( 2011) Cry For Justice

by Ralph Zeta

  I parked the Jeep and went in, and the friendly hostess led me to a table with a nice view of the water. Just as I was about to be seated I heard a familiar voice call my name. I ambled over to the table of an old acquaintance, James Burke, and shook hands. James was a “conky Joe,” a descendant from the Loyalists who fled the American colonies just after the Revolutionary War and settled in the Abaco Islands.

  James cheerily informed me that he had just finished lunch with some clients and had stayed behind to have one last martini for the road. He required a cocktail or two to insulate himself from some of his more demanding clients. As the president and chief operating officer of the mega-yacht charter company he co-owned, he was always wining and dining wealthy clients and their overbearing friends, submitting to their wishes, always supremely aware that his business and personal fortunes rested with an acute awareness of the client’s need for recognition. People who could afford to spend upward of twenty thousand dollars a day to charter a crewed hundred-plus foot yacht were entitled to a bit of attitude. And James was good at it, right down to the just-so flair and accent of a Loyalist descendant an accent further refined by years spent attending some of the best schools in England. No one really knew James’s age “Information withheld by royal decree, need-to-know only,” was his standard reply. Rumor had it that he had more than once hosted British royals as guests on one of his yachts.

  James was maybe five-eight and a bit overweight, though still in fairly good shape for the compulsive workaholic that he was. He had patrician good looks, blondish-red hair worn a bit long in back, a ruddy, freckled complexion, and expressive blue eyes above a bulbous nose that had seen rather more sun and rum than it needed. He apologized for not having attended my father’s funeral, but he had been laid up recovering from appendicitis. No, he hadn’t seen the Stella Maris. Damn.

  I sat down.

  “But why the interest, if I may inquire?” James asked, his canny eyes probing mine.

  “Long story, my friend.” I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Best left for another day, when we have more time. Suffice it to say the craft belongs to a client and is part of, shall we say, an estate currently in dispute.”

  “Ah-h,” he replied. “One of those ‘disputes.’” He did the quotation marks with his fingers. “Sizable estate, is it?”

  I nodded. The din of the restaurant had jumped up a notch, and we both looked up to see a large, well-heeled party being led to a long table near the water. Gents in fine linen slacks and tropic-weight sport coats; attractive women in large colorful hats and tasteful sundresses.

  “Makes you feel right at home, doesn’t it?” he said, giving the group a cordial nod and taking a sip from his martini. “The purview of the smartly dressed predator, isn’t it?” he added by way of returning to our conversation.

  “It’s a living,” I replied.

  By “predators,” he meant lawyers, of course. Divorce lawyers, to be precise. “Shark-suited shysters” was another of his favorite terms of endearment. According to James, the legal profession was made up of bottom feeders unscrupulous men and women who profited from the misfortunes and misdeeds of others. As far as he was concerned, lawyers were a necessary malady of capitalism and, like a vicious guard dog, should always be kept outside, preferably chained, and never allowed too near the good people. At least in this particular case, he was wrong: there would be nothing lawyerly about my involvement. This was me, Jason Justice, Army of One, attempting to do some good, righting a wrong.

  “Quite,” James replied. He glanced at his watch, a Patek-Philippe that properly belonged in a museum. “I apologize, Jason, but I must run. More clients arriving shortly. You know how it is: money talks, bullshit smells to high heaven, and all that. But not to worry, lad: I’ll ask around about your missing motorsailer. Call my office. You still remember the number, don’t you? Talk to Iris, my assistant. Leave her with a number where I can reach you.” He offered one of his business cards, just in case my memory was not up to snuff, he said. I took it and agreed to call, shook his meaty paw, and thanked him. We agreed that on my next visit to Nassau we must schedule supper together, maybe even squeeze in a bit of fishing and a bottle or two of his favorite sipping rum his words.

