Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (42 page)

Drake nodded and smiled. “I have issues.” Spencer pulled one of the cigars from his pocket and sniffed it appreciatively.

“Welcome to the human race, dude.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Drake opened the door of his apartment’s refrigerator and grimaced. The milk had gone bad and the bread was a science experiment. But strangely, being back home, packing his things, centered him, something he needed after two days in Lima before returning to California and what passed for real life. That had all seemed fake, including sitting in first class, the pod seats, polite flight attendants and warm bowls of mixed nuts impossibly luxurious to his pedestrian eye.

Drake stared down at his torn jeans, worn running shoes, and No Fear T-shirt and shook his head. It felt like a mistake. This was reality, not the jungle, or state dinners, or luxurious suites. Reality was a fridge with two cans of cola, a six-pack of beer, some frozen waffles that had been there longer than the TV, and dairy products that qualified as hazardous waste.

He rinsed off one of the sodas and popped the top and, after a swig, returned to pouring products down the drain in preparation for the movers. They’d arrive within the hour, and he wanted to hand them the keys and be out of there, no love lost for his sad collection of furniture and few electronics. The only things he was taking with him were a duffel bag with most of his clothes and the new laptop he’d bought. The rest could rot in storage while he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up.

The morning had been busy. He’d stopped by New Start Bail Bonds and made arrangements for Betty to work for him as his assistant. Not that he needed one, but she’d declined his offers of financial help, making clear that she didn’t want charity. So they’d reached an agreement where she’d find suitable offices and act as the manager for his new foundation – which at present would largely involve fending off the near constant media inquiries.

The knock on the door startled him. He flipped the switch for the garbage disposal and, satisfied that the worst of the refrigerator’s contents were now either in the sewage system or the garbage, went to the door and twisted the knob.

Spencer took in his ratty clothes and extended his hand. “Nice outfit,” he said.

“Thanks. I thought I’d put on something special,” Drake responded, shaking it.

“It’s not every day you cut a check for thirty-three mil. I hardly recognized you with shoes on.”

“They don’t cut checks anymore. They do wire transfers.”

“Nobody likes a know-it-all.”

Spencer followed him inside and closed the door behind him. He tossed Drake a newspaper with a photo of Drake at the award ceremony on the front page. Drake groaned as he read it. Spencer sniffed the air disapprovingly.

“So how you been?” Spencer asked.

“Good. I just landed this morning. Got out on a red-eye.”

“You could have hired a private jet and flown whenever you felt like it.”

“I wouldn’t know how to book one. Seriously. I’ve never done it before.”

“Neither have I. But it seems like the kind of thing you should start doing.”

“I’ll add that to the list. You get your money?”

“Yeah. Courtesy of Peru. Thanks again. Five hundred big ones. I’m still trying to get used to the idea.”

“I know what you mean. Like, where do you start?”

Spencer shrugged. “You heard from Allie?”

“Yeah. She’s back in Texas. Dealing with ranch issues. I’m supposed to head out and help her tomorrow.”

Spencer nodded. “Did you ever figure out what you were going to do about the shaman and his daughter?”

Drake had debated donating some of his cut to providing health care and other essential services to the tribe.

“In the end, anything I did would just destroy what they have, so it’s one of those situations where if I tried to help, I’d do more harm than good. I decided to just let them be. They’ve managed for thousands of years without me. Who am I to play god and change everything for them?”

“The beginnings of wisdom.” Spencer surveyed the apartment. “Can’t see why you’re moving. It’s got walls and everything. Electricity. A view of that hedge.”

“Time for a change, I guess.”

“I’m kidding. It’s a dump. And it smells like ass.”

“Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think.”

“So where are you moving
to
?”

Drake paused. “I haven’t figured that out yet. Sort of trying to get the hang of my new lifestyle.”

Spencer eyed him. “Maybe Texas?”

“Too flat.”

“What about Florida? It’s warm there.”

“Too many hurricanes.”

“Ah. Right. Then what about Southern California? San Diego? Malibu! You could go full-tilt
Baywatch
. Get a place on the beach. Bug your famous neighbors for Grey Poupon. Walk around naked. Surf.”

