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Rancho Snake-O

by Bo Rivers

270 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #98-0038; ISBN 1-55212-219-0; US$24.00, C$28.00, EUR20.00, £14.00

A rollicking chase novel replete with boats, planes and other gadgets. Fast women, a ruthless repo man, and lots of reptiles. You won't be able to put this one down once you've begun reading.

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about the book      about the author      opening chapter      reviews      catalogue info

About the Book Life's every irritant gnaws the nerves of Miami counselor Ashton Martin to the outer limits of mortal suffering. He has two choices, run or ruin, breakdown or breakout. Pride aside and preservation penultimate, Hurricane Ashton is born. Escape is his name and felonious fleeing his game. His path, mischievously unpredictable, his future, entirely dependent on skills they didn't teach in law school. Stitching Florida, coast to coast, an eight hundred horsepower, deep vee bottomed sewing machine races ever northward for a final goodbye to the only beloved Ashton ever almost knew. Trouble is: riding his wake is an armed and dangerous predator, intelligent, cunning and capable. He's Hell's only repo man and Don Gardner is in pursuit, his greatest asset a destructively dauntless perseverance.

About the Author Born in Atlanta, Georgia. Raised in Miami, Florida. I spent my first 20 years living on and off boats and homes on the waters of South Florida. Education... Oh, let's not get into that. I worked in the radio broadcasting industry from the mid-'70s to the mid-'90s. Sold out and left Florida for the Texas Hill Country where my wife, Jennie, and I are raising three young adults, Dacia, Cameron and Carley (who took my picture). A gear-head at heart, boats, cars and planes, especially fast ones, dominate most of my free time and the occasional loopy daydream.

Opening chapters

It was a race, a little game I played with my overworked, underpaid, but somehow understanding secretary, Gina. Could I put my callers on hold and ignore them faster than she could attend them? Damn right I could; it had become much easier lately knowing the majority were antsy creditors or their nasty agents. It'll be no contest once the bankruptcy court judge bangs his gavel on my Chapter 11.

"Dick Grayson is on line 4," chimed Gina, the good witch, "It's about your boat loan, and don't forget about irate clients, Benjamin and Gurney, on lines 1 and 3; also, you're probably wasting your time with the lady, and I use the term loosely, on line 2. The florists just called and the lovely Miss Linda won't be getting her flowers, something about your VISA being declined."

"Kiss my ass," I mumbled as Excedrin headache #271 sprouted in my brain stem. Perhaps a seizure triggered by flashing phone lines, yeah, that's good, "Your Honor, a seizure." He might buy it. I snapped and stabbed at my phone. Conference 1 and 3, "Mr. Benjamin, you fat, greasy 7.2 Richter fart, meet Mr. Gurney, Florida's bastard son of a whore-hoppin' redneck politician. You two have a lot in common. You're both obnoxious ingrates who hate me for making you wealthy. Adios, amigos." Then, as an afterthought, I threw in, "Go fuck yourselves, gentlemen." Okay, two down and two to go. Conference 2 and 4, I'm on a roll, "Linda, I'm sorry, honey, but I'd like to introduce you to Dick Grayson. Dick, Linda here is the most beautiful 36-24-36 that ever graced the afterdeck of a 35-foot Cigarette, much like the one you and your inbred, inept, ignorant and stigmatized repo-reject are looking for. Linda, if you assist Mr. Grayson I won't blame you 'cause God knows that boat caressed your supple amenities more effectively than I ever did." Fighting to keep the rage burning in my normally ultra-calm, highly diplomatic, always-in-control psyche, I closed with, "Linda baby, for years you've searched for the ultimate prick to tease. Well, here's a big one -- 6' 1", 290 pounds and bald-headed, just the way you like them. Sorry it's so Goddamn ugly. Ciao." I slammed the receiver down and when it bounced off the cradle, I jerked the cord out of the wall.

One deep breath later, however, I felt better, relieved. The burden of being nice for a living had been lifted, Hallelujah! I knew it was all over and I closed my eyes and reflected on the last five years and where it had left me. I had caught more phone calls than a directory assistance operator and cajoled and kissed ass for what? Insolvency, yeah, that's a good start. Also, I was assetless, debt-laden, and physically and financially declining. I've traded soft, sexy and suave for ornery, horny and hard. Ah, but the eighties were good to me. I made dozens of millionaires from ordinary men; some say wrongfully, but I never hurt anybody and I cashed three million dollars in commission checks for my services. Nonetheless, I pissed it away as fast as I got my hands on it and the austerity of the nineties has bled me dry.

"Gina, Goddamnit," I yelled, using a favorite pet name for my employee of more than ten years, "get in here."

As her 5 foot two, 120 pounds of soft, dark, roundness centered in my doorway, a sharp "yes, sir," hissed from her full Revlon red lips.

