Vacation to Die For (9 page)

Or get elected to Congress.

I doubt Angie would bat an eye if I asked. “I’ll take that bet,” I say nonchalantly. “I’ve got a dentist buddy. Mind if I shoot off a picture and text it to him?”

Just as I thought, Angie is eager to accommodate. She lifts her butt into a porn-worthy pose. 

The St. Louis trio slam into each other when the first brother stops to gawk.

I hope Emma isn’t around when Arnie opens this jpeg, or there will be hell to pay.

Angie stays on her belly, but she turns her head so that she’s facing me. “You’re a sex therapist, right? So, why must some guys bite in order to get it up?”

Good question. And I’m sure if I really were a real sex therapist, I’d have the answer to that. Instead I have to fake it. “Because they're sick sons of bitches,” I tell her matter-of-factly.

“Ah! Makes sense.” As she stretches out on the chaise, her bangles clink and tinkle, like Tibetan chimes in a windstorm.

Two of the brothers nudge each other and wink.

The smile on Master Biter’s face disappears when he sees the object of their lust.

Is he Dr. Mandrake? Only his dentist knows for sure. I’ll get Arnie to scope out the good doctor’s employee dental claims. Maybe we’ll hit a match.

And then Jack and I can take some real time off, together.

Chapter 6

Missed Connections

Travel can go right. It can also go terribly wrong.

It is particularly irksome when one misses one’s plane and has landed too late to make the connection needed to get to one’s final destination.

If you are that one, here’s how to play catch-up:

First, throw down the VIP card. And guess what? You don’t have to be a VIP to play! All you have to do is act like one. That means (a) proclaiming loudly that you’ve been inconvenienced in the worst possible way; (b) breaking into the front of the ticketing queue for those getting re-routed; and (c) haranguing the ticket agent for the best seat available. Don’t hesitate to point out that your inconvenience should be mitigated by the provision of a free first-class ticket.

Next, insist on a golf cart to take you to the gate of your new flight. It doesn’t matter that all the carts are in use. Nor does it matter that you’re not infirm or just plain old. And it certainly doesn’t matter that you’ll be inconveniencing some who are too far from their gates or infirm, or old as Methuselah. What matters is that you make your point—whatever that is. (You’ll have plenty of time to figure that out on your five-mile-an-hour cart ride.)

Finally, when you actually get onto that other plane, toss a hissy fit about your seat. This lets the flight attendants know you’re not to be messed with again. It also signals your flight’s air marshal that he should have his taser gun ready to stun, the moment one of the flight attendants give him the high sign.

Should you get tossed from this flight as well, be honest about it with the person picking you up at the other end: 

Just say you missed your connection.

 “Despite the fact that Jack’s not here, shouldn’t we start this shindig?” Abu looks down at his watch. “I’ve got to be back in less than thirty minutes in order to clean guns for a bunch of lazy rich dudes who couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a bazooka.”  

I nod. “Time is of the essence. As of today there are one hundred and sixty-four men within the confines of Fantasy Island, and we’ve only positively cleared seventy-three of them. At this rate, we won’t find Mandrake until it’s too late. I’ve got no problem with starting sans Jack Craig.” 

In truth, I’m angry as hell that Jack has no respect for my turn as mission leader, but I certainly don’t want the others to see it. Everyone else—Emma, Abu, and Arnie—showed up promptly, so why should they be punished? 

Even Dominic is with us—sort of. He’s preoccupied with posting selfies of himself and some of the comely lasses of Eden Key—eight and counting—onto his Facebook fan page. Obviously he’s taking the term “undercover” quite literally.

Which begs my question to him: “Dominic, tell me—has even one of your conquests divulged the tiniest hint of Mandrake’s whereabouts?”

He doesn’t bother to look up, merely waves his hand at me, as if shooing away a pesky gnat. “I don’t know about you, 
Donna
, but at the peak of my partners’ physical pleasure, I’m the only man they’re thinking about. I know this, because it is my name, and only mine, that they shout out while in the throes of passion.”

