Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  A short walk past the hotel, the two men paused at the signpost for the 99 Steps.

  Whaler reached into one of his bundles for a bottle of water.

  “There’s a reason we don’t use this location very often.”

  Dread toweled off the sweat from his bald head.

  “Because most days it’s crawling with tourists.”

  “No.” Whaler screwed the lid back on his bottle. He gave Dread a withering look.

  “It’s because of the climb.”

  •

  THE DJS STARTED up the next line stairs, walking for several minutes in silence. Despite their on-air camaraderie, their real-life personalities didn’t have much in common.

  More than fifteen years in age separated the pair, with Whaler bringing up the younger end.

  Dread had a large family; his wife and six kids took up most of his free time. They lived out on the island’s west end and socialized primarily within St. Thomas’s extended Puerto Rican community. Despite the rogue nature of the KRAT broadcasts, Dread was a traditionalist. They hadn’t talked much about it, but he sensed Whaler was far more radical in his beliefs.

  For his part, Whaler ran with an edgier crowd, young singles from Charlotte Amalie. He was generally unattached romantically—or, at least, he never mentioned any girlfriends to his broadcasting partner.

  If not for their radio connection, it was unlikely the two would have ever crossed paths.

  They’d been introduced by a mutual acquaintance, an elderly gentleman with a long history in island politics who wanted to spur local debate. He had spearheaded the KRAT concept to which the two DJs readily signed on.

  A reflection of their well-practiced secrecy, Dread and Whaler rarely saw each other outside of their radio broadcasts. Once they finished the day’s show, each man disappeared into his respective private life, about which the other knew very little.

  While the exaggerated characters that existed on the airwaves enjoyed a close friendship, the flesh-and-blood counterparts were practically strangers.

  The topic of physical exertion, however, was one that they’d discussed at length.

  “How many more ’til we get to the top?” Whaler asked, sweat pouring down his face. Strands of wet hair stuck to his forehead.

  Dread stopped on the steps ahead and looked back at his partner. “We go through this every time.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Whaler turned and glanced back at the steps they’d already covered, estimating the distance. “Ninety-nine minus . . .”

  “The actual total is one hundred and three,” Dread corrected with a grin.

  Whaler blew out a frustrated puff of air. “I tell you, that’s what was wrong with Colonialism. The Danes couldn’t count.”

  Resuming his climb, Dread replied diplomatically, “Perhaps something was lost in the translation.”

  AS THE RADIO hosts labored up the hill, they were met on the steps by an energetic pedestrian rapidly making his way down.

  The frail man lurched as if his legs were only loosely attached to his torso. His body wobbled like a rubber band whose brittle elastic might break at any moment.

  He nodded a greeting to the two sweating DJs on the stairs, but he didn’t slow his frantic pace. The morning’s drugs had finally kicked in, providing a temporary easing of his ever-present pain.

  About ten minutes earlier, he had leapt from his lawn chair, rejuvenated and with a spring in his step.

  He had found a new sense of purpose—not for life, but for his principal enjoyment.

  The bartender at Hotel 1829 had called up to Blackbeard’s to report that he’d acquired some fresh mint sprigs. He had to man his counter for the hotel’s breakfast service, but if their guest could make it down the steps, he would prepare him an authentic mojito.

  Hotel 1829

  ~ 65 ~

  Overheard

  UNAWARE OF THE mojito missile heading her way, the author clomped down the myriad steps to the first floor of Hotel 1829 and wandered sleepily into the bar. A continental breakfast had been laid out on the counter.

  “What’s the word?” she asked, perusing the offerings. The bar was well stocked for the siege. She reached hungrily for a muffin.

  “The Governor’s still on the lam,” the bartender replied with a nod to the television set mounted in the room’s upper corner. “They won’t restart the ferries until they catch him. Nothing’s moving yet.”

  “Oh well,” she said optimistically. “There are worse places in the world to be stuck.”

  After spending the previous evening writing on the veranda, she found the hotel was starting to grow on her. It had a unique history that was easy to get lost in. The building had survived several human life spans and, by all appearances, was prepared to stand through many more.

  She’d gazed for hours at the black-and-white photos spread across the bar’s brick walls, studying the images of islanders from the late Colonial period as well as the years following the transfer. At first, she’d found herself wondering how the people in the photographs had managed to survive without the help of modern insect repellants. Several mosquito sneak attacks later, she realized that, despite developments in technology, not much had changed in that particular aspect of island living.

  When she wasn’t swatting at mosquitoes or spraying on another layer of repellant, the author had watched the amusing interaction between the bartender and the hotel’s resident feline.

  A skinny calico with long legs and tail, the cat had distinctive black lipstick coloring around her mouth and a commanding voice that she used to boss around the bartender—who complained bitterly about his four-legged supervisor.

  It was during one of these episodes that the author noticed a narrow door at the far end of the bar. A sign over the threshold indicated that it led to a public restroom.

  “Check it out,” the bartender suggested. “The coldest restroom in the Caribbean.”

