by John Grisham
Grand Cayman was twenty-three miles long and eight miles wide in places, but from the air it looked much smaller. It was a small rock surrounded by clear, sapphire water.
The landing almost occurred in a lagoon, but at the last second a small asphalt strip came forth and caught the plane. They disembarked and sang their way through customs. A black boy grabbed Mitch’s bags and threw them with Avery’s into the trunk of a 1972 Ford LTD. Mitch tipped him generously.
“Seven Mile Beach!” Avery commanded as he turned up the remnants of his last rum punch.
“Okay, mon,” the driver drawled. He gunned the taxi and laid rubber in the direction of Georgetown. The radio blared reggae. The driver shook and gyrated and kept a steady beat with his fingers on the steering wheel. He was on the wrong side of the road, but so was everybody else. Mitch sank into the worn seat and crossed his legs. The car had no air-conditioning except for the open windows. The muggy tropical air rushed across his face and blew his hair. This was nice.
The island was flat, and the road into Georgetown was busy with small, dusty European cars, scooters and bicycles. The homes were small one-stories with tin roofs and neat, colorful paint jobs. The lawns were tiny with little grass, but the dirt was neatly swept. As they neared the town the houses became shops, two-and three-story white frame buildings where tourists stood under the canopies and took refuge from the sun. The driver made a sharp turn and suddenly they were in the midst of a downtown crowded with modern bank buildings.
Avery assumed the role of tour guide. “There are banks here from everywhere. Germany, France, Great Britain, Canada, Spain, Japan, Denmark. Even Saudi Arabia and Israel. Over three hundred, at last count. It’s become quite a tax haven. The bankers here are extremely quiet. They make the Swiss look like blabbermouths.”
The taxi slowed in heavy traffic, and the breeze stopped. “I see a lot of Canadian banks,” Mitch said.
“That building right there is the Royal Bank of Montreal. We’ll be there at ten in the morning. Most of our business will be with Canadian banks.”
“Any particular reason?”
“They’re very safe, and very quiet.”
The crowded street turned and dead-ended into another one. Beyond the intersection the glittering blue of the Caribbean rose to the horizon. A cruise ship was anchored in the bay.
“That’s Hogsty Bay,” Avery said. “That’s where the pirates docked their ships three hundred years ago. Blackbeard himself roamed these islands and buried his loot. They found some of it a few years ago in a cave east of here near Bodden Town.”
Mitch nodded as if he believed this tale. The driver smiled in the rearview mirror.
Avery wiped the sweat from his forehead. “This place has always attracted pirates. Once it was Blackbeard, now it’s modern-day pirates who form corporations and hide their money here. Right, mon?”
“Right, mon,” the driver replied.
“That’s Seven Mile Beach,” Avery said. “One of the most beautiful and most famous in the world. Right, mon?”
“Right, mon.”
“Sand as white as sugar. Warm, clear water. Warm, beautiful women. Right, mon?”
“Right, mon.”
“Will they have the cookout tonight at the Palms?”
“Yes, mon. Six o’clock.”
“That’s next door to our condo. The Palms is a popular hotel with the hottest action on the beach.”
Mitch smiled and watched the hotels pass. He recalled the interview at Harvard when Oliver Lambert preached about how the firm frowned on divorce and chasing women. And drinking. Perhaps Avery had missed those sermons. Perhaps he hadn’t.
The condos were in the center of Seven Mile Beach, next door to another complex and the Palms. As expected, the units owned by the firm were spacious and richly decorated. Avery said they would sell for at least half a million each, but they weren’t for sale. They were not for rent. They were sanctuaries for the weary lawyers of Bendini, Lambert & Locke. And a few very favored clients.
From the balcony off the second-floor bedroom, Mitch watched the small boats drift aimlessly over the sparkling sea. The sun was beginning its descent and the small waves reflected its rays in a million directions. The cruise ship moved slowly away from the island. Dozens of people walked the beach, kicking sand, splashing in the water, chasing sand crabs and drinking rum punch and Jamaican Red Stripe beer. The rhythmic beat of Caribbean music drifted from the Palms, where a large open-air thatched-roof bar attracted the beachcombers like a magnet. From a grass hut nearby they rented snorkeling gear, catamarans and volleyballs.
