enough for overnight journeys.
There were two people on the deck. One was a man of about fifty, slim, dressed in a sport shirt, cream-coloured slacks and deck shoes, with a drink in his hand. It was only just twelve o’clock. A blonde woman about the same age was lying on a lounge chair, with sunglasses and a floppy sun hat obscuring her face. She was tall, almost as long as the sun lounge she was sitting on, and slender. They were the kind of people who could decide who would cross the gangplank into their lives.
I stood at the edge and called out, “May I come aboard?”
“What do you want?” the man called back.
“Are you Mr Kinsella?”
“No.”
“Is Mr Kinsella about?”
“No, I’m afraid he isn’t.”
“May I come aboard?” I called out again.
The man said, “Are you from the ATF?”
“The what?”
“The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Bureau.”
“No. I’m a private investigator looking for Tom Kinsella.”
“You’re not from the FBI either?”
“If I was from the FBI I probably wouldn’t be asking your permission to come on board.”
The man hesitated. The woman raised her sunglasses and took a long look at me. She seemed to be appraising me either for social acceptability or sexual possibility. Eventually the man said, “Come on.”
When I was on the deck he became friendly. He held up his glass and said, “I’m Jerry Caldwell. Would you like a drink?”
“My name is David Root. Not just now, thanks. I’m looking for Tom Kinsella. This is his yacht, isn’t it?”
“It used to be. It’s ours now. We bought it.”
“Oh, I see.”
He kept looking at his glass.
I asked, “Do you have an address for him?”
“Why do you want to see him?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
The man looked at me suspiciously. Then the woman spoke up. “Oh, tell the man where he is if you know. It’s not our job to protect him from creditors.”
“I don’t know where he is,” the man told her. “I bought his yacht through an agency.”
The woman said to me, “Anyway, I think he’s still somewhere around here.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sure you won’t have a drink?” the man said. “I’ve got a pitcher of martini here.”
“Ok, maybe I will, thanks. But just a small one.” They might know some more.
“I’m Jerry Caldwell,” he repeated. “And this is my wife, Melissa.” I introduced myself again.
“Are you a Californian?” Jerry asked.
“No. I’m from Connecticut and New York. But right now I’m living in London.”
“England?”
“That’s right.”
The woman got up from her lounge chair and sauntered over, evidently for some more serious conversation. “Why do you want to find Tom Kinsella?” she asked.
“I’m making enquiries about a diamond he has.” No point in not telling them. They might know something about the diamond.
“What about it? Is it stolen?”
“No, no. But it’s a very unusual diamond, and someone in the diamond trade is anxious to know some more about it.”
Jerry pondered this. “Hmmm. Do you want to tell me what’s unusual about it?”
“Nobody knows where it comes from.”
“Why does someone want to know?”
“They think there may be more like it.”
“There probably are,” Jerry said. “If they have a diamond mine they can keep to themselves, they will.”
“Who’s ‘they’,” I asked.
The woman said to me, “Oh please don’t get him started on that.”
Jerry ignored her. “The people running things. The people you don’t read about in the controlled media.”
“You think they might have a secret diamond mine somewhere?”
“They might. It would help finance their activities. Although they control the world’s finances anyway.”
I thought I would follow this up, just to see how far it would go. “So you believe someone is controlling the world’s finances?”
“Some people. And more than the finances,” he said. “You can find out. It’s all out there. Watch the Alex Jones
There were two people on the deck. One was a man of about fifty, slim, dressed in a sport shirt, cream-coloured slacks and deck shoes, with a drink in his hand. It was only just twelve o’clock. A blonde woman about the same age was lying on a lounge chair, with sunglasses and a floppy sun hat obscuring her face. She was tall, almost as long as the sun lounge she was sitting on, and slender. They were the kind of people who could decide who would cross the gangplank into their lives.
I stood at the edge and called out, “May I come aboard?”
“What do you want?” the man called back.
“Are you Mr Kinsella?”
“No.”
“Is Mr Kinsella about?”
“No, I’m afraid he isn’t.”
“May I come aboard?” I called out again.
The man said, “Are you from the ATF?”
“The what?”
“The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Bureau.”
“No. I’m a private investigator looking for Tom Kinsella.”
“You’re not from the FBI either?”
“If I was from the FBI I probably wouldn’t be asking your permission to come on board.”
The man hesitated. The woman raised her sunglasses and took a long look at me. She seemed to be appraising me either for social acceptability or sexual possibility. Eventually the man said, “Come on.”
When I was on the deck he became friendly. He held up his glass and said, “I’m Jerry Caldwell. Would you like a drink?”
“My name is David Root. Not just now, thanks. I’m looking for Tom Kinsella. This is his yacht, isn’t it?”
“It used to be. It’s ours now. We bought it.”
“Oh, I see.”
He kept looking at his glass.
I asked, “Do you have an address for him?”
“Why do you want to see him?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
The man looked at me suspiciously. Then the woman spoke up. “Oh, tell the man where he is if you know. It’s not our job to protect him from creditors.”
“I don’t know where he is,” the man told her. “I bought his yacht through an agency.”
The woman said to me, “Anyway, I think he’s still somewhere around here.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sure you won’t have a drink?” the man said. “I’ve got a pitcher of martini here.”
“Ok, maybe I will, thanks. But just a small one.” They might know some more.
“I’m Jerry Caldwell,” he repeated. “And this is my wife, Melissa.” I introduced myself again.
“Are you a Californian?” Jerry asked.
“No. I’m from Connecticut and New York. But right now I’m living in London.”
“England?”
“That’s right.”
The woman got up from her lounge chair and sauntered over, evidently for some more serious conversation. “Why do you want to find Tom Kinsella?” she asked.
“I’m making enquiries about a diamond he has.” No point in not telling them. They might know something about the diamond.
“What about it? Is it stolen?”
“No, no. But it’s a very unusual diamond, and someone in the diamond trade is anxious to know some more about it.”
Jerry pondered this. “Hmmm. Do you want to tell me what’s unusual about it?”
“Nobody knows where it comes from.”
“Why does someone want to know?”
“They think there may be more like it.”
“There probably are,” Jerry said. “If they have a diamond mine they can keep to themselves, they will.”
“Who’s ‘they’,” I asked.
The woman said to me, “Oh please don’t get him started on that.”
Jerry ignored her. “The people running things. The people you don’t read about in the controlled media.”
“You think they might have a secret diamond mine somewhere?”
“They might. It would help finance their activities. Although they control the world’s finances anyway.”
I thought I would follow this up, just to see how far it would go. “So you believe someone is controlling the world’s finances?”
“Some people. And more than the finances,” he said. “You can find out. It’s all out there. Watch the Alex Jones
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