"Bring me everything from the safe, dump it here on my desk, then call the marina and have Eddie fuel up the boat; tell him I'll be there soon." Normally, when I barked she jumped, but this time she just stood and stared. "Today, Gina," I prompted.

"I'm sorry," she started. I could tell she was thinking; her face had that Lou Costello questioning look about it. "But I've never seen your countenance so sinister, and anyway, Misters Benjamin and Gurney are still chatting and your Linda Lovelace and Mr. Grayson are tying up the other lines, so I can't call the marina."

"Fine," I interrupted. "Just get my shit from the safe in here now, please," I added.

I watched Gina dump armload after armload of files until the magic one landed and I withdrew an envelope marked 'rum money.' I counted out 20 one-hundred bills, sealed them in an envelope and scribbled G.D. haphazardly on the front. I shoved the remaining cash and a selection of important personal papers into two attache cases. No sense in counting the currency now, I thought, I'd hit it pretty hard lately just trying to make ends meet. It wasn't the hundred grand it once was but it would finance my escape.

"Gina," I summoned, suddenly finding my practiced cool. She entered and I motioned her to a chair opposite my desk. I was stunned momentarily by the tears in her eyes and shocked when she spoke first.

"It's over, isn't it?" she sniffled.

"Gina, look at me, what do you see?" I paused, "physically."

"You mean like tall, dark and handsome?"

"More specific," I said, "take it from the top."

"Brown hair," she paused, looking for approval.

"Thinning, greying," I added. "That's good, continue."

Gina took a deep breath then said, "Brown eyes."

"Beady, bloodshot, crows' feet." C'mon I motioned.

"Well-tanned, cute pug nose," she was getting creative.

"OK, I'll allow that."

"A great smile!"

"Missing in action lately, wouldn't you say? What else?"

"Umm, a kinda' weak chin."

"Good," I praised, "very frank."

"Broad shoulders," she perked up quickly. "Nice torso... pre-por-tionate."

"Kinda' scrawny," I added. "With love handles."

"Cute butt."

"Used to be," or so I'd been told.

"Long legs and small feet -- are we done?" she blurted out.

"Almost. Answer one question honestly." I leaned in to assure I would get a read regardless of her answer. "Mid-life crisis time, yes or no?" Gina gulped. "I thought so."

"Gina, I'm an over-40 victim of fate," thought I'd try a Buffet line on her -- what the hell -- originality was never my strong suit. "I've read the final chapter and must now close the book," more plagiarism, I should be ashamed, "but I need your help."

"Of course," she fought back the flood, "that's the part I'll miss the most."

You think you know a person after ten years and, surprise, Gina cares, I'll be damned. "Great, thanks. I knew I could count on you," a gross exaggeration. "First, tie up the phones for the rest of the afternoon and put everything I leave on this desk through the shredder. Tomorrow morning open up, business as usual, and tell everyone who calls that I was med-e-vaced to Miami Heart Institute where I was stabilized and flown to John Hopkins. End of story. Can you handle that?" I knew better than to ask.

"So far it ain't brain surgery," Gina said sounding more like herself.

"Perfect," I praised, "then take anything you want out of here and lock the door for the last time at five p.m." I handed her the envelope, "Here's a month's pay; if I'm ever in a position to do more for you, I will." She was kind of smiling when I said, "Ciao, Gina, it's been fun." But the real goodbye was to Ashton Martin, financial advisor par excellence.

* * * *

Like a warden strolling a maximum security cellblock, William Johnathan Walker took a head count as he progressed from cage to cage. At five feet ten and one half inches and 225 pounds, he had the build of an Olympic wrestler. His energetic lifestyle kept him fit and the seven percent body fat had fallen in all the right places. Thick, dark, wavy hair and generous, matching body hair added mysterious icing to a chocolate trouble cake. But this big, handsome, muscular, imposing man had engaging, hazel eyes that begged, 'trust me.' It was a look he borrowed, nay, perfected, from hours of staring contests with some of the planet's deadliest reptiles. Johnny Walker had a great sense of humor and was fond of saying his business associates were cold-blooded killers. It's hell to work for snakes, but Johnny's snakes worked for him. The "HOT" room, as he called it, contained hundreds of venomous snakes from every country in the world. It also adjoined his bedroom. Love me, love my snakes, that was his motto and the primary reason he was single. Oh, he was married, in his senior year at the University of Florida. Johnny was a very promising chemistry major with a strong interest in psycho-pharmacology. He minored in herpetology, a hobby since he was a kid. His bride, Heidi, was a stunning blue-eyed blonde and recipient of the coveted Sigma Epsilon Chi title "The Gator's Tail" in her junior year as a poly-sci major. Heidi was wildly into sex, mildly into rock and roll and, as Johnny would say, "She's fueled by drugs and ignited by radical political movement." Heidi introduced Johnny to freaks who introduced him to hallucinogenic narcotics and, although he had no appetite for them personally, by Christmas break William Johnathan Walker had become the Ralph Lauren of designer drugs on campus. By Spring Break, however, a cruel twist of fate ended Johnny's skyrocketing pharmaceutical enterprise. Quite unintentionally, Heidi tipped off a DEA agent on assignment to track down the source of a new and voluminous supply of drugs in Central and North Florida. Some 72 hours later, with search warrants in hand, scores of Gainesville cops and Alachua County sheriffs sealed off the campus until such a time as they could find one William Johnathan Walker and every suspicious looking substance a hippie-type might get high on. Fate frowned upon Johnny with front page coverage of his arrest, expulsion from school and a marriage on the rocks. Johnny was sentenced to three to five years. He served six months and Heidi divorced him. The judge was approached on Johnny's behalf and ended up commuting the sentence to time served plus a year of community service in a pilot program of drug rehabilitation work. For Walker, the rehab community service was opportunity knocking. His days were filled taking five junkies on field trips designed to occupy the strung-out, burned-out, wired and jumpy addicts in a natural, peaceful, drug-free setting. It worked.

