by Eddie Jones
She stepped aboard, frowning when she saw the smudge of pink fuel smeared on the deck around the cap. Tossing the ice onto a cockpit seat, she tensioned the spring line, securing the boat seconds before a blast of wind slammed into the side, shoving it sideways. Ducking under the canvas dodger, she removed the hatch boards and was about to hurry below when she saw a silver Hershey’s Kiss resting atop the companionway steps.
Turning quickly she searched for the dockhand. But the sudden downpour made it impossible to see past the end of her boat. Kicking the candy aside, she went below, feeling violated, angry, and a little impressed that someone knew her favorite candy. Three chocolate deposits in the past month. How cute. The first on the roof of her sports car outside the bookstore in Georgetown; the second inside that flower basket sent to her office; and now here, on the boat. Somebody is going to a lot of trouble to be clever and it’s a waste of time. Not interested. Not now. Never will be.
She flipped a toggle switch. A bank of recessed lights cast a yellow halo over the blue Oriental rug. She dropped three ice cubes into a tumbler and splashed them with diet cola, then put the bag in the freezer. Adjusting the radio dial, she found a jazz station out of Baltimore playing a tribute to Dizzy Gillespie. She built a nest of cushions in the elbow of the L-shaped couch and closed her eyes, cradling the glass on her thigh. Rain drummed the deck overhead. The carbonation stung the back of her throat. She rolled a chunk of ice against the inside of her cheek and exhaled deeply.
It felt good to be tucked in tight at the dock, the lockers stocked for a month-long cruise. Maybe longer. A week from retirement, she thought, with nothing left ahead but endless days of beach walking and sailing and sunsets over islands with names she couldn’t pronounce.
The past few months working at the Central Security Service had left her feeling soiled and unkempt, the commute from Annapolis to her Gaithersburg office pressing permanent wrinkles into her slacks and forehead. The endless hours of data-mining and mapping of terrorist cells hadn’t left her any time for running, shopping and swimming. But now the end was here. In seven days, she’d leave the burden of her country’s national security in the hands of someone younger, smarter, and more career-minded.
Her Tragus 9555 global satellite phone began to chirp. She drained the rest of her cola and reached into her purse, flipped open the cover and pressed the SEND key.
“Anna Fortune.”
“Is this line secure?”
“Call you right back, chief.”
Anna killed the call and began rummaging through her wallet, searching for the new security code. She hated the new protocol, the numerous layers of encryption and the way the cumbersome black phone clashed with her ensemble. But what choice did she have? Now that Homeland Security required all employees to use the new 256-bit key coder she was constantly hanging up, getting hung up on, or hooking up with the wrong party. She punched in the code and rang her boss.
“You may be nearing retirement, Fortune, but don’t forget you still work for the Federal Government.”
“I know, sir.”
“Can’t have these calls traced.”
“Understood.”
“The American tax payers have spent a lot of money so our agency can speak—”
“Sir, was there a reason you called?”
“Wild Bill Boggs? Know him?”
“First term congressman from Texas? Running for president?” Anna felt her stomach tighten. “What about him?”
“Dated once, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call it a date. We were on the same cruise ship. He had a state-room overlooking the pool. I slept in a bunk above the engine room. He probably wouldn’t remember me.”
“Oh, he remembers you, all right. Called to ask if you were available for a little undercover work. His words, not mine. He’s got another of his fund-raising junkets planned for this weekend in the Bahamas.”
“You want me to babysit Boggs?”
“When you put it that way…yes. That’s exactly what I want you to do.”
“Why me?”
“Why not? We’re hip-deep in more important things like tracking Al-Qaeda, Al Roker’s calorie intake and Al Franken’s visits to the men’s room. Anyway, think of this assignment as a vacation.”
“I don’t need a vacation. Not when I’m days away from retirement. What’s Boggs doing in the Bahamas, anyway? Shouldn’t he be on the campaign trail?”
