Uncharted The Fourth Labyrinth - By Christopher Golden Page 0,24
jacket over the guayabera and the neatly trimmed mustache, clearly wondering if this was somebody he was supposed to know. Sully drew him aside, lowering his voice so that only the guard could hear, but Drake knew the gist of what he was saying. They had discussed it moments before, and it was a ruse they’d used more than once.
“Listen, amigo, here’s the deal. I’m working for Theresa Fonseca. I’m brokering the sale of some of the assets she’s received in her divorce settlement. I’ve got this couple on the hook, but they’re a little skittish because the divorce is turning ugly, and they’re looking for an excuse not to buy. They keep making noises about security down here, so what I need from you is to act like you’re busting my chops. Be a hardass—”
The guard looked confused, glanced at Drake and Jada, and then shook his head. “I don’t know any Theresa—what was the name?”
“Fonseca. She—”
“Nah,” the guard said. “No Fonseca down here.”
Sully turned to Drake and Jada and put his hands up in a see-what-I-mean gesture, as if trying to show them just how tight security was at the marina.
“That’s good, man. Perfect,” Sully said.
The guard narrowed his eyes. “I’m not playacting here, pal. There’s no one named Fonseca.”
Sully bopped his palm against the side of his head. “Right, right. Divorce, remember? Crap, what’s the husband’s name? Starts with a K, I think. Keller? Kramer?”
“Kurland?” the guard suggested.
Sully pointed a finger at him, pistol-style. “That’s it. Yeah. Look, I just need to walk them down and show them the boat and I’ll be out of your hair. If I do my job right, Miss Fonseca—Mrs. Kurland, I guess—gets a decent price for the thing, and it’ll serve the son of a bitch right for making babies with his girlfriend on the side.”
The guard’s face twisted in deep disapproval. “Babies?”
“I know. Awful stuff. Imagine finding out your husband was having an affair for, what, six years? Bad enough, right? But the guy fathered two children with the other woman. How does a lady pick herself up after getting kicked like that?”
By then the guard was nodding in agreement.
“What an ass,” the guard said.
“Fortunately, the judge agreed,” Sully said, smiling conspiratorially. “Now, look, do me a favor? Tell me we’ve got thirty minutes, no more. I have another appointment before I can go home tonight, so I don’t want to be hemming and hawing with these folks for hours.”
The guard did better than that. He walked Sully over to Drake and Jada, looking as though he were doing them a mighty favor.
“I’m sorry, but the marina has strict policies about visitors,” he said. “Without the owner present, I can only give you half an hour. You’ll have to sign in and show your ID. Please respect the privacy of the other owners and see me on your way out.”
Jada squeezed Drake’s arm, apparently concerned about having to show her ID.
“Not a problem,” he said. “We wouldn’t have it any other way, especially if we might be owners ourselves.”
“I—um—left my purse in the car,” Jada said.
The guard furrowed his brow.
Drake only smiled wider. “I’ve got it, sweetie. I’ll sign us in.”
The guard glanced at Sully, clearly trying to decide whether to push the ID issue, but then he let it go. Apparently, he didn’t want to make trouble for Mrs. Kurland, because he led the three of them to a small guard booth not far from the marina entrance and barely glanced at the false identification Drake and Sully showed him as they signed the guest book.
Drake still had his bloodstained coat folded under his arm, and the guard shot a quizzical glance at it as Drake signed in, as if he thought he might be hiding something inside.
“What’ve you got there?” the guard asked.
Drake sighed in regret. “Not a damn thing. I spilled juice all over myself like an idiot. Ruined my coat.”
Careful to show only the inside of the coat, he unfurled it to show that there was nothing wrapped inside it and then draped it carefully over his arm.
“Thanks, amigo,” Sully said, giving a private little nod to the guard that Jada and Drake weren’t supposed to see. “Say, what’s the slip number again?”
He patted at his pants pockets as if looking for the piece of paper where he’d written the number down.
“One forty-seven,” the guard replied.
Drake felt sorry for him. It wasn’t the guard’s fault he was dumb enough to fall for their hustle. He probably