FLAGLER'S ISLAND (Excerpt)

Mortars flashed and echoed in the night sky. A rifle-propelled grenade whistled overhead. Blood spattered a dull brick wall and soaked into the sand. The quick thud of explosives became the repetitive banging somewhere beyond the mountains of Afghanistan.

“Harry, for Christ’s Sake, open up,” a voice shouted.

Harry Flagler bolted out of bed. The throbbing sound of battle segued into a fist pounding on his front door.

A disheveled Artie Baron waited outside Harry’s small house in West Palm Beach, Florida. The retired New York police lieutenant wore rumpled pants and jacket. Aviator sunglasses, bought from a street vendor in Brooklyn in 1982, hid his tired eyes.

Harry ran an electric razor over his chin and opened the door.

“Thanks, Artie. I had a rough night,” he said.

“The dreams again? Man, I think you ought to get help,” said Artie.

“Maybe when things slow down. Let’s get going. Lambert’s slotted to leave his office in about an hour.”

“You all right? You look worse than me. I mean at fifty-six I expect to feel like shit. You’re not even forty,” said Artie.

“Thanks for the compliment. A cup of coffee and I’ll be the vibrant young guy you always admire,” said Harry.

They drove in Harry’s Prius across the city to the edge of the Intracoastal Waterway and parked opposite an imposing modern office building on South Flagler Drive and Lakeview Avenue.

“The board meeting should end in about thirty minutes. He’ll drive out of the garage in a black Ferrari,” said Harry.

“I thought Lambert drove a Bentley,” Artie commented.

“The Bentley’s his Palm Beach mask. The Ferrari’s his magic coach.”

In an elegantly appointed sixth floor conference room the Invictus Financial Services of Palm Beach board of director’s meeting had droned on for two hours.

Martin Lambert, the meticulous seventy-eight year old chief executive officer clicked off his PowerPoint presentation of intricate arcane graphs, charts and grids filled with financial data.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have come out of this downturn with our expenses in order and a decent profit by prudently tranching our mortgages. Our accounting firm assures us we are on firm ground. However prudent practice suggests that in the event of any difficulties we put aside fifty-five million for legal expenses. Those in favor raise your hand.”

“We have an almost unanimous aye vote. What troubles you, Mr. Epstein?” Lambert asked.

Kent Epstein, at thirty-eight the youngest member of the gray-haired board, peered over the top of his tortoise shell reading glasses.

“I looked through my notes. There’s no opinion from our law firm,” said Kent.

“As the director of our legal team, I’m surprised you don’t have that information at hand,” said Lambert.

“Mr. Lambert, although I’ve only been on the board for three weeks, I do have intimate knowledge of Invictus. There is no finding from my firm. You may have an accountant assessment but I suggest we do our own research. You’re well aware that the Justice Department does not look favorably on tranched mortgages.”

“Perhaps we can discuss this in my office. If there are no other items on the agenda, the meeting is over,” said Lambert.

An attractive young woman in her late twenties followed them into the executive suite. She handed Lambert a note. He glanced at it and nodded.

“We won’t need you to take notes, Denise. This meeting’s off the record. Please close the door,” he said.

Lambert sat back. The window behind his chair overlooked the Intracoastal Waterway and the bridge leading into Royal Palm Way in Palm Beach where Kent’s firm, Butler, Martin and Feinberg had its local office.

“Let’s make this short, Kent. I have an appointment in Bal Harbour in ninety minutes. I suggest that you and Harlan Butler talk over your concerns. As far as the Justice Department’s concerned, our representative, congressman Fuller, has our back. Don’t worry about repercussions,” said Lambert.

“I had no idea of your involvement with Fuller,” said Kent.

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘involvement’. Invictus has been a campaign donor for years.” He stood up. “If you’ll excuse me. Give my regards to Harlan,” said Lambert,

Kent stopped in the building lobby and made a call on his mobile.

“You didn’t tell me Invictus was in bed with Roger Fuller. Is that smart?”

Six feet two inch, two hundred solid pounds of Harlan Butler curled twenty-pound weights. A discreet hair transplant with a slight touch of gray at the temples replaced his receding hairline. Wrinkles disappeared under a Botox needle and rumors floated that he injected himself with weekly human growth hormones to stave off age and the effects of his long travail in the legal trade.

“Invictus is one of many corporations that Fuller assists. It’s not going to make any difference,” Harlan said into his speakerphone.

“This is no longer an arm’s length relationship. It’s cutting too close,” said Kent.

