Tricky Business by Dave Barry

see his big arms, the arms of a dedicated steroid abuser. On his right biceps was a crude tattoo, most likely done in prison, that said “Kaz.” The next man was fatter, orange hair in a buzz cut, deep creases in the flesh of his neck. The farthest man, leaner than the other two, had a goatee and wore a bandanna and an ear-ring, like a pirate.
    â€œI don’t like this,” said Frank.
    â€œYou don’t like what?” said Tark, showing Frank a big fake-innocent look.
    Frank was a big man, and people who didn’t know him were always surprised at how quickly he could draw a gun. It was in his hand now, a Glock 31, .357 caliber, 17-shot magazine, serious firepower, popular with law enforcement and professional criminals alike. It was pointed midway between Tark and the three guys, who shifted slightly but stayed seated.
    â€œHey, man,” said Tark, “what the fuck is your problem?”
    â€œMy problem,” said Frank, “is I don’t know these guys.”
    â€œI know them,” said Tark. “I’m vouching for them.”
    â€œSomehow that doesn’t reassure me,” said Frank. “I want to know why you didn’t tell me about this.”
    â€œI didn’t think you’d give a shit.”
    â€œYou didn’t? We use the same crew every time. Suddenly, tonight, we’re about to go on a job, a very important job, and there’s three guys I don’t know from Britney Spears, and you didn’t think I’d give a shit?”
    â€œI told you, I know these guys. We go back, man. This here is Kaz, this here is Rebar, this here is Holman.”
    Frank looked at the three of them watching him. The cabin was quiet except for the sounds of the water sloshing against the hull, the lines groaning. Frank reached behind him and opened the cabin door.
    â€œJuan,” he said. “Get in here.”
    Juan came in, saw the situation, the three new guys, the gun in Frank’s hand. He reached under his poncho and pulled out his own pistol, also a Glock, the original, smaller, 9-millimeter model 17.
    â€œWho’s this?” he said.
    â€œI’m wondering that myself,” said Frank. “I’m gonna ask you to keep these gentlemen company while I go outside and call Miami.”
    â€œYou guys smell beans in here?” said Tark, sniffing the air.
    Juan swung his gun barrel toward Tark.
    â€œYou want to find out what a bullet smells like, asshole?” he said.
    â€œEasy,” said Frank. “Let’s not kill anybody just yet, OK? I’ll be right back.”
    He stepped outside, closed the door, pulled out his cell phone and held it up so he could read the display by the dock light. As he’d feared, it said NO SERVICE. He tried to place the call anyway. Nothing.
    â€œDamn,” he said. He looked at his watch. Not enough time to go back and use the phone at the inn, which often didn’t work anyway.
    â€œDamn,” he said again. He rubbed his mouth, thinking, rain dripping down his face. He was in a bind. He needed Tark to run the boat. He needed a crew to transfer the shipments. He needed to get started. With this weather, they were already in danger of being late to the rendezvous.
    Frank reopened the cabin door and stepped inside. Nobody had moved.
    â€œOK,” he said. “Here’s what. My associate is gonna pat you gentlemen down, one at a time.” He pointed to Kaz. “Starting with you.”
    With feigned weariness, Kaz stood, turned, placed his hands against the wall and spread his legs.
    â€œI’m guessing you’ve done this before,” said Frank.
    Juan, with practiced efficiency, frisked Kaz, then Rebar, then Holman. Each time, he signaled to Frank: nothing.
    â€œNow you,” said Frank, to Tark.
    â€œI don’t want that spic touching me,” said Tark.
    â€œI don’t care what you want,” said Frank, aiming the gun barrel a quarter-inch more