Whitey and his wife cabined the QE 2, and sailed the world. It was all good stuff until they hit Sri Lanka. Mrs. Whitey fell ill, and passed. Whitey went looney tunes and hit up the Jack Daniel's, hard. He'd heard about Shorty, and bolted the cruise at Jamaica.
By then, he was a full-blown, juice head drunk.
He found a cheap room over a gin mill. One night, he stumbled out of a bar, and fell down in a Kingston alley. The local cops found him dead the next morning. They also found a heavy stash over the pub. Hours before the Hoovers showed up, working a tip.
Bones hoped if the cancer came back, he wouldn’t use the half of lung to pouch it. If he did, he’d ride it out, like a bad stretch. Then, he shook off the nonsense. Eddie Bones, survivor.
Back in the tropical spread. What a place, too. Perched on a cliff, eyeballing sunrise from his front balcony, and sunsets out the back. Enough loot for the local cops to keep his bungalow off the map. Too old, and paranoid to take chances. No more vamping the cruise lines. His luck, a huckster pounding a badge retirement could spot him, and dial in the suits. All tail, and plenty of it, mailed in.
The next island, a puddle jump, housed a big time hospital.
No more birds to nonstop New York. The next time they had the Bones surrounded, it would be a wall of crime angels. Lighting candles, chanting a religion.