The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  The barkeep placed our drinks and removed a resting twenty from the bar top.

  “And maybe seeking is a hindrance. An unwise active effort while the universe demands languid randomness. I don’t know.”

  The three men headed our direction. Bo sipped his drink, smacked, assessed. The barkeep held a finger pressed against the mechanical till’s entry button, watching. Bo looked up and nodded approval. The till rang.

  “We heard you boys like pink drinks,” one of the men said. The three crowded around our corner spot at the bar, our backs near the wall.

  “Pink and frothy,” I said. “But right now we’ll settle for semi-red and bubbly.”

  Bo raised his drink and shined a benign smile. “Why don’t you fine gentlemen join us?” he asked.

  The three looked to intimidate. Perhaps deliver us a thumping. Man, were they barking up the wrong tree.

  “We don’t drink pink. And pretty sure we don’t appreciate people who do.”

  “Spice of life, bud. Maybe you should try it,” I said.

  “Maybe you should get the hell out of here,” another said.

  “Wait!” Bo said. “Wait. We require music.”

  He scooted between two of the men, headed for the jukebox. They watched him leave our little crowd and turned toward me. Tightened their circle. Bullies. Man, I hated bullies. And they forgot about Bo. Big mistake.

  A coin dropped, a button pushed. Patsy Cline’s rendition of Crazy started. Mercy, she could sing that song.

  “Where you ladies from?” another asked, delivered with a drunken snarl.

  “From a place where dreams die and nightmares hold court.” I raised the Grey Goose as a salute.

  Bo did his stealth approach thing. He appeared between the two on my right, at their backs. A slide—rapid and smooth, silk-like. Each of his hands found purchase along jawlines. The head holds numerous pressure points. Painful points. Know the right ones through training and practice and an immobilizing force can be applied.

  The effect was immediate. Both of Bo’s new acquaintances froze, eyes popping wide. Harsh breaths through nostrils. They stood stock-still, frozen. Bo sang along with Patsy. First toward the man within his left grip. He rested his chin on the larger man’s shoulder. Crooned a line or two. Then the right-side guy, who balanced on tip-toes as Bo increased the pressure. Bo sang into his ear.

  I addressed the third member of their party. “Now, you may note my compadre and his strange ways.” The guy stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at his two friends, paralyzed, eyes panicked. I continued.

  “There are those who’d say he’s, well, not quite right.”

  “No shit,” the man said. He turned toward me, dumbstruck and confused and unsure of next steps.

  Bo added a gentle sway as he sang. And ensured his two victims joined the motion.

  “So it’s probably best if you listen up and pay close attention to me.”

  The guy shot another glance at the little vignette as Bo sang and the three moved back and forth. Bo’s bookends maintained a zombie-like countenance. My guy returned focus to me and nodded an affirmative.

  “Between the two of us, he’s the nice one. Sabe?”

  He took another glance as his buddies. One of their right arms twitched at his side.

  “Yeah. Sabe. Let’s shut this whole thing down. We’re outta here.”

  “No, I don’t think so. You and your two friends will join us for a drink. A semi-red and bubbly drink. Right?”

  “I suppose.” The guy stood beyond confused and shook his head. Drunken wheels turned and grasped at familiar firmament.

  “Bo, these fine gentlemen will join us for a drink.”

  He stopped his song and dance, and released his grip. “Bully! Say, you fellas ever read Thomas Hobbes?”

  The two men rubbed jaws and worked their necks while maintaining a wide-eyed view of their immediate environment. One rubbed his arm. The barkeep wandered over, unsure himself of what he’d witnessed.

  “Sir, we’ll require five more of those drinks,” I said. “We’ve made new friends.”

  The barkeep locked eyes with the men, regular customers, and sought confirmation. They responded with short contrite nods. The three stared at us with the greatest of wariness.

  “That’s one sure-fire way to sober up,” one said, working his jaw. “Man, oh man.”

  “We were speaking of partners, gentlemen,” I said and downed the remnants of my Grey Goose. “Life partners. You fellas know anything along those lines?”