  Curious, the author crossed to the door and stepped inside. She was surrounded by a stiff bank of frigid air, cold enough to cause goose bumps.

  Due to the floor plan’s logistical constraints, the bathroom was connected directly to the building’s air-conditioning unit. The bartender hadn’t been exaggerating in his boast. The writer came out shivering.

  “See?” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Even the Governor sometimes stops in to use it.”

  “Maybe that’s where he’s hiding,” the author said wryly.

  The bartender pumped his mustache. “I’ll never tell.”

  •

  AFTER ASSEMBLING A full plate of pastries and fruit, the author carried her breakfast out onto the veranda and took a seat at the table she’d used the night before.

  Another guest sat quietly at the veranda’s opposite end, a slim man in a golf shirt and chinos. He looked vaguely familiar, but she’d found that happened often in the Caribbean. The author traveled to the region a couple of times a year. It wasn’t unusual to run into someone she’d met on one island while visiting another.

  She puzzled for a moment, trying to place him. Perhaps they’d met on St. John.

  St. John, she sighed. She wondered if she would ever make it to her intended destination.

  Setting those thoughts aside, she dug in to her plate. After a few munches, she peeked over the steep concrete wall overlooking the street.

  Rising over fifteen feet from the road below, the wall wasn’t an impossible barrier to breach, but it posed an effective deterrent. A spiked security gate blocked the steps that led up to the veranda. Despite all the volatility in the city, the veranda felt secure from potential human incursion—if not insect.

  She reached under the table and swatted at a mosquito perched on her leg, its round belly swelling with blood.

  “Argh,” she moaned at the rash on her skin.

  She�
�d started the morning with a shower, but that cleanliness had lasted less than twenty minutes. On the landing outside her room, she had sprayed herself from head to toe with repellant. The bartender had set up a pair of citronella coils on the veranda at her feet, to no avail. She was a stinky, smoky mess of a person—and they were still biting her.

  She was tucked beneath the table examining the latest welt when a familiar voice called out from the bar area. The sound nearly caused her to bang her head.

  “Mojito, please!”

  Instinctively, she remained crouched in her chair. If she had any doubts as to the identity of the mojito drinker, the next comment erased it.

  “I’m staying up at Blackbeard’s. They said you had the fixins for a proper mojito.”

  “Yes, sir. Coming right up.”

  How had he made it down the hill in his condition? the author wondered, gradually easing herself into a seated position.

  Cautiously, she peeked through an open window to the bar, where she spied the Mojito Man perched on a barstool. He leaned over the counter, anxiously supervising the drink preparation.

  “Now, that’s a sprig of mint! You have renewed my faith in Virgin Island bartenders.”

  He must have come in a side gate from the 99 Steps, the writer reasoned. So far, he hadn’t seen her. There was still a chance she could slip off without being drawn into a rehash of the previous day’s plane ride.

  “Some people frown upon early morning drinking, but I always say, ‘Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.’”

  “That’s the attitude.”

  The bartender noticed the author peering through the window, but at the panicked shake of her head and finger-to-the-lips signal, he smiled and said nothing. Plunking a straw in the mojito glass, he slid it across the counter.

  “Give this a try, buddy.”

  The frail man wrapped his lips around the straw, closed his eyes, and sipped.

  “Ahhh,” he said after letting the liquid swirl in his mouth. “That’s the stuff.”

  He took a few more pulls from the straw, his slurps getting successively louder. Then he leaned back with a contented sigh.

  “I had the strangest dream last night,” he began conversationally. “I fell asleep up there in one of the lounge chairs. I could have sworn I heard those pirate statues talking to each other. And then, I kid you not, they had a sword fight. It was surreal.”

  The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply to the dream comment. He instead steered the conversation to what he thought would be a safer topic.

  “You should try a Bushwacker after you finish that mojito. It’s my specialty. I use fresh banana—for your health.”

  He couldn’t have picked a worse line.

  The man took another gulp of the drink, gathering his strength for an extensive rant.

  “No use. My health is long gone. I came down here to die. Shoot it out with one last kabang . . .”

  The bartender looked up at the window that opened onto the veranda. His expression flashed a sudden understanding of why the author was hiding outside.

  Silently, she stepped away from the bar and turned toward the gated steps leading to the street below.

  It would be much safer to stay inside the hotel, but there was no way she was going to risk sticking around and getting caught by the Mojito Man.

  Tiptoeing to the end of the veranda, she let herself out through the security gate. Even as she descended the steps, she could hear the familiar voice echoing down from the bar.

  “My mother, God bless her soul, she suffered a terrible death . . .”

  AS THE AUTHOR scampered off down the street, another hotel guest remained on the veranda, listening with veiled interest to the commentary inside the bar, particularly noting the statements describing the dueling pirates at Blackbeard’s Castle.

  The Fixer took a sip of hot tea from his cup. The motion revealed a fresh gash on his wrist.

  He set the cup on the table and walked inside the bar.

