The driver slid behind the wheel, met Aston’s eye in the mirror, and grinned. “Anything you need before we go, sir?”
“I don’t suppose you have any bourbon?” Hair of the dog. Couldn’t hurt.
The driver shook his head. “Mister Holloway said no alcohol.” He managed an apologetic smile. “Bottled water?”
“Forget it.” Aston closed his eyes and laid his head back as the driver pulled away from the curb. “How far is it from the airport to where we’re going?” Maybe he’d be able to catch some shut-eye on the way.
“Not far at all. Mister Holloway is waiting to greet you.”
Aston suppressed a groan. “What sort of a guy is he?”
“Good man.”
Aston opened his eyes and stared daggers through his sunglasses at the driver. “Can you be more specific? What’s he like? Is he eccentric? Flighty? Into weird stuff?”
“He smiles a lot. He pays me on time and my check always clears.” The driver shrugged and flashed another contrite smile.
“Useless,” Aston muttered. “Am I your only passenger today or have you picked up anyone else for Holloway?”
The driver’s face clouded. “I’m to pick you up and take you to Mister Holloway. That is what he asked me to do.” He grimaced. “I can close the partition if you would like some privacy.”
The message couldn’t have been clearer. Stop asking questions.
“Suit yourself.” Immediately a tinted window rose between the driver and Aston. The bloke must have had his finger hovering over the switch.
“Press the Intercom button if you need me,” the driver said through the narrowing gap. “We will be there very soon.”
Aston had no intention of chatting any more. He supposed he shouldn’t fault the man for doing his job, but he wasn’t in the mood for compassion. He opened the tiny mini-fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and downed half of it in a few gulps. His stomach kicked back, but settled quickly. He finished off the bottle and discovered he actually felt a bit better. He grabbed another bottle, took out his iPad, and called up a web browser.
A search for Ellis Holloway turned up the usual results: articles related to Holloway’s business dealings, a couple of interviews, also business-related, a discussion of his interest in exotic animals, and one photo gallery of the man’s New York City apartment. It wasn’t until he reached the ninth page of results that he turned up something interesting.
In an article titled ‘Billionaire Bigfoot Hunter’, a writer for a celebrity gossip website briefly recounted Holloway’s interest in what the article termed ‘unusual creatures’ and hinted at a zeal that bordered on the unhealthy. The article was light on quotes and heavy on innuendo, but cited as a source an Internet forum called ‘Cryptomyth’.
Aston surfed to the site, which was filled with the usual sorts of things that interested conspiracy theorists and their ilk: aliens, ancient mysteries, and legendary monsters. A quick search turned up dozens of hits on Holloway. He only had time to check out a few, but they painted a picture of a true believer who was desperate to prove the existence of creatures like Nessie, Bigfoot, and the Yeti. Rumor had it, in addition to the failed Sasquatch expedition that made the papers when a jeep carrying four crew members went off a cliff somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, Holloway had also mounted failed expeditions to find Atlantis, the Ark of the Covenant, and the remains of Amelia Earhart.
The limo slowed and pulled into the entrance of the Manhattan Hotel, a thirty-plus story steel-and-glass monument to opulence and excess. Aston returned his iPad to its bag and took a long drink of water. What did he care if Holloway were a monster nut? Aston was in this for the money, and the guy clearly had plenty of it.
A burly Latino man with a shaved head, cauliflower ears, and slightly crooked nose, greeted Aston on the curb, his thuggish appearance at odds with his Rolex watch and finely tailored Armani suit. “Mister Aston, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Joaquin, Mister Holloway’s personal assistant. I’ll take your bag and escort you to up the suite.” He accepted Aston’s suitcase from the driver, carrying it as if it were a child’s toy, light and tiny in his massive grip.
“No need to tip your driver,” Joaquin said. “He’s on staff and Mister Holloway takes very good care of those in his employ.” The big man locked eyes with Aston just long enough to imply, ‘And he’ll take good care of you too if you play ball.’
Aston nodded dumbly. He’d had no intention of tipping and had to remind himself of the American obsession with the idea. Good to know he wouldn’t offend anyone if Holloway insisted on everyone avoiding the practice.
Joaquin smiled and nodded to the limo driver before leading the way to the elevator and up to Holloway’s suite on the eleventh floor.
“Bloody hell!” Aston said as he stepped through the door. He thought he knew what a fancy hotel room looked like, but he was wrong.
“They call it the Presidential Suite.” Joaquin closed the door behind them. “It’s far from the largest we’ve ever stayed in, but it’s respectable. Almost two thousand square feet with a dining room, home theater, butler’s pantry, and bedrooms. Not bad for a brief stay.”
“If by ‘not bad’ you mean ‘larger than any place I’ve ever lived’, then I’d say you’re right.”
Joaquin set Aston’s bag by the door. “You’ll be staying on a different floor tonight. I’ll have your things delivered after you meet Mister Holloway.”
Ellis Holloway and two others sat at a large dining room table, enjoying drinks and conversation. Aston recognized him immediately from the photos he’d seen online. The billionaire was a tall, broad-shouldered man with receding brown hair and a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache. Unlike his assistant, he wore a button-down khaki shirt, brown pants, and scuffed lace-up boots. Aston couldn’t help but wonder if a fedora and bullwhip lay somewhere nearby.
“So the shopkeeper points to this big jar on the counter filled with green liquid and what looks like giant toes,” Holloway was saying to the others. “So I say to him, ‘Not a pig’s foot, I’m looking for Bigfoot.’”
The slender, dark-haired woman seated next to Holloway laughed heartily and laid a hand on the billionaire’s arm. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘I heard you, Mister, but this is a store and information ain’t free. Now, are you gonna buy a pig’s foot or am I going to have ask you nicely to leave?’”
Everyone laughed, including Aston and Joaquin. It was then that Holloway noticed them, and he sprang to his feet and hurried over.
“Sam Aston. I’m so glad you’re here. Your reputation precedes you.” He sealed the greeting with a firm handshake. His callused hand and strong grip said he was more than a soft corporate type. “Have a seat,” Holloway urged. “Can we get you anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
The table seated eight, and Aston took the chair farthest from the others.
“Let me introduce you to the team. You’ve met Joaquin. He’s my right-hand man and he’ll be joining us. This,” he pointed to the woman on his left, “is Joanne Slater.”
Slater smiled. “My parents call me Jo, but everyone else sticks with Slater. Dealer’s choice.”
“Works for me.” Aston knew the woman by reputation. She hosted a television program on one of the high-number cable channels. He’d caught some episodes online in the past. Each week, they went off in search of some myth or legend. Not surprisingly, they never found anything, though every so-called ‘clue’ they uncovered was treated like the Holy Grail. Aston figured the only things keeping the show on the air were Slater’s curves, which the producers placed on full display as often as possible. “Is your show covering the expedition?”