by Eddie Jones
Beyond the dusty white marl of a flat and treeless landscape, he saw a bank of dark clouds gathering in the distance, low and bunched together in tight fists. But otherwise, the sky was pale blue and the sun bright. Another perfect day in the islands to go swimming and snorkeling, or hang out by the pool sucking down fruity drinks.
Right now, at this very minute, Anna was probably lying on the beach in front of her bungalow. A bungalow I paid for with a loan against my life insurance policy. Some ‘whole life.’ Sonny mopped sweat from his brow and rolled down his window.
The car turned into a graded driveway lined with conch shells and cinderblocks. They stopped in front of a single-story industrial-looking building.
“Classes started last week,” the officer said, stepping from the car. “And the school’s already a mess.” Leaning in, the officer laid on the horn. Then he handed Sonny a plastic bag.
Sonny opened it to find his wallet, multi-tool, bottle opener, and fishing cap.
A man in a blue workman’s uniform came from around the corner of the building, waved and continued into the building.
“Ralph’ll show you what needs fixing.”
Sonny extracted himself from the car and watched it speed off. He found “Ralph” standing outside a boys’ bathroom. Black and white ceramic tiles covered the floor. White porcelain urinals hung on the wall. Except for the overpowering stench of urine, the bathroom appeared spotless.
Ralph swung open a stall door and pointed to a nearly full roll of tissue dried yellow and stuck to its roller. “Des boys, why day want to do dis?”
“Common problem,” said Sonny, eyeing the height of the dispenser and the soiled spindle of tissue. “Males, no matter what age and species, can’t resist the urge to mark their territory.” Peeking under the dispenser, he studied the screw mounts. “I’ll need some tools. Flat screwdriver and a socket set if you have it. Give me a few minutes and I’ll make sure your boys never use this toilet paper holder for target practice, again.”
Ralph returned with a tool box; the door whooshed closed and Sonny went to work. His back and shoulders ached from sleeping on a metal bunk. Eyes burned with sweat and his knees hurt from kneeling on the tiles. But when Ralph returned to say the constable had called and had agreed to let Sonny wire the money for the busted golf cart, Sonny was screwing in the last bolt.
“All fixed,” said Sonny, stepping aside. “You’d have to be Shaquille O’Neal to hit that shot, now.”
Raleigh peered in and found the dispenser at eye level. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he asked.
“I see this a lot in my line of work, especially in public facilities. So the constable said I could wire the money?”
He nodded. “Only my cousin said he wants you off the island by the end of da day.”
“What?”
“He called over to da airport. Booked you on a seven p.m. flight.”
“But I wasn’t planning to leave until tomorrow.”
“It’s the islands, mon. Things change.”
“Any chance you can give me a lift back to the village?”
“No car. Wife drops me off for work. But it’s not far. Couple of miles, tops.”
Sonny began walking. A half hour later Sonny decided Ralph was geographically challenged. The town might have been a couple miles from the schoolhouse if you were a sea gull, but by foot and under the glare of a blistering tropical sun, the trek reminded Sonny of Fort Jackson in July.
He rounded a turn and came upon a party tent planted in the middle of a vacant field, with an aircraft hangar in the distance. A vinyl banner with the words, COMING SOON! DIANA COLE SMYTH SPA AND CASINO, hung limp in the breathless air. Cars lined both sides of a dirt drive. Beyond the tent, a manmade lagoon spewed water from a cement fountain. Next to the fountain, workers carried food and beer inside the empty airplane hangar. Bass notes echoed across the open lot as a roadie tuned a guitar.
The reverberation of the chords, plus the smell of frying chicken, suntan lotion, and cheap perfume, reminded Sonny of his high school graduation party with Anna. What a dive that place was.
He lingered near the drive, his stomach grumbling. A beefy security guard dressed in black camo and cradling a semi-automatic hustled him along.
If he hurried, maybe he could still catch Anna before his plane left. He nabbed a Styrofoam container full of chicken wings from the tailgate of a pick-up.
