"Friend of the Devil, Part 1"

Part 1 of 2
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I sat on the pier and and admired the yachts. Loved the names they gave. Pride of Nantucket. Sally's Revenge. First Million. Aqua Holic.

Hell, they might have been Legos for all I cared. I had a job to do and it was time I got back to it. I stubbed out my cigarrette on the weather-beaten wood planks and slung my notebook case over my shoulder.

Once more into the breach, I thought.

I ducked under the chain leading to the cabin cruiser at the end of the pier, the Sea No Evil. No signs of life evident.

"Anyone home?" I called out. Something shuffled from below decks. Seconds later, a tall, thin man in a white Polo shirt and white shorts, anachronistic pencil-thin mustache and gelled, jet-black hair emerged from below.

"You're here! You're here! Welcome, welcome. Permission to board." I'd been warned about his penchant for saying everything twice.

"Thanks," I grunted and gingerly hopped onto the yacht. I hated boats. I've always hated them. Nothing against the sea or boaters per se, I just prefer to know what's underfoot, that if I stand still, I'll stay still. I just like it that way.

"Grant Schuster," I said, putting out my hand.

"A pleasure, a pleasure, Mr. Schuster," he said. He had a weak grip, but I'd learned a long time ago that judging a man by his grip tells you more about yourself than the other guy. "Your reputation precedes you. One's reputation always does, doesn't it? I've read you for a long time. A long time."

"Call me Grant, Mr. Fastenal. You mind if I record you?" I took out a microphone that was wired to the notebook in its case.

"Not at all. Not at all. And you may call me Bal. Everyone calls me Bal."

"Bal," of course, was short for Ballentyne Preston Fastenal, as he knew I knew. It was a name tailor made for headlines, and the New York Post copy editors were no doubt delighted. His buddies were "Bal's Pals" and his girlfriends were, you might have already guessed, "Bal's Gals." When he briefly dallied and then broke up with the lovely actress Valerie Gusera last month in Los Angeles, the headline writers could barely contain their glee: "BAL DUMPS GAL VAL IN SOCAL!" blared the tabloids in 36 point type. But that's not why I was here.

"OK, this is Grant Schuster, Providence Informer, interview with Ballentyne Preston Fastenal... Bal ... June 17, Newport. Mr. Fastenal."

"Bal, please. Call me Bal."

"Bal. Are you ready to get started?"

"Of course, of course. Once more..."

"...into the breach, yes. Mist-...Bal, you're heir to a vast fortune. You've been a playboy, a philanthropist, a sailor and..."

"...and a bit of writer as well, like you."

"Yes, and a ... writer. I did read your autobiography. Fascinating." It was, of course, self-involved drivel. Did I need to tell you that? "So, what I think our readers want to know is this: With all that you have and all that you've done and all that you are, why did you decide to operate an international criminal cartel?"

"What? What?"
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Check back in the next couple days for Part 2!