Chapter Six
Palm Beach in the morning was a beautiful place. Mickey found the address and gave his name to a metal box beside a gated driveway. He was told to drive around the house and down to the docks, and found a lot of work going on.
A narrow little work barge with a skinny jib crane on deck was pulled up to the seawall and half a dozen people were staring down at it with frowns on their faces. Mickey unloaded his dive gear and went out to the boat, a sixty-foot sport fisherman with more teak than a lumberyard. The owner met him down there.
“I’m Pete Oliver,” he said. “You the diver Jones sent for my props?”
“Yes, sir.”
This old boy was no pink-skinned corner office guy. He had a shock of sun bleached hair and that deepwater mahogany tan you don’t get without a lot of time out on
