Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt. Linn Wyllie

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Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt - Linn Wyllie

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slip rent was cheap. And it included shore power. But that was before I moved in with Rebecca Lynn. She’s an up- and-coming litigation attorney. She was pretty good at it. Her arguments got written up occasionally in legal review publications. I’d read them, and they would always impress me. She had a great legal mind. But litigation attorneys can be vicious. Brutal. They can gut you like a fish. While they smile at you as you just watch your guts spill out. It’s unnerving. Everybody wants to be on her good side. Including me. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was once Miss Chamber of Commerce either. That was years ago. She still had it. Beauty and brains and success. It’s a deadly combination for a guy. We dated a bit, and the chemistry was definitely there. We fucked like muskrats for a couple years. Anywhere and everywhere.

      She’d drag me around to all of those attorney bar and chamber of commerce functions, and I know her crowd pretty well. They knew me. We were certainly an odd couple. She was upwardly mobile. I’m less so. I’d chat up the attorneys and judges and social climbers that frequented these things. It was always fun. They’re basically focused on themselves, and I’m kinda philosophical about all that. Besides, once in a while I’d get a referral from one of them. But I always sent my soon-to-be-guilty clients to Rebecca Lynn. They knew I would. How could I not? She’d have to send some of my referrals out to others—conflict of interest, you know—and these attorneys always knew where that client came from. It was a symbiotic relationship, I guess. That’s why I’d even go. To these events, I mean. There were usually some hors d’oeuvres served. That meant neatly dressed wait staff meandering around carrying silver trays of beautifully crafted little morsels. Smiling. Free. I’d always take one. At least I’d get something to eat. Rebecca Lynn would have a wine and some crackers and cheese. I’d have a Jack-and-Seven and go hunt for shrimp or those bacon-wrapped scallops. Wine and cheese for her. Seafood and whisky for me. Described us perfectly.

      Even though she’s twenty-some odd years younger than me, she had me move in with her. It was her demand. Who was I to say no? I quit trying to analyze the psychology years ago. I like slender younger women, and she’s probably got some latent daddy issues. Electra and Oedipus complexes merging. I get it. So what. We’re both brainy. We like to play chess with each other. I never let her win. She wins only occasionally. We discuss eclectic things like metaphysics and the meaning of life. Zen in all its forms. Dharma and karma. The relationship was working for the most part. Mostly. It was a resume enhancement for me. Everyone thinks I’m some kind of well-hung stud. Well, I am that. For her, I dunno. Maybe the same but in a different way.

      Anyway, I keep the houseboat for times like this when I need to be away from the world for a while. So I clambered aboard and opened the slider aft of the cabin. It was dark and dank down below as boats typically are. I opened it up to air out. The smell of gasoline, salt air, and bilge was familiar and welcoming. Except when I was hungover. It was time to hunker down a bit and just mellow out. I popped a couple Ester-C tabs. Vitamin C in mega doses always works for me. Plopped down on the bunk and closed my eyes.

      But I couldn’t shake the mysterious dame encounter. Bob Dylan’s belt? How do you solve a bad dream? What the hell was that all about? Was the dame loony? Why didn’t Messr. Astor ask for the money back? That’s what I called him. Did he even know about it?

      I felt kinda guilty about taking the money. For about twenty seconds. The envelope was still in my desk drawer. I solved the case, right? Obligation satisfied. But I just couldn’t make it work. Too many bizarre angles.

      And somehow I felt that it would come back to haunt me. Easy money always does.

      I needed a nap and, thankfully, I finally dozed off.

      * * *

      I awoke somewhat refreshed, and my work ethic kicked in. Either that, or Mr. Brain was nagging me to go back to work. He was usually right, so I got up and got dressed.

      And headed for the office. Again.

      One of the individual suites in my office condo was occupied by a mental health therapist. Marie Vaughn had a master’s degree in psychology and specialized in tutoring learning-challenged children. She was an ageless beauty who had it all: brains and style and class. She and I would spend hours comparing the merits and shortfalls of my psi functioning to her psychological analysis. Especially as it pertained to criminal motivation and mental makeup. Very heady stuff. Her eyes would twinkle in a certain way whenever she thought she had me in a philosophical debate. And I definitely noticed her eyes. She was intellectually stimulating, and I admired and respected her a great deal. We would debate issues, all in fun, and I guess she felt the same about me. Her husband, Ted, was a retired real estate investor who was chronically ill. Cancer or something. I had done some things for him in the past, and I introduced him to Mark-boy as a real estate connection. I always got the impression that there wasn’t much between Ted and Marie, but I never pursued it. You know—don’t ask, don’t tell. I could relate. Rebecca Lynn and I were in the same boat. Actually, Marie and I never delved into our relationships with our spouses. Not in any depth anyway. Not for any particular reason, really, other than personal discretion.

      But Marie and I enjoyed challenging each other intellectually. We always seemed to be on the same page on most issues. But there was a noticeable current—a vibe, maybe—that ran through some of those discussions, and I know she was aware of it too. If Rebecca Lynn wasn’t in my life, well, let’s just say Marie would be.

      I stepped out into the hall. I wanted to tell her about the dame with the Dylan bad dream. Just to see what she could make of it. But she had her Do Not Disturb sign on her closed office door. That meant she was in session. She was busy. Damn. I went back into my office. Picking Marie’s brains would have to wait.

      Another office suite I rented out was to a couple of college dropout types who were into all things computer. Twenty-somethings aspiring to be the next digital tech gods. Not focused on it though. Smart guys, I guess, but intellectually all over the map. Spent most of their time searching the web and its deeper underbelly for conspiracies. The deep web, the dark web, whatever that is. They’d uncover some arcane bit of lore and then charge into my office breathlessly enlightening me about the Bilderberg Group, George Soros’ Nazi past, Area 51 sightings, alien moon bases, UFO encounters, or the bugs on Mars. Whatever. It was fun to watch that youthful exuberance. God knows mine was on the wane. They were partners in their company, an LLC I helped them create, and they did research for me sometimes. They were pretty good at finding stuff online. And sometimes they couldn’t quite make the rent. So it kinda worked out in a barter-based sort of way.

      David Willis was a tall, lanky guy, and oh so serious. Wound pretty tight. Wore his hair early Johnny Depp. Everything had to have meaning, a purpose, and one had to be aware of this to get ahead and find enlightenment in life. He was opinionated and cocksure of everything. All the time. It was amusing for a while, then it got old. But you couldn’t ignore him all the time. Sometimes he was right.

      John Cavanaugh, his partner, was a polar opposite. He was stocky, but not fat, and had a gentle humor and intellect about him. He had those sensitive eyes that chicks dig, was soft spoken and wore his hair business cropped. He was an artist type, in perfect contrast to David’s hyper and analytical persona. He had his art displayed in local coffee houses and in an occasional professional office. It was very good; he was a realist. His landscapes looked like photographs, they were so real. And he could do dinosaurs so well that some textbooks commissioned his artwork. But he didn’t draw or paint. He created them pixel by pixel on the computer. Digital art, I think it’s called. He’d sell a landscape occasionally for good money. It would piss David off no end. He hated to be upstaged. Together they were pretty adept at what they did. It’s just they really didn’t do it much. Intellectually spastic nerds. Living at home. Or in the office.

      I was in my office reviewing an insurance case. I was figuring my time. Had to see how much money I lost. Six hours on surveillance should have paid me a per

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