  I finished my crab cake and salad and was soon in the parking lot, gravel crunching noisily under my sneakers, as I strode with renewed determination toward my rented Jeep. It was just after two thirty in the afternoon. The sun was high in the cloudless sky now, savagely bright and hot, which explained why the parking lot was less than half full. Although the uninitiated couldn’t really tell, this time of the year is known as the “low season” in these islands simply too damned hot and damp for tender Yankee northerners accustomed to much milder weather. They tended to wait until there was snow on the ground back home, and daytime temperatures here had settled down to a more bearable seventy-five degrees, before flocking in mass to these shores. This time of the year, Nassau was relatively uncrowded, the airport almost devoid of the usual hordes of sunburned travelers in bright clothes. In my opinion, this fact alone made it the perfect time of year to visit.

  Spend any time at all in these islands, and they inject a casual familiarity into your subconscious: the briny aromas, the tang of tropical fruits and flowers, the sweet breath of moist heat that greets you as soon as you walk out of the airplane. Even in the shade-less heat of mid-day, the tropical sun was undeniable, and so vital, that memoires of cold harsh winters back home were soon forgotten for the vast majority of winter-weary visitors.

  I climbed in my Jeep and flicked the air conditioner on high. Mercifully, the seats were made of an ugly plaid cloth that absorbed far less of the sun’s vicious heat than did those plastic and pleather coverings that could raise a blister on unprotected skin. I left the restaurant and was soon traveling over the Paradise Bridge, headed back toward the main island of New Providence. My plan was simple: visit the remaining marinas and, if I couldn’t get a bead on the Stella Maris, drive along West Bay Street another narrow two-lane road that snaked its way across the northwestern portion of the island and continue on to Southwest Road. From there I would proceed south and east on Carmichael Road, which transected the island, searching as many private docks and anchorages as possible.

  In the low season, there were few cars on the narrow roads that crisscrossed the island, which actually made for a pleasant drive. I had whizzed past numerous homes, both large and small, from palatial estates overlooking pristine coastlines and secluded coves to humble lean-tos with corrugated-metal roofs, and the hand-painted signs of convenience stores, gas stations, and roadside stands offering local beer, fresh local fruits or cracked conch, Bahamian style. I had spent another two and a half hours driving from the west end to the eastern shore, and my luck had not changed much. A worker at a fuel pump in one of the marinas remembered seeing a boat fitting the Stella Maris’s description but wasn’t too clear on when he saw it or where. “Somewhere ’round, mon,” was all he had said. I believed him.

  At any given time, there were simply too many boats cruising through these waters for one casual encounter to form much of an impression. Granted, Mediterranean gulets in these waters were an unusual and elegant sight, not easily forgotten, but that didn’t seem to help my case. I felt a bit deflated. My bet thus far had not pan out. It was evident the Stella Maris had not sailed these waters for some time.

  Baumann seemed more elusive than ever.

  Twenty-four

  The sun hung low, a great orange orb burning away above the clear blue western horizon. It was past five in the afternoon. I was sure I had visited every place where a gulet could be safely moored or tied up, and had only a sunburned left arm to show for it. Having combed every possible berth on the island, I returned to the hotel in search of a stiff drink and a nice steak dinner.

  Inside the dim vastness of the lost-world wonderland that was my hotel, I found myself suddenly immersed in improbably cool and perfumed air, silently pumped by unseen machines
into places where large-scale gambling is not only permitted but encouraged. Under different circumstances I would have headed straight for the nearest blackjack table, but mental images of Baumann enjoying his ill-gotten fortune, Elizabeth drowning in booze, and Amy’s face beaten purple suppressed any desire to indulge. I ignored the high-energy din and glitter of the casino and headed straight for one of the poolside bars.

  I called Sammy, who had nothing new to report. He would expand his search for Baumann all the way down to the Islands of Curaçao and Bonaire. It was wild speculation to suppose he could have sailed that far from Florida or the Bahamas but we didn’t have much else to go on.

  On my way to the bar, I watched as kids scrambled between their parents’ legs, the little ones flirting with the water at the shallow end of the expansive no-edge pool, running and screaming with delight. A boy and his father tossed a spongy football back and forth, and a family of three pale-skinned tourists played with a small Frisbee.

