You want to impress the Indians, that’s the time to do it.”
“We can’t afford to wait.”
Izzy said, “Okay. For the second blast, let’s say next week, Easter Sunday, in the afternoon. Which’ll give me time to make a quick flyover, make sure there’re no people in the area. We’ll have to postpone if there are, so maybe the Green Corn Dance can be a backup. In the area where you’re building the casinos, you sometimes get airboaters, people canoeing.”
Shiva was shaking his head, “No. No postponements.”
Izzy had been expecting this. He said slowly, “So you want me to detonate . . . no matter what. ”
Shiva nodded emphatically: Yes —no more discussion.
“Ohhhh-kay . . . . which leaves one more little decision—and I mentioned this six months ago. I’ve read enough geology to know that an underground blast in the ’Glades—a big one—might crack the limestone plate. Limestone’s delicate stuff. It could screw up some of the water system between Miami and Naples. That could bring the Feds running.”
Shiva was focused on his computer, indifferent, no big
Izzy allowed himself to smile. “Who you think you’re talking to— Jerry? I’m the one who makes it happen. Which is why you’d better be telling the truth about the money.”
“You’re worried? It’s already been deposited into a numbered account. The trustee I’ve appointed—”
Izzy interrupted, “I’ve talked to him.”
He had, too. The man’s name was Carter—a banking tycoon before he’d joined the Church of Ashram and was soon elevated to Shiva’s inner circle: the Circle of Twenty-eight.
To Carter, Izzy had said, “If you don’t answer your cell phone the instant I call, if the account numbers aren’t kosher, guess who I’m gonna come looking for first? Don’t even try to hide.”
Shiva referred to the money as a “bonus” not a payoff.
Izzy made a good salary working for the church. He’d invested in stocks and property. He’d done okay.
A few years back, he’d done what he’d always dreamed of: bought his own island. Made a sizable down payment, anyway. The island was in Lake Nicaragua, just a mile off the coast from Granada, a fun little town. His island was a hundred acres of palms, waterfalls, a beach so white that it hurt his eyes.
The bonus was big enough that he could pay off the island and build the house he wanted: native stone, tile roof, ceiling fans. Big enough that he could quit, hire servants, enjoy the local women, do anything he desired for a long, long time. Which meant no more hanging out at Palm Beach’s Chesterfield Hotel. No more dancing at the Leopard Lounge, seducing aging socialites. No more crossing the bridge into West Palm, searching for hookers.
Which is why Izzy patiently listened to Shiva say, “All I’m telling you is, if it works, we both benefit,” before he replied, “The question now is, when do you want the second blast?”
Izzy got up off the couch, adding, “You gave me some dates, if you can stop being pissed-off long enough to listen.”
He pulled a spiral notebook from his inside jacket pocket, and began to read, “May second is the last day of Ridvan—that’s three weeks from now, a Friday.”
He looked up. “What the hell’s Ridvan?”
Mulling it over, Shiva said, “A prophet, Baha, found enlightenment near Baghdad in the Garden of Ridvan. That’s where God spoke about another messenger. A prophet who would usher in an era of peace for all mankind.”
Izzy said, “Meaning you, of course.”
Shiva wasn’t listening. “May second . . . yes, that could work. It’s not a well-known holiday, though. And there’s a pretty long gap between it and Palm Sunday. What’s the next date I gave you?”
Izzy looked at the notebook. “The eighteenth’s Good Friday. A week from now. Sunday’s Easter, then Shavuot—that’s Jewish. Or we could wait for the Green Corn Dance in late May. You want to impress the Indians, that’s the time to do it.”
“We can’t afford to wait.”
Izzy said, “Okay. For the second blast, let’s say next week, Easter Sunday, in the afternoon. Which’ll give me time to make a quick flyover, make sure there’re no people in the area. We’ll have to postpone if there are, so maybe the Green Corn Dance can be a backup. In the area where you’re building the casinos, you sometimes get airboaters, people canoeing.”
Shiva was shaking his head, “No. No postponements.”
Izzy had been expecting this. He said slowly, “So you want me to detonate . . . no matter what. ”
Shiva nodded emphatically: Yes —no more discussion.
“Ohhhh-kay . . . . which leaves one more little decision—and I mentioned this six months ago. I’ve read enough geology to know that an underground blast in the ’Glades—a big one—might crack the limestone plate. Limestone’s delicate stuff. It could screw up some of the water system between Miami and Naples. That could bring the Feds running.”
Shiva was focused on his computer, indifferent, no big
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