Walker's testimony at trial was that he never sold any drugs, only brewed 'em up and passed them out to his friends. It was a half-truth, of course, but he got away with it and used his stash of cash to purchase 40 wooded acres from a farmer west of Gainesville. It was the ideal spot to bring the rehab. program's magic bus and, at the suggestion of one ex-contractor member, Johnny got a great idea. On the next trip, the bus rolled to a stop near the clearing as usual, but things had changed. A home site had been dozed out and pallets of concrete block, bags of cement, stacks of lumber and an aluminum shed with a generator and tools stood where only pine trees and Bahia grass used to be. Over the course of his community service, Johnny had rehabilitated every last man of his motley crew and returned them to the American mainstream work force, mostly in construction jobs. In return, Rancho Snake-O was erected and a finer edifice the world had never seen, at least in Johnny's eyes.

* * * *

I headed straight for home, south on US-1 to Card Sound Bridge, then north at Key Largo toward Ocean Reef. It was a private and terribly exclusive community, Ocean Reef, members only. I wasn't a member, but I'd built a lot of nice homes there. Actually, I'd financed the building of a lot of nice homes there. Well, more accurately, I'd arranged financing for... no, shit, truth is I milked federal savings and loans so the undeserving could build fine homes in Ocean Reef and never have to pay for them. Water under the bridge as my old man used to say, but then I do get to use the club just like a member and these days that's worth something. I slowed through the guarded entrance, flashed my million-dollar smile and caught a salute from Arnold. That was something in itself given that Arnold was known for his voracious appetite and seldom had a free hand with which to salute. Taking the forked road to the marina, I knew I'd get that little rush I always got with the first glimpse of my Cigarette.

God, that boat, my home since I was evicted some months ago, was beautiful. She'd changed somewhat over the years, but then, so had I. The twin 600-horse, 80 mph, fox's ass red with party graphics, ultimate pussy boat with the name FSLIC ME scrolled port and starboard was a hunted entity. I had cruised from my Lauderdale condo to Little River when it became obvious that Cueball Grayson, my nervous banker, was about to strip me of all my worldly possessions. My landlord had already stolen my Bang & Olfson and posted an eviction notice. The leasing company snatched the 'Benz the month before. But I was determined not to lose the only thing in life I really loved, so I packed FSLIC ME and boated south. In a client's boatyard up Little River, I ordered the transformation. The Big Hawk motors were replaced with fuel-injected 502 Mer Cruisers cutting my top speed 20 knots, but doubling my cruising range. The eye-catching red hull was subdued with boring, but stealthy, white Imron. I traded the party graphics, all thirty-five feet of them for a simple two by three foot graphic of a three-story birdhouse and altered the fugitive's moniker. In gold script, beside the aviary graphic, was the name 'MARTIN HOUSE.'

As I rolled to a stop in front of the marina, I knew Fast Eddie, the dockmaster, must be around. The sun was setting over Angelfish Creek and the sleek, white hull joined the calm, clear brine to reflect the sun's final rays. Though most of the slips were empty, she was tied off properly at the T-head, a place of prominence, the work of an artist, signature of Fast Eddie. With two large attaches in hand, I strolled slowly to the end of the pier, marveling at a setting so serene, so picturesque, so natural, it was hard for me to believe it could exist on this fucked-up planet.

Reviews

Just finished Rancho Snake-O by Bo Rivers. Thought it was a very good first effort, as far as I know, on Mr Rivers part. Couldn't wait to find out what fast Eddy, Johnny Walker and Ashton Martin would get into next. I give it a thumbs up!!

Ara Hatcher

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