Tricky Business by Dave Barry Page A

Tark’s way.
    Tark sighed, then slowly set down his beer, turned, and leaned against the counter. Juan stepped up and patted him down. As he ran his hand up the inseam of Tark’s shorts, Juan considered an uppercut to the crotch, make the man scream, pass out, maybe wind up losing a ball.
    â€œDon’t even think about it,” said Frank.
    Juan finished, finding nothing. He stepped away.
    â€œOK,” said Frank. “Here’s the plan. You three are gonna stay right at that table until we get where we’re going. My associate is going to stay right here keeping you company. You should know that my associate is an extremely good marksman.”
    â€œWe’re supposed to stay here the whole time?” said Kaz.
    â€œThat’s correct,” said Frank.
    â€œWhat if I gotta take a shit?” said Kaz.
    â€œThen you’ll have to shit your pants,” said Frank. “So I advise restraint on your part. For my part, I’m going to stay right by our captain’s side and assist him with his nautical tasks. I’m confident he’ll get us to our destination quickly and efficiently, because he’s a team player, because he’s a professional, and because if I see even the slightest sign that he’s fucking with me, fragments of his skull will come down as far away as Tampa. So is everyone clear on the plan?”
    Frank smiled around at everybody. Nobody smiled back.
    â€œExcellent,” said Frank. “Anchors aweigh.”
    Tark, with Frank behind him, went up the small stairway to the bridge, started the engines, checked the gauges.
    â€œI gotta cast off,” he said.
    â€œAfter you,” said Frank.
    As Tark crossed back through the cabin, he glanced over at the table. He and Kaz locked eyes for a millisecond, traded the tiniest of nods. Everything was going exactly according to plan.
    Â 
    WALLY, TED, JOHNNY, AND JOCK WERE CROSSING the causeway, heading from the mainland to Miami Beach in Johnny’s 1987 Plymouth Voyager. Johnny was driving; Jock was riding shotgun; Wally and Ted were in the back seat; Muddy Waters was on the tape player. The minivan shuddered as wind gusts hit it, Johnny leaning over the steering wheel to squint into the rainy gloom.
    â€œI can’t believe we’re going out in this shit,” he said. “Are we really this desperate for money?”
    â€œI am,” said Wally, exhaling, handing the joint to Ted. “I’m very desperate. You want to know how desperate I am?”
    â€œHow desperate are you?” said Ted.
    â€œI am so desperate,” said Wally, “that today I called the number for that guy who says you can get rich in real estate without putting up any of your own money. You know that guy? On TV? He’s in Hawaii, has a major tan, and he has all these people come on and sit with him under the palm trees and give testimonials about how, six months ago, they were living in a refrigerator carton, and now, thanks to this guy’s foolproof system, they’re making eighty-seven-thousand dollars a month from real estate.”
    â€œWhy were they living in a refrigerator carton?” said Jock, reaching back to get the joint from Ted.
    â€œI don’t mean literally,” said Wally. “I just mean, they didn’t have shit.”
    Jock said, “Wouldn’t bother me, living in a refrigerator carton, if I lived in Hawaii.” He took a hit.
    â€œThey don’t live in Hawaii,” said Ted.
    â€œWally just said it was Hawaii,” said Johnny, accepting the joint from Jock.
    â€œI know,” said Ted. “But they just fly them out to Hawaii, so everybody thinks, whoa, you do this real-estate deal, you have all this money, you can go to Hawaii.”
    â€œIf they have so much money,” said Jock, “why do they live in a refrigerator carton?”
    â€œListen,” said Wally, reaching forward and getting the joint from Johnny, “ just