Peter Phelps checks his watch for the third time; its 11:15 and he's
getting antsy. Rachel's sister, Tina, is supposed to be at the condo by now:
Tina's spending the weekend-came down all the way from Vancouver Canada to
bask in the sun of the Palm Beaches. Peter's condo is just off of Flagler; he
purchased the condo after several well-placed stock trades. The exact stock
he has a hard time remembering (the actual buying and selling was done by
Dean Stevens, his broker) but he's pretty sure it was Disney stock; he alway
loved that whore of a mouse.
    It's an easy life, living most of the year in the beachfront condo,
lotion-ing Rachel up every weekend and walking along the beach near naked
except for his seal skin speedos. There's always plenty of tanned and
bouncing college girls who come on the weekends to play and perhaps get
picked up by a rich stud. Watching those young, hard bodies was one of the
reasons why Peter bought his condo. That, and the condo has no doors-its all
connected by glass walls.
    Tina won't be able to hide herself from him-not that she would want to,
thinks Peter; he could be across the room and still be watching her. Peter
has it all planned out, even set up hidden cameras in parts of the drop
ceiling and a nook he had especially built above the guest shower. Watching
just Rachel and the college girls was, if never boring, becoming routine,
kind of like having to eat lobster for dinner every night, or wearing polo to
all your racket ball matches.
    Peter knew that when you had as much money as he did: owned a brand new
Lexus, a home in Palm Beach and a retreat in the Ozarks, its easy to get the
women you wanted. Show them the green and they get wet. And it doesn't take
that much green, Peter knows with a smirk on his face; its Peter's conviction
that he could have Tina too, but doing so would mean suicide to his marriage
which, in itself, wasn't terrible, but it meant having to split everything he
owned with Rachel. She'd probably get one of the houses, half of his stocks
and bonds, and maybe even their Bichon Frise, Fluffy. Half of Peter's stuff
gone meant he would be half the man he was; it would mean a loss of power,
like a smaller dick. It was better if he only kept his eye on Tina to see how
receptive she was to his wealth.
    Sitting on his imported couch in the living room, lighted in a somber
ambience, Peter stares out the large bay window of the condo that looks upon
the beach. He imagines what it would be like to have both the sisters in bed
at once. Maybe he'll slip something into their drinks tonight-a little
ecstasy, and see how far they might take his propositions. A woman will do
anything as long as they have enough drugs in their system, or a shiny new
Visa Platinum for their slot. That get's 'em wet, thinks Peter smiling, as he
reaches to the coffee table and sips from his gin and tonic.
    Outside, Peter Phelps sees that there is a storm coming across the beach;
lightning strikes and flashes above the sea that is beginning to rile. When
they first moved into the condo, Rachel had spoken her concerns about the
glass walls and the possibility of hurricanes. Peter had quickly weighed the
threat of a hurricane against the voyeurism the house would allow him-It was
an easy decision.
    Peter sips from the gin and tonic once more as he thinks about all of
Rachel's friends who've slept over and used the guest shower; they were all
on tape-Even the housecleaner, the young Mexican girl, Maria, he'd caught her
doing naughty things when she thought she was the only one in the house.
Peter knew secretly that these women knew what he was doing and that they
liked it; he was rich and powerful, and they must have felt like beauty
queens that he was interested in them.
    Those materialistic whores.
    As Peter sat and sipped on his gin, the palm fronds outside began to
knock and rattle against the glass as the frontal winds blew against the
beach, kicking it up in a small sandstorm. The condo's icy, glass guts shook
in a small tremor. Outside, Peter watched as the beach goers were herded off
the beach like frightened cattle. He watched from his large glass window as
the storm built in a circular shifting mass of black thunderheads above the
sea.
    He checked his watch again; 11:30. Rachel would be back from the airport
with Tina soon. It was time to go check his traps.
 

This short piece was written in the tradition of the South Florida Crime
fiction begun in the 1950s by John D. MacDonald. Here's a list of websites
you can visit if you are interested in the genre:

John D. MacDonald
www.floridaauthors.com/authors/John_D_MacDonald
www.stopyourekillingme.com/John-D-MacDonald.html
www-personal.umich.edu/~jlvoris/slipf18.html
www.kruse.demon.co.uk/johnd.html
www.omega23.com/books/lit/myst_macdonald.html
Randy Wayne White
http://rwwhite.com
Elmore Leonard
www.randomhouse.com/features/elmoreleonard
www.drjohnholleman.com/win/elmore.html