Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) Read online

  Other books in the BUCK REILLY ADVENTURE series

  by John H. Cunningham

  Red Right Return

  Green to Go

  Crystal Blue

  SECOND CHANCE GOLD

  Copyright © 2014 John H. Cunningham.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Greene Street, LLC

  Book design by Morgana Gallaway

  This edition was prepared by

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  Print ISBN: 978-0-9854422-7-9

  Electronic ISBN: 978-0-9854422-6-2

  The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but have been used fictitiously, and all other characters and events in the book have been invented.

  www.jhcunningham.com

  This book is for Marius Stakelborough

  “A sailor can’t just go to bed at seven o’clock in the evening, so we decided to open a bar. There wasn’t one on the island. There we could get together, play dominoes and cards, just shoot the breeze for awhile.” Le Select opened in 1949.

  Merci, Marius.

  Contents

  Familiar Names, Different Faces

  This is Not My Beautiful Beach Trip

  My Reputation Exceeds Me

  The Gold, The Guy or The Girl?

  The muddy trail of the Hudson led me past Manhattan, a civilization now foreign to me, as the voice of Air Traffic Control whispered vectors into my headset. I followed instructions and banked east over Central Park. Just south of the Queensboro Bridge, I was given clearance to land. The brown channel was free of boats, ferries, and trash barges, so I added flaps and held my breath as the Beast splashed down into the East River. I’d salvaged her a year ago, a forgotten relic from a CIA operation gone awry. The G-21 Goose had been designed and built in the late 1930’s to accommodate businessmen coming from Long Island to New York City at the same seaplane base where we were now headed. Hell, she’d probably landed here in her eighty-year existence.

  I decreased power, still a thousand feet from my destination. I hadn’t been in New York City since the crash of e-Antiquity, my former treasure-hunting company. Losing e-Antiquity had only been the first domino in a cascade of failures that included divorce, bankruptcy, the death of my parents, and a still open FBI investigation into insider trading. Returning here now made me cringe. I’d gone from the cover of the Wall Street Journal to living one tank of gas at a time, chartering tourists, and salvaging the occasional lost soul just to pay my bills.

  I had no regrets.

  I kicked my heel against the safe beneath the seat that held the old treasure maps I’d spirited away before the creditors descended upon e-Antiquity. I had yet to give them my full attention, but today’s return to the Big Apple was in response to an old friend and investor who’d summoned me. The entire flight up the coast had me wondering if he was interested in getting back into the treasure game.

  The seaplane base was hidden behind a huge residential complex, the only building on the east side of the FDR highway. I taxied past it and hoped there’d be room for me to—

  What the hell?

  A Grumman Widgeon was already tied up at the dock.

  By last count, there were fewer than a hundred Widgeons worldwide, but that’s not what caused my white-knuckle grip on the wheel. My first flying boat was a Widgeon I’d named Betty, after my mother. I’d lost the boat a year ago. The odds of seeing her twin here, now, seemed astronomical.

  I aimed the Beast toward the pier and rushed through the checklist to shut her down. With repeated glances out the starboard side window, I could tell the Widgeon’s paint was fresh, a nice porpoise-gray with blue floats. She was equipped with factory standard radial Ranger engines, just like Betty had been. And I could tell from various details, that this plane had been built in 1946—just like Betty. Aside from the color, she was the spitting image of my old flying boat.

  I glanced back at her N number: CU-N-1313. CU was the registration code for airplanes from Cuba—which was where I’d lost Betty and salvaged the Beast.

  There was a knock on the hatch.

  I swung around to find the heavily clothed ramp agent waiting outside. He’d already secured lines to my bow cleat and to the ring below the tail.

  My fingers tingled as I turned off batteries, closed off fuel lines, and took a deep breath. The restoration of the Beast’s interior was nearly complete, and if not appointed for luxury, she was now presentable enough so passengers didn’t balk at riding in her.

  Cold air hit me in the face when I climbed out. I hiked up the zipper on my old leather jacket.

  “Great old plane,” the man said. He thrust a clipboard in my face with a contract flapping in the breeze. “Can’t believe we have two old Grummans here at the same time. Bet that hasn’t happened for fifty years.”

  “I can’t believe it, either.”

  I handed him back the clipboard. He nodded toward the Beast.

  “Love your silver and black color scheme,” he said.

  “Thanks, just finished it.”

  I stepped up to the Widgeon, peered inside the left side window and found an orderly cockpit. The fuselage windows revealed a few duffel bags and a metal storage locker on the starboard side, with seats on the port. I started to reach toward the hatch, then balled my fist and turned away.

  Every detail of her fuselage stirred memories.

  I glanced back at the tail. CU-N-1313. Two eighty-year-old flying boats from Cuba. Here at the same time.

  “How long you going to be here?” the ramp agent said.

  I checked my old Rolex Submariner—I’d be late if I didn’t get moving.

  “Only a few hours.”

  “Need a yellow?”

  “Supposed to be a car here to get me.”

  “Let me guess, the Rolls?” He laughed. “It’s out front. Follow me.”

