Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Read online

  Revenge at

  Sea

  A NOVEL

  BY

  BRIAN O’SULLIVAN

  BIG B PUBLISHING

  B

  Acknowledgements:

  To Julie Mendelsohn, who generously bankrolled the Audible version of The Bartender and has been one of my biggest supporters.

  To Jim Kostoryz and Nick Cuneo, two good friends who read my “in dire need of an editor” first drafts, and instead of laughing, give me valuable feedback.

  As always, to my editor Therese, who makes these novels presentable. And to Liz, my fabulous cover designer.

  This novel is dedicated to my social life. It died during the writing of this novel.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is merely coincidental.

  REVENGE AT SEA

  Copyright @2020 Brian O’Sullivan

  All rights reserved.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9992956-6-3

  Published by Big B Publishing

  San Francisco, CA

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission to the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of the book be photocopied for resale.

  PART I: WHITE LIES

  1.

  I became a journalist, at least originally, in hopes of achieving some form of immortality. That was getting less likely with each passing day.

  Unless, in the not too distant future, crime-beat journalists for small-town newspapers are idolized like Hemingway.

  I wasn’t holding my breath.

  “Maybe the next forty years will be better,” I told myself.

  That seemed unlikely, considering I was spending my fortieth birthday in a hospital bed. With stitches in my head. Talking to myself.

  “Quint, your old ass can’t handle me,” my friend Dugan said. His first name was Gerald. No wonder he preferred to be called by his last name.

  Maybe if I hadn’t had four beers, three cocktails, and two shots throughout the day, I wouldn’t have made that one awful decision.

  But my friend since childhood was calling me out. With eight of my friends there for my birthday. Including my ex-girlfriend. I couldn’t stand down.

  So at 10:00 p.m. after a long day of drinking, I met Gerald Dugan in the middle of the Kingfish Pub & Cafe, an Oakland staple. It was a dive bar with a popcorn machine, shuffleboard, and bathrooms that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years.

  And now, the site of an ill-advised, impromptu tussle between friends. I was 6’3” and 190 pounds but still dwarfed by Dugan. No, this wasn’t my best idea.

  I put my arms around his shoulders, but this wasn’t going to be a dance. We started grappling, and for a brief second, I had the upper hand. But then, less than five seconds into the looming disaster, Dugan swung me around like a rag doll and sent me careening toward a wall.

  The Kingfish’s walls are replete with framed photographs of famous Bay Area athletes. If I’d had all my faculties about me, I could have slowed my momentum as I flung toward them. But I didn’t and went in headfirst at full speed.

  Glass exploded into my forehead and cut me up pretty good, blood gushing everywhere. Some of the girls started screaming. I, for some reason, was laughing.

  I raised my hands in the air, blood dripping from my face, and yelled: “This is forty!”

  A few minutes later, I was being driven to the hospital.

  I was given a bed at Summit Hospital in downtown Oakland. Another patient lay on the opposite side of the room, with a partition between the two of us. I took it as a positive sign. My rationale being that if you have a “roommate,” you’re probably not that badly hurt.

  A doctor entered. He was also fortyish, with wire-rimmed glasses and a smirk on his face.

  “Looks like someone thought wrestling in a bar was a good idea,” he said.

  Obviously, he’d been apprised of the situation.

  “I almost won, Doc.”

  I could be a smart-ass at times. His smirk turned into a half-smile and he looked down at my sheet on his clipboard. “Quint Adler. Robert Shaw’s character in Jaws was named Quint.”

  “My parents saw it on their first date. I was named after him.”

  “Great movie. Your forehead looks like you wrestled a shark.”

  “Couldn’t resist, could you?”

  He continued smiling at me. “We’ll get someone in here to stitch you up. You’re going to be okay, Quint, the shark hunter.”

  “Thanks.”

  He did a double-take on the piece of paper.

  “And happy birthday!”

  A different doctor came and sewed me up. It took fourteen stitches. They gave me a little mirror to look at my forehead.

  “This is forty,” I said again, with much less aplomb. For the first time in my life, I looked old. Of course, the drinking and the stitches didn’t help matters.

  I’d been shocked to learn Robert Shaw was only forty-seven when he played my namesake in Jaws. He looked like he was seventy.

  Maybe aging early just came with the name.

  My favorite sarcastic doctor walked back in. He looked me over. “They did a good job sealing you back up.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “We usually let patients leave after inserting the stitches. However, we both know you’ve had a few adult beverages tonight, so I’m going to suggest you stay a little longer. Sleep it off for a few more hours.”

  That didn’t sound so bad.

  “I think the party is over anyway,” I said.

  “You’ve got a few friends here. I’ll tell them I’ll release you at 1:00 a.m.”

  “Thanks.”