“Speaking at the Diana Cole Smyth memorial and ribbon cutting ceremony.”
“You mean the ex-stripper who overdosed on diet pills?”
“Apparently they were close,” her boss added.
“You’re asking me to shadow a congressman while he goes to a stag party?”
“The woman’s dead, Fortune. Show some respect.”
“But it’s Boggs, sir.”
“Look, you need to get over yourself. I’m sure he picked you for your counter-surveillance skills, not your looks.”
“Thanks.”
“Your flight leaves out of BWI at 3:10 p.m.”
“Are you serious? I can’t make that. Traffic will be insane this hour of the day...”
“Then you better hurry.”
“Can’t I fly out in the morning?”
“There’s a tropical storm brewing down there. Who knows if there’ll even be any flights tomorrow? The place you’re heading is off the beaten path, which is saying a lot given how off-beat the Bahamas are in the first place. Oh, and one other thing. You should know there’s been a lot of chatter coming out of Central America.”
Anna crunched ice and swallowed. “And?”
“That’s it. Just chatter.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? The bad guys are talking.”
“About?”
“We don’t know. That’s what chatter means. Just be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to Boggs. He could be the next president of the United States.”
“But isn’t he polling in the single digits?”
“What can I say? It’s politics. People change. Voters vacillate. Pundits push agendas. Remember what happened to JFK?”
“You’re not suggesting someone might try to kill Boggs, are you?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Kennedy and Monroe with you playing the part of Marilyn.”
“I’ll phone you when I get there, sir. And just make sure Human Resources has my retirement package ready to sign when I get back.
“You mean if you get back.”
Click.
3
Anna stood at the end of a short line of passengers standing outside the terminal of the Cockroach Cay International Airport. Behind her, turbo-prop engines revved as a flight bound for West Palm Beach taxied to the end of the runway. She shifted the strap of her knapsack and stepped forward, inching closer to the door leading to customs and immigration.
Rain dripped from the eaves of the roof, leaving silver puddles in cracks of gray concrete. A boom box blasted hip-hop music. Baggage handlers tossed luggage onto a green linoleum floor. Anna claimed her duffle bag from among the pile of duct-taped coolers, fishing rods, and battered suitcases. She proceeded through the luggage inspection area and got her passport stamped. Outside she surveyed the fleet of microbus vans parked at the curb. What she needed now was a dry room, a warm shower and long nap.
Across the road in a muddy parking lot, a blue vintage Chevy BelAir station wagon flashed its headlights. The driver, a young black male with corn-rowed hair pulled into the circle, parked, and placed Anna’s bags in the back. Anna opened the rear passenger door and slid in.
“Sea Grape Motel, right?” the driver asked.
“How did you know?”
He held up a photographed copy of her government ID.
The station wagon jerked forward, tossing gravel against the undercarriage as they bounced down the drive. At the front gate, her driver looked left and turned into the path of a green
KIA sedan, causing Anna to reach for the leather journal tucked inside the front pocket of her backpack.
The smaller vehicle blasted around them, horn blaring, rear bumper narrowly missing their front grill as the driver cut back into their lane. Her driver accelerated, speeding past small homes painted in festive colors: Pink, purple and blue.
She leaned back in her seat, knapsack in her lap, rule-lined journal open to her morning prayer. “My Father, your name is Holy and mine is Anna; you are in heaven and I am here…” Wherever here is.
Beyond her window, wet laundry hung on clotheslines stretched between palm trees. Pigs wandered along the shoulder of the road. Cars sat rusting on rims.
Who ever heard of a politician holding a fund raising event in a place called Cockroach Cay? And why me, Lord? Couldn’t You or the agency find someone else?
In all her years with the agency, she’d never been given anything resembling a field assignment. Well, there was that one trip to Bogotá, but that hardly qualified.
What did she know about shadowing a U.S. Congressman? And Bill Boggs of all people? Just the memory of him caused the hair on her neck to bristle. Alone with Boggs, in the islands? How stupid was that? She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, wondering if he’d notice that her hair was longer, bags under her eyes darker.
