17.1

Marlon pulled the Thunderbird off the freeway and sat idling in a cloud of dust. The trip down to Miami wasn’t going to plan.

It was all supposed to be so simple – two or three phone calls and… just pick up the cheque.

Now nobody was answering his calls.

“Thank God you’re still there B.J.” he said, exploding with frustration.

“What do you want Marlon?” Singh sounded jaded, unwelcoming.

“Where in the hell is that fucking Buckingham?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“You mean Roger Buckland?”

“Where is he?”

“Marlon, you’re too late.”

“Too late? Too late for what?”

“He’s already gone.” Gone?

“What are you talking about?” Marlon said impatiently. “Don’t fuck me around Singh. Tell me straight – what’s happening over there?” Singh sighed audibly –

“The Australian has renounced. He’s left his money and passport and gone.”

“What? You’ve got to be joking!”

“He’s done it, Marlon. You’ve missed him.” Marlon slumped back in the sumptuous leather seat.

“Fuck it B.J.! This is not convenient! I’m on my way to Florida! I thought we had this wrapped up!”

“I didn’t,” Singh said, resigned. “But you were never interested in what I thought.”

Wait a second…

Think about it…

This could be perfect…