11
Anna surveyed the airplane hanger, watching as workers carried beer and food inside. What a dive. This is worse than that place I went for my high school graduation party with what’s-his-name.
The place was, in fact, a dive. It was obvious to Anna that the owners had made a feeble attempt to decorate the interior of the hanger to resemble the Haunted Forest in the Wizard of Oz. But the only thing that looked even remotely like a talking tree was the bartender, Keith, whose deep grooved, bark-like facial features did, in fact, remind Anna of the famous British guitarist for The Rolling Stones.
Keith was in a bad mood. The heat and humidity from Tropical Storm Bert had weakened the adhesive on his nicotine patch, causing it to fall off. Plus, an American Presidential candidate was hitting on his girlfriend, Nadia, a former Romanian gymnast with ties to the Russian mob and a burgeoning nail-salon business she ran out of the couple’s apartment.
Anna had learned all this within the first five minutes of her arrival at the grand opening.
“Hey, you know what this gal just told me,” said Boggs, his arm still wrapped around Nadia. “She said she’d like to work for my campaign. I’m thinking she could do the voice-overs for my radio commercials. Tell ‘em what you said to me, doll.”
“Ya ne ponimaju?”
“Has she got a sexy voice or what?”
“I don’t understand,” said Anna.
“See, studies show when male voters hear a woman speaking in a foreign voice they’re more likely to listen to your message,” Boggs explained.
“I know that.” Anna said. “‘Ya ne ponimaju’ is Russian for ‘I don’t understand.’”
“Come on Nadia.” Keith pulled his girlfriend along. “We need to set up the first round of jell-o shooters.”
“Hey wait! We weren’t done talking ‘bout your fee!” yelled Boggs.
“Bill, you need to slow down before you get yourself killed by a jealous boyfriend.”
“That’s how come I got you watching my back. Wanna drink? I’m buying.”
“Thanks, no.”
“‘Kay, well. I’m gonna work the crowds and drum up some more votes.”
“Are the people at this event even Americans?”
He drained his cup. “They’re breathing. By the way, you haven’t seen my cell have ya? Think I might have lost it in the restaurant.”
“You want me to check?”
“Do that.”
Boggs sauntered off to the party tent. It was obvious to Anna why the Congressman had accepted the invitation to be the master of ceremonies.
Free booze.
And loose women.
Plus all the high-rolling campaign supporters he could fleece.
A line of potential sun-stroke victims worked their way up the main drive as geriatric gamblers, bused in from the Wicked Witch, eagerly waited for their chance to spend Social Security checks on glamour shots with hot models from Nepal, Pakistan, Peru and Poughkeepsie.
Anna took a position atop the stage, surveying the crowd as a bouncer unhooked the velvet rope. A surge of humanity seeking shade rushed into the airplane hangar. A skinny man in madras plaid shorts, wearing a black tank top and red high-tops bounded up the steps of the stage carrying a black guitar case.
“Hey, you! Put that stuff down!” a voice called from backstage. A young woman sprinted toward the platform, snatched the case and checked for damage. “I told him if he came back I’d have him arrested.”
“I can still catch him, if you want,” offered Anna as she watched the free-loader darting through the crowd.
“He’s not worth it. I’m Betsy, by the way. And that guy lugging the keyboard up the steps is my husband, Will.”
Anna made a quick appraisal of the yellow-haired man with dreadlocks, thick mustache and flip-flops, deciding he wasn’t a threat.
“Will B. Right Back,” Will set down the keyboard and offered his hand.
“Take your time. I’ll watch your stuff.”
“No, I meant that’s the name of our group. Will B. Right Back.”
“So you’re the entertainment. Great. I’m Anna Fortune. How long have you been playing?”
“Got started playing nightclubs and weddings in western Kentucky, but had to quit our first road tour when Betsy got pregnant.”
“So you have kids. That’s wonderful. They travel with you?”
Betsy looked away and began uncoiling a spool of cables.
“Turns out Betsy has a finicky uterine wall. But we’re still trying. How about you? Married? Got a family?”
