Jessica Harper And The Culture War Murders by Jessica Harper

Author:Jessica Harper [Harper, Jessica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Avenue of The Americas Media
Published: 2024-03-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter thirty-one

As evening closed in, the airboat sliced through the swamp's stillness, its roar echoing through the cypress groves. The breeze was amazing after that sticky walk and I felt like a movie star as we kicked back and let Clyde do the steering from his elevated chair behind us.

“It’s like we’re in Miami Vice,” I said, loudly so as to make myself heard above the giant propeller.

“All we need now’s a drink,” said April.

“Yeah, but not the sort they serve at The Shotgun Shack.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t get us any closer to Matthew Clay.”

“You were magnificent,” I said. “Where did you learn to play poker?”

“Night school! Surely you didn’t forget I took advanded poker strategy?”

“I had. They clearly paid off. And you did achieve something: you found out that none of those guys back there had heard of Clay.”

“But they were poker players and crooks, it’s their job to lie,” said April.” “Not you, obviously, Clyde.”

Clyde tipped his cap at her. I don’t know if he’d guessed from my phone call that Brandon had revealed he’d trashed the bar. I wasn’t going to ask either; the evening had been complicated enough as it was. If Clyde did know, I didn’t think he was going to turn us in.

“So was Miles lying or what?” I said.

“I don’t know,” said April. “Why would he lie about there being someone called Matthew Clay?”

We didn’t speak again for a while. The ride grew more magical as night drew in. We watched fireflies dancing in the warm air, and the broken reflection of the moonlight in the water.

“Crazy old game you play in back there,” I called to Clyde.

“Yes, ma’am, and some of them, like Doc, make it their full-time living. They just sit there all day, fleecing the weaker players. It ain’t for me, I can tell you that. I’ll stick to my pickles. Although if my delivery trucks continue to get waylaid by these darned beltway protesters I might even have to reconsider that line of work.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Clyde,” I said. “Those rabble rousers are hurting a lot of us.”

Not far from us, I saw an alligator, sly as Georgia moss, raise its eyes above the water, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“By the way, Clyde,” I said, “I think we’ve met before. On the phone anyway.”

“Oh, we have? Please excuse my manners if I need a reminder. Are you a pickle customer?”

“Sadly not. You advertise in the magazine I’m editor of: The Truvian, You phoned me up on launch day last year to check you weren't doing anything unethical by advertising with Montrose Media.”

“I was afraid of what the woke people would say! I remember that! You put my mind at ease. So you must be... Jessica.”

“Well remembered.”

“I never forget a name, a face or a pickle. How is the magazine doing?”

“The magazine is doing just fine. I’m not crazy about my bosses but that’s life.”

“That’s a shame. I always thought Porter Montrose seemed a stand-up guy.

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