There were no buses in sight and no hangers on waiting as I neared the tiny terminal’s entrance. The sign on the door said ‘Closed for Lunch.’
I wouldn’t have to decide whether or not to ride the magic bus to East Bay freedom for another little while. In the meantime, I wasn’t about to squat in front of the terminal like a homeless mope, letting traffic goggle at me as they drove past.
The next block over toward the waterfront, the bulk of the Andersen Club towered over Old Town’s shorter interposing commercial structures. The Club, originally a mansion built by one of Stagger Bay’s nouveau riche founding robber barons to show off his wealth, had transformed long ago into a men’s club for the local wheels.
I ambled that way for a closer look, remembering all the local bigwigs were members of the Club: real estate developers and out-of-town wealth, local businessmen and politicians of all stripes.
‘Cui Bono?’ Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla always asked when the Romans investigated an affront against the establishment: ‘Who benefits?’
Looking at the Club, I realized all its members stood to profit from the current goings on in Stagger Bay.