Miss Lawrence and the Black Widow had struck up a conversation at breakfast and were standing arm in arm with shopping baskets and floppy hats.
"And where are you two lovely ladies off to today?" I asked in the holiday spirit.
They looked at each other, giggled – actually giggled – and said nothing.
"Don't snigger! What's it to be – shopping or beach?"
Jay glared. "Bastard!"
"What? What have I done now?"
I felt aggrieved, because as far as I knew I had behaved very well for several hours. Jay had an early morning tingling bottom and pussy to prove it. Not to mention the breakfast drink she prefers to orange juice.
"It's what you haven't done," said Mrs. Goldfinkel.
"Bastard!" growled Jay again and kicked my shin.
"I give up." I moved out of range.
It seemed to be taking a long time to let us into the willing hands of Dutch Immigration and Customs and out to the fleshpots of Mammon. I was about to kick off a choral rendition of "Why Are We Waiting?" when there was movement at the bottom of the gangplank. Two large black policemen appeared, flanking an even larger black man in a long-sleeved shirt and Barbados Cricket Club tie. He took point as they marched up the gangplank. As they reached the deck a hearse appeared on the dock and two black-tied gentlemen extracted a stretcher from the back.
As the policemen – the guy in the middle had CID written all over him – reached deck level I looked as guilty as I could. I hunched shoulders, shifted eyes, and hid my face with my Panama hat. I live in hopes of wrongful arrest and massive damages. So far none of my arrests have been wrongful, but there is no harm in trying.
The detective stopped and tipped my hat up.
"Mr. Neptune," he nodded.
I looked at him with a certain amount of amazement. I was sure I had never been arrested on this island.
"We have a mutual friend," he said. "Inspector John Henry Fernack of the NYPD."
"Ah."
"Friend" was perhaps not the right word in my case where Inspector Fernack is concerned. "Acquaintance" is nearer the mark, but still regretfully short of it. I surmised that someone had been checking the passenger list.
The copper moved on to speak to Captain Ahab in the shadow of a lifeboat. After a couple of minutes he turned and waved a hand at his uniformed colleagues blocking the way to shore. They stepped aside and allowed the flow of passengers to start dockward. They were obviously confident that if the guilty party scarpered, they would catch him or her at the airport or in whatever leaky scow they hijacked to head for Puerto Rico or the Dominican Republic. There is no point going to Tortola in the British Virgin islands because a strange face gets noticed immediately. I know.
Mrs. Goldfinkel was looking at me in a strange and rather fascinated way after my encounter with the policeman, but Jay ignored it. We have known each other a long time.
Jay also ignored me as she and the Black Widow hustled down to the dock and through the fairly perfunctory formalities. Jay had wrapped a scarf round her head and donned dark glasses – my dark glasses – to evade Captain Ahab's house arrest order. He was too busy talking to the police official to notice. They disappeared in the direction of shopping opportunities without a backward glance.
I saw Miss Swat near the taxi rank studying a tourist map with Dr. Dunnett. I looked again to make sure I saw right as they climbed into a battered Datsun and disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Chacun a son gout, as those who can't speak the Queen's English put it.
Boner and Frippery brushed past me.
"What ho, Frip! How's the old bum today then? Not much padding to absorb the whatsit!"
Frippery looked at me with her what-the-dickens-are-you-talking-about-now expression.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. Explain yourself, you..."
Boner grabbed her arm and almost whisked her off her feet as he headed for the road.
"A nice drink is called for, my dear. A health food cafe run by Netherlands expatriates is marked on the map not a few streets from here..."
Frip cast a frowning glance back over her shoulder then returned her attention to locomotion as she tripped on a coconut shell. My ex-wife and Jay's ex-lover disappeared at a rate of knots.
I stood alone and slightly bemused. It looked like I was left to my own devices until mid-afternoon when I was to meet Miss Lawrence in the Lobster Pot.
Never mind. I could amuse myself. Snapper. And then there was a rather interesting watering hole that I wot of. On the French side, of course. Dutch debauchery is far too civilized.
