Free Too Much Stuff by Don Bruns Page A

did anyway. “What do you see in me? You’ve got so much going and—”
    She threw her arms around my neck and pulled my mouth to hers. She kissed me again.
    “Shut up and show me our suite. This could be fun.”
    With the threat of my demise, I questioned that comment, but the next forty minutes were unbelievable.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    “Skip, Em, this is Amy.” He was shouting over the music.
    We’d walked over to Rumrunners, hoping to run into James. It didn’t surprise me that he’d made the acquaintance of a young, attractive lady. She had a brief white knit top on and a tan skirt that came up mid-thigh.
    Smiling, she nodded at both of us.
    “James has told me so much about you two.” She smiled, like we were going to be best of friends.
    It was as if James and Amy had a long-term relationship and Em and I were just catching up.
    “He’s never said a word about you.” Em started on James immediately. The two of them just went for the throat.
    He gave her that look that said: Don’t be a smart-ass.
    The same look she usually gave him.
    The song ended and the crowd applauded the guitar player who introduced a Jimmy Buffett tune while working a rhythm machine. When he started the next song, his voice was slightly off-key. He was loud, and the voices at the crowded bar went up a decibel.
    I always wondered why an entertainment establishment hired a talent who couldn’t carry it off. They did it on a regular basis.
    “Amy is from New York. She’s a designer.” James was practically shouting, a smug look on his face.
    I nodded. Talking much louder I said, “Emily is from Miami. She manages a large construction firm.”
    “Well, Amy is a diver. She’s taking a trip to the San Jose shipwreck tomorrow. She’s a historian as well.”
    “Well,” I turned and looked attentively at my attractive blonde girlfriend, “Em is an accountant, and tomorrow she is going to spend the day with me and only me, mostly in bed.”
    Em glared at me. I still wondered why she put up with our relationship. It never made any sense.
    There was no conversation for sixty seconds. Finally, I motioned to James. “We need to talk.”
    He patted the brunette on her bare shoulder, picked up his bottle of Yuengling, and followed me up the stairs to another level of the bar. A couple was hanging on the railing, looking out at the evening ocean. When they turned and saw us, they walked down the steps.
    “Em is coming with us tonight. She’s going to be our lookout.”
    “We need a lookout?” He cocked his head. “Yeah, I guess we do. We don’t know what we’re getting into, do we?”
    “James, it’s about the letter. Listen, dude, I saw the letter. When you see that stuff in print—”
    “Letter?”
    “The one that Em got. Threatening our lives. What kind of letter do you think I’d talk about?”
    “Oh, yeah. That letter. Pard, I don’t think—”
    “Whatever you think, someone has gone on record that you and I need to be dealt with. Are we going to take this seriously and go home or are we going to see this thing through?”
    “Am I going to take this seriously? We’re young, amigo. This is not the time to let someone squash our dreams.”
    “And our dreams are?”
    “We’re going to make a lot of money, Skip. We’re going to be rich, famous philanthropists.”
    “Are we going to go through with this?”
    Mr. Danger, James Lessor, took all of two seconds to respond.
    “Come on, Skip. It’s a joke. Maybe these two investigators, Weezle and Markim, sent a letter to throw us off the scent.”
    “The scent?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “One of those guys is dead, James. And maybe that body was supposed to be you or me.”
    “The name was Peter Stiffle. Remember? It wasn’t Weezle or Markim. We were wrong with our identification.”
    “James, think about it. What happened to our plumbing company?”
    He stepped back, eyeing me.
    “I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”
    “You came up with this idea for a