Shark Fighter (The Len Levinson Collection Book 8) by Len Levinson & Nicholas Brady

Author:Len Levinson & Nicholas Brady [Levinson, Len]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Destroyer Books
Published: 2016-05-19T00:00:00+00:00

He left the hotel and walked leisurely toward his boat, tied up at the Marigold pier. The big question was whether to trade the old Chris Craft in on something newer and bigger, or just have the engine overhauled. He decided this was no time to be shopping for a new boat, and to just have the engine overhauled. If he ever decided to trade it, he could argue that the engine had just been overhauled and maybe get a bigger trade-in allowance, not that it would matter that much to a man with two million dollars. It would certainly be strange to have a lot of money, because throughout his life he’d always had to worry about the stuff. After he got the money, there wouldn’t be any point in hunting sharks anymore. He wondered what he’d do.

Still thinking of these things, he piloted the Destiny to the boatyard and told the foreman to pull the engine and overhaul it. The foreman was a muscular native named Charlie Boogle, and he looked at Taggart skeptically.

“Can you afford an overhaul, Taggart?”

“I can pay you half in advance, if you want.”

“I want.”

Taggart whipped out his check book. “How much should I make it out for?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

Taggart wrote the check, ripped it off, and handed it to him. “When’ll the job be done?”

“Two weeks.”

“You can’t do it any faster than that?”

“Two weeks.”

“Okay Charlie — see you in two weeks.”

“Wait a minute Taggart — how can I get in touch with you if something big has to be done?”

“Call me at the Regency.”

“You mean the Regency on Bomack Street.”

“It’s the only Regency Hotel on the island.”

Charlie screwed up his face. “Where’d you get all the money all of a sudden?”

“It’s a long story. So long, Charlie.”

Taggart carried his little satchel with jeans and tee shirts inside to the Coastal Highway, and hitchhiked into Marigold, where he walked to the Regency Hotel and inquired at the desk about his room reservation. He was given a key with a number on it, and rode the elevator up to the top floor of the 24-story hotel, where he found his room, unlocked the door, and entered.

It was a large corner suite with bright sunlight streaming in from southern and eastern exposures. The walls were yellow and the trim green, and the furniture was striped, plush, and modern. There were two double beds in one room, a complete living room in another, a kitchen, and a bathtub with a sunken tub. Taggart hadn’t known such luxury since his expense account days. There was even a stereo system with a selection of recent albums from America.

He kicked off his sandals, turned on the music, and rustled around in his satchel until he found the plastic baggie half-filled with ganja. He rolled himself a fat joint and was lying on the sofa puffing on it, when his door chimes went off. Staggering to the door, he opened it and saw Alison standing there.

“Let me in quick,” she said. “I don’t want to be seen here.

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