  I nodded to the doctor and leaned my head back on the pillow. I was asleep within seconds.

  I woke up a few hours later to the sound of two men talking on the other side of the room. Really, it was less talking and more reprimanding. One guy was pissed at the other.

  I could see silhouettes, but not faces.

  “Are you a fucking idiot? You don’t come to a hospital after a job like that.”

  It may seem counterintuitive, but the man seemed to be yelling and whispering at the same time. Maybe it was just the intensity of his voice. And although twenty feet and a partition separated our two sides of the room, I could hear him perfectly.

  “I didn’t voluntarily come. I crashed my car, and the ambulance brought me here.”

  “Well, let’s go. We are getting you the hell out.”

  I heard rustling from behind the partition and could tell someone would be walking past me at any moment. Something told me I didn’t want these guys seeing me awake, so I closed my eyes as footsteps came around the partition. Soon after, I heard them heading away from me and down the hall of the hospital.

  The investigative journalist in me—and yes, I use that term loosely—was suspicious by nature. Every sideways glance, every misleading answer, every suspicious activity, set my mind jumping to conclusions. This was no different.

  In reality, I worked for a small-town paper named the Walnut C
reek Times, covering local crime; car break-ins and the occasional bank robbery were usually as violent as it got. I also covered high school sports and anything else deemed newsworthy. Jimmy Breslin, I was not.

  I slowly made my way out of my hospital bed. I went to the other side of the partition, and as I expected, the bed was now unoccupied.

  I reached in my jeans and felt for my cell phone. Luckily, they hadn’t confiscated that. I pulled it out and took pictures of the hospital bed, not sure how these could help me. But then I realized there was something that just might.

  At the front of the room, a slot for each patient had our basic information. Address, age, etc. Anything else would have been off limits. I took out his sheet of paper.

  Griff Bauer. 1841 7th Avenue. Oakland, CA. 94606.

  I took a picture. “Car accident” was listed in the reason for admittance. “Severe concussion” as the diagnosis.

  I slid the paper back in the slot and walked to my bed.

  A few minutes later, my favorite doctor made his way into the room.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “What is it?” I asked, casually.

  “Looks like your roommate flew the coup.”

  “Didn’t even notice. I was still passed out. Does that happen often?”

  “Yes, when you drink too much.”

  “I meant fleeing the room.”

  “I know.” He laughed.

  “You’re a good doctor for a comedian.”

  “As they say, laughter is the best medicine. Per your question, more than you think. People think if they leave, they won’t get stuck with their hospital or ambulance bill.”

  “Doesn’t work that way?” I asked, trying to lead him on.

  “No Quint, it doesn’t,” he said, grabbing the piece of paper from the slot. “This is written in pen, not pencil.”

  “Actually, it’s printed,” I said.

  “Touché.”

  I wanted to ask a few questions about the room’s other inhabitant, but no need to arouse suspicion. Plus, I had his address and knew he was admitted for a concussion following a car accident. Not much else the doctor could tell me.

  “I’m feeling better,” I said instead.

  “Yeah, we’re prepared to let you go. Just give me a minute on the paperwork, and I’ll return.”

  “Maybe I’ll still be here,” I said.

  The doctor smiled.

  He returned soon after with the paperwork. “You’ve got someone waiting for you in the lobby.”

  “Thanks for all your help.”

  “Stop fighting with glass,” he said.

  “I’ll take your advice into consideration.”

  Cara Hudson was waiting for me when I arrived in the lobby. I should have expected it. She was one of the eight people who had been at the Kingfish, but more specifically, my ex-girlfriend.

  I’d screwed up many times throughout our relationship, but she still had a soft spot in her heart for me. In fact, I think she still loved me.

  She was 5’9” with perpetually tanned legs that never seemed to end. She had short brown hair, almost to the level of a pixie cut. The hairstyle fit her striking features perfectly. Every man was immediately taken with her.

  And while she was no doubt beautiful, I was attracted most of all to her intelligence. Her mind worked exceptionally fast, and it sometimes took me a few seconds to get her references. I had to be on my toes with her, and I loved that challenge.

  When we were together, I’d lived with many “You out-kicked your coverage” jokes. I always took them as a compliment.

  I approached her.

  “Hey, Quint. You’ve looked worse,” Cara nonchalantly said.

  I figured she was trying to downplay my appearance.

  “Women still dig scars?” I asked.

  “At twenty-five, yeah. Forty, not so much.”

  “Oh well, can’t change that.”

  She leaned in and gave me a hug, then traced her finger on the outside of the stitches. “How does it feel?”

  I looked around and realized we were the focal point of the lobby. A lot of eyes were on us. Most people here undoubtedly waited on news much worse than a few stitches, so I nudged Cara.

  “Let’s talk outside.”

