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  Wendy and the Lost Boys

  Copyright ©2011 Barbara Silkstone

  Published by Books on the Green

  ISBN: 978-0-9837502-2-2

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Books in the Fractured Fairy Tales by Silkstone series:

  The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters

  Wendy and the Lost Boys

  London Broil

  Zo White – coming in 2012

  This book contains bonus chapters from:

  London Broil, the sequel to Wendy and the Lost Boys

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you for your purchase of this the second Fractured Fairy Tale by Silkstone. A word of caution: laughter is contagious. We suggest you choose your surroundings carefully before beginning to read this book.

  Cheers for my first readers: Linda Cupp Mihay, Amy Pointer, MH Sargent, Kristen Stappenbeck-Baker, and Barry Brennessel. Special thanks to the dazzling Consuelo Saah Baehr.

  A shout out to graphic artist, Katerina Vamvasaki for Wendy’s most excellent cover.

  Many thanks to Jan Davy for Wendy’s chopper lessons. You rock!

  Thanks to Phil and Kaki Burgess – yacht consultants.

  Loving thanks to LC Evans and Karen Cantwell for their kind support, great advice, and super listening powers. Secret Moose Handshake.

  But most of all, my sincerest thanks to Wendy’s Godfather, Buck Buchanan, who pushed her to exceed the boundaries of sanity while maintaining sentence structure. He has the patience of a saint, the eye of a hawk, and the sense of humor of a twelve year old. Now if he would just give them back…

  And finally, heaps of gratitude to Shelley Holloway of Holloway House for offering Buck and me a third set of eyes to ensure my readers can enjoy as error-free a reading experience as possible! Wonderful working with you.

  Dedicated to Victoria Station

  WENDY AND THE LOST BOYS

  BY BARBARA SILKSTONE

  Pirates

  Chapter One

  Sometimes the journey you set out on is not the one you return from.

  I lay on my stomach on Belgian cream-colored sheets in my suite on the 370-foot yacht rocking in the waters somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I had finished a pitcher of screwdrivers before the sun came up and was feeling woozy. As I dozed in my bikini, something jumped on my back. I tried to fight it off, rolled over, and found myself looking at a giant tongue and two beady eyes. It was like being married again.

  All six feet of Hook’s bony body retreated when I brought my knee up catching him in his man-berries. He turned, rolling off the bed and abruptly slamming his johnson into the teak nightstand. His penis was huge, dark, and engorged. I was right about the blue pills in his master suite. They were erectile dysfunction drugs. Of course, with the name UpUGo, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.

  “I knew you were taking that junk. Don’t waste your time,” I said to the naked old man with the flabby butt as he held himself with a panicked look on his face. “And get out of my suite. The door was locked for a reason! How’d you get in here?”

  “It’s been more than four hours, Wendy,” he whimpered. “I’m still hard and it hurts like hell. Help me!” His once chiseled features hung like melted wax from his cheekbones.

  “My promise to Marni to care for you did not include sex… no way… under no circumstances. That’s what you get for messing with that stuff. Just get out of my way!”

  I snatched the ten-pound white hairball called Tinkerbelle from the foot of the bed and made my way to the sun deck. Hook’s Predator was a yacht on steroids. It took ten minutes to get from my suite to the upper floor. Hook had spent over $200 million of Ponzied money on this floating erection. He recited the Predator’s talents daily, like a mantra he hoped would keep away the feds, investors, and victims who wanted nothing more than to see him keelhauled.

  Once on the sun deck, I reclined on a cushioned lounge chair. Tink licked my face, her Maltese dog fur tickling my nose. I wrapped her leash around my left hand and whispered into her ear, “You poor little puppy. You don’t understand we buried your mama yesterday.” The tears came. There was no holding them back.

  How did I let myself get into this situation? I regretted the day I first heard Hook’s name and regretted even more the day I introduced him to Marni.

  ***

  It started almost two years ago as what had become a normal poison-ivy-like night for me. Standing at the window of our suite at The Plaza, I gazed out over the pink and white blossoms of June in Central Park wondering when I would learn to say “no.” It was a hellacious sacrifice to drop what I was doing, leave my clients in Miami and haul up to New York to be at my husband Croc’s side as he pursued investors for his hedge fund Privateer, LLC.

  I thought I’d finally found a good man when I first met James Crocowski at a fundraiser for hurricane victims. We continued to bump into each other at a series of charity events over the next few weeks. After a few months of frantic dating, I woke up in the bridal suite at the Luxor Hotel in Vegas. I was Mrs. Crocowski, the thirty-nine year-old wife of a hedge fund manager. I was ready to admit I’d made a mistake.

  “How do I look?” Croc did a spin in his tux.

  I turned from the window to study him. The man was an optical illusion. He looked intelligent, hardly the picture of a guy who’d just lost triple-digit millions. And obviously to him he looked primo. I bit off a really nasty comment and settled for, “Stop panting. You sound like a dog.”