  “A challenging question,” Bo said. He slid past his two dance partners and occupied the barstool again, facing outward. “It could be unknowable. So let’s work with the feel and texture of harmonic joining.”

  “It ain’t hard.”

  It came as a surprise from the man who’d missed the dance call. “Treat her like you’d wanna be treated.” He shifted focus toward Bo. “And that’s one hell of a technique. It frazzles a man. No thank you.”

  One of the victims nodded and worked his jaw again. “You some kind of ninja cage fighter or something?”

  Bo presented an angelic appearance. “Heavy on the something,” I said.

  The barkeep arrayed five glasses along the bar, each with a few ice cubes. A presentation passed as formal along the Ditch as he poured the Campari and added club soda.

  “A sound philosophy,” Bo said, lips pursed as he addressed the man who’d offered his partner perspective. “Golden rule sound. But let’s discuss the precursor. The connection. The match-up.”

  “You mean finding the right woman?” one of them asked.

  “Again, let’s minimize strictures on the action. Find, maybe. Bump into. Perhaps collide.”

  Bo, with great ceremony, offered each of the men a fresh semi-red bubbling drink. They accepted. And sipped and grimaced while they alternated glances between each other and the two of us.

  “So what I’m hearin’ you say is it’s best to rely on pure chance. You ain’t gonna work at it.” The first-time speaker sipped his drink again. “And no offense, mister. None.” He nodded my way. “But this tastes like mule piss.”

  “An ancient aphrodisiac,” Bo said. “Or not. I always get confused about those.”

  “A man’s gotta work at it,” another said. “Gotta work at finding the right woman. And I’d rather drink mule piss. No offense again.” He stared at the floor and shuffled his feet.

  I sipped mine. They had a point.

  “What if a man simply accepts,” Bo said, arms stretched wide. “Receives.”

  “Well and good, fella. But if you don’t mind me saying, a man’s gotta try. Make an attempt.” He checked our reaction, ensured we weren’t offended. “I’m here to tell you, the whole collision thing works best with two moving bodies.”

  “Nice. A nice insight,” Bo said. “Moving bodies. A collision. A soul mate, wise and understanding and true.”

  The three looked among themselves. One shrugged, sniffed the glass of Campari, and said, “Sure, fella. Sure. Not about to argue with you.” He locked eyes with me. “We good now?”

  “We will be when you finish those drinks,” I said. Perhaps overkill with the press-the-point-home part. But still. They’d approached as large bullies, bent on intimidation.

  The three contemplated their drinks. Each glanced my way, a hard stare returned. They choked them down and set the glasses on the bar.

  “We gotta go.” He grimaced and straightened his well-worn Tar Heels ball cap. “This beats all. You fellas will be remembered.”

  “Au revoir, my dear friends,” Bo said. “Bonne soirée.”

  “Yeah. I guess. See you fellas around.”

  They slid out the screen door. Two looked back and shook their heads. The barkeep wandered over. I paid for the round of drinks.

  “You think those might become popular?” he asked. “Should I buy another bottle of the stuff?”

  “I wouldn’t. What you’ve got left should cover the next ten years. Let’s scoo
t, Bo.”

  We did. Our thin plan included spending the night at this burg’s small dock. I had an urge—after our little Campari party—to move down the line. Engine fired, I kept the Ace at a sedate five knots, the Ditch dark and quiet.

  “It may be a matter of exposure.” I spoke through the wheelhouse’s open window. Bo sat sideways on the hammock and pushed off the deck and swung. “Meet and greet and mingle.”

  “Thin gruel.”

  “Yeah. But it could beat flinging cosmic thoughts about.”

  “Love. Love deep and abiding. You had it with Rae.”

  The Ditch widened and a small bay appeared on the left. I steered us into it. The more open area afforded the light breeze room to work, keeping the mosquitoes at bay. I killed the engine, moved past Bo, and dropped the bow anchor.

  “And there lies my one big question.” The anchor eased down and bit mud. The breeze tugged the Ace against it. “What if we each get one shot, one chance, and Rae was mine.”

  No house or town lights visible, the Milky Way paint-brushed overhead. A loon called. Bo arranged his mosquito net.

