"Sir?" A lanky built Italian pops his head out of a minuscule-sized tan brick building next to the call box.
"Beau Masters," I reply, accustomed to the protocol to enter the estate.
"ID."
I place my driver's license in his palm and wait. He swipes it under a black light and then types the number into a small laptop. Once he's finished, he hands it back to me and opens the gate.
"Pull straight to the main house and enjoy your visit."
"Thanks." I know better than to stop along the way and poke my nose in their business. I'm here for a favor, not to piss in anyone's Cheerios.
It takes me about five minutes of following the small road through the trees to reach the ginormous mansion of an estate. It's surrounded by dozens of bright pink bougainvilleas and deep green grass, the colors ex
