The priest in Maggie’s church in Liberty, Missouri, stopped her and Bob as they departed on Sunday morning. “Can I speak with you two, privately?”
While this story is true, preachers, counselors, advisors, editors, and others have always doubted my words. Dear reader, if you too doubt these words, then I advise you to avoid the historic homes along the coast of North Carolina.
The horse trotted through the gate, saddled but riderless.
Kip tried to relax in his hotel room and planned his next day. “I need to go to the bank, but shish, if I’m being watched I don’t want to go to Publica.” He thought for a second. “Paulo.” He picked up one of the new burn phones and called.
The red fishing boat was tied to the side of a pier. Kip wandered over and looked at the small boat. Kip judged it to be 24 feet or so with deep sides and bait boxes permanently attached to the port side and net storage on the starboard. Two ancient outboard engines looked primed more for distance than speed. An elderly man was seated on the keel slowly mending a net with a long hook device. Kip stood on the pier for several seconds before the old man looked up. He simply nodded to the aft. Kip stepped off the pier and his feet slipped as the boat bobbed. He fell and nearly went overboard. The old man did not look up. Kip sat clumsily on the deck between gas cans and wondered what was next.
Jorge Salas seemed genuinely pleased to see Kip when he knocked on the banker’s office door. “Mr. Smith or is it Mr. Waller? Who are you now?” he said cheerfully. “It’s been awhile since you’ve been to the bank. With the new electronic banking we are beginning to lose touch with so many old friends.” Salas was a short man in a tailored blue suit and matching tie. A thin mustache covered his upper lip and Kip was always amused that Salas sat on a cushion on his office chair.