“Never found the time. Or the right guy.”
“Don’t wait too long to find Mr. Right,” said Betsy. “Men aren’t like wine. They don’t get better with age.”
“So anyway, after the thing with the miscarriage, Betsy didn’t want to hit the road right away so we bought a boat and sailed south. Bounced from beach to bar, playing places like Foxy’s, Willy T’s, and Bomba Shack.”
“Living the dream,” said Anna. “Wish I’d have traveled more when I was younger.”
Betsy grabbed a roll of duct tape and ripped off a few strips. “Will had some wild idea about us becoming the next Jimmy Buffett, but that’s never going to happen now that every country and western male singer with a guitar and flip-flops is working the same angle.”
“Market saturation has killed the mystique,” added Will. “But the tips are good. Especially when Betsy dresses up.”
Anna studied Betsy’s cut off jeans, tie-dye halter top and dirty bare feet.
“This isn’t the outfit,” said Betsy. “Not that it would make any difference. Not with this crowd.”
“Don’t worry, dear. The tip jar will fill up once we start playing.”
“That’s what you said at Nippers.”
“That was different. I hadn’t counted on that catamaran of French models sailing into the anchorage. It’s hard to compete with raw beauty, especially on that level.”
From the other side of the hanger Anna saw Boggs chasing Nadia from the pavilion tent toward the water fountain.
Betsy turned to her husband. “A quiet afternoon, you said. Just play some Soca music to a bunch of old geezers, you said. Don’t you ever get tired of being right?”
Will shrugged. “Can I get you to tape those amp cables to the floor?” He looked at Anna. “I don’t want that fella with the oxygen tank over there tripping and suing us.”
“Sure, but then I probably need to get back to work. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”
The three of them watched as Boggs kicked off his shoes, cuffed his pants, and chased Nadia into the fountain.
“Good luck with that,” said Betsy.
12
Nearly an hour after leaving the schoolhouse Sonny spied The Shop Right Mall, an aluminum building on an industrial block surrounded by hurricane fencing. It’d been a long time since Sonny had been to a mall, and now he remembered why. Crowds. A clot of shoppers crowded the front door beneath a sign that read, EARL BIRD SPECIAL.
Another sign announced that Christmas was just around the corner. Sonny stepped around the corner and found an A-framed shack covered in palm branches and colorful lights. A store clerk, wearing a green elf outfit, tossed candy to kids and urged them to bring in their parents to take advantage of pre-Christmas specials.
Christmas. Would he even see another Christmas? Would anyone even care if he didn’t? Snagging a handful of hard candy, he stepped inside to do a little pre-holiday gift buying. On the fish and tackle aisle, he found a Hawaiian sling. Just like the one Troy Donahue used in Adventures in Paradise, he thought. Or was it James Dean? No matter.
Any woman who owned a sailboat needed a spear gun. He dropped the Hawaiian sling into his shopping basket. There was a rack of fishnet stockings on a table of reels. They were a little risqué for Anna, but he grabbed a pair anyway, in case she needed a dive bag for all the lobster she was going to spear with her new Hawaiian sling.
In plumbing, he found a book on dangerous underwater sea creatures called Dangerous Underwater Sea Creatures that showed the proper way to use a spear to get a lobster with a Hawaiian sling. Dropping the book in his basket, he ambled toward the checkout lane, adding a large Hershey Kiss and bouquet of silk flowers to his haul.
Rummaging through the pockets of his cargo shorts, he dumped coins, wadded up bills and an empty gum wrapper on the conveyor belt. Not enough for a golf cart but maybe it’d stoke the fires of true love.
On the sidewalk outside Sonny heard a reggae band break into a festive rendition of Frosty the Snow Globe Man. These Bahamians, they sure knew how to celebrate Christmas.
Tired and sweating, Sonny returned to the motel and found his room locked, the Venetian blinds closed, and his best friend gone. He checked the Tiki Bar. No Joe. He looked down the dock at the rented sailboat. Empty. He struck out at the pool and beach, too. He walked up the path to Anna’s bungalow and knocked. No answer.