“There’s nothing to worry about. Just sit in the meetings and nod in agreement. You’re getting paid very good money as a director of the company. Enjoy it.”

“You’re sure we’re in the clear?” asked Kent.

“You have my word,” said Harlan.

On the fourth floor garage of the office building Lambert slipped into a sleek black Ferrari Berlinetta.

The growl of the seven hundred forty horsepower engine turned on Lambert almost as much as Denise who waited in the passenger seat.

She playfully rumpled his thinning hair. Her hand ran over the paunch he worked so hard to reduce with little effect and slipped her fingers between his thighs. Lambert smiled contentedly.

Viagra would have its intended effect by the time they reached the wealthy enclave north of Miami.

“We have all afternoon,” he said imagining languid moments punctuated by frenzied lovemaking under satin sheets in their Bal Harbour hideaway.

Harry’s car whispered behind the muffled roar of the Ferarri. Dressed in a faded denim shirt he looked as if he was on his way to calm a homeowner with a clogged toilet.

“Man, Lambert’s so goddamn predictable. Does everything right on the minute. I bet he shits the same time every day,” said Artie who slouched in the passenger seat.

Lambert rolled into Bal Harbour at one forty-five.

“What did I tell you, Harry? Right on time,” said Artie.

The Ferrari turned into the long, curved driveway fronting a high-rise apartment building with views of both Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic.

Harry parked opposite the apartment complex in the shade of artfully arranged palm trees. He positioned his digital SLR camera on top of the dashboard and focused on the expensive sports car.

Plate glass doors at the apartment complex silently slid open. A doorman dressed in a long, blue coat and gold-trimmed captain’s hat rushed out.

Lambert adjusted his jacket as if preparing for a board of directors meeting. The young woman slid out of the passenger seat. Their hands touched as she handed him his briefcase.

Artie leaned back and yawned. “How long we going to have to wait?”

“Depends on his stamina,” Harry laughed.

“And his supply of meds.”

Harry unfolded a sheet of paper. “According to his schedule, he has to be out by three-thirty and be in his office by five. He and his wife have a charity dinner.”

“You said she knows about his affair. Why doesn’t she just throw the son-of-a-bitch out?”

“Ada Lambert told me she could put up with him playing house with his secretary, but she’s pissed he’s drowning her in diamonds.”

“Do you blame the young broad for collecting the goodies? I mean getting into bed with Marty Lambert’s like getting laid by your grandfather.”

“Relax. We have two hours.”

The winter sun traveled high in the sky looking down on a subtropical village that decked itself out for the Christmas holiday before Thanksgiving with holly, fake snow, animated Santas, and robotic reindeer.

Carols emanated from speakers hidden in an extravagant life-sized crèche where a lily white Mary and Joseph tended their infant in a stable filled with animatronic sheep and donkeys.

A large eight branched candelabra slowly revolved on a turntable next to an exclusive resort hotel. The holidays had arrived in Florida.

Harry picked up croissants and a thermos box of coffee from the resort cafe. He shoved them through the car window.

“You’re not going to starve, Artie.”

“You should have bought this stuff at a Dunkin’ Donuts instead of a hotel. They charge an extra eighteen percent for the privilege of shopping in this goddamned haven for the rich and lazy,” said Artie.

He reached for a cheese croissant and washed it down with hot coffee.

“Your proletarian roots are showing, Artie.”

“No surprise. My father was a union steward in the rag business and my mother once led a strike on the lower east side.”

Harry held up a croissant. “Then your parents would be proud. My wealthy client’s paying to clog our veins.”

Artie tossed the empty cup over his shoulder where it joined the rest of the litter.

“I find it ironic that you’re tailing someone you did business with when you practiced law,” he said.

“It’s how I get most of my clients. They trusted me to draw up their wills and estates. Now they trust me to keep my eyes open and mouth shut.”

“You should have stayed in the shyster business. By now you’d be a rich man,” smiled Artie.

“Then you and I would never get to sit cramped in a car with dirty coffee cups and crumbs to feed the pigeons.”

“You never told me why you left that high-priced law firm.”

“Someone said I could make more money as a private investigator. They lied.”

“Your wife, Ruth, was also a lawyer. You guys should have formed your own firm.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Harry.

“She was a terrific lady. There’s not one person she represented that didn’t believe she was their guardian angel.”

“She had that effect on me. Only I didn’t know it at the time.”

“That happens. We don’t know what we have until we lose it,” said Artie.

“Did you find that in a fortune cookie?”

“Only saying, Harry.”

“And I’m only saying what part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ didn’t you understand?” asked Harry.

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