  ~ 66 ~

  Abnormal

  THE AUTHOR SLUNK up the street, distancing herself as quickly as possible from the Mojito Man inside Hotel 1829. Whatever sympathy she might have felt for his condition was outweighed by her memories from the plane ride the day before. It was with great relief that she passed the foot of the 99 Steps without being called back to the veranda. She slowed her pace, taking in the Lutheran parsonage and Government House at a leisurely stroll.

  Of the two buildings, the latter was seeing the most action. Federal agents and local police spilled out of the Government House front lobby, trying to keep back an inquisitive hoard of reporters and television cameras. Local news crews still outnumbered those from the US mainland, as the statesiders were having difficulty gaining legal access to the island, but global interest in the story was growing by the minute.

  Above the fray, a lone figure stood on the second-floor balcony. The overmuscled man with closely cropped hair was dressed in the same black clothing as the rest of the federal agents, but he appeared not to be on duty.

  Oblivious to the commotion below, he held a glass of dark rum in one hand. In the other, he steadied a cigar, blowing a plume of smoke toward the harbor.

  •

  THE AUTHOR WALKED past the Government House hubbub and continued along the road, following the thoroughfare down a gentle slope.

  Turning toward the waterfront, she found the streets relatively empty. Many of the downtown businesses remained closed. The navy vessel was now the only ship stationed in the deepwater port, leaving the cruise ship mooring disturbingly vacant.

  The author shifted her backpack on her shoulders, nervously gripping the straps. A raw edge of expectancy hung over the city. Charlotte Amalie was calm but definitely not at ease.

  She felt the tension lighten as she approached a tiny food stand located about a block from the shore. The modified trailer had been fortified with brightly painted plywood walls and an attached covered porch.

  The sign out front read DALEENA’S. The namesake could be seen through the front counter’s wide window, a plump West Indian woman monitoring a grill. The smell of sizzling meat floated into the air.

  At a picnic table beneath a nearby tree, an aging uncle and his niece sat facing each other, waiting for their breakfast. Several chickens scratched in the dry dirt, pecking at the feed that had been tossed out for them earlier.

  The typical Caribbean ritual was a welcome sign of normalcy. The two family members were likely gathered to discuss the local gossip, provide updates on their various shared relatives, and, yes, probably touch on the political situation.

  But like everything else in Charlotte Amalie that morning, nothing was quite what it seemed.

  Daleena’s Café

  ~ 67 ~

  Uncle Abe

  SENATOR SANCHEZ GLANCED over her shoulder, surveying the pedestrian traffic on the adjacent road. She noticed an American woman staring at the diner from the sidewalk and quickly turned back toward the picnic table.

  “Don’t worry.” Her uncle waved his hand dismissively. “Daleena is keeping a watch out.” He grinned at the chef behind the food stall’s counter. “She won’t let anyone sneak up on us.”

  “Thanks for meeting with me, Uncle Abe.”

  Sanchez ran a hand over her hair, which was tied back in a short ponytail. She’d changed out of her wrinkled skirt and blouse and into a borrowed T-shirt and shorts from the friend whose couch she’d slept on the night before.

  Her high heels she’d relegated to a rubbish bin. After the hills, the rain, and the escape through the church annex window, the shoes were sullied beyond repair. The friend had also provided a pair of sandals, but unfortunately, this was a more difficult fit than the clothes. Sanchez’s feet were about two sizes too small for the loaners.

  With concern, Abe noted his niece’s stress, ex
haustion, and ill-fitting clothing.

  He was a widower, accountable to no one but himself, and he followed an eccentric schedule. Most nights, he carried a bucket filled with sliced mango to the grassy hill above the post office and enjoyed the night air while he fed an old iguana that lived in the tree next to the feral chickens. After a lifetime in politics, he much preferred the giant lizard’s company to that of any human—except for his favorite niece.

  Abe took a sip of his coffee and motioned for Sanchez to begin.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Leaning over the picnic table, she began a recap of the previous day, starting with her late arrival to the Legislature Building, the custodial closet encounter with Bobo, and the security guard’s assistance in slipping them out the side door.

  Her uncle nodded along. He was familiar with the building’s layout as well as all the main characters who worked there—including the persnickety security guard. He’d kept a low profile since his retirement from elected office over a decade earlier, preferring to spend his time perfecting his backgammon game, but little of significance escaped his surveillance.

  He’d kept his ear to the ground and a keen eye on the players, particularly after his niece decided to run for a senate seat. Not many knew of their family connection. That was the way Sanchez had wanted it.

  Nevertheless, as the election neared, Abe had subtly exerted his influence. He was remembered by many on the island, and his opinion still carried weight in certain critical circles. Close observers knew that Abernathy Jones, Abe to friend and foe, had not lost his golden touch when it came to politics.

  “They tried to detain me too.” Abe gave Sanchez a wink. “But I know how to give somebody the slip.”

  “Funny, that wasn’t one of the lessons you taught me,” she said with a teasing smile.

  “You weren’t always listening,” he replied with a playful rap against the table. “Now. What happened after you and Bobo left the Legislature?”