morning. He said three things. He asked me to join him there. He had a lunch date at Mangoes. And he wanted me to help him celebrate something, but he didn’t say what. By the time I got to Sloppy’s, he’d disappeared. I don’t know if he meant to vanish, or if somebody spooked him, or somebody forced him into something.”
“How do you know about this stuff from the past?”
“Adding two and two. A lady who helped him invest that money found me last night at Louie’s. She’s looking, too. Worried because she can’t find him. She offered a sketchy outline of the arrangement, but no names. She wouldn’t let loose any details.”
Spence looked stunned. He wise-toned: “Ethics are important.”
“Hey, the partnership’s not my concern. I’ve got no opinion, other than I don’t want my friend in a jam. But this woman thinks something’s gone weird. She thinks somebody’s trying to toss a wrench in the works.”
I shut up and let Spence bat the facts around. I hoped he’d weigh the false safety of silence against the concept of teamwork.
Jesse stirred. “I’ve been patient so many fucking years … Now it turns into cowboys and Indians.” He looked up. “So you came into Mangoes looking for Cahill?”
I nodded, then added conjecture to prime the pump. “The person from back then that I associate with you is Buzz Burch. How much does he stand to get out of this?”
“We were fraternity brothers at the University of Georgia. We shared a farmhouse outside Athens. The Watergate era. Party central. Moonshine and LSD and the Allman Brothers. We worshiped the fucking Allman Brothers.”
“Where’s Burch these days?”
“Behind bars at Marianna, up near Tallahassee, last I heard. They’ve bounced him around the system. Talladega; someplace in Kentucky; another time in Missouri. The last fifteen years, he’s traveled more than I have, and I’m a free man. He’s due out sometime in the next couple of weeks.”
“Long time to spend at camp.”
“They threw him the whole menu. Started out, he paid off a DEA boy in West Palm to tip him when the net was about to fall. He and the wife—I don’t know if you knew Katie—and
their little daughter were living in a beach house up in St. Augustine. He got the warning call and chartered a Lear. Next thing you know he’s drinking Perrier Jout on a beach in Barbados. Fucker left so quick he forgot a shoe box of money in his kitchen cabinet. A quarter million. The feds had their own beach party on that lump. They reported it as sixty-five thousand.”
“A lot of money to kiss off because it slipped your mind.”
“This doesn’t blow up in our faces, he oughta be okay.”
I recalled two times when Buzzy Burch had done me favors. I’d accepted a short-notice photo job in the late seventies, a series of brochure shots for a sailboat manufacturer in Port Orange, south of Daytona Beach. I’d chartered a plane to Miami so I could catch a connecting flight to Daytona. My pilot had failed to show. I learned later that he’d been drunk for two days in the Boca Chica Bar. I was grateful for his having missed our appointment. Burch had spotted me waiting at Flying Fish Aviation and asked why I was hanging out at the flight facility. He offered me a ride. He was being picked up and taken to Charleston for a business meeting.
Three hours later the twin Beechcraft dropped me in Daytona. The pilot had even called ahead to arrange my rental car. I hadn’t inquired about the nature of Burch’s meeting. I also chose not to share the Marley-sized spliff that he’d sucked down during the flight; I recalled that the stereo had blasted the Marshall Tucker Band, over and over again, from takeoff to landing. Two weeks later I bought Buzzy a couple beers in the Full Moon Saloon, and he declared us even, debt repaid.
The other favor, perhaps the same year, followed my failing to buy tickets for a Mose Allison concert at the Harbor Docks. They’d gone on sale when I
“How do you know about this stuff from the past?”
“Adding two and two. A lady who helped him invest that money found me last night at Louie’s. She’s looking, too. Worried because she can’t find him. She offered a sketchy outline of the arrangement, but no names. She wouldn’t let loose any details.”
Spence looked stunned. He wise-toned: “Ethics are important.”
“Hey, the partnership’s not my concern. I’ve got no opinion, other than I don’t want my friend in a jam. But this woman thinks something’s gone weird. She thinks somebody’s trying to toss a wrench in the works.”
I shut up and let Spence bat the facts around. I hoped he’d weigh the false safety of silence against the concept of teamwork.
Jesse stirred. “I’ve been patient so many fucking years … Now it turns into cowboys and Indians.” He looked up. “So you came into Mangoes looking for Cahill?”
I nodded, then added conjecture to prime the pump. “The person from back then that I associate with you is Buzz Burch. How much does he stand to get out of this?”
“We were fraternity brothers at the University of Georgia. We shared a farmhouse outside Athens. The Watergate era. Party central. Moonshine and LSD and the Allman Brothers. We worshiped the fucking Allman Brothers.”
“Where’s Burch these days?”
“Behind bars at Marianna, up near Tallahassee, last I heard. They’ve bounced him around the system. Talladega; someplace in Kentucky; another time in Missouri. The last fifteen years, he’s traveled more than I have, and I’m a free man. He’s due out sometime in the next couple of weeks.”
“Long time to spend at camp.”
“They threw him the whole menu. Started out, he paid off a DEA boy in West Palm to tip him when the net was about to fall. He and the wife—I don’t know if you knew Katie—and
their little daughter were living in a beach house up in St. Augustine. He got the warning call and chartered a Lear. Next thing you know he’s drinking Perrier Jout on a beach in Barbados. Fucker left so quick he forgot a shoe box of money in his kitchen cabinet. A quarter million. The feds had their own beach party on that lump. They reported it as sixty-five thousand.”
“A lot of money to kiss off because it slipped your mind.”
“This doesn’t blow up in our faces, he oughta be okay.”
I recalled two times when Buzzy Burch had done me favors. I’d accepted a short-notice photo job in the late seventies, a series of brochure shots for a sailboat manufacturer in Port Orange, south of Daytona Beach. I’d chartered a plane to Miami so I could catch a connecting flight to Daytona. My pilot had failed to show. I learned later that he’d been drunk for two days in the Boca Chica Bar. I was grateful for his having missed our appointment. Burch had spotted me waiting at Flying Fish Aviation and asked why I was hanging out at the flight facility. He offered me a ride. He was being picked up and taken to Charleston for a business meeting.
Three hours later the twin Beechcraft dropped me in Daytona. The pilot had even called ahead to arrange my rental car. I hadn’t inquired about the nature of Burch’s meeting. I also chose not to share the Marley-sized spliff that he’d sucked down during the flight; I recalled that the stereo had blasted the Marshall Tucker Band, over and over again, from takeoff to landing. Two weeks later I bought Buzzy a couple beers in the Full Moon Saloon, and he declared us even, debt repaid.
The other favor, perhaps the same year, followed my failing to buy tickets for a Mose Allison concert at the Harbor Docks. They’d gone on sale when I
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