“Surfing sounds fun. I used to do it out by Santa Cruz, but it’s been a while.”

“You should pick it back up. Everyone’s doing it. It’s the new ‘I’m not a yuppie’ yuppie thing to do.”

“Good to know.”

“I read that in the in-flight magazine.”

“You should have taken a private jet.”

Spencer smiled. “And the pupil becomes the master.”

Drake went into his bedroom, slipped his computer into his duffel and shouldered it. “You ready to hit it?”

“Sure.”

“Just a second. I need to leave a note for the movers.” Drake pushed by him, scribbled on a piece of binder paper, and carried it to the door, where he tacked it on the outside after closing it. Spencer glanced at the note.

“Nice. ‘Door’s open. Haul everything to the dump. There’s five hundred dollars in the drawer by the fridge. Enjoy the six of beer.’ Why get tied down with material stuff?”

“I was going to put everything in storage, but I realized just now that I don’t care about any of it. So why keep it?”

“Right. Better to start fresh. In Malibu. Surf’s up, dude.”

Drake nodded. “Cowabunga.”

“I rented a car. We can take mine,” Spencer said.

“Sounds good. Let me throw this in my trunk. Just give me a lift back, would you?”

“You expect a lot for thirty-three million. I already hauled that damned ore box for you. My back still hurts.”

The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, warming Drake as he walked to his car – another possession he couldn’t wait to get rid of, he realized. He absently wondered whether it would start, and decided that it didn’t matter. Part of him hoped it wouldn’t. It would make it easier for him to leave it there, to be towed whenever the city tired of it collecting dust. He threw his bag into the trunk and met Spencer at the curb, where he was sitting in a red economy sedan.

Drake slid into the passenger seat and ran a hand over the dash. “Wow. Real plastic. You’re living large, aren’t you?”

“Screw you. I got the extra insurance. I know how to spend money, too. You’re not the only one, big shot.” He paused. “Where’s the bank?”

“Go west to the El Camino and hang a right. Eight blocks up. Can’t miss it.”

Spencer signaled and pulled into traffic, the engine whining like a chained dog, expensive luxury cars flying by them as they made their way to the main drag.

“Have you figured out what you’re going to do?”

“Allie and I talked after the award ceremony. There’s still that smaller Inca city just waiting to be found. I haven’t had time to look into it yet, but there has to be a thread to follow on that…”

Spencer smiled. “Told you so.”

“All right. Fine. You were right. There. Happy now?”

“Couldn’t be happier.”

Spencer found a spot a quarter block away from the bank. The manager escorted them into her office and handled the transaction, wiring thirty-three million dollars to Spencer’s account without comment. The two men in front of her looked more like pizza-delivery boys than multimillionaires, but she was used to everything this close to Silicon Valley. They were done within ten minutes, and when they stepped out onto the sidewalk, they both seemed unsure of what to do next.

“You got time for a beer?” Spencer asked.

“You buying?”

“Cheapskate. Sure. But no imports. Domestic only.”

“Deal.”

They walked down the block to a small tavern and entered the dark room, its polished wooden walls evoking a time long past. Drake selected one of the many empty tables and ordered from a bartender who offered them a sour expression. He brought their beers and Spencer toasted with his bottle.

“To the future.”

“Hear, hear,” Drake agreed with a clink of glass. “Although I still hate all the attention. Don’t people have anything better to do?”

“You’re a celeb. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Yeah, right.
Enjoy it
. I’ll remember that.”

They discussed vague ideas about how they would spend their time now that they were of secure means. Neither noticed the two men who entered until they approached the table. Drake looked up and his heart skipped a beat. It was Gus, accompanied by an older man in a gray suit who looked like he’d lost one too many street fights.

“Mr. Ramsey, what a small world,” Gus said, pulling up a chair.

“What do you want?” Drake demanded, his voice tense.

“To congratulate you on your success. And introduce you to someone who wanted to meet you. This is Jed Abby. He’s with the same outfit I am. But higher up.”

Abby sat down and crossed his legs, studying both Spencer and Drake before speaking.

