The Dancing Life

Chapter One

The Binge

It never should have come to this. Like all my peers, I checked all the boxes and did everything they asked. I excelled in high school and stayed out of trouble. Sure, I had a few minor transgressions…but nothing that would result in a blemish on otherwise stellar college applications. I was too focused on my long-term goals to let something dumb derail me.

My grades, honor societies, and activities were good enough to get me into my choice of Ivy League schools. I chose Princeton, double-majored in finance and political science, and graduated summa cum laude. I ranked third in my class, losing to an Asian kid who always had his face in a book, and a mousy virgin named Adele. At least we all assumed she was a virgin.

When I received my degrees, the doors opened. I had the world in the palm of my hand. I landed a good career, a fat bank account, an expensive Manhattan apartment, and a blazing hot wife for what good that did me. I’m where I am despite all of that. God has a sadistic sense of humor.

Taking a pass on this remaining trip down memory lane, I force myself to roll out of bed and climb the short flight of stairs topside. The sun is evenly split between the sky and the horizon. I don’t know if it’s morning or evening, and it takes a moment to get my bearings and figure out which direction I’m staring at. It’s west. I slept the day away again.

I’m what the locals in the Conch Republic call a “liveaboard.” Many people who call Key West home drifted into town and took up residence on motor, sail, or houseboats. It’s a liberating and romantic existence, but not without annoying inconveniences. Some liveaboards can motor and sail around the keys at their leisure, while countless others are chained to shore on a broken vessel that only serves as floating quarters.

This magnificent thirty-foot sailboat I rented is in far better condition than most boats in this marina. It has all the conveniences, including a full galley, running water, and an adequate bathroom. Despite the amenities, I only sleep and shower here. Sometimes, I don’t bother with the latter, like now. I need a drink.

I stumble off the ship, still wearing the clothes I donned last night. And probably the night before. I’ve lost track. I’m not here to impress anyone. This isn’t about needing a short break from life – it’s about drinking myself into oblivion and forgetting everything. If I die in the process, so be it.

The pylon on the edge of a pier makes a perfect spot to rest and steady myself. I’m fit, but all the alcohol I’ve imbibed is taking its toll. A hundred yards to go. I push off, forcing one foot in front of the other as I keep my sights on The Drunken Lobster.

It’s not dissimilar to many of the bars in Key West. It’s nautical-themed, with everything from fishing tackle and nets to life-sized plastic fish on the walls. Most of the décor is ad-hoc. The walls are plastered with license plates, old currency from countless countries, business cards, and ladies’ undergarments. Every inch of the joint is covered, most in multiple layers. A fire would race through this place with all the combustible material on the walls and ceiling. At least it saves on the cost of paint.

The sun is almost down, meaning the island’s nightlife is about to heat up. The Drunken Lobster is just getting going. In another hour, every seat will be filled. In two, it will be standing-room only, filled with tourists in loud shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. Key West embraces the island life. Probably too much.

I stumble through the large opening that serves as a door and ease onto a barstool. The bartender notices me and excuses himself from his conversation with a group of tourists at the other end of the bar. He walks over with a grin on his face.

“Hey, Steve,” I say, rubbing my temples.

“Braden Fox…you’re still alive,” the bartender muses, flinging the white bar towel over his shoulder.

“Despite my best efforts to be otherwise. I’ll have a bourbon, rocks.”

The corner of the man’s mouth curls. My mind is swimming, and my judgment is questionable, but I would swear that he looks amused.

“Sure. How do you plan on paying?”

“Debit card,” I say, feeling my pockets for my wallet.

I check the back of my pants and then the front. My keys and passport are there, but no wallet. Certainly, no prepaid cards or cash. I hang my head, realizing it must have fallen out somewhere on the boat. It’s not a far walk to the other side of the marina. Unfortunately, in my condition, I might as well be running the New York Marathon.

Steve reaches under the counter and pulls out a worn black wallet. He holds it up in front of me like it’s an artifact from an Indiana Jones movie before tossing it unceremoniously onto the bar.

“You left this here last night.”

I stare at the wallet. “How much money did you take out of it?”

“You don’t think much of me,” Steve says, pulling the towel off his shoulder and wiping down the bar. “Why would I need to take any? You spend it all here anyway. Besides, there’s no cash in it.”

