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CHAPTER 15

Watching Frank walk off toward his cabin, Larry Richards was thinking that his old friend had definitely changed.

These days Frank’s face looks harder. And there was more of an edge to him. He’d always acted tough—didn’t we all back then—but now there seemed to be something more to it.

In his school days, Frank was a talker—even gregarious, after a few beers—and had a surprising amount of wisdom and perception. A trait Larry supposed was beneficial if you were a bartender.

But now Frank was keeping things close to the vest. And it seemed like there was something else there that didn’t meet the eye. Working in a sleazy bar could certainly put some lines on your face—but this was more than just age and discontent.

And give me a break, Larry thought. Frank was thirty-six years old and trying to recreate the adventures of a twenty-year-old book. A book of questionable value, at that.

Definitely something not akimbo here.

Ah, but what the hell do I know? Larry thought. At this age and this point in life, we all have our secrets. If the realities of his own life got out and made their way back to Zenith City—well, suffice to say the feces would hit the ventilator.

No one back home, parents included, knew that Larry had been given the boot from ASU near the end of his senior year for running a fake ID business. Using photostats of Canadian driver’s license blanks he’d acquired while on a spring break ski trip to Banff, Larry’s business became so successful that the campus cops quickly grew suspicious of the large number of Canadian fake IDs being confiscated at local bars.

One thing led to another and Larry was expelled from ASU.

So he transferred to Denver University, a move his parents believed to be climate related, as Larry concocted a story about being just a few credits short of graduation with no desire to endure the “insufferable” heat of a summer term in Arizona. Also telling his parents that he’d transferred to DU with the intent of attending law school after graduation.

In actuality, his desire was to be closer to the excellent Colorado skiing. But the law school part eventually came true.

If Frank somehow discovered the truth of Larry’s current situation—well, it seemed probable that he’d take a different view of his old high school pal. If Frank knew Larry was nearly broke—the credit card they used for gas on the drive from Denver, the only one he owned that was still viable, although rapidly approaching maxed out—Frank Ford might recoil in disgust.

Or maybe feel sorry for Larry.

Which would be even worse.

And, yes, this mall-building deal was his shot to get out of the hole. A hole dug deep by his frequent usage of cocaine over the last few years.

Among other things.

If Larry could convince his young and rich associates to throw their financial weight behind the proposed Phoenix area mall, he’d be back on top of the mountain and sitting pretty once again.

And why wouldn’t they?

No good reasons that Larry could see. The Denver mall Larry had brokered was a going concern and a future cash cow for the consortium.

But his commission, kickbacks and all, had, nearly in totality, gone to the coke dealers. His frequent late payments had been a continuing annoyance for Arturo “Burt “ Reynolds.

And he’d also lied to Frank about Reynolds’ affinity for violence, fearing that if Frank discovered the real truth, he’d run as far and as fast as he could from Arturo Reynolds and Larry Richards.

During the course of his work on Reynolds’ divorce from wife numero uno, Larry had heard some stories. Of beatings, dismemberments and other assorted mayhem visited upon the wife’s suspected suitors, all attributed to “Burt’s” jealous nature.

So sending thugs or hit men to Arizona was definitely not beyond the bounds of possibility.

But they’d never find him out here in the middle of the desert.  

And maybe with time and a lot of freebase in his bloodstream, Reynolds would lose interest.

One could only hope.

But in the meantime, Larry had another problem. Two problems, actually: Bryce Parker and Clayton Cook.

One of the things Larry did for them to earn his base level salary was act as cocaine broker. Coke deals were how their business relationship started.

The whole “consortium” concept was kind of an in-joke at first, speaking to the fact that a bunch of these rich guys pooled their money together to get a volume price on the nose candy.

They gave their cash to Larry and he was expected to come through.

Which he always had.

Until now.

Reynolds had apparently sent the word to all his dealers to curtail sales to Larry Richards, and Larry had failed to find another source.

Leaving Denver on the run didn’t help.

So the two entitled sons of filthy rich fathers, due to arrive at Rancho Deluxe tomorrow, would be pissed off and disappointed at Larry’s lack of product.

Certainly a revolting development, as Jackie Gleason used to say.

Richards took a deep breath, blew it out and went to get his address book from his bag in the bedroom. He intended to spend the rest of the day getting in touch with members of his former senior class at ASU, a high achieving class filled with big-energy guys with big ideas.

Just the type of people he needed to help get the ball rolling on the mall project.

Top on his list was Bill Rosenbaum, or B.R., as they used to call him in college. Bill was now a hard-charging stockbroker and all-around big wheel in the Valley of the Sun business community, and just the right sort of guy to point Larry in the proper direction.

Of course B.R. would expect some compensation—but there would be plenty to go around.

With any luck, Larry would have some progress to report to Bryce and Clayton. Enough, Larry hoped, to avoid the sharp-tongued rebukes and sarcasm those two dicks were practiced at.

(End of Chapter 15)

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