  We walked out of Summit Hospital into the warm mid-summer air.

  “I feel okay,” I said, finally answering her question.

  “You didn’t say that with much enthusiasm,” Cara said.

  “Well, I’m forty years old today. I’m single, in a somewhat dead-end job. And I’ve got fourteen stitches in my forehead. Sorry if I’m not jumping with joy.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Oh yeah, about what?”

  “It’s not your birthday anymore,” she said.

  I smirked. Cara had always made me laugh more than any of my previous girlfriends. She never held back. I loved that about her.

  “It’s funny, yesterday I was thinking about how I was going to make a concerted effort to start my forties off with a bang.”

  “In your defense, there was a bang when your forehead hit that glass.”

  A doctor and an ex-girlfriend spending the night busting my balls.

  “You always said I didn’t open up to you. Now I’m trying, and you’re making joke after joke.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cara said, but she could tell I wasn’t actually mad. “Here, my car is this way.”

  She took my hand and led me in a different direction. I had to say, even just feeling Cara’s hand in mine felt good.

  We’d had great times together, but I’d been a jackass many times over the years. Nothing egregious, and nothing hurtful, just being a lazy boyfriend. And she still stood by me.

  We walked in silence for the next few minutes until we arrived at her car. I’d made many jokes over the years about her prized Prius. Now, I was just happy to have a ride. There would be no poking fun this time.

  Cara drove the fifteen miles east from Oakland to my apartment in Walnut Creek. A year earlier, I’d have invited her up. Probably even six months ago. But we’d decided a clean break was better for us. It was the right decision. Or so I thought. If I was being honest, I’d been pretty lonely lately without her.

  But today wasn’t the day to try and rekindle our love.

  We approached the Avalon Walnut Creek apartment complex. Right off Interstate 680, my place stood a stone’s throw from the Pleasant Hill BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station. It gave me a great way to get to Oakland or San Francisco without dealing with the traffic.

  The complex held three separate four-story apartment buildings, a Peruvian restaurant, a spot for ramen, and a Starbucks. It wasn’t self-contained, but if you wanted to be lazy, you could stay within the perimeter of Avalon Walnut Creek for a few days.

  Cara dropped me off out front and paused. I could tell she half expected me to ask her up. But I wasn’t going to. Not today, at least.

  “Are you going to be okay, Quint?” she asked.

  My carefree, happy-go-lucky attitude of the day had given way to a form of moroseness. And she could sense it.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m not one to dwell on things for long. One night of sulking over the fact that I’m not doing shit and forty years old. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “Anytime you need to talk.”

  “I know. Thanks, Cara.”

  I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. It was friendly, not romantic.

  “Let’s get a coffee soon,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  I got out of the car and headed toward the light brown facade of my building. I used my fob to get inside and took the elevator to the fourth and top floor, where I walked the long hallway to my apartment.

  When you entered, you had a kitchen to the immediate right and a washer/dryer and bathroom to the left. Ten feet into the apartment was a “living room,” which had a couch, a T.V., a table, and some artwork on the walls. My bedroom was to the left of that.

  It
may not have been fit for kings, but it was clean, spacious, and I liked it.

  I walked to my balcony overlooking the BART station and sat down on an old leather chair I’d positioned there.

  I started thinking about the day and my life in general. I wasn’t often an emotional guy, but everything got the best of me.

  My eyes started to tear up. I could say I didn’t know why, but I’d be lying. I hadn’t accomplished much in forty years. No kids. No wife. No million-dollar company.

  I just had a decent apartment and a job as the local crime writer for a city where a burglary was considered big news.

  “This is forty,” I said for the third time that night, this time between a few tears. “I hope the next forty are a lot more exciting.”

  I wiped my tears away and grabbed my phone from my pocket. Little did I know a picture on that phone would bring me a lot more than just excitement.

  Careful what you wish for.

  2.

  Against all logic, a bang to the head ensured I’d feel better the next day. If I hadn’t run into the glass at the Kingfish Pub, I almost certainly would have continued drinking for a few more hours and had a worse headache. As it was, I didn’t have a hangover, just some stitches on my forehead that didn’t give me too much pain.

  Maybe this was twisted logic, but I was trying to think positive on the first full day of my forties.

  I made myself a bowl of cornflakes and sliced a banana on top of it. I took breakfast to my balcony and started eating on the leather chair. There would be no tears today. The sun was rising, and my spirits with it.

  It was Sunday, and while crime never took a break, I usually worked on a strict Mon-Fri schedule at the Walnut Creek Times. We produced five papers a week, with Friday’s being the weekend edition. So Saturday and Sunday were generally our downtime. Occasionally, if something really important happened during the weekend, I’d get called in to write an article for our website, but that happened rarely.