  I found an empty bar stool at the far end and climbed on. The jolly bartender, a big, very black man with a round face and practiced smile, took my order: margarita, Cabo Wabo, Grand Marnier, ice, salt. No lime wedge required. I also bought three Cohiba Maduro number 5 cigars to go with my drink. The affable bartender clipped my cigar and offered a light. The cigar came alive with the sweet taste of Castro’s finest. I thanked him and sat back to contemplate the pleasant view from the open-air bar. The sun was setting now behind a few gray, puffy clouds. Above them, a few long slivers of pink and orange spears of sunlight took hold of the blue sky. Someone to my left brought me out of my reverie.

  “Those things’ll kill you,” said a woman’s melodious voice. She nodded at my cigar.

  She was lovely, perhaps in her mid-thirties, tall and slender, with the lean body you would expect on an elite triathlete: defined deltoids, broad back, six-pack abs, and toned, muscular legs that proudly proclaimed they had seen their fair share of training. Her top physical conditioning did much to explain her disdain for the noxious stogie I was so enjoying. She wore a black bikini top and a wrap-around multicolor knit skirt that parted discreetly but suggestively in front. She wore only a small watch and stud earrings. Designer sandals and a matching large tote completed what seemed like a carefully selected ensemble. No weeding or engagement ring. Hmmm.

  “Haven’t you heard?” I replied. She had light blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and designer sunglasses perched on her head.

  “Heard what?”

  “We’re all dying.”

  She had no choice but to smile. “Isn’t that the truth?”

  She settled on the stool beside me and ordered what else? mineral water and ice.

  “Name’s Debbie,” she said as she extended a hand.

  She had a firm, friendly grip that exuded strength and confidence.

  “Pleasure,” I replied. “Jason.”

  “Business or pleasure, Jason?”

  “All business, I’m afraid.” I smiled.

  “So, you’re here all alone?” She placed her elbow on the bar and let her head rest ever so playfully on her hand. I nodded.

  She was studying me with a furtive expression that made me wish I had the luxury of pursuing the testosterone-induced ideas now flooding my weak male psyche. “How about a family waiting back home, Jason?”

  I showed her the vacancy on my ring finger. “You?”

  “Sad, isn’t it?” she said, and glanced out at the sunset. “I mean, a place like this. The beauty of it all wasted, being alone and all.”

  “Look at it this way: better alone than in bad company.”

  She raised her glass and said, “I’ll drink to that.” Our glasses clinked, and we sipped from our drinks while the sexual tension built.

  “Have any plans for dinner, Jason?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “I may have to meet someone.” It was not entirely a lie. I was here with only one purpose in mind: to encounter Baumann face to face.

  “I don’t have any plans yet.” She placed a hand on my arm. “I’d love the company if you’re free.”

  I glanced at her. Her emerald eyes peered into mine, studying me, taking me in as if digging deep into my subconscious. Her quizzical gaze displayed a look of playful anticipation: moist lips slightly parted, ready and inviting, promising pleasures just waiting to be discovered. Her left hand slowly descended from the nape of her neck down her ample cleavage only to slowly survey her perfectly sculpted midriff. She was so amazingly good, and so damned hard to resist. Her body language told me we were both thinking the same thing: your room or mine?

  I began to think of what it would be like to bed this very desirable woman not in some fantasy future, but right here and, best of all, right now. Who could blame me for straying off my self-assigned task for a few brief hours to enjoy what was right there for the taking? How would it affect anything? Baumann wouldn’t care. And neither would Nora.

  I took a deep breath, fought the demons grappling for my soul, and finally mustered the willpower to say, “Where can I find you later? You know, if I can break free?”

  Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

  She gave me one of those little smiles and a shrug. “I’ll give you my room number.” She got a Sharpie from the bartender and wrote it on a napkin and offered it to me. “I’ll be up late,” she said, with one of the most alluring smiles I had ever seen.

  I cleared my tab and slipped the bartender a nice tip, and we both stood up. Our brief encounter was over. I took the full measure of her. She was breathtakingly, knee-knockingly delectable. I guessed five feet ten and maybe 130 pounds of nothing but lean, sexually charged muscle. I noticed my heart rate ramping up a little and my breath getting shallow. Time to leave, Jason. I excused myself and repeated that I would call if I could break free. She leaned in and gave my cheek a velvet kiss. I left as fast as I could.