“Pity. Defeats our purpose, wouldn’t you agree? Tell you what, considering our time restraints, forego your usual 
modus operandi
. Instead, set up shop in the men’s steam room. The sooner that mushroom cloud tat reveals itself, the better.”

 “Aye, aye, my mistress and commander.” He is disappointed. Nonetheless, he honors me with an RAF salute.

I turn to Abu. “I know it’s early, but any potential suspects among the hunters, fishers, or gamblers?”

He shakes his head. “They’re a chummy lot. For the most part they hang in cliques, based on their preferred pastimes. When not out playing, they’re in the bar or the club’s restaurant, telling tall tales. In my capacity as an ‘arms facilitator,’ most of my exposure is with the hunters. They break into two groups—those into tracking deer, which are allowed to roam in the woods just beyond the lodge.” He hesitates, as if choosing his words carefully. “Then there are the ‘big game’ hunters.”

That certainly gets my attention. “Big game? Like what?”

“Funny you should ask. I can’t get a straight answer from any of the employees. Some think bison. Others say lions. Whatever the species, its habitat—enclosed securely, I presume—is far from the lodge. I’ve listened for big game sounds, but I never hear any. Each morning, these particular hunters—there is only a handful of them—are driven to the reserve in a special van. Sometimes these hunts take place in the evenings. I know this, because I’m called to the arsenal room as late as eight at night, and told to hand out infrared goggles along with the hunter’s gun of choice.”

“Can you tell by the ammo what they may be shooting at?”

Abu thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “It’s certainly not the kind of clip that will take down a bull elephant. More in the big cat range.”

Whatever is out there, I just hope it stays within its confines. I can only imagine the carnage that would ensue if some dangerous animal got loose, and made its way into the other resorts.

I turn to Emma, who’s still dressed in her youth counselor uniform costume—Little Red Riding Hood. “Why don’t you and Arnie fill us in on the comings and goings at Kamp KidStuff?”

She rolls her eyes. “There are no single men, just dads who have come with their wives. And most of the counselors are right at Arnie’s and my age, so I don’t think Dr. Mandrake is on our side of the island.”

“Great. Then you’ll have more time to field and assess the reconnaissance collected by the rest of us.”

Emma sighs. “I’ll do what I can, and as soon as possible. But sometimes it’s hard to get away from my assigned group. I’m in charge of four high-school bound girls who are so boy crazy! All they want to do is hang around the pool and stare at the jocks. I mean, come on already! If they cared half as much about math and science as they do their tans, their nails, and their hair, they wouldn’t need to worry about whether or not they impress a bunch of deadbeat testosterone-crazy dudes.”

Arnie slumps down to the floor. “You think you’ve got it bad? Every time I think I’ve got a bead on Mandrake’s GPS signal, I’ve got to break up a fight between a bunch of antsy ten-year-old boys who don’t want to do anything other than stay inside all day and play video games.”

What the heck? This isn’t supposed to turn into a gripe session. Time to pull the mommy card. No, make that the mission leader card. 

I point to Emma. “Look, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. But don’t forget that your prime objective is monitoring your iPhone for our reconnaissance. As for your camp duties, let the girls flirt, for goodness sake! What harm can it do? If one of them allows a boy to go beyond a lip lock, shove them into the pool. Granted, she’ll be mortified that her hair got wet, but it’ll show her that you mean business.”

She gulps and nods.

“As for you, Arnie,” I flip around to face him, “boys love competition. Your Acme duties come first. Confiscate all the game gear, pick two leaders, and schedule a prize for the team that builds the best fort.”

He salutes me. 

That’s more like it. “Now, in which camp have you found Mandrake’s GPS signal?”

“I swear, every hour the dude is somewhere different. This morning, it was the Hunt Club. After lunch, it was Kamp KidStuff. And an hour ago, he was close enough to this tiki that I thought you’d caught the wily bastard.”

