Free Call Me Joe by Steven J Patrick Page A

want."
     
    "Why would you sign on with something like that?" I asked.
     
    "They're locals," Jack shrugged. "I'm not and P.P.V. is a bunch of damned foreigners. If we wanted the deal at all, we needed the Wrights."
     
    "More aromas of fish," I observed.
     
    "Not really," Jack smiled. "Nearly every deal I've ever been part of has had its own Wrights. Fundamental, human nature: People don't trust outsiders. Locals help you grease wheels and sleaze deals."
     
    "My achin' head," I groaned.
     
    "You wouldn't make a good resort developer," Jack smiled, "which speaks very well for your character."
     
    "Well," I sighed, "there's one thing, at least."
     
    Eight
     
    We talked easily and laughed a lot. I found that, far from what I had assumed about pain-in-the-ass rich guys, I liked Jack. It would have been hard not to. Take away the vast mounds of cash and my stretch in the military, I could easily have turned out to be a lot like Jack. Like most Marylanders I had known, he has that appealing combination of a fundamentally bright outlook coupled with a wickedly dark and cynical sense of humor. I dated a girl, far too briefly, in high school; a vivacious, playful blonde named Sheryl, who remains the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on. She was a Maryland gal down to her chromosomes and I laughed more with her than I ever have with anybody. There’s a strong whiff of that sunny-yet-jaded thing about Jack and I found myself smiling and recalling Sheryl. Which is not a bad thing.
     
    Jack sat up straighter and pointed to a broad entry road forking off the two-lane. It was carefully graveled but completely unmarked except for a small, plastic-covered plywood plaque festooned with permit forms and employment notices.
     
    We turned into the road and started up it at a crawl. I spotted a glint in the trees and stopped. I opened the door, got out, and walked over to the edge of the gravel.
     
    "Problem?" Jack yelled.
     
    "Camera," I replied. "I think we'll sit right here."
     
    "Why?" Jack asked.
     
    "Perceived threat," I said, coming back to the Cherokee. "Don't want to make anybody nervous."
     
    "Fuck that," Jack snorted. "I own the place. Let's go."
     
    I shrugged and put it in gear, driving slowly up a small hill and around a sharp curve. The road fell gently away down an incline that led to what looked to be a long, green valley.
     
    Coming up the road at a good clip were two beige, soft-top Jeeps with heads showing above the rowbars. They got to within about 50 yards of us and executed a tight, neat V, spanning the entire road. I rolled up to about 20 feet and killed the engine.
     
    "Please stay in your vehicle," came a voice over a loudspeaker.
     
    Jack was out in a heartbeat.
     
    "Who's your crew chief?" Jack growled over the beginning of the voice's next sentence. "Let's go! We don't have all day."
     
    A human caricature of Sergeant Rock unfolded itself from the left-hand Jeep. I took a deep breath and got out of the Cherokee.
     
    The Sarge positioned itself in the middle of the road, arms folded, flashes of filtered sunlight flashing off the silly mirrored aviator shades. He stood quietly and said nothing.
     
    I noted a 9mm sidearm and what looked like a pretty replete gun rack at the rear of each Jeep.
     
    "You crew chief?" Jack asked bluntly.
     
    "Identification, please," the Sarge-unit said evenly.
     
    "You're not a cop," Jack replied mildly, "so you don't need my I.D. Now, are you the crew chief or not? If not, get on the radio and get him here."
     
    "Sir," Sarge shot back, an edge creeping into his voice, "you are on my job site. That means I have every right to demand I.D."
     
    "No, I'm not," Jack laughed.
     
    "Not what?" Sarge said, his brow furrowed.
     
    "I'm not on your job site," Jack replied.
     
    "Sir," Sarge smiled smugly, "I think I know my own job site and this is it."
     
    He stepped a bit closer to Jack. I did the same.
     
    "Now show me your I.D.," Sarge said softly, "or get your