  “Doesn’t work that way, my brother. The universe doesn’t say one go at it then you’re through. Nope.” He settled for the night. One of the hammock’s ropes called a gentle squeak as it swayed. “I’ll fire thoughts for you and me. Good thoughts, solid and accepting.”

  “You do it, Bo.” I padded downstairs, closed the hatch, and settled for the night. Tried closing the door on thoughts of Rae Ellen Bonham. And failed, miserable and yearning.

  Chapter 18

  Money and Bo’s gut feel and an irritating burr about unfinished business drove the decision. Jordan Pettis. The text messages from him stopped. Which coincided with a first-ever delay in acknowledgement and payment from Global Resolutions. A pre-dawn email check confirmed my suspected background activities.

  Job well done. Payment made. The client desires an extension with an additional deliverable.

  Sent from my Swiss client, with a payment for the initial contract and a scope outline for the contract extension. Jordan Pettis held nothing back. A ride on his personal jet, plus return trip. St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. I name the pick-up and return point. The contract extension’s scope—meet and talk. Period. He’d work me when I got there, try and play me. Jack Tilly, active muscle for the rich venture capitalist. That wasn’t happening. But the money. Oh man. Pettis ponied up, big time. And the allure for a quick trip bucket-full of benjamins shined bright. I was only human after all. So I kept the Jack Tilly of Omaha electronic phone exchange active.

  Underway, we approached the Nueces River, the town of New Bern, NC upstream. Bo stood on the top rail at the bow, knees bent, sipping coffee. The Ace rolled with the gentle waves and Bo trained his sea legs.

  “Pretty amazing,” I called from the wheelhouse, laptop open.

  “My mad balancing skills or your coffee? If you meant the latter, we shall debate.”

  “Pettis. Throwing big money at me for a St. Thomas trip. Have a talk. Then return.”

  Bo remained silent, finished his cup, and spun a leap onto the deck.

  “A strange signal,” he said and plopped into his hammock, facing the wheelhouse. “St. Thomas. Virgin Islands?”

  “Yep. Hand-holding with the rich and famous. And he’ll try and enlist me as a card-carrying member of the Jordan Pettis protection league.”

  “Still, an action. Movement and vibrations.”

  “You want to go?”

  An earnest question. A piece of me lacked closure. Other jobs ended with definitives. Here’s the deal, client. Not always a neat bow, but details and confirmed paths. The “who done it” answered. But maybe I required a personal expectations reset. These sleuthing jobs might often end this way. Still, the Caribbean job left a small itch, and I scratched.

  “Allow me a minute or three,” Bo said. “This requires thought.”

  While Bo cogitated, I sent Global Resolutions a reply with a few contractual scope definitions. One meeting. Period. A two hour limit. A fifty percent price increase. I’d travel with a partner. And, as always, all expenses covered. I dived the deep web and shot it off.

  “I asked for a fifty percent increase. That’s your money.”

  He wafted a dismissive hand. None of our Delta brothers—myself, Catch, Marcus—knew how Bo supported himself. But he never lacked funds and never mentioned it. Cosmic bucks, I supposed.

  “The timing. I struggle with the timing,” Bo said.

  “No mystery. His ass is in danger.”

  “Not Pettis. Why would we flounce over to St. Thomas? Now? What message am I missing? That’s the mystery.”

  “Okay, bud.” I couldn’t help but grin.

  Frantic bait fish skimmed the surface as predator fish worked underneath. The risen sun backlit the barrier islands, the towns of Ocracoke and Hatteras far distant. The response came within ten minutes. Client agrees with scope and price. Pettis sweated his expensive britches off in St. Thomas and wanted me there pronto. Protection for hire.

  “Hell, let’s go,” I said. “We’ll park the Ace in New Bern. An hour away. Have the jet pick us up in Raleigh.”

  A prompt, a decision, based on closure and money. I could live with that. Bo sealed the deal.

  “Yes. Motion. Let the universe drive. Kinetic energy. Move.” He leapt from the hammock and yelled a Tarzan yell. “Done and done. Who will turn my ears? The drying process is critical.”

  I called Mom and let her know an ETA at Charleston. I figured two days in St. Thomas plus three days Ditch travel to Charleston.