“He was 
here
?”

“Cross my heart.” 

“That’s crazy. I’ve been here—
alone
—for the past two hours, writing up my reconnaissance report!” Something is definitely not right.

“Ah yes, the mundane duties of a mission leader.” The voice, coming from behind me, has caught everyone’s attention. “The only one that counts right now is reconnaissance.”

It belongs to Jack.

He looks as if he’s spent the day working on his tan. Considering his company as of late, maybe that’s a good thing.

Unless it’s been on Eden Key’s nude beach. Son of a bitch better have a tan line. 

He’s in a tux, so I can’t check for one. Ha. I guess he’s got more formal plans for this evening. With whom, I wonder? My guess is Boarke’s blonde.

I force a smile onto my face. “Pardon?”

His grin is just as frosty as mine. “You need to pull Arnie and Emma out of Kamp KidStuff. They’ve been assigned the most strenuous covers. At the same time, they have double duty on this mission, which includes assessing our intel. Their camp duties are slowing down the mission.” 

 “Is that so?” My declaration was rhetorical, but Arnie and Emma seem to have taken it as the answer to their prayers because both are nodding—

Until they see my eyes narrow in their direction. Then they look at their feet.

Keep calm. That a girl.
 “We’re following Ryan’s orders, remember?” I’m tempted to stick out my tongue at him, but I’m too much of a lady. Besides, that would seem childish.

Jack loosens his tuxedo tie. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you this mission’s leader?” 

“Yes, of course I am.” Casually I lean against the wall. He knows my body language. To put it delicately, I’m signaling, 
better shut up while you’re still breathing
.

“As such, you can change their orders as you see fit.”

“Oh! Well...I…” Damn it, he’s right.

And I’m stubborn. “But I don’t ‘see fit’ to do so.”

“Pardon?” he says as he leans against the wall across the room.

If he thinks he can mimic me, he has another thing coming. He’s daring me to deny this.

But I can’t. It was Dominic’s suggestion that they be placed at Kamp KidStuff. At the same time, our British team member has been rolling in and out of beds all day, and what does he have to show for it?

Several hickeys and that’s about it.

Still, if the team sees Jack win this battle, I’ll lose the war. “Emma and Arnie will just have to suck it up. We need reconnaissance at that resort, too.”

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you and Dominic swap places with them? I’m sure he can easily ingratiate himself to a few other desperate housewives.”

The operative word here is 
other
—as in me being the first.

Or is it 
desperate
?

 “True that, old boy.” Dominic smiles broadly. 

The narcissistic dolt has taken it as a compliment.

That’s it. I’ve had it with both of them. I fake a lazy yawn. “I promise to give it some thought. In the meantime, why don’t you enlighten us regarding your own reconnaissance efforts, Jack?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” His smile disappears. “My international banking credentials have endeared me to Mr. Boarke. He wants to expand the amenities offered here at Fantasy Island, but he’s having a hard time convincing his silent partners—who are represented by a private Canadian investment banker—to go along with his plan. Let’s just say that my offer to be an outside funding source has given me a few special privileges.”

I can only imagine.

“To that extent,” he continues, “I’ve requested a full tour of the island before making my recommendation to my employer. This allows us the opportunity to scope out locations that coincide with Mandrake’s GPS coordinates—that is, if Arnie is freed up to track them during my tour, and feed them to me. So what do you say, Donna? Can Arnie and Emma be relieved of their Kamp KidStuff duties?” 

Checkmate
. Under the WWRD (What Would Ryan Do?) rule, I’ve got no choice but to say yes to Jack’s initial suggestion that Arnie and Emma be transferred.

I shrug. “Okay, sure. Arnie, turn in your notice immediately. You too, Emma. Then book yourselves here, at Eden Key, under different aliases. Make sure to put yourself on a plane manifest, just in case the resort does a cross-check.”