The rain returned, sweeping over the island. She sat back in her seat, lips pursed, straining to see beyond the hood of the vehicle. “Can you see?”
Her driver turned up the volume on the radio, looked up and jerked the wheel, narrowly missing a goat standing in the middle of their lane.
Anna clenched her fists. “Maybe you should slow down.”
Her driver accelerated, nosing up close to the back of a paneled truck as if he were bump-drafting at Daytona.
“Why are we driving so fast?” asked Anna.
“Hang on. Gonna pass dis guy.”
“Weren’t we ahead of him back at the airport?”
“Yes.”
“And now he’s ahead of us?”
“Must’ve taken Queen’s Highway.”
“How come we didn’t?”
“Dis way is faster.”
They pulled out to pass. Ahead, a dark shape loomed. Her driver floored it. The panel truck beside them honked. Anna’s driver peeked to his left and cut the wheel, barely clearing the front bumper of the panel truck. The bus blew past, slinging water against her window.
“Should’ve had his lights on,” her driver said, shaking his head.
“Do we?”
He reached and pulled a knob. “Yes.”
A half-hour later her taxi turned onto a narrow, paved road that encircled a small harbor. A hand-painted plywood sign nailed to a fence post read: Welcome to Cockroach Cay. The road turned to crushed marl interspersed with pot holes the size of her taxi. Through the rain-streaked front windshield, Anna saw a fleet of boats anchored in the harbor, their mast lights appearing bright like stars against the deep gray of dusk. The station wagon swung in front of a low stone wall and parked.
“Dis dah Sea Grape,” the driver said.
Closing her journal she saw the words—her words—written weeks earlier as she’d begun to pray about her retirement. “He makes me lie down…”
The driver opened her door. Tropical shrubbery with red-tipped petals lined a pebble walkway leading down to a narrow beach. On the front porch, white rockers sat behind a pink porch railing with intricately carved spindles. Conch shells propped open a pair of French doors. Flood lights illuminated palm trees on the small manicured lawn. “…in green pastures.”
Anna stepped out and opened her purse. “How much?”
“Already paid.”
“By whom?” Boggs? God, I hope not. Seriously, Lord, anybody but him. Your grace, sure, but not his.
Her driver pointed toward the front porch. A large man rose from his chair. He seemed to study her for a moment, then pulled open the screen door and hurried inside.
“Oh, and he say to give you this,” the driver said, dropping a Hershey’s Kiss into her palm.
****
In the shadow of dusk, Sonny stood from the rocker. The years had turned her chestnut bangs pewter, accenting her baby-doll brown eyes. Red tipped toenails peeked from a pair of sandals. He watched her walk to the back of the station wagon and stand at the tailgate, tugging at faded blue jeans. The top two buttons of her white blouse were undone. Sonny was undone, too. Always had been when it came to Anna. Always would be.
Reaching for the screen door, he stepped into the motel lobby. Twenty years after saying goodbye he was about to get a second chance to say “hello” forever. Don’t blow it, Ace. For her sake, don’t blow it.
4
Sonny pushed open the door to his motel room and felt a blast of cold air. The plastic grill of an AC unit rattled as it dripped gray water from the window and onto the faded green shag carpet. A weather reporter with fuzzy features and an even fuzzier graphic pointed to the latest coordinates of Tropical Storm Bert, which, of course, were out of focus.
Joe, sitting shirtless on the edge of the bed, leaned forward and banged the TV, making the picture worse.
“Hey, thanks for not checking to see if I’d drowned,” said Sonny, turning down the blower on the window unit.
Joe slowly tilted his head, matching the rotation of the picture as it rolled across the screen. With eyes fixed on the TV, Joe peeled another layer of skin from his shoulder and dropped it onto Sonny’s side of the bed.
“If you’re gonna do that, would you go outside?” asked Sonny.
