Dan wasn't exactly sure why the hell he'd suggested Singing Beach as a location to meet, except that it was the only place where he might have a chance to pull this deal off without the smuggler being able to get his hands on him. He'd listened to the weather, knew it wouldn't be crowded. He felt comfortable near the ocean, but it couldn't be Hampton. Too many familiar faces around. And he knew Singing Beach pretty well.
Besides, if he hadn't said someplace fast, the guy with the dirty mouth would've come up with a location himself. Dan hadn't wanted that. He needed an extra day or two to transfer the cocaine and he wanted to pick a switch location where he was in control. He was going to call the shots on this. Otherwise, he wouldn't have a prayer of coming out of this little adventure alive.
He'd settled on asking for two hundred grand. Too high and he wouldn't have a chance in hell of getting the money. Besides, he wasn't greedy. Two hundred grand along with some legitimate financing would be enough to get him back in the restaurant business.
He'd arrived forty-five minutes early, wanting to be in position before Garbage Mouth showed up. From his vantage point high up on the rocks at the north end of the beach Dan would be able to spot anyone approaching from the parking lot. Beside him, stuck between two rocks and within easy reach, was Betsy.
It was mid-morning with solid clouds overhead and a good drizzle. Not a beach day for sure, but a number of people, some with dogs, were still walking along the water's edge.
Dan stuck his thumb and forefinger into the change pocket of his Levi's. He could feel the key to the storage unit where he'd stashed the coke. Touching the key made him feel a bit better–or maybe it was the yellow valium he'd taken an hour ago.
Would the smuggler really hand over two hundred grand to get back his own cocaine?
The whole idea seemed a lot more farfetched now that it was about to go down. He wasn't sitting in his favorite chair back at the cottage. This was the real deal. And the more Dan thought about it, the more he figured he might not get out of this with his life, let alone the money. What the hell had he been thinking?
At the far end of the beach two men high-stepped across the sand, heading straight toward him. Had to be him. Smuggler and Company. The pair didn't look like local Yankees, that was for damn sure. The first was medium height, suit, compact like a fireplug, walking like he meant business. Even at this distance, Dan could see the guy walking a step behind the first was all muscle. He was taller than the first guy and casually dressed. The tall guy was dark, Hispanic maybe, and he was carrying a very large gym bag in his right hand.
Dan didn't say a word as they trudged across the sand and finally reached the base of the rocks down below. The shorter one looked up at Dan, placed his foot on the rocks, and started to climb.
"That's close enough," Dan said, pitching his voice loud enough for them to hear.
The man hesitated, a frown on his wide face. "We're gonna talk like this? You up there and us down here? There's people around."
"There's nobody close enough to hear us," Dan answered. There were some people strolling along the beach, but not many. Only a few made it as far as the rocks, and the ones who did turned around and headed straight back without lingering.
"We'd still rather come up there and talk." The shorter guy sounded like he was used to giving orders–and having them followed.
"I'm sure you would," Dan called down. "But if you move one more foot, I'll be gone and so will your packages." He'd scoped out an escape route earlier that morning: through the bushes behind him, through the yard of one of the cliffside houses, and out to his car parked on the street. "You'll never see me or your stuff again."
"All right, all right," the shorter man said like he wasn't used to agreeing to someone else's demands. This guy must be the foul-mouthed jerk Dan had talked to on the phone.
"You've got the money?" Dan asked. His voice cracked. Not surprising, considering he could hardly breathe. He was amazed that he could talk at all.
"We got it. But we wanna get a look–see at our merchandise first."
They were trying to play him, Dan realized. Time to show these guys he wasn't messing around. This little deal meant too much and he wasn't going to blow it.
"You're not going to see anything." Dan's voice shook, but he didn't give a damn. "Not until I see what I want."
"Don't worry about it. Ya wanna see it, ya can see it."
The smuggler turned to the taller man–definitely Hispanic–and nodded. The Hispanic opened the gym bag and held it out so Dan could check out the contents. Even at this distance, it looked like real cash. But two hundred grand?
That's when Dan realized the shortcoming to his plan–how the hell could he tell how much money was in the bag from way up here? He wasn't an eagle. Still, it looked like a lot of money.
Maybe this was really going to work.
"See," the smuggler said. "That's yours. No problem. Now we're comin' up."
The smuggler stuck his foot back on the first rock.
"Don't make another move," Dan said. He reached over and curled his fingers around the stock of the shotgun, keeping his eyes glued on the two men below.
The smuggler blew his top. "Look, you fuckin' asshole. You gimme that stuff or you'll be eatin' your cock. And I mean now."
Dan didn't doubt for a second the guy would do it if he had the chance. The man was for real–a heavy. He took a deep breath. "This is the way we're playing it. I'm going to throw you a key. You're going to pick it up and walk away, leaving the bag behind."
"So you can rip me off again, motherfucker? Not fuckin' likely. You get the gym bag when I get my stuff, not before."
Dan slid Betsy from her hiding place and drew the shotgun close. He kept the barrel out of sight, but ready. Maybe this wasn't going to turn out like he'd hoped after all. Maybe, just maybe, Singing Beach was the last beach he'd ever see. And wasn't that a kick in the ass.