I can’t argue with either of those points. Key West has a ton of bars and restaurants. It offers museums, boating trips, beaches, and a golf course. Not that I would know. This is the only place I’ve come since I got here.

“True enough. How ’bout you get me my bourbon?”

“Why don’t you start with somethin’ your kidneys don’t need to filter. They could use the break. When was the last time you even ate?”

“Good question,” I say, rubbing the five-day-old stubble on my chin. “What day is it?”

Steve scoffs as he starts wiping the bar again with his towel. “You have Keys Disease, my friend. I’ve seen you walk back and forth from your boat on the hook at the other end of the marina. Why don’t you call it a night, detox a little, and visit a beach tomorrow? You look pasty.”

The locals use “Keys Disease” as either a positive or a negative. Charitable usage of the term is where someone simplifies life to enjoy each day to its fullest. They shed material possessions, live for the moment, and earn a meager living compatible with their beliefs.

Steve didn’t mean it that way. He used it to imply I can’t resist the temptations of living in a vacation mecca. I’m partying too hard, getting burned out, and will end up homeless and destitute. He’s not wrong. That’s how I plan on ending up before I permanently say goodbye to this dysfunctional society.

“Why don’t you stop acting like my mother and get me the drink that I asked for?” I bark loudly enough to cause some of the other patrons to turn their heads.

I pull the prepaid debit card out of my wallet and slap it loudly on the bar. The outburst has the desired effect. Steve looks at the gawking Parrotheads and frowns before shaking his head and complying with the request. He sets the bourbon down, and I down it in just a few gulps. I shake it, indicating I want another.

The wallet holds more than my money and identification. I flip it open and pull out a battered photo, not fighting the hurt it conjures. She is so beautiful. So intelligent. So perfect. Except in the ways she isn’t.

I remember this day like it happened last week. We were in Central Park. She asked seven different people to take this picture, not settling until one captured the perfect shot. Kinsey’s arms were wrapped around my chest while she rested her chin on my shoulder. Her sundress flowed in the light breeze, and her auburn hair caught the sun’s rays like it was photoshopped. It was magical. She was magical. And now it’s all gone.

All I want to do now is drink because drinking makes me forget. Life is fragile. Happiness is fleeting. Success is a mirage. Forgetting is what I need most, and after a few more of these, that’s exactly what will happen. Binge drinking is good for that.

Chapter Two

Missing Persons

So far as views of the city go, this one isn’t so bad. No, it doesn’t offer a sweeping panorama of the Lower Manhattan skyline or a picturesque perspective of the Statue of Liberty. But there is a terrace here on the 24th Floor that runs the length of his office that his employees can step out on when they need a break or want to admire a nice view of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Not that Arden Davenport cares. He didn’t lease this office for the scenery.

New York City became an important center of commerce at the end of the 19th century. During that era, most businesses were housed on Manhattan’s southern tip. The banking and investment industry was dubbed “Wall Street” because it was and still is concentrated there.

Advertising agencies flocked to Midtown and set up shop on Madison Avenue. At the height of its influence, more than one in three agencies had this street address. That has changed in the decades since, with countless firms moving to other parts of the island and across the East River into Brooklyn. The hipster borough offers cheaper rents and access to a burgeoning tech sector popping up there.

None of that matters to Arden, either. He isn’t the founding member of an advertising agency, even though marketing a product is a significant part of the job. Only his product is politicians, and he needs to earn a fifty point one percent market share for each to declare victory.

There are many myths in politics. One of the most egregious is that Internet-driven, small-dollar contributions matter to campaigns. They don’t. It might make a quaint talking point or serve as something a candidate can point to when wooing voters, but from a financial perspective, it’s insignificant.

The real power lies in the Super PAC. The Internet may have fueled Obama in 2008, but that was an eternity ago in the political world. Big contributions are the lifeblood of American politics, and political action committees are the way to circumvent campaign finance laws and feed the insatiable thirst for advertising dollars.

Super PACs can receive unlimited contributions from individuals, corporations, labor unions, and other political action committees. Then, they can spend them to support campaigns in any manner deemed appropriate. That makes men like Arden a kingmaker. He can bolster everything from television advertising to grassroots get-out-the-vote efforts. The candidates he chooses enthusiastically share his vision for America, and there is power in that.