  “Yeah, but how great do I look? We’re going to a Charlie Hook party. It’s important.”

  The name meant nothing to me. This was not a charity event, despite the embossed wording on the invitations. Croc, aka the Crocodile, was set to snare a new pool of investors with his welcoming grin and promises of extraordinary returns. I was sick to my stomach with what I suspected were his less than honest guarantees. I regretted my last minute decision to join him, torn between wifely loyalty and rat-sniffing instincts.

  Dressed in my size-six little black dress that screamed designer original, while I screamed inside my head, I grabbed my velvet coat and struggled into it. My highlighted hair swung loose on my shoulders. “You look fine.”

  “Didn’t I buy you some bling to wear to these events?”

  I shot him my dirtiest look, feeling unclean being in the same room with him.

  The doorman helped us into the hired limo, and we headed to a private party in Montclair, a city in northern New Jersey. I settled back and watched the cars rat race along.

  Somewhere on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge we were sideswiped by another vehicle. First there was a thump and then a shattering crunch.

  “What was that?” I yelled to our driver. The limo bounced over rough pavement, hit gravel, and came to rest against the guardrail.
<
br />   Crack! A gun shot and then another ricocheted off the front right fender in a splash of sparks.

  Croc threw his weight against the limo door but it didn’t open. I yanked his sleeve. “Don’t leave me here, you chicken-shit!”

  We were still struggling when a tall thin man reeking of cologne and cigars got into the front passenger seat. He aimed a large gun at my husband. “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”

  I pegged his accent as Russian.

  My precious mate tried for the door again, knocking me in the ribs with his right elbow.

  The Russian flashed me a quizzical look. “You married this coward?”

  “I was drunk at the time.”

  He smirked. “I could never get that drunk.”

  “Nobody asked you,” Croc snapped. His smart mouth was about to get us both killed.

  I put my hands in the air and slid into the far corner of the car trying to fold into the upholstery.

  The limo driver sat stone still, almost blasé.

  “We told you three weeks. You have until Monday. Ninety-three million dollars,” the Russian said.

  “I promise 18% on your money if you wait until Thursday!”

  Had my husband lost his mind? Facing a gun he negotiates interest rates?

  The Russian cut his eyes to me and left the car.

  Croc exhaled in a whoosh. “I guess they want their money back.”

  “Give it to them.”

  “I don’t have it. We had operating expenses.”

  It dawned on me. “Are you involved in a Ponzi?”

  “No, it’s a creative new-age investment opportunity and my tireless efforts are under appreciated.” He avoided eye contact and stepped out of the car.

  “Doesn’t this shake you up?” I asked the driver as I dialed 911 on the car phone. “By the way, shut off the engine.”

  “Lady, welcome to the new Wall Street. You get used to it after a while.” He yawned.

  Outside the limo, Croc puffed on a cigarette. I’d never seen him smoke before. There was a lot I didn’t know about this man I married after I’d downed three bottles of champagne. Drink in haste. Repent in leisure. I put my head back and closed my eyes. It was time to see a lawyer.

  The police arrived in less than ten minutes. By then Croc had disappeared. Maybe he walked off into the night or maybe the Russians decided not to wait until Monday. Either way, my wish had been granted. I was Croc-less.

  Along with the details of the mugging, I filed a missing person’s report then went back to the Plaza and did a happy dance in our suite. My husband had abandoned me. Confirming my morning flight back to Miami, I changed rooms and for safety’s sake registered under my maiden name… Wendy Darlin.

  Chapter Two

  Five months later, Kit and I were pigging out on stone crabs and Bloody Marys at Joe’s Stone Crabs. A November day in Miami is perfect al fresco weather. Kit is my nail tech and consigliere. I tell him everything. Sometimes I listen to his advice. We were talking about my recent divorce.

  “You’re well rid of him. Croc could have cost you your life.”

  “I wasn’t cut out for marriage. Being financially responsible for his unpredictable actions was driving me crazy. It was only a matter of time before I was slaughtered or sued.”

  Kit stretched his long legs and yawned. “I don’t know how you straight people do it… live in such close quarters.”

  “Remember how crazy I was that first week after the final decree? I couldn’t wait to get away from him. I flew off shedding my possessions like feathers from a molting bird. I wanted to be free of everything that smelled, tasted, or felt like Croc.”

  He laughed. “Not going to make that marriage mistake again, are you?”

  “Nope. I live snug in my little condo on the beach. There’s no room in my life for a man. My closet’s too small.”

  “Your teeny closet gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  I took a big swallow of my Bloody Mary before I spoke. “I wonder about Croc. It’s hard to imagine his huge ego would allow him to disappear into thin air. And I can’t help wonder how that idiot talked investors into parting with their money.”

  Kit fiddled with the Tabasco, spicing his drink just this side of combustion. “He talked you into marrying him.”

  I cracked a big claw and dipped it in the mustard sauce. “I had an excuse. I’ll never get that tipsy again.”