I put the best foot forward and hailed a taxi to take me over the non-existent border to Marigot.
* * * *
"Now, I think you might find this particular stone of especial interest, ladies."
Reverently, the jeweler placed a diamond of Liz Taylor dimensions upon a small felt mat and handed me a tiny eyeglass to squint at it through. Not wishing to appear gauche in the Harry Winston department, I carefully appraised the gem's many glittering facets and suppressed a profound urge to whistle. The Black Widow, whom the dusky Turkish-born proprietor had greeted with a familiarity and enthusiasm bordering on the indecent, gleefully rummaged in a tray of multi-carat stones as if they were mere trinkets at the dime store.
"Oh, yes, that is a beauty! I knew I could trust my old friend Mr. Hirsch to come up with a diamond worthy of a Neptune's bride. Oh! Oh! This is all so romantic. I just can't wait until I find myself another lovely man."
I smiled at Mrs. Goldfinkel reassuringly. To be honest, I'd never really been one for adorning myself with expensive baubles but the woman's enthusiasm was as infectious as typhoid in the rainy season. At breakfast that morning I had allowed myself to be talked into going shopping for a ring sans husband ("never trust a man to pick your jewelry unless he's a Jewish banker, darling!") I sneaked a little plastic from the old man's wallet and hoped there was sufficient virtual cash for Mrs. Neptune to invest in a modest rock. If all else failed, we could always pawn it in a tight spot. However, gem modesty appeared to be unheard of in the tropical bastion of the seriously rich. Suddenly, I realized that there were no price tags, however discreet, anywhere in the subtly understated store.
If you have to ask the price, you probably can't afford it.
Gently, I laid the diamond and the glass upon the jeweler's mat and tried to look as if I simply hadn't found what I was shopping for.
"Um, would you happen to have anything more, erm, petite? After all, my hands are very small..."
Both the gold-toothed Mr. Hirsch and the Black Widow gave me what could only be described as an "old-fashioned" look.
"My dear, never forget that diamonds are a girl's best friend! And, when it comes to a fine stone to represent the sublime reward of true love, let me tell you honey that size is everything. Perhaps we should take some iced tea and have a nice little chat."
I noted with interest how Mrs. Goldfinkel's gushing firmed up in the presence of plain brass tacks. Not to mention the faint but detectable hint of Noo Joisy in the "honey." I imagined that no one was what or who they purported to be in the Caribbean. Maybe Harry's tales of the tropics weren't so tall, after all.
Overcome with curiosity, I mouthed "how much?" at the frowning jeweler. Raising his dark eyes to the elegant ceiling, he mouthed the answer. It appeared to be the gross fiscal debt of a South American republic. I smiled wanly and stuffed Harry's Amex card deeper into my shopping basket. Not in this lifetime.
"That's obscene. I'm sorry, Mrs. Goldfinkel, but I think I'm going to need that cold drink after all!"
I tottered out into the bright heat of the street and leaned against a wall, a slightly cross-looking Black Widow in tow. I sensed I was about to receive tea and man-squeezing 101 from my dumpy friend. She was twittering on about Swiss banks and offshore accounts when I spotted a very different but to my mind infinitely more appealing store. Pushing through a brightly printed curtain, I found myself in an Aladdin
's cave of painted wooden toys and trinkets made from cheerfully colored glass. I found a cardboard box marked "rings, assorted" and gleefully selected a massive faux knuckle-duster of Hope Diamond dimensions.
"Perfect, only perfect."
It fitted my slender finger like a glove and caught the rays of the intensifying sun like a precious gem.
"I'll take it!"
The Black Widow tut-tutted as I handed over a handful of coins and sashayed gracefully out to the street. Tilting my wide-brimmed hat to an elegant angle, I refreshed my lipstick and caught sight of myself in the mirrored frontage of a more plutocratic store. I felt like Audrey Hepburn and blew myself a kiss. Poor old Harry. He'd get the fright of his life when he spotted my rock. It was rather naughty but I do enjoy a practical joke...
