Sand Dollars Read Online Free

old man. “Just think it would be good for you. Keep you busy.”
    â€œYou want me out of the Islands?”
    â€œNothing like that. You are wasting your life here. You don’t do anything. You need a cause. Without a cause, you cease to exist.”
    That was as close Chawlie had ever come to saying he cared about me.
    â€œFlight’s out tonight. Taking the red-eye to LAX, then renting a car and driving down the coast. Haven’t seen California for years. I’ll enjoy the drive.”
    Chawlie shook his head. “Going to LA? Taking your cash?”
    â€œWhy?” Chawlie held the bulk of my cash in his vault. It was safer than a bank, and he had no reporting requirements to some faceless bureaucrat who had my best interests at heart.
    â€œYou buy new boat. Not good for you to live in hotel. You’re a waterman, not a tourist.”
    â€œI’d thought about it.”
    â€œLA’s a hard place.”
    â€œThey’re a bunch of psychos, but I’m just passing through.”

    â€œYou’re going, you’re buying new boat, you’re taking cash money, you’re in California. You better bring gun.”
    Chawlie wanted something. He wanted me gone, away from my normal haunts. Maybe someday I’d discover the reason, but most likely I’d live my life in ignorance.
    That was okay.
    I was used to it.

3
    I was early for the meeting at Mr. A’s, a glass-enveloped steakhouse atop one of San Diego’s downtown buildings, but the clients were already there. They had been for a while and were more than a couple of drinks ahead by the time I arrived.
    When I mentioned the banker’s name, the maitre d’ swept a menu from his podium and held it above his head like a banner as he led me through the dining room. Eyes followed our procession, eyes belonging to a well-dressed crowd, the business and political class of the city. I was glad I’d worn a suit and tie.
    Two women sat near a window, deep in conversation. A good-looking brunette and a petite blonde occupied a booth, stemmed glasses of white wine in front of them, the bottle on the table. San Diego’s harbor spread below them like a kingdom at their feet, the sun descending toward the long, low hump of the Point Loma peninsula beyond.
    Both women interrupted their discussion at my approach, the blonde extending her hand in the gracious and formal European tradition. I shook it. Maybe I should have kissed it, but I’d never learned the etiquette of hand kissing and decided to stay with what I knew. “Claire Peters,” she said, her voice low, pleasant to listen to, her eyes alert, but not friendly.
    â€œJohn Caine.”
    The brunette shook my hand firmly with an old-boy shake, the business grip. This would be the banker.
    â€œMr. Caine, I’m Barbara Klein. Thank you for answering my call for help.”

    â€œYou went a long way for it. Don’t they have any PI’s in California? Or are they all in Hollywood?”
    She smiled but it wasn’t convincing. Even though I was invited, there was an exclusivity to this gathering, a femaleonly ambience that made me the automatic outsider. They were both powerful, successful women. I was the beach bum from out of state. And a male. It was as wrong as a woman in a barbershop.
    A waiter filled my glass as I sat. I took a sip of the wine, a California chardonnay. It had the rich, oaky flavor that I liked.
    Barbara Klein looked me straight in the eye, the way they teach you at all those good management schools. It matched her grip. She wore an olive suit with a white silk blouse that billowed at the neck. A large diamond ring graced her right hand, the way divorced women wear them when they like the ring but no longer love the circumstances of its acquisition. Her left hand sported no jewelry of any kind.
    â€œWe’ve spoken on the telephone so many times I feel I know you, Mr. Caine,” Barbara. Klein said. “You