a real estate broker, but he only did any work when he was cash shy. Or felt like it.
“Huntin’ you down. Figured you’d be here in your sanctuary.”
“That I am. What’s up?”
He looked around the cabin expectantly.
“Where’s my drink?”
That was Mark-boy. He’d been aboard about ninety seconds before he hit me up for a drink. After he ragged me about the boat. He liked to show off. Drank his whisky neat. But only when he was showing off. Like that time we were at that early 1800s historic cowboy bar in Gruene, Texas. Mozie’s Saloon. He was knocking them back like there was no tomorrow. In Gruene, there wasn’t.
I poured a one-ounce shot for each of us.
“Next time you come by, bring a bottle.”
I slid one of the shot glasses towards him. He knew I usually drank mine with Seven-Up. Today I had a shot glass. It was that kind of day.
“You’re not gonna put mixer on that? No Coke or nothin’?”
Mark-boy can sometimes play that raggin’-your-ass scene a little too effectively. I wasn’t in a good mood anyway, and this was one of those times.
“You gonna drink, or are you just gonna stand there and annoy me?”
Mark-boy grinned and raised his glass. At least he knew when to shut the fuck up.
“Cheers.”
We tossed back the shots.
“So. What brings you out here to my yacht?
“Ah. Glad you brought that up. Several things.”
He waited for a response. He didn’t get one.
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