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Larry followed Parker into the house.

Frank was holding the golf bag at the bottom of the staircase as Cook started walking up. “Where do you want the clubs, Clayton?” Frank asked.

Cook stopped and turned. “I’m sorry, man,” he said, “I don’t know what I was thinking. Should’ve left them in the Lincoln. How else would I get to the country club? Would you mind putting them back in the trunk?”

Frank didn’t know if this was an honest mistake or some kind of weird test Cook was putting him through. But he was a guest here so he shrugged and carried the heavy bag back outside.

He took the keys from the ignition of the Lincoln and opened the trunk, dropped the golf bag in, put the keys on the driver’s seat and went back inside the house.

The main floor was empty. He heard voices upstairs on the second floor. Not sure what else to do, he started up the thick wooden steps.

Halfway up he heard the voices get louder.

It sounded like Bryce Parker: “What do you mean you didn’t get it, Larry?”

Larry: “I told you, Bryce, Reynolds cut me off. He’s super pissed about losing out on the mall deal and he sent out the word to his dealers to cut me off.”

Clayton Cook: “A little resourcefulness might have served you well, Larry. I suspect there are a few more cocaine suppliers in Denver besides Arturo Reynolds.”

“C’mon, give me a break. Reynolds sent goons with baseball bats to destroy my Beemer for God’s sake. And the next time it was going to be me. I had to split town or take a beating; no other choice in the matter.”

Parker: “A week in the desert without any blow is gonna be tough sledding, Larry.”

“I told you, Bryce, the reason Reynolds has it in for me is because you guys bought the mall deal out from under him. And when the checks start coming in, I want you two to remember it was me that put you on it.”

“I’m sure Burt remembers it was you,” Cook said, laughing.

Parker: “We were counting on you, Larry.”

     “I know you were. And I tried, I really did. But circumstances were beyond my control. But I’ve got some old friends in Phoenix who can help us out, so let’s change the subject. What’d you think of those properties I showed you this morning?”

“Not bad,” Parker said. “Halfway decent. I see the possibilities.”

“I can feel my mood slipping, already,” Frank heard Cook say. “I suppose we’ll just have to drink the ennui away.”

Richards: “I do have some state-of-the-art amphetamine. Stuff is straight from the American medical pharmacopeia.”

Parker: “I suppose that will have to do. But get on the horn with your local friends and see what you can shake up. Maybe you can redeem yourself.”

Uncomfortable now and feeling sorry for Larry—Hell is the people you hang with, they say—Frank turned and went back down the stairs. Stopping in the great room, he gazed around at the mounts on the walls and tried to figure his next move.

He had committed to staying for a midday meal, and after that he’d be free as a bird. But it would be getting on in the day by then and cutting into the available hours of daylight…

But, shit, any time at all on the road would get him closer to his goal.

And farther away from this cluster fuck.

Seemed like a win-win situation.

Part of him felt he should stay and be an ally for his friend. Larry seemed in need of some unconditional love—another concept Frank’s ex, Nikki, used to talk about. Girl liked to show off her education.

But Christ, prior to the day before yesterday, he hadn’t seen Larry in years. And Richards was the one that dragged him into this scene. Wasn’t the other way around, you know.

Unconditional love?

Fuck that.

He couldn’t make up his mind.

So he said the hell with it and headed for the pool. It was probably still below ninety out there. But the sun was well above the mountains now and it was only a matter of time.

(End of Chapter 17)

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The two new arrivals were pretty much like Frank had expected. Except he’d pictured them in blazers and ties—an east coast preppie look Frank had apparently brought forward from his formative years. Made him wonder if he was ten years behind the times.

Or longer.

The two average-sized guys were wearing shorts and rock band T-shirts. Dark-haired guy: Eagles. Blond dude: Rolling Stones.

Gone were the days when you dressed up to get on an airliner.

Both guys’ hair was fashionably long and similarly styled. They were also tan and good-looking.

Frank came up as they were unloading the Lincoln. “Anything I can carry?” he asked, showing a friendly smile.

Larry Richards was standing by the open trunk of the Lincoln. “Bryce—Clayton,” he said, “this is my old friend from Minnesota I told you about, Frank Ford. My Beemer was in the shop, so I made him drive me down here.” He grinned.

The guy with the dark hair, Bryce Parker, put out his hand and Frank shook it. “Welcome to Sonora North, Frank, or as Larry has so astutely christened it, Rancho Deluxe. I trust your stay has been enjoyable so far.”

“Very good, yes,” Frank said.

“So you’re a chauffeur then?” The blond dude, Clayton Cook, said, coming over to shake Frank’s hand before lifting a large snappy leather suitcase out of the trunk.

Frank showed him a mixture of grimace and smile. Couldn’t tell if the guy was serious or giving him a dig. “No, not really. A bartender by trade, actually. Right now I’m on my way to California, so I stopped in Denver to see my old friend Larry here. Turned out he needed a little assistance and I was happy to oblige.” He paused and looked at Larry. “And now here I am, footloose and fancy free.”

“Ah, a mixologist,” Cook said. “Some of my closest confidantes are bartenders.”

“Which is why your dirty laundry is always hanging in public view, Clayton,” Parker said, a sly grin on his face.

“It’s just that my troubles are so compelling, Bryce,” Cook said. “And yours, on the other hand, are so mundane and banal that nobody even cares to know them.”

“Stability and consistency are positive traits, Clay,” Parker said. “Something you’ll probably never understand.”

“Maybe when I’m an old man like you, Bryce. And now that you mention it, Frank, I could definitely use a hand with the golf clubs.” He nodded toward the open trunk of the Lincoln.

“Sure, no problem, glad to be of service,” Frank said, then lifted out the black leather golf bag, putting some muscle into it. Thing was as big as the ones the pros on TV used. He put the strap on his shoulder and started toward the house. “Just like the old days at Lakeview Country Club, eh, Larry?”

Taking a suitcase from the trunk, Parker at his side holding another one, Richards’ face got a little pink. “Yeah, Frank, thank God those days are over. I spent enough time in the woods looking for balls to last me a lifetime.”

“Maybe that’s where you lost your own balls, Larry,” Parker said, still grinning.

Frank turned and saw Larry stiffen; Richards’ face turning a shade of crimson.

“Just kidding, Larry,” Parker said, as he and Cook laughed.

Then Cook went into the house and Parker turned to Richards. “C’mon, Larry, lighten up,” Parker said. “Just giving you some shit. Let’s go inside and get out of this heat.”

(To be continued)

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SEE ALL T.K. O’NEILL’S BOOKS HERE: https://bluestonesblog.com/

To contact Bluestone Press or T.K. O’Neill, email bluestonepress@outlook.com or call 218.724.5806

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