Read Online The Winners Circle by Christopher Klim - Free Book Online

places, greeted instead by silence and watchful eyes.
    “ Dick,” Tom continued, “wants to save us all from what he went through.”
    “ What happened to him?”
    “ After he lost his wife and daughter ...”
    “ Hold on. How’d that happen?”
    “ He bought his wife a Lamborghini, and she wracked it up on the Parkway. She and the daughter went with it.”
    “ That’s awful.”
    “ Man, you want to know the worst part?”
    “ What’s worse than that?”
    “ Her remaining family sued her estate.”
    Jerry wasn’t surprised. The closer people came to his money, the more rights they claimed. He recalled standing on Jacob’s farm, after he’d knocked down the hen house. He peeled one hundred dollar bills off a big wad of cash, until Jacob’s grin split his bearded face in two. “Did her family get the money?”
    “ Dick fended them off in court. You see his bodyguard?”
    “ I did.”
    “ Tucker carries a stun gun, not to mention the real thing. Dick told me that Tucker’s supposed to zap any family member who closes within ten feet.”
    Jerry felt ill. Was it Dick’s story or the pounding waves against the boat? His stomach surged with every dip. He should’ve taken a pill. He wasn’t going to make it.
    “ You don’t look so good.” Tom drained the rest of his beer. Foam limned his upper lip.
    “ Seasick.”
    “ What are you doing on this tub?”
    A shrill of excitement rose from the dance floor, as the boat skipped over a sharp crest. The boat slapped the water. Jerry pressed his fist to his gut, losing confidence in his ability to keep food down. “I don’t know.”
    He pulled away from the railing, the deck swelling beneath his feet. “Where’s the men’s room?”
    Tom seemed to understand motion sickness. The last place you wanted to be was down in the belly of the ship. Tom grimaced an apology, pointing a fat finger downstairs.
    Jerry wanted to lean over the rail and purge the limited contents of his stomach, but he considered Chelsea. She’d be mortified if someone saw.
    On the stairs, he smelled the millionaires again. The place reeked of expensive cologne, perspiration, and abandoned bites of crab quiche and marinated olives. The air was stagnant, garlicky. It didn’t lift or swirl. The dancers stirred up little relief.
    He descended into the pit. His stomach gurgled. The boat chopped through the harbor. Few people noticed the sway. They mingled, swinging to the changing rhythm, supporting their bodies on other bodies. Jerry held his breath, hoping to ford the dance floor in time.
    The band played ‘Gotcha Love’—a hard rocking ballad that failed by any musical standard. Synthesized chords pounded from the big amplifiers, abusing Jerry’s unsteady inner ear. He pushed past the dancers and that damned Yankee who was hitting on two women at once.
    Jerry gulped the bad air, certain he reflected the color green. The men’s room door looked like a submarine hatch, complete with bulkhead and spinning lock. He bore down on the gray steel and pushed inside.
    A woman was giggling. Her voice stifled, as soon as Jerry’s feet clapped the corrugated metal floor. He paused. Someone breathed heavily. He saw three urinals, assured he’d located the proper restroom.
    The ship pitched and righted. He grabbed the sink, nauseous. But the giggle unnerved him. It was a delicate sound, fluttering deep inside a woman’s throat. He knew that sound. It was permanently tattooed upon his brain.
    He splashed the faucet in the sink and crept toward the stalls. He heard a man. A couple breathed, moaning softly. Jerry’s head spun inside. He crouched down, eyeing the shoes beneath the opening. A cordovan pair of tasseled loafers fumbled with black open toe high heels.
    Jerry braced his feet. He felt increasingly ill and dizzy, the essentials of vertigo. The normal reflexes reversed direction in his throat, as blood surged from his head to his gut. He grabbed the stall door with his big hands and yanked