Repo Shark by Cody Goodfellow

Author:Cody Goodfellow [Goodfellow, Cody]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Bizarro, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Sports & Outdoors, Water Sports, Surfing, Crime Fiction, Crime
ISBN: 9781940885100
Google: 5IQEoQEACAAJ
Amazon: B00LP17B28
Goodreads: 21870998
Publisher: Broken River Books
Published: 2014-03-31T11:00:00+00:00

The room was huge and furnished almost entirely in echoes. It felt like a museum. Tile floors, columns, floor to ceiling windows looking out on a pasture dotted with horses and cattle. A few things under glass set into the walls or in free-standing cases. Crowns and fans of feathers and beads from all over the world accompanied trophies and plaques and godawful works of “art” presented as gifts from grateful world leaders, celebrities, scientists, inspirational speakers and self-help gurus.

He immediately gravitated across the room to the largest, newest display. His heart dropped into his guts and hid behind his balls, which had crawled up into him at the sight of the exhibit under the fancy halogen pinlights.

Inside it stood the Captain America bike. The twisted front wheel, almost curled around the bent fork; the stars & stripes, gouged and crosshatched with dull silver, the shredded ruin of the leather seat. There was even a bit of blood on the grips and streaking down the crooked handlebars, right where he’d spilled it, only a couple nights ago.

The door behind him glided open and someone in heavy cowboy boots ambled in and belched loudly enough to produce an echo. “Shitfire, Hawaiians don’t know fuckall about good barbecue.”

Zef whirled around and backed up against the glass case, making the ruined Harley rock on its mounts. Sweet Jesus, not again…

The man was big, tall and barrel-chested, his big grin smeared with barbecue sauce he wiped off on the pearl-button cuffs of an impossibly elaborate embroidered cowboy shirt. Zef never watched TV in the daytime, but he recognized the man instantly from commercials, billboards, bus benches, tabloids at checkout stands. It seemed wrong to see him walk into a room without hearing a wave of canned studio applause.

“Shit, boy, why’re you dressed like you just knocked up one of my daughters?”

Zef floundered for about ten seconds without making anything like a word.

“Like, yo, dawg…”

“Call me ‘dog’ or any of your ghetto honorifics again, and a man will come in here and break your jaw.”

“Uh…”

“D’you know how to ride?”

“Wha—what, like a motorcycle?”

“No, damn it. I’m the proud owner of proof you can’t ride a motorcycle worth a shit. Horses. Do you know how to ride them?”

“N-no… sir…”

“Fine,” he grouched, going over to the window to wave away a trail guide and a couple saddled horses waiting outside. “Go ahead and wear that, then. Thought I heard you were from Nevada…”

Even on the edge of losing his temper, he had that kind of warm, sunny Southern accent that somehow sounded like both a dimwitted hick and a fruity snob at the same time, like that loser vice president who went crazy telling everybody we were all gonna melt if we didn’t stop cows farting.

“You like the house?” Without waiting for Zef to answer, he brought over two glasses of wine from an old Hawaiian man who bowed and turned back into furniture. “I had all the rock taken from the Waipio Valley, where the last of the old cities of refuge on the Big Island was, before Kamehameha leveled them all.

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