Punta Gorda
“H
oly crap, Dad!” Tracey was fascinated by the story. “Did you shoot him?”
“If you mean did I shoot him again or kill him, the answer is no. The Honduran cops got Fat Frank Arenas—but I did get the payroll dough.”
“What happened with the FDN?” Chan was on a third beer and looking at him strangely as though she was learning something unexpected about a man she thought she knew completely.
“We’ll save that for another time.” Shake wheeled off the highway and turned seaward. The resort entrance was just up the road. “I’ll finish this sordid tale some time when I can catch up with you two on beers.”
G
As the self-appointed chef for the beach party, Mike Stokey was stuck behind a big barbecue grill, surrounded by locals who were giving him unwanted advice about grilling seaf
