Tricky Business Read Online Free Page B

parties in his neighborhood, where he was known as The Doctor. He was saving up for a Lexus.
    â€œOK,” Nestor said. “If the boat goes, I take you.”
    â€œNot me, you won’t,” said Phil. “I’m too young to die.”
    â€œDie, schmie,” said Arnie. “A big boat like that, this weather is nothing. A little rain. Besides, you got something better to do? You wanna spend your night here, running away from Mrs. Krugerman?”
    Phil winced. Mrs. Krugerman was an 80-year-old woman who had the hots for him. He could usually maintain his distance from her, because she used a walker and moved slowly. But she never stopped coming.
    â€œAnother thing,” said Arnie. “You know what the entertainment is here tonight? The broad that sings the show tunes.”
    â€œNo,” said Phil. “The one that killed Mrs. Fenwick?”
    â€œSame one,” said Arnie.
    Two weeks earlier, the woman who sang show tunes, a Mrs. Bendocker, had performed a medley from The Sound of Music, and during her big finale, “Climb Every Mountain,” while she was shrieking out the high notes for “. . . till you find your dreeeeeeeeeam,” Mrs. Fenwick, who was sitting in the front row, had emitted a gack and keeled over, dead as a doornail. A lawsuit had already been filed.
    â€œI can’t believe they’re bringing her back,” said Phil.
    â€œPoint is,” said Arnie, “you stay here tonight, you could die anyway.”
    Phil looked around the dining room at his fellow Beaux Arts patrons, some eating, some sleeping, some staring and drooling. None were talking.
    â€œOK,” he said. “I’ll go.”
    â€œRegular time?” Arnie said to Nestor.
    â€œOK,” said Nestor. “But you people are crazy.”
    â€œWe’re off our medication,” said Phil.
    â€œI’m Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand.
    Â 
    AT A SMALL MARINA IN THE BAHAMAS, TWO men, one large and one small, shrugged their way through the gusting rain toward a cabin cruiser tied to the dock.
    When they reached the boat, the large man, whose name was Frank, cupped his mouth and shouted, “Hey! Anybody here?”
    There was no response.
    â€œMaybe he’s not here,” said the smaller man, whose name was Juan.
    â€œOh, he’s here, all right,” said Frank. “He just likes watching us get wet.” He shouted at the boat again: “TARK! OPEN UP!”
    Still no response. Frank and Juan stood still in the rain for thirty seconds, a minute. Frank looked around, found a boat hook. He picked it up and clanged the metal end against the boat hull.
    Instantly, the aft cabin door burst open, and a lean, weathered man emerged, wearing only cutoff shorts, holding a knife.
    â€œYou touch my boat again,” he said, “I’ll cut off your goddamn hand.”
    â€œAnd good morning to you, Tark,” said Frank. “You gonna invite us in outta the rain?”
    â€œNope,” said Tark, then, looking at Juan: “I just got rid of the smell from last time you was on.”
    â€œFuck you,” said Juan.
    Tark ignored him, looked back at Frank. “You’re way early.”
    â€œWe just want to make sure you know it’s still on for tonight,” said Frank. “We don’t want you thinking this weather’s gonna stop the operation.”
    â€œWeather don’t bother me,” said Tark. “I ain’t the pussy who pukes every time we hit the Gulf Stream.” He was back to looking at Juan, who did in fact puke the last time they hit the Gulf Stream.
    â€œYou want to see who’s a pussy?” said Juan. “Put down the blade, get off the boat, we find out who’s a pussy.” Juan had boxed some, professional.
    â€œYou afraid of a knife, Pancho?” said Tark. “I thought spics liked knives.”
    Juan made a move to climb onto the boat. Frank put a large