“Mr. Ramsey, I wanted to meet you because I had an idea, and I wanted to see your reaction to it. Call it a proposal, if you like.”

“I’m not in the proposal market. Thanks anyway. Is that all?” Drake snapped, annoyed that the CIA still seemed to want more out of him.

“You haven’t heard it.”

Spencer eyed Drake and tilted his head in warning.

Drake took the hint. “Fine. But make it quick.”

“Of course – you’re obviously a busy man. Here’s the proposition. There might come a time when we need someone like you to help us, as you did this time. Someone who isn’t a pro. Money obviously won’t be the motivator anymore, because now you’re rich. And you apparently think we’re liars and cheats, so I can’t appeal to your patriotism.”

“You can’t buy me or pump me up.”

“Exactly.”

“Then why would I want to help you?”

Abby took a long time to answer. “Because I’ll tell you the truth about what’s at stake so you can decide for yourself. And because it will be the right thing to do. Like with Palenko’s ore. It might take another twenty years, but we’ll figure out how to replace power plants with it. Not make bombs. There’s no need for bombs anymore. Now it’s all about economics. Cheap resources to power a hungry planet.” Abby paused. “If I get in touch, it’ll be because I need you, and only you, to do me a favor.”

“And what do I get?”

“I could say you get to live, but that’s old school. What you get is the chance to do the right thing. Plain and simple.”

“The right thing? What are you talking about?”

“You’re famous. And I presume from your statements to the Secretary of State that you intend to pursue other…adventures. Since that’s the case, there may come a time when we need help with something, well, delicate. Where having someone with a rock-solid résumé could prove useful. It’s just an idea. That’s all. There’s no specific event at present. But there could be…in the future.”

“I see. And if I agree, you’ll leave me in peace?”

“Why, Mr. Ramsey, I’d like nothing better than to never speak with you again. You have my word that if I call, it’ll be because I have no other alternative.”

Spencer and Drake exchanged a glance.

“Do you have a card?” Drake asked. “I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise.”

“I don’t carry cards.”

Gus and Abby pushed back their chairs and stood. “Good luck with your future ventures, young man,” Abby said.

“Wait. How will you get in touch? I don’t even have a cell phone.”

Abby smiled, a humorless gesture with the warmth of a freezer. “Oh, don’t worry about that.”

The two men left as abruptly as they entered, leaving Spencer and Drake staring at their backs as they pushed through the door.

Drake took a long pull on his beer and shook his head. “Tell me that wasn’t freaky.”

“Sorry. No can do. It was completely freaky.”

“I know. I mean, how did they know we were here having a drink, or that I wired money…” Drake’s prior suspicions about Spencer’s relationship with the Agency flitted back through his thoughts, but he kept his expression neutral.

“They’re the CIA. I told you. Just assume they can do anything. Because they can.” Spencer finished his beer. “But it doesn’t sound like they want to hurt you. It was actually interesting. I wonder what they have in mind?”

“Whatever it is can’t be good for me. I’m pretty sure of that.”

“Maybe. But it sounded pretty open-ended.”

“I don’t like either of them.”

“I got that. It didn’t seem like they have you on their Christmas list, either. But in my experience, if the CIA comes knocking, it’s best to pay attention. That’s all I’m saying.”

Drake signaled to the bartender and a second round arrived. They watched the game on TV, silently nursing their drinks, lost in thought. When they finished their beers, Spencer paid the tab. As they walked to the car, Spencer took a deep breath, the spring aroma of blossoming flowers heavy in the air.

“Well, buddy, you gotta admit. Life’s interesting, if nothing else.”

“That it is.”

“Are you going to think about the Southern Cal thing? Or do the nomad bit for a while?”

“I could check it out. I really have no plan.”

“Sometimes having no plan is the best plan.” Spencer stopped and felt in his jacket pocket. “Oh, before I forget. Jorge made me promise I’d give this to you.” He handed Drake a manila envelope.

Drake opened it and slid a large color photo out. It was one of the pictures from the treasure chamber. Spencer had his arm around Drake’s shoulder, and they were both beaming as one of the gold relics was craned from the cenote in the background. Drake read the inscription across the bottom: two words scrawled in black felt pen.