CHAPTER SEVEN: A CULTURAL INTERLUDE
The Watering Hole was at the end of town tourists seldom frequented. Here were the docks and dockland, small ships, coasters, and the lighters that brought cargo in from the larger ships moored in the roads. A US Coast Guard cutter was tied up at the central dock, its diagonal orange stripe vivid against the grey hull. There was a popgun on the foredeck, decently covered in a tarpaulin, and various other armaments no doubt in the armory below. The men (and nowadays a few women) to wield them against the forces of evil (equals drug runners) would be out investigating the tropical delights of the island, except for the glum looking guard sipping coffee at the top of the gangplank. I gave him a cheery, "What ho, Captain Bligh!" and headed for sustenance.
I had already had my snapper at an excellent little joint from the balcony of which one could mock fat tourists in horrible shirts. It was time for some entertainment. I had an hour to spare before my expected arrival at the Lobster Pot.
I turned into the door of the Watering Hole and paused a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Another pair of eyes already inside needed no such adjustment.
"Harr' Neptoon, yo' bastar'! Yo' owe me money!"
A mulatto the size of a cruise ship vaulted surprisingly nimbly over the bar. He leaned back to a barman's recess and extracted a cutlass. 'Cutlass' is the West Indian name for a machete, but believe me in this man's hand it was a cutlass from the old days. He advanced on me, kicking chairs and customers out of his way.
"Bastar'! Twen'y t'ree dollar! Yo' no pay for yo' roun' las' time! Yo' bastar'! I chop you!"
He flung two longshoremen aside and towered over me, the cutlass raised high while one hand gripped my shirtfront. Spittle dribbled down his chin. The whites of his wide eyes matched the white of his bared teeth. I felt my feet leave the ground.
"Toss you for it. Double or nothing."
There was silence for a long, long moment. I felt a shirt button give up the struggle.
"All righ'. Me coin – I reme'er yo' tricks."
The huge barman put me down and pulled an East Caribbean dollar from his pocket. The octagonal coin flew toward the ceiling from his muscular fingers.
"Heads!" I cried.
The coin reached its zenith and fell back to the floor. I reached to pluck it out of the air and felt cold steel at my throat.
"Just trying to be helpful," I muttered carefully.
The dollar landed, bounced a couple of times, and settled.
"Heads it is!" I gloated. "Let me down, you great baboon."
The great baboon dropped me and I scooped the coin from the floor before he had a chance to check my reading of the face.
"Good to see you, Eldine my friend."
Eldine looked at me quizzically for a moment, then slapped my back and held out a huge paw.
"We got good show! For Yanquis from Coas' Gaur'! Stay! – an' pay yo' bill!"
I looked around the gloom and saw a dozen or so US Coast Guards at rickety tables, imperfectly disguised in holiday attire. They looked at me with suspicion, which I ignored. Water off a duck's back, seen it too often. The rest of the clientele were some businessmen and a couple of coaster skippers and engineers. This was an up-market joint.
I looked more closely at one of the Coast Guard tables and saw that one drinker was a Latino-looking woman, wearing a muscle shirt and impressive muscle definition to complement it.
Eldine was back behind the bar with a glass ready for me by the time I had wended my way and taken in the scenery. He had a matching glass of colorless liquid. Not my favorite tipple, but I was not about to be offered a choice. I knew this stuff. Most bottles have a message on the label warning ."80% proof" or "75% alcohol by volume."
This St. Vincent bottle just said, "Very Strong Rum." It wasn't kidding.
There was only one way to deal with it.
"Down the hatch!"
I threw it back and managed to keep it down. I had aimed to miss lips, tongue, taste buds, throat and anything else containing nerve cells, but a few drops escaped on the way to my stomach and cauterized whatever they landed on.
I maintained an admirable sangfroid. The top of my head came off, my stomach retired to another dimension, I smelled burning flesh, but I maintained an admirable sangfroid. I leaned on the bar to help it stay admirable. Eldine refilled our glasses without exhibiting any ill effects from his own tot. I was not surprised. I happened to know he was weaned on the stuff.