  You’re such a loser!

  The sandstone path from the bar to the beach had been carved through the high coastal weeds and grasses dotting the small dunes along the eastern edge of the resort’s property. It was lit by small fixtures on stanchions located at the point of each step. Long shadows lay in the summery breeze, the filtered light casting warm earthen tones on the sand and the sea beyond. Distant music from a band that struck up lively island tunes could be heard. No doubt a party just getting started in one of the nearby bars. The beach was practically deserted at this time, most guests having retired to their rooms to freshen up while others, the early birds, were already being seated at one of the sprawling resort’s many restaurants.

  I left the beach and the local steel band playing bubbly calypso tunes and headed toward the far towers of the resort. Walking past the boutiques selling resort wear, fine garments, island crafts made in China, fine and not so fine jewelry, and assorted trinkets, I reached the resort’s highly regarded Hermes Marina and Yacht Club. Although smaller, it easily rivaled the best marinas of Monte Carlo and Nice, mostly because dockage fees were high enough to keep out all but the obscenely rich. Utilities not included. But if you could afford to own and operate one of these mega-yachts, charges for utilities, no matter how exorbitant, were nothing more than an incidental necessity, something hardly even noticed.

  The Hermes Marina in Nassau Harbor consisted of sixty-three well-protected finger piers that could handle yachts up to 240 feet in length. Widely considered the ideal Caribbean mooring spot, it was a safe and exclusive place were the top tier of the world’s superrich yacht owners were guaranteed to rub elbows with similarly well heeled seafarers. My own fairly large craft would not be considered worthy or large enough to tie up next to one of these superyachts.

  The tropical dusk had turned quickly to night, and streetlamps now cast a warm glow on the hundreds of guests strolling past stores that attempted to entice them with offers of stuff they surely didn’t need. The restaurant and shop district of the resort is a well designed area consisting of several blocks of close-set Bermudian-style bui
ldings one or two-stories high, every building stuccoed in muted Caribbean pastels and crowned with gently gabled rooflines of bluish clay tiles. The atmosphere was festive and filled with the energy of hundreds of eager visitors full of unrealized expectations, ocean breezes, laughter, and music.

  I continued my casual stroll among the happy, sunburned vacationers in search of a place to eat. I settled on a steak house, the Fire Brand Grill. There was no waiting line snaking out of the restaurant, and the enticing aromas of fine meats and seafood cooking on the grill was hard to resist. Once inside, I put my name on the waiting list.

  “You’re quite lucky this evening, sir,” the maître d’ with the gold-rimmed glasses said as he jotted down my name. “Tonight’s very slow only be a thirty-minute wait.” He broke into a spirited laugh another underemployed comedian.

  I took a side trip to the restaurant’s crowded bar and ordered a margarita. Drink in hand, I went outside to wait for my table. I was not looking forward to dining alone. I thought about the napkin in my pocket, the one with Debbie’s room number, and pushed the thought away.

  It wasn’t long before the maître d’ informed me that my table was ready. The hostess led me to a small table with two chairs, tucked against a side wall. Two lit candles, and small, white flowers floating on a dish half-filled with water. Quite the romantic setting for one.

  As I was about to glance at the menu, I heard a woman’s voice call my name. Turning toward the voice, I was met with an improbable sight: Mackenzie Deschamps, giving me a broad smile and a discreet wave. She was with a small party.

  I stood up as she approached my table. Wearing a lightweight, flowing black dress and a strand of pearls, she was as radiant as when we first met. She had that same wonderful stride, shoulders back, everything about her exuding a quiet confidence. As she weaved her way through the crowded tables, all eyes followed her envious glances from the women, admiring ones from the men. A young male waiter watched her smile at me. His eyes lingered on her longer than was appropriate, taking in all of the considerable beauty on display, after which he gave me that well known man-to-man sneer that said, You lucky bastard. I smiled.