Page 88 of The Biker's Brother

“Exact plans?”

“Such as when you’re scheduled to meet.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“Thank you, Henry. I’ll be in touch about the results of your meeting.” Brandon ended the call.

Brandon was still stiff from having spent twenty-six hours in a car. The fact that he’d traded off driving with Arnold had helped, but he’d also had to listen to Arnold’s idea of conversation, which consisted almost entirely of talk about women, worldwide wrestling, or himself. They hadn’t flown because Brandon wanted no record of the trip.

Arnold had procured a rental, using his alternate identity. They’d made a point of avoiding toll roads where they might be photographed and time stamped as they passed through.

He’d instructed the yacht captain to move the Silver Garland from her home at North Cove out to Montauk and leave the key in the usual hiding place.

Brandon and Arnold parked at the Montauk lot, grabbed their bags, pulled the hoods up on their hoodies and tied them so only their noses and eyes were visible. It was almost midnight. So nobody would be around but the night watchman, if they had one.

Eric had spent two hours calling around to marinas before he located one that wasn’t equipped with cameras.

He’d told them, “Well, damn it, I wanted cameras, but since everything else you offer is so attractive, I guess I can do without.” He then gave them the name of the Silver Garland captain and told them to expect him.

It was easy to spot the Silver Garland. A yacht like the one that belonged to Germane Enterprises was unusual inanymarina. It was a super yacht, big enough to even have a ‘garage’ for smaller craft, like a sleek speedboat, and a small inflatable.

Brandon found the key taped to a starboard fender. He and Arnold would sleep on board until about six the next morning. They’d leave before sunrise and arrive in Boston around ten. Good weather. Clear sailing.

When they stepped inside and turned on the lights, Arnold whistled. “I’ve never been on anything bigger than a ski boat, but I’m thinking most people don’t have this experience.”

Brandon nodded. “Yeah. You’d be right about that. You sleep in there. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. We’ll eat and then get underway.”

Arnold looked amazed. “You know how to cook?”

“You don’t? It’s a basic life skill.”

“No man. It’s one of the best things about women. Right up there with willing pussy.”

“So you don’t know how to survive without a woman nearby?”

“I don’t know how to survive without a drive through nearby.”

Brandon was in dire need of a breather from Arnold. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

Brash had been tutored on people in the office, what they looked like and their relationship to Brandon. He’d also learned about Brandon’s habits, what he did on arrival, where he was likely to have lunch, etc etc etc.

He was amazed how easy it was to walk through the doors of Germane Enterprises and have the employees look up and smile.

“Good morning, Mr. St. Germaine.”

“Good morning, Mr. St. Germaine.”

He nodded and returned the, ‘Good mornings’, in kind on his way to the office.

Apparently all he had to do was show up wearing Brand’s face and his clothes and, sure enough, people would be fooled. Somehow it had seemed harder when he’d tried it in New York.

He and Brandon had decided that, to be on the safe side, he would order lunch in. They thought it best that he not interact with Brand’s business associates because they could easily take him into unanticipated territory.

Brash kept an office at Hollywood Wreck and Ride and ran his network of small businesses from there, but he could just as easily perform those tasks from Brand’s office. All he needed was his phone and laptop, which he’d brought in a backpack that functioned like one that cost a hundred dollars, but had probably cost a thousand dollars. Brandon had insisted that it be part of his ‘ensemble’ when they’d stood in his closet picking out what clothes Brash would wear while he was gone.

If anybody ever asked, at least two dozen people would swear that Brandon St. Germaine had been in the office every day, all day, all week long.

Trey Michaels’ driver let him out in front of the building that housed the City Club. The sidewalk was busy with people trying to get lunch and get back to their offices in less than an hour. As he paused for a break in pedestrian traffic so that he could navigate his way to the entrance, he was intercepted by a young clean cut man in a dark suit who bore a remarkable resemblance to a thirty-year-old Arnold Schwarzenegger, but was not as big. As the man stepped in front of him, blocking his way into the building, he said, “Mr. Michaels?” His bearing wasn’t threatening. He wasn’t wearing a smile, but his expression might be described as pleasant.

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