  The man had the logo of the New York Skyports on the back of his insulated coveralls. The wood planking groaned under our weight, and the wind cut through me with a whistle. I didn’t miss the cold or the concrete jungle of big city living. New York’s a great town, but I now preferred flip flops to Ferragamo loafers, cargo shorts to custom tailored suits, and filing flight plans between islands instead of business plans to investment bankers.

  The ramp agent nodded toward the burgundy Rolls Royce outside the fence.

  “That ain’t no rental.”

  I smiled. It sure wasn’t

  The driver who sprang from the vehicle had on an immaculate cashmere full-length overcoat and a black cap. He walked around the rear of the car, met my eyes, and pulled the back door open.

  “Nice to see you, Percy,” I said.

  “Mr. Reilly.” Was that a smile?

  “Where’re we headed?”

  “Mr. Greenbaum is expecting you at Riverpark, just up on 29th.”

  I sank into the cream-colored leather, and the door closed with a quiet thud.

  Here we go.

  We turned onto 29th Street and drove until we reached a landscaped cul-de-sac where taut flags snapped in the swirling wind. A broad open plaza stretched out toward the FDR and beyond to the East River, with Long Island City visible across the white-capped water.

  “Riverpark Restaurant is through the lobby,” Percy said as he jumped out to open m
y door. “Mr. Greenbaum’s waiting for you there.”

  “Thanks, Percy. Great to see you.”

  He nodded, his hand on top of his cap.

  I stepped out into cold my bomber jacket was no match for and wind off the river that nearly knocked me over. I dashed across the brick sidewalk to enter a massive glass and steel building. I rubbed my palms together and shook off the chill, then continued through the cavernous lobby toward a broad, luxurious spiral staircase that ascended into a marble and glass atrium.

  A man came around the corner of the elevator bank. I stopped in my tracks. As he approached, he stopped in his tracks.

  “Jack, is that you?” I said. Jack Dodson, my former partner at e-Antiquity, but he looked leaner and meaner. When did he get out—

  “Long time no see, Buck. Thanks for all those visits while I was in Sing Sing. Really let me know how much I meant to you.”

  He’d spent five years in prison for insider trading—a fate I very narrowly avoided. “And for the bullshit pittance you and your brother sent my wife?” He shook his head.

  “Hold on, Jack!” I wasn’t about to let that pass. “I’m fucking bankrupt, my brother got all the—”

  He laughed, but his eyes showed no mirth.

  “We were best friends, Buck. Partners. You were like family to me. We created e-Antiquity together.” His voice was a whisper, but the fire in his eyes made me look down at the floor. “And we had a deal—I take the fall, and you take care of my family—”

  “My brother sent checks every month. Son of a bitch cut me off, but kept sending money to her—what the fuck was I supposed to take care of your family with? I’ve got nothing left to give.”

  This perfectly reasonable—and truthful—explanation got me a dry laugh as Jack glared at me, slowly circling past. I turned, still facing him, adrenaline keeping me on high alert.

  “That was the one thing that kept me going,” he said, “knowing that when I got out I had my money stashed and you had shit.”

  A thought lit up my brain.

  “Were you here to see Harry?”

  His smile twitched and his eyes narrowed.

  “Keep clear of me, Buck. Run your little charter service and chase tail in the Keys. I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

  “But—”

  “Nice bumping into you, ex-partner.”

  He turned sharply and continued through the lobby at a brisk pace. The women watched him pass, maybe because he was dressed all in black, tight pants, boots, a black turtleneck, and a designer leather jacket.

  I watched him walk outside—and froze when Percy appeared and opened the rear door to the Rolls. Jack slid in without looking back. A moment later the car continued around the cul-de-sac and up 29th Street.

  I exhaled a deep breath.

  Jack Dodson was out of jail, he hated my guts, and he’d met Harry Greenbaum before me.

  The Widgeon? Jack was a pilot too, but it had a Cuban registration.

  What the hell was going on here?

  It took a few moments for me to collect myself. My heart rate had shot up and the cold I’d felt on entering the building had been replaced with a light sweat. I pulled off my jacket and swiped my fist across my damp forehead.

  “One for lunch?” The pretty brunette hostess asked.

  “I’m looking for Harry Greenbaum.”

  She smiled, nodded for me to follow, and led me toward the back of the restaurant.

  I replayed the surprise encounter with Jack in my head as I walked through the crowded restaurant and bar.

  What the hell’s going on here?

  Harry was situated past the bar, in a private room with two uniformed waiters, a long table, and a river view I barely noticed. Jack had persuaded Harry to invest in e-Antiquity back in the day, having met him through our bankers at Goldman Sachs. It had been Jack’s job to raise money while I scoured the globe for antiquities, and Harry had been his coup.

  “Buck Reilly.” Harry stayed in his seat. “It’s been far too long.” I shook Harry’s doughy hand. The lines around his blue eyes had been etched deeper in the five years since I’d last seen him, and there were a few pounds more of him to like. His gray flannel suit sported a red handkerchief in the breast pocket, perfectly accentuating his blood-red tie.

