Page 6 of A Real Good Bad Thing

The conversation nagged at me until my sunset snorkel when I put it aside. After I said goodbye to Lance and my satisfied clients, my mind turned to Eli once more as I drove through the familiar Miami streets toward my condo.

My mom had given everything for love—her heart, her time, and her money. She’d given Eli the start-up funds for his investment firm many years ago. It hadn’t been a loan, but a gift. She’d wanted to help make his dreams come true.

For him to turn around and battle so coldly to keep everything when they split had left me empty inside.

And pissed off too. I wanted what was right. That was how Mom had raised me. Hell, that was how Eli had raised me.

To play fair.

When I reached my home, I headed straight for my laptop and impulsively—or maybe it wasn’t so impulsive since it felt goddamn necessary—changed my flight. I needed some extra days on the front end, and I’d use that time to do some digging.

To find out what Eli was up to because he was obviously up to something.

Then I’d make him do right by Mom.

Play fair. Just like he’d taught me when I was a kid.

3

BAR GAMES

Jake

The Pink Pelican was everything I loved about dive bars. The wood walls were lined with seashells. Jack Johnson played from a stereo system. A dartboard hung on the far side of the joint, and the whole place smelled of beer.

Heaven.

It was an investigator’s paradise too. The bartender, Maris, with her long brown hair braided tightly, was friendly and chatty. A few well-worded questions gave me key details about the nightclub at the end of the block—info I’d never find online.

I wanted to get a bead on Eli and his art investment. He might have the art hidden at the club, or he could have turned it into cash already and used it to buy the place. I’d visit the club later, when the moon was high and the place was busy and I could blend in.

But at five p.m., The Pink Pelican was just the right amount of crowded. I could prop my elbows on the bar and chat with the friendly and informative staff and be just a man on vacation. Plus, the easiest cover was one that could be true. I was thirty-eight-year-old Jake Hawkins, former soldier, now in the “recovery” business, and here on a fishing trip with his buddies. Maris was born and raised in the Florida Panhandle and considered herself an avid fisherwoman—the tattoos of waves coasting down her brown skin were her homage to the sea so we’d exchanged tales of the ones we’d caught and the ones that had gotten away.

“Tomorrow should be a great day on the water,” Maris said as she wiped the counter. “I bet you’ll have a fantastic haul. Marlins and groupers galore.”

“Excellent. That’s what I want to hear.”

“What else will you do while in town? Snorkel trip? Dive? Stingray kiss? I love all things water, so you’d better say yes,” she said, playfully bossy.

“I’ll probably do all of those things you mentioned,” I said, since that felt true enough, and it also might endear me to a water lover. But I needed to get to the heart of mylandmission. “But the other thing I want is island art. It’s a thing of mine when I go on a trip. Instead of vacay snaps on my phone, I have a painting on my wall. Like a fish jumping out of the water or something. I passed a place on this street,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the gallery I’d passed earlier—the one run by Eli’s new woman. I’d scouted it out but I wanted a local’s opinion of the place. “Can I get something like that there?”

She shook her head. “No way. That gallery is more for fancier things.”

Liketen-million-dollars fancy? “Like my Renoir?” I asked dryly.

Maris took my droll question at face value. “The gallery sells some high-end stuff, but nothing on that level. If you decide you want to turn that Renoir into diamonds instead, we’ve got plenty of shops for that,” she said as she wiped down some glasses. “Down on Wayboard Street—those guys have the best deals.”

“So Wayboard Street is where I should go after I sell my Renoir to the lady next door?” I asked with a grin.

“Absolutely.” She pointed as if to show me the street. “You pass this swank restaurant, Tristan’s, then take a right, take the next right, and”—she paused for drama, fluttering her fingers like she was onstage—“prepare to be dazzled.”

I laughed and filed that info.

Maris tapped the bar in parting and went to take care of some customers who had just walked in. I finished my beer while I made notes on my phone, then tossed some bills on the bar, including some extra for Maris, who’d been a gold mine.

As I stood to leave, that dartboard on the far wall tempted me. Satisfied with today’s work so far, I headed over and picked up a few darts, then backed up to the throwing line. Zeroing in on a target, I mimed tossing the dart once, twice, then a third time.

“You’re shooting too high.”

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