  “Well and good, my son,” she said. “As always we look forward to it.”

  “How’s CC and Tinker Juarez?”

  My mentally challenged sister and the family dog. CC anchored me. Provided wonderment I—and most everyone else—wandered past.

  “Fine and happy. CC gave Tinker his spring clip. It’s turning warm.”

  It was turning hot. Charleston, old and sultry, steamed during summer.

  “How’s Mary Lola Wilson’s beau?”

  Mom had taken back her maiden name after cancer took dad. Along with the move from Savannah to Charleston it added a layer of protection for her and CC against people who sought leverage. Leverage against me. Bounty hunters.

  Mom started dating a nice man, Peter Brooks, retired insurance agent. A good man who encouraged me to try the insurance business. I wouldn’t be comparing Jack Tilly notes with him.

  “He’s fine.” She slurped coffee and loaded Mom advice. “We’ll have a nice supper when you arrive. And I’ve made a decision.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I’m going to cease and desist the matchmaker role.”

  Mom arranged dates for me at every visit. Nice ladies but, to Mary Lola’s chagrin, we never clicked.

  “Okay.”

  Another slurp. “I’ve prayed over it. And decided it will happen when it happens.”

  “A sound approach.”

  “Which doesn’t let you off the hook regarding effort. You must make an effort, son of mine.”

  “Bo and I hold similar discussions.”

  “Is that wild creature with you? Put him on the line.”

  She slurped coffee again and loaded a Bo barrage. She’d met Bo once and worked hard with him. At the end they arrived at a mutual concurrence. With regard toward marital potential, he was a mess.

  Bo took the phone and wandered toward the bow. Their discussion lasted over ten minutes. I headed up the Neuse River toward New Bern—a regular stop with a dock owner who would water my tomatoes. I’d decline mentioning the proper management of battle-removed ears.

  Bo handed the phone back and strolled away, lips pursed after tossing, “She is wise,” over his shoulder.

  “Bo needs help,” Mom said.

  “Yeah. One of those momentary life spin cycles.”

  “Don’t brush this off, Case Lee. You’re no master of interpersonal relationships.”

  “Bit
harsh,” I said and grinned. Mom was in high gear.

  “Bit true. Don’t fill his head with your version of an appropriate life path. The poor thing requires better than that. He and I need a sit-down.”

  “No argument here.”

  “Good. We’ll see you both a few days from now. With bells on. And be careful, oldest child. I worry. And I love you. And can’t wait to see you.”

  “Love you too.” The best mom in the world, bar none.

  Three and a half hours later we boarded a Gulfstream at Raleigh-Durham airport. We each carried a rucksack and small duffel bag. The first carried personal necessities. The duffel bags—qualified as a tourist over-the-shoulder tote—carried armament. HK416 assault rifles with eleven inch barrels, no suppressors. Big bang. Extra ammo magazines. And Glock .40 pistols. Again, big bang, although I packed pistol suppressors in case the situation called for it. I had little expectation of pulling either weapon, but someone likely wanted Pettis dead. We could find ourselves between him and the hitter. The duffel bags ensured the hitter lost.

  Such thoughts prompted a Clubhouse message. A recent added twist with my Jules relationship. I now considered the odds of death during a job. And the party who would let Mom know. Low odds for this job, but headed for New Guinea with the last engagement Jules appeared the prominent choice. Her spider web tendrils stretched across the globe and little escaped her. Should my demise take place, I could count on her to deliver Mom the message. And, maybe, solace. A sea change for my relationship with the Clubhouse, but Jules claimed I held a special place. Bo contended she held love in her heart for me. Maybe. And I owed her news about the trailing hostile contingent that started at her place of business. She’d want to know and to deal with it. I sent her a message.

  We were followed from your locale. Four. Serious business. Off for St. Thomas. Both of us.

  She’d understand and tune her radar my direction. As well as backtrack the killers who’d come after us. The Clubhouse wouldn’t tolerate such behavior, and woe be the recipient of her ire.

  She responded quick. Too quick. Very much unlike her.

  Forces converge. Be aware.