Joe whacked the set again. The screen went dark.
“Knew you could swim,” said Joe, reaching onto the nightstand for a tube of lotion. “Plus, I figured you’d probably swing by your old girlfriend’s cottage.” He squeezed a glob of cream into his palm and smeared it over his legs. Strands of black hair poked through the lotion like dark pines in a snow-covered glade. “So…how’d it go?”
“Watched her get out of the cab.”
“And did the two of you run into each other’s arms?”
“No.”
“Chicken?”
“Am not!”
“Are too.”
“Just waiting for the right moment.”
“There’s never a good time when the fire’s gone out,” said Joe, wiping excess cream onto his plaid shorts. “You just have to go for it. Let your fingers do the walking. Have it your way. Leave the driving to us. Never let them see you sweat. Think outside the bun. Take a licking and keep on ticking.”
“Did Jeopardy do that category again of the TOP TEN GREATEST COMMERCIALS OF ALL TIME?” asked Sonny.
“Was up to ‘Plop, plop, fizz, fizz’ when the signal died.” Joe pivoted on the bed, lifted his legs high and, with hands on hips, began practicing his bicycling reps. “Tell me again how you lost that loving feeling.”
“I didn’t. She did. Only she didn’t, really. I just thought she had.”
“Yeah, you’re wasting your time. Any relationship that jumbled can’t be sorted out in a weekend fling. Who left who?”
“Whom,” said Sonny, correcting Joe. “And me.”
“Thought you said she’s the one who broke it off.”
“I said I thought she’d left. Turns out she was just taking a break.”
“But from you, right?”
Sonny shook his head. “Everything. She went to the beach with her girlfriends. A high school graduation present to herself. Used the cash her mom had given her. Was supposed to go towards new luggage, I think. When I didn’t hear from her after a few days, I called. Her dad answered and said she was gone. Didn’t know when she’d be back.”
“Lying sack of—” Joe said, panting.
“He didn’t know. Her parents were divorced. He’d only stopped by to water the plants. But the way he said it made me think she was gone for good.”
“But you went to see her, right? I mean, you never trust the girl’s dad when there’s a teenage boy invol
ved. Dads will do anything to keep a guy’s hands off their little girl.”
“I know that, now.”
“So you just walked away?”
“Joined the Army.”
“Be all that you can be. Join the Navy and see the world. The Few, the Proud, the Marines. “
“With my grades I didn’t have many options.”
“And let me guess. She came home from the beach and found the boy she loved gone. Heart-broken, she drank poison and fell into a deep sleep. But then, you showed up and saw her lying there, kissed her lifeless lips, and grabbing a dagger, thrust it into your chest, killing yourself. Only you’re not dead and neither is she, so the whole Romeo and Juliet scene didn’t play out exactly right.”
“Something like that.”
“And now you think you can re-ignite that old flame? You’re sicker than I thought.”
“No. Sorry,” said Sonny in his best Alex Trebek voice. “The word we were looking for is ‘desperate.’”
“So how did you talk her into meeting you after all these years?”
“Government procurement office. I have a buddy in purchasing, who knows a guy at the Pentagon whose friends with a gal at the NSA, who used to work at the FBI, who bowls with Anna’s boss. Fellow named Tommy Two-Pin.”
“Not his real name, I hope.”
“Apparently he’s notorious for leaving splits and throwing gutter balls.”
“Sure seems like a lot of work for a girl who dumped you.”
“Trust me. She’s worth it.”
“What if she has a boyfriend? Ever think of that?”
“I paid an investigator a couple hundred dollars to check around. Says I’ve got nothing to worry about. She lives by herself on a boat in Annapolis.”
“You going to mention the cancer?” asked Joe.
“Doubt it.”
“Good idea. You trying to rekindle the dying embers of a dead relationship will be shock enough.” Joe pulled on a pair of red high tops and slipped on a black tank top sporting the logo of a local pub.
