Chapter 7

Anton

I’m on a black sand beach in Costa Rica, letting water lap my bare toes. A pair of portable speakers are plugged into my music, and all have been buried by the surf. Much to my surprise, Becki Murphy's new single, “Justify My Touch,” is still playing on repeat. She’s a shrill and over-emphatic singer, but people can listen to full albums at a time. I think there are parts that she didn't even listen to the music when she sings, but her first album sold so fast that a second was pushed out the door six months later. Becki Murphy is a hot commodity. She’s the first sixteen-year-old artist to have 5 songs in the Top 20. I think her popularity has more to do with with the video where she was taking a shower than anything else. She is sure to go the way of the blonde bombshells before her, like Jayne, Marilyn, and Anna-Nicole.

I absolutely love it here. I think it’s the most beautiful place on Earth, the pinnacle of God’s creation. It’s been so long since I was here, I was starting to wonder if I would ever get a chance to come back. A little rest and relaxation has been well deserved.

I take one long puff off my cigar, stub it in the sand, and flick the butt into the ocean. The waves batter it about a minute before it sinks. I’m wearing a pair of very-worn Bermuda shorts and a torn, now grey T-shirt with a chartreuse hand giving a thumbs-up. “PARTY ON!” is written below in blue puffy letters. When I saw the shirt in a thrift store in Iowa, I laughed so hard that I had to have it. I used the last dollar in my wallet, scrounging the tax out of the “Have a penny...” cup behind the register.

I’m lighting the last cigar in the pack when footsteps crunch on the sand behind me. “I’m on vacation, Bub,” I say, my voice heavy with irritation. Usually, this is enough to make him leave without speaking. “This had better be good.” I’m still not willing to turn around.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lazarus, but this is important.” His voice is quaking with excitement. Usually, Bub is a lot more refined. I’m starting to get excited myself. “We found him, sir.”

I'm already on my feet when I turn. Bub is dressed in khaki slacks and a button-down white shirt. He is wearing cheap shoes though, and I almost have to turn away. They came from one of those outlet stores, and he thought they looked wonderful. Bub never did learn to dress himself. “What?” I cry, forcing myself to ignore Bub’s horrendous foot-apparel. This is far too important to quibble. “Where is he?”

Bub is wringing his hands. “Right where you said. In New York, sir.”

“Fuck! It’s winter up there!” I get up and brush the sand off my ass. “Are you sure he’s there? ”

Bub shakes his head. “He fits the description exactly. This is definitely the one.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that," I say, and he cringes. I nod begrudgingly. “Good. I can have this job done and be back on vacation in no time." I point down the beach. “Get my bags from the hotel. I want to be on the next plane to the States. Don’t accept ‘no’ for an answer." We start walking. “Have a car waiting for me. Call Mephis, tell him I want a gun ready at the airport. I want something big, something that will put a hole in him the size of my fist, got it?”

Bub nods and runs off. I puff up proud. Checkmate.

Go to Chapter 8

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