"Slan' ee var'!" offered Eldine as a toast with the next glass. I was partly anesthetized already and felt only excruciating pain this time. I looked at my slightly unfocused watch. Forty-five minutes to go until rendezvous at the Lobster Pot. Time enough to be polite with another glass or two and still hit ETA. I settled on a barstool and eyed the next glass – or it could have been glasses. They breed, you know.
"Got good show! Great girls! Enjoy, yo bastar'!"
A few minutes preview of the entertainment could do no harm. It would be nothing but politeness to catch the early moments. I would still meet my lovely wife in plenty of time.
Eldine roared to the bar.
"Lady an' gennulmen! Da show!"
He switched on an earth shattering boom box and flicked various light switches. Everything in the joint vibrated with a reggae beat as a small stage was illuminated by random colored spotlights. I felt my contact with reality start to fray at the edges.
A figure appeared on the stage. Tall, jet-black, arrogant, breasts thrusting against a full length black peignoir, one athletic thigh visible as the figure posed and waited for undivided attention. It didn't take long for her to get it.
Eldine walked to the stage and looked down at the unmoving woman. With a sudden movement he gripped her gown and ripped it from her body. Naked, she did not move. She sneered back at Eldine contemptuously. He picked up a bucket from behind the tatty curtain.
Eldine raised the bucket over the girl's head and tipped a golden syrup over her. The smell of Barbudan honey filled the room. Honey ran down her body, flowing over her head and her breasts and her belly and her buttocks, flowed between her legs and down her thighs. She raised one breast to her lips and slowly licked then sucked her nipple. The room vibrated with the visceral music.
I reached for the rum bottle.
* * * *
"...And that was when I discovered pre-nuptial agreements, Jay, sweetie. I really must give you my attorney's number. It seems you're in dire need of some sensible advice from a nice strong father figure..."
The Black Widow prattled on as we wandered down a shady side street, seeking refuge from the powerful heat of the midday sun.
"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Goldfinkel. I assure you that my heart has always belonged to Daddy. Where are we, incidentally? This is beginning to look a little unsalubrious."
"Oh! Oh! You are a naughty girl! I've been quite distracted by your silly feminist notions and now we've gone and got ourselves lost."
Feminist notions indeed! If she only knew just how deeply the concept of a nice strong father figure resonated in my psyche (not to mention my spanking fetish). I rummaged in my basket for a street-map but realized that I must have left it behind on the ship. Oh well. It simply added a new
angle to sightseeing. The rude, rough underbelly of a Caribbean isle. I thought of big black men with cocks like Arab stallions and wondered whether there was somewhere we could go to watch a show. After all, I had purchased my rock and there was still a little time before we had to meet Harry for afternoon tea. My nipples rubbed pleasurably against the flimsy cotton of my summer dress. I wasn't wearing any underwear, for twin reasons of heat and horn, and I thought of a dark skinned native unbuttoning my frock and exposing my tender pale flesh to the scorching rays of the midday sun.
"Mmmm..."
"Taxi! Come along, Jay. We'll take this cab to The Lobster Pot."
A rather rickety looking taxi shuddered to a halt at the Black Widow's frantic wave. I remembered Harry's tales of white-knuckle cab rides with deaf, blind and merely psychotic drivers, and stuck out my chin in determination. I don't let just anyone boss me around. Besides, I'd made up my mind to score before tea. Male or female, the gender didn't matter, but they had to be big and black. Fortunately, I seemed to be in the right place for both. Mrs. Goldfinkel's plump pink-clad bottom disappeared into the back seat of the cab and I blew her a kiss.
"Don't worry, Gigi. I'm more than capable of taking care of myself. I just want to see the other side of this tropical paradise. Do my own little rough guide."
"Harry will be very cross!"
I doubt that very much, Mrs. G.
The taxi coughed twice and rattled off in a dense cloud of blue smoke. I hoped the Black Widow would survive the ride. It really did seem safer to walk. One hour to catch me something dark and tasty. Suddenly desperately horny, I strode off down the street, doing my best to look as if I knew exactly where I was heading. The docks, apparently, going by the general ambiance and a couple of cranes against the skyline.
MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission Page 22