  I swallowed. “It certainly has, Harry. But I’ve sure appreciated you being there for me these past few years.”

  He held a hand out to the chair across from him and one of the waiters rushed over to pull it out for me. Was this where Jack had been seated?

  He laughed. “You’ve always been attracted to adventure, haven’t you? That’s what persuaded me to invest in your company in the first place.”

  “Yes, well, your sixty-four companies—”

  “Down to fifty-five now.” He must have seen my brow lift. “Just completed an IPO of several I’d bundled into a conglomerate, dear boy. Sorry for not offering you friends and family shares, but I know your means are limited these days.”

  “Congratulations.” I paused. “You never slow down, do you?”

  “At my age, slowing down means death.” Harry’s British accent added authority to whatever he said, often tinged with just a touch of sarcasm. It was one of the things I always enjoyed about speaking with him. “And that wouldn’t be much fun, would it?”

  The waiters delivered salads, and for the first time I noticed there was both white and red wine poured for each of us. Harry sipped the red, no doubt a rare French vintage. Among his many interests, he was a oenophile. He supposedly had a twenty-thousand-bottle cellar in his country estate outside London. As much as I wanted to guzzle both glasses, my plan was still to fly south right after lunch.

  “Could I get an iced tea, please?”

  One of the waiters jumped at my request.

  “I bumped into Jack out in the lobby,” I said. “Did you invite me here for the same reason you met with him?”

  Harry’s eyes narrowed, but only for a moment.

  “No, dear boy. He contacted me a week ago and asked to meet, so I fit him in to my schedule today. I summoned you for a completely different purpose.”

  Harry must have rented the private dining room for the entire day. That was his style—have people come see him away from his office or residence or at a location under his control.

  He sat back in his chair and gripped his armrests.

  “When you and Jack were partners, I’d always felt you were the more cunning, someone who’d stop at nothing to attain your goal.” He paused. “But while incarceration has sharpened Jack’s focus, the island life has muted your ambition.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “I don’t mean that as a slight, dear boy. I know you’ve been through a lot.”

  “I just don’t care about money like I once did. It drove my every decision, determined my every relationship—and what did it get me?” I sat back and took a deep breath. What’s the point of arguing the pitfalls of wealth with a billionaire?

  “You’re a better man now. You’ve matured. You were what—twenty-five or six when e-Antiquity struck gold?”

  “So what did Jack want?”

  The waiter delivered my iced tea and Harry used the interruption to consume his salad in four bites. My appetite was gone.

  “The reason I asked to see you today, Buck, is extremely important to me.” Harry’s eyes locked on mine. “And it’s for a personal reason, not business.”

  I waited.

  “A dear friend’s nephew has been missing for several weeks now,” he said. “When I spoke to him two days ago, he had all but given up hope that the boy would be found.”

  “How old is the boy?”

  “Forty, I believe.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. To Harry, every guy under fifty was a boy.

  “I assume the police have been doing everything possible to find him?” I said.

  “Perhaps not,” Harry said. “He lives in the Caribbean, and as you know, the levels of in
vestigative expertise there aren’t exactly up to par.” He sighed. “And to be perfectly frank, the young man is not well liked on the island where he resides.”

  “So you want me to go look for him? What do you expect I might find that the police haven’t?”

  “Perhaps nothing, dear boy, but if there is anything to be found, my bet is on you to find it.”

  I ran through my obligations back in Key West. There wasn’t much—a couple of charters that could wait, no salvage, and not much income potential on the horizon.

  “What island?”

  “St. Barthélemy,” Harry said. My jaw tightened. When e-Antiquity was at its pinnacle, just before the financial fantasy collapsed, Jack and I had rented a 140-foot yacht with a crew of 22 and parked it in Gustavia harbor at St. Barths the week before Christmas through New Year’s. We’d flown in our top investors, Harry Greenbaum being the biggest, and lavished them with every comfort. Caviar, champagne, foie gras, no expense spared. The million-dollar tab was one of the catalysts for our company’s quick demise. I looked at Harry—was that a smirk on his face? It was.

  The French island was the epitome of the fast lane lifestyle, the sophisticated playground to the world’s rich and famous. Russian magnates, Hollywood movie stars, top fashion designers and celebrities. It remains one of the most beautiful places I’d ever been.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Lou Atlas. His missing nephew is Jerry Atlas.”

  “The Lou Atlas? Former presidential candidate and software billionaire?”

  “I’d not say he’s sentimental, but his nephew is one of his few heirs. I suggested I might have someone who could pursue a private investigation.”

  My turn to smirk.

  “Harry, you know I’m not a PI.”

  “You’ve said it yourself. Salvaging lost treasure or lost souls, it’s all the same.”

  Good grief. The Atlas fortune was huge, multiple billions. But so was Harry’s. Normally, there wouldn’t be much for me to wrestle with—I loved that island. And I’d make a decent payday. But there was something else I wanted from Harry.