To exercise that power, Arden single-handedly formed the American Outreach PAC. His parents were absentee landlords, and everything he learned about the world was despite them, not because of them. What they did provide was a fat bank account. That seed money led to endeavors that created wealth on an unimaginable scale that served to fund many of the PACs under this umbrella. He is a bank, and the politicians who come for withdrawals are as good as bought and paid for.

Not that he could do it alone. Arden surrounds himself with special advisors who help select the candidates and set the narrative. Most of them were plucked from America’s top universities and had advanced degrees ranging from finance to political science to psychology. They are wizards at what they do, and the rewards for success are gargantuan.

So is the risk. Politics is a dirty business, and it’s dirty work getting a candidate elected. American Outreach doesn’t pay for the long hours and effort that entails. It pays for loyalty. That is the currency of this realm, and now one of Arden’s best and brightest is missing.

The knock on the door interrupts his train of thought. Arden watches two of his superstars enter his office, forcing him to draw one more breath of outside air before retreating from the balcony into his large corner workspace. Travis and Ilana wait patiently for their boss to acknowledge them.

Travis Breckinridge is one of his best hires. Brought into American Outreach simultaneously with Braden, he is a first-rate geopolitical strategist. A product of Harvard, he’s as sharp as they come.

Ilana Horowitz is unique because she spent a decade in the workforce before joining the ranks. Arden rescued her from a meaningless government job and gave her full responsibility over a billion-dollar campaign coffer. She is a numbers wizard specializing in forensic accounting who didn’t graduate from an Ivy League school. That doesn’t mean she isn’t talented as hell.

“If you two are standing in my office, it’s because you found Braden. Where is he?”

“Key West.”

Arden scowls and turns to stare at Travis. “You two are friends. Why is Braden in Florida when he should be working at his desk?”

“I don’t know, sir. He didn’t say anything to me.”

“Braden made a significant withdrawal from his personal account and hopped on a flight out of LaGuardia,” Ilana says, having likely checked financial records and had their Russian investigation team track down the lead. “He rented a car at Miami International Airport upon his arrival. From there, he disappeared until yesterday when a paper trail emerged from a boat rental company in the Key West Bight Marina. That’s where we think he’s staying.”

“How much did he take out of the account?”

“One hundred thousand. Braden hasn’t used his card since,” Ilana informs them. “We’re watching it.”

Arden raises an eyebrow. “That’s one hell of a vacation slush fund, so let’s assume he isn’t craving key lime pie. Why is he there without his wife?”

“She could be joining him later,” Ilana posits.

“I would know if she was. Instead, Braden’s been gone for five days without a phone call to home or the office. He vanished like a fart in the wind. Is it possible that he was lured there by another outfit?”

“I don’t see how,” Travis answers quickly. “He’s loyal. He would never leave us.”

“What about the government?” Arden asks, putting his hands behind his back.

“I would be more concerned if he was in D.C. The feds aren’t meeting him in a drinking town in the Florida Keys.”

“All right, forget it. Whatever the reason, Braden went rogue. I don’t care why. Find out if he has any information with him that can damage us. He holds a senior position here and has his fingerprints on dozens of candidates. As my senior counsel, he knows our tactics because he invented most of them. He knows where all the bodies are buried. I need to know whether he plans on using that information.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilana says, and Travis nods before they march to the office door. “The two of you are being paid very well. I don’t want excuses. I want results. Don’t fail me.”

Ilana slips out of the office, but Travis stops with his hand grasping the door’s leading edge. He hangs his head before Arden realizes his other protégé hasn’t left yet.

“Something bothering you, Travis?”

“Sir, even if we find out why Braden left, it doesn’t solve the problem. He’s still gone.”

“Let me deal with that.”

Travis nods awkwardly and leaves the office. Arden waits for the door to close before he pulls the receiver off its cradle. He punches a button, holding the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?” a deep Russian voice answers on the other end. That’s all the greeting the powerful man is going to get. It’s also all that he expects. The man running this particular organization doesn’t engage in small talk or unnecessary pleasantries.

“Where’s Braus working at the moment?”

“Atlanta.”

“Good. Get him on a plane to Miami and tell him to rent a car. “I’ll double your usual fee and have instructions for him by the time he touches down. I need him in Key West first thing tomorrow morning.”