Sonny gathered his silk roses, large, melting Hershey’s Kiss, fishnet stockings, spear gun and book on dangerous underwater sea creatures and walked onto the porch of Anna’s bungalow. He placed the gifts in a rocking chair. He opened the screen door, knocking hard. He waited, knocked again, and left.
At the Sea Grape Inn, a big-boned girl at the front desk thumbed through a hair-style magazine devoted to cornrows, dreadlocks and braids.
“I need to get into my room.”
“You need a spare room key?” she asked turning a page.
“That’s the kind. Mine went missing.”
Scratching the side of her neck with long, fake fingernails, she stared at an advertisement for hair gel. “Five dollars for a spare.”
“I’ll only need it for a few minutes.”
“That’s why we only charge five dollars.” She held out her hand, but didn’t look up.
“Just add it to my tab.”
The girl shook her head, smacking a wad of pink gum. “Cash only for spares.”
Sonny looked into his empty pocket, and stepped outside, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.
He walked down the marina and stepped aboard the rented sailboat, slid the hatch back and went below. He removed his shorts and shirt, peeked out to make sure there weren’t any other boat owners around, and hurried into the cockpit and over the stern railing, before easing himself into the sun-warmed sea.
Gliding away from the sailboat, he felt relief at the chance to wash away his sweat and the disinfectant stench of his cell. If he hadn’t seen Anna exit the taxi, it wouldn’t have been so hard. But he’d watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear when the driver had declined her offer to pay. He’d seen the confused look on her face when she looked up at the porch.
Should’ve just gone right over right then, like Joe said, instead of working so hard to create the right mood.
He kicked back to the boat and scurried aboard, slipping below unnoticed. He peeled off his boxers and spread them over the edge of the sink to dry. Pulling on his shorts, he stretched out on the bunk, lacing his hands behind his head. A power cruiser motored past and started the sailboat to rocking. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be rocked—and held.
And loved.
13
Anna finished wrapping duct tape around a power strip and looked up to see Boggs staggering back into the hanger with his shirt tail out and slacks soaking wet. His carefully coiffed hair now glistened silver from an apparent dunking in the fountain.
Anna happened to know Boggs spent more money on haircuts than some third world countries spent on food. She
couldn’t believe this guy was actually running for president or that she’d agreed to protect him: Which, by the way, I shouldn’t be doing alone. Where is the rest of my team? Where’s my help? Where are You in all this, God?
“This your first time playing with a band?” asked Will.
“I’m playing?”
“You better enjoy it,” said Betsy. “This might be our last gig.”
Will gave an apologetic shrug. “She didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“How could I? You had all the hatches closed. It was like a sauna in there.”
“I was trying to keep the rain from dripping on your bunk, Hon.” Will nodded across the hanger. “Hey, isn’t that the guy we met at the bar last night?”
The skinny man in the black tank top stood with his arm around a tall blonde. Anna recognized the woman as one of Boggs’s staffers.
Will started to wave him over.
Betsy grabbed her husband’s arm. “Will, don’t!”
Too late. The man broke away from his date and rushed onstage.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, lifting a six-string electric guitar from its stand. “Wasn’t sure what time we started.”
“We?” asked Betsy, snatching the guitar from him.
“Earlier I sort of told him he could help,” said Will, his expression sheepish.
“You got a name?”
“Joe,” he said, eyeing Anna’s badge. He sounded out her name. “Hey, aren’t’ you—?”
“I’m not playing if he is,” said Betsy.
Anna retrieved the guitar, handing it to Will. “You were about to tell me how you two got started playing.”
“Betsy has a cousin who worked in Nashville. Said he could get us into the studio with Garth Brooks.”
“Brooks and Dunn.”
“He said he knew all these really important musicians and producers. We loaded up our gear and drove out. Turns out her cousin lived in an RV parked down the road from Warren Zevon’s house.”
“I remember him,” said the one named Joe. “Did that werewolf song they used in The Color of Money.”