  “Three of my salon clients went wonkers over their investment losses last week. They collapsed into crying fits while I was doing their nails. People aren’t coping well with the financial meltdown.”

  He took a slow, easy swig from his glass and then asked, “What exactly is a Ponzi scheme?”

  “A scam where a crook, a big kahuna, gets investment capital from Client A by promising him fat returns – like 20% – then gets Client B the same way, using his money to pay off Client A, making it look like he’s delivering on the investment promise. Then he needs Client C, D, and E to keep the circle of payoffs and influx of new cash going… you get the picture. It’s a ‘rob Peter to pay Paul’ that never ends. At some point, that big kahuna gets caught, but not before he’s ruined the lives of many, many people.”

  Kit thumped his forefinger on the table and drew 20% with the condensation from his glass. “You mean he’s using new money to pay the promised interest even though he’s not making anywhere near the 20%.”

  I rubbed out his markings on the table. “Exactly, except that number’s only an example.”

  “Is that what Croc was doing?”

  “Croc wasn’t running a Ponzi. He was running a hedge fund, which is pretty shaky in its own right, but him being lazy, and stupid, and worthless… Sorry, I digress. I know Croc. I hope he wasn’t foolish enough to be a feeder for some big kahuna. I’ve been worried ever since that Russian stopped us.”

  “Did Croc have a big kahuna?”

  Skipping over his double-entendre, I said, “I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Let’s change the subject, please.”

  He beamed a laser-white smile. “Well… my new show opens in two weeks.”

  Kit’s career as the reigning drag queen of Miami Beach was his passion. It was unnerving to watch him prance around in full makeup. He actually made a fairly good-looking giantess.

  “You definitely got my mind off finances. Let’s split one dessert. I have Treanna tonight. We’re ordering pizza and making ice cream sundaes. I’ll be a blimp before the weekend is over.

  We topped off lunch with a gooey key lime pie. Satiated, I dropped Kit back at his salon.

  ***

  My real estate company Darlin Realty was located in an old house I’d taken great pleasure in renovating. It was a deep shade of putty green, two-story with a wrap-around front porch. We never used the veranda, but it looked inviting with a white wicker loveseat and two big rocking chairs.

  Linda, our receptionist, was out to lunch when I got back. I grabbed the phone on the second ring rather than letting the service get it.

  “Darlin Realty. Wendy speaking.”

  A raspy voice said, “This is Charlie Hook.”

  I knew the name but feigned ignorance. We’d almost met the night Croc disappeared.

  “How can I help you?”

  “The Charlie Hook.” He repeated with irritation and ego flooding out of the phone. “I’m in the market for a house on Miami Beach – private, walled, ocean view. I’ll go up to thirty-mil.”

  We were talking big commission dollars whether I made the sale or one of my agents did. I thought it over for a few seconds and agreed to meet him at a private hanger at Miami International in two hours. The little hairs on the back of my neck were dancing the no-no dance, but I ignored them.

  A few minutes later, Marni Kimble wandered into my office as I was packing my Louis Vuitton tote. She was one of my newly licensed agents and had yet to make a sale. She’d been clinging to me as though I could wave a magic wand and poof, she’d sell a beachfront mini-mansion. S
he settled her athletic body into a chair and flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder. She was a hottie in search of the good life.

  I smiled at her. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m starting to feel like I’m not cut out to sell real estate. I can’t get a decent client. New money wants to work with an agent they can identify with. Money likes to hang with money.”

  “No more of your limp excuses. Your mom did well when she worked for me, and she was going through chemo during most of that time. She’s smart and independent. You have her genes. We’re going to make you into Realtor of the Year.”

  She shot me an angry look. “I’m nothing like my mother. Cripes, who retires to Mexico?” Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she knotted it at the back of her head. “I was born to be taken care of.”

  Her complaining was wearing thin. There are millions of reasons why something can’t be done, but I never let them stop me. Stepping into my mentoring mode, I said, “Grab your things. I’m on my way to meet a buyer. If he’s for real, I’ll give him to you. That’s how much confidence I have.”

  She was still thanking me as we buckled up in my Jag sedan and headed for our meeting with fate.

  It was easy enough to find the private hangers in Miami… They were the buildings that tried hardest to be inconspicuous. Charlie Hook timed his entrance for our arrival. He strutted from his jet as if he’d just won Best In Show. He was about six-feet tall and weighed about one-sixty. Lean and lanky, he had a thick shock of gray hair, a George Hamilton tan, and perfect white teeth that had to cost a small fortune.

  First words out of his thin lips grated on me. “Gotta trade in this Gulfstream. No damn leg room.” He eyed Marni and then put his arm around me like we were old friends.

  I choked down a gag and introduced him. My young agent’s doe eyes doubled in size when he invited her into his plane for a drink. I got the crazy feeling the hotshot was trying to make me jealous.

  “Marni’s on a tight schedule. She’s working with a number of clients,” I lied.