Read Online The Quick Adios (Times Six) by Tom Corcoran - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Corcoran
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will start speaking their own private language.
Anya and Eileen got out with their carry-on bags and walked toward a cream-colored Porsche Boxster.
Beeson waited for the Porsche’s engine to start. Its rumble was deep enough to suggest an exhaust system modification. He then cued his stereo to an old Marley tune and drove away. He turned right onto the Tamiami Trail, the highway built in the 1920s to connect Tampa with Miami, a project that also launched the long-term annihilation of the Everglades. A minute later we were eastbound on Tallevast Road. After being quiet for over two hours, Beeson began to make up for it.
“I grew up in Bradenton, about six miles from here,” said Beeson, “and worked construction out of high school until my twenty-fifth birthday. I saved a hell of a lot of money by sharing shithole apartments with beer-swilling roommates and by not helping them buy their drugs.”
“I think we all hit a phase like that,” I said.
“That’s when I learned all the tricks I used in remodeling my home in Key West. But one day I stood back and tried to envision my future,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t be pounding nails when I was forty, or even standing out in the weather supervising nail pounders. I would have to master some other skill at a poor time in my life to be learning new ways to get along. So I looked for an alternative to busting my ass, though I didn’t quit my day job.”
We heard a faint doorbell as the music volume dropped. Beeson’s in-car cell.
He pressed a button on his steering wheel. “Yup.”
Anya’s voice came through the car’s speakers: “Morton’s. Eileen wants a slice.”
“Her mother’s decision.”
“No answer from her,” she said. “We’re latchkey again.”
“Okay,” said Beeson. “One is plenty.” He thumbed his phone’s off button and said, “One slice of pizza at Morton’s is more than I ate in a day, growing up.” He thumbed the button again. Bob Marley returned.
“We can look at my building while Anya takes Eileen to her mother’s place,” he said. “By the time we reach the house, our supper will be ready. You can stay in my guest house unless you prefer a hotel.”
He gave me a fraction of a second to respond, then said, “Anyway, I didn’t know what it was called back then, but I was placing venture capital on a local level. A tire outlet, self-storage units, a chain of four ice cream stands. The first few worked on a certain level. I got my money back and some free tires and too much storage and ice cream. Then I bought one more concrete block building out on 301 that was really too big for an ice cream stand. I thought it would be my downfall. But before we got a chance to move in, Hertz came along and offered to lease it for thirty years. Zap, I was golden.”
“Can I ask one question?” I said.
“Anytime you need to, Alex.”
“This building at 23 Beeson Way. What do we expect to see after dark?”
“You won’t believe this, with my expertise in numbers,” he said, “but I’ve never been able to remember that address. Here you are, knowing it after reading it once. Anyway, I want you to see the campus in its worst light. You’ll appreciate it more in the morning. I also want to pick up my mail and check a couple of things.”
We were eastbound on State Route 70. I saw I-75 a short distance ahead and feared his weird lecture might never stop. This had become far more complicated than the cushy gig I envisioned while boarding the King Air in Key West.
Beeson passed the cluster of gas stations, motels and convenience stores near the Interstate, drove under and a quarter-mile beyond the big highway, then turned right onto a multi-lane service road. We went southward, hooked back toward I-75, then south again. A minute later he pulled to the roadside, put the Escape into Park but left the motor running. It took me a few seconds to realize that we had stopped in front of 23 Beeson Way, complete with night crime
Anya and Eileen got out with their carry-on bags and walked toward a cream-colored Porsche Boxster.
Beeson waited for the Porsche’s engine to start. Its rumble was deep enough to suggest an exhaust system modification. He then cued his stereo to an old Marley tune and drove away. He turned right onto the Tamiami Trail, the highway built in the 1920s to connect Tampa with Miami, a project that also launched the long-term annihilation of the Everglades. A minute later we were eastbound on Tallevast Road. After being quiet for over two hours, Beeson began to make up for it.
“I grew up in Bradenton, about six miles from here,” said Beeson, “and worked construction out of high school until my twenty-fifth birthday. I saved a hell of a lot of money by sharing shithole apartments with beer-swilling roommates and by not helping them buy their drugs.”
“I think we all hit a phase like that,” I said.
“That’s when I learned all the tricks I used in remodeling my home in Key West. But one day I stood back and tried to envision my future,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t be pounding nails when I was forty, or even standing out in the weather supervising nail pounders. I would have to master some other skill at a poor time in my life to be learning new ways to get along. So I looked for an alternative to busting my ass, though I didn’t quit my day job.”
We heard a faint doorbell as the music volume dropped. Beeson’s in-car cell.
He pressed a button on his steering wheel. “Yup.”
Anya’s voice came through the car’s speakers: “Morton’s. Eileen wants a slice.”
“Her mother’s decision.”
“No answer from her,” she said. “We’re latchkey again.”
“Okay,” said Beeson. “One is plenty.” He thumbed his phone’s off button and said, “One slice of pizza at Morton’s is more than I ate in a day, growing up.” He thumbed the button again. Bob Marley returned.
“We can look at my building while Anya takes Eileen to her mother’s place,” he said. “By the time we reach the house, our supper will be ready. You can stay in my guest house unless you prefer a hotel.”
He gave me a fraction of a second to respond, then said, “Anyway, I didn’t know what it was called back then, but I was placing venture capital on a local level. A tire outlet, self-storage units, a chain of four ice cream stands. The first few worked on a certain level. I got my money back and some free tires and too much storage and ice cream. Then I bought one more concrete block building out on 301 that was really too big for an ice cream stand. I thought it would be my downfall. But before we got a chance to move in, Hertz came along and offered to lease it for thirty years. Zap, I was golden.”
“Can I ask one question?” I said.
“Anytime you need to, Alex.”
“This building at 23 Beeson Way. What do we expect to see after dark?”
“You won’t believe this, with my expertise in numbers,” he said, “but I’ve never been able to remember that address. Here you are, knowing it after reading it once. Anyway, I want you to see the campus in its worst light. You’ll appreciate it more in the morning. I also want to pick up my mail and check a couple of things.”
We were eastbound on State Route 70. I saw I-75 a short distance ahead and feared his weird lecture might never stop. This had become far more complicated than the cushy gig I envisioned while boarding the King Air in Key West.
Beeson passed the cluster of gas stations, motels and convenience stores near the Interstate, drove under and a quarter-mile beyond the big highway, then turned right onto a multi-lane service road. We went southward, hooked back toward I-75, then south again. A minute later he pulled to the roadside, put the Escape into Park but left the motor running. It took me a few seconds to realize that we had stopped in front of 23 Beeson Way, complete with night crime
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