Avery walked to the balcony in a pair of brilliant orange-and-yellow flowered shorts. His body was lean and hard, with no flab. He owned part interest in a health club in Memphis and worked out every day. Evidently there were some tanning beds in the club. Mitch was impressed.
“How do you like my outfit?” Avery asked.
“Very nice. You’ll fit right in.”
“I’ve got another pair if you’d like.”
“No, thanks. I’ll stick to my Western Kentucky gym shorts.”
Avery sipped on a drink and took in the scenery. “I’ve been here a dozen times, and I still get excited. I’ve thought about retiring down here.”
“That would be nice. You could walk the beach and chase sand crabs.”
“And play dominoes and drink Red Stripe. Have you ever had a Red Stripe?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Let’s go get one.”
The open-air bar was called Rumheads. It was packed with thirsty tourists and a few locals who sat together around a wooden table and played dominoes. Avery fought through the crowd and returned with two bottles. They found a seat next to the domino game.
“I think this is what I’ll do when I retire. I’ll come down here and play dominoes for a living. And drink Red Stripe.”
“It’s good beer.”
“And when I get tired of dominoes, I’ll throw some darts.” He nodded to a corner where a group of drunk Englishmen were tossing darts at a board and cursing each other. “And when I get tired of darts, well, who knows what I’ll do. Excuse me.” He headed for a table on the patio where two string bikinis had just sat down. He introduced himself, and they asked him to have a seat. Mitch ordered another Red Stripe and went to the beach. In the distance he could see the bank buildings of Georgetown. He walked in that direction.
The food was placed on folding tables around the pool. Grilled grouper, barbecued shark, pompano, fried shrimp, turtle and oysters, lobster and red snapper. It was all from the sea, and all fresh. The guests crowded around the tables and served themselves while waiters scurried back and forth with gallons of rum punch. They ate on small tables in the courtyard overlooking Rumheads and the sea. A reggae band tuned up. The sun dipped behind a cloud, then over the horizon.
Mitch followed Avery through the buffet and, as expected, to a table where the two women were waiting. They were sisters, both in their late twenties, both divorced, both half drunk. The one named Carrie had fallen in heat with Avery, and the other one, Julia, immediately began making eyes at Mitch. He wondered what Avery had told them.
“I see you’re married,” Julia whispered as she moved next to him.
“Yes, happily.”
She smiled as if to accept the challenge. Avery and his woman winked at each other. Mitch grabbed a glass of punch and gulped it down.
He picked at his food and could think of nothing but Abby. This would be hard to explain, if an explanation became necessary. Having dinner with two attractive women who were barely dressed. It would be impossible to explain. The conversation became awkward at the table, and Mitch added nothing. A waiter set a large pitcher on the table, and it quickly was emptied. Avery became obnoxious. He told the women Mitch had played for the New York Giants, had two Super Bowl rings. Made a million bucks a year before a knee injury ruined his career. Mitch shook his head and drank some more. Julia drooled at him and moved clos
er.
The band turned up the volume, and it was time to dance. Half the crowd moved to a wooden dance floor under two trees, between the pool and the beach. “Let’s dance!” Avery yelled, and grabbed his woman. They ran through the tables and were soon lost in the crowd of jerking and lunging tourists.
He felt her move closer, then her hand was on his leg. “Do you wanna dance?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good. Neither do I. What would you like to do?” She rubbed her breasts on his biceps and gave her best seductive smile, only inches away.
“I don’t plan to do anything.” He removed her hand.
“Aw, come on. Let’s have some fun. Your wife will never know.”
“Look, you’re a very lovely lady, but you’re wasting your time with me. It’s still early. You’ve got plenty of time to pick up a real stud.”
“You’re cute.”
The hand was back, and Mitch breathed deeply. “Why don’t you get lost.”
“I beg your pardon.” The hand was gone. “I said, ‘Get lost.’ ”
She backed away. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I have an aversion to communicable diseases. Get lost.”
“Why don’t you get lost.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. I think I will get lost. Enjoyed dinner.”
Mitch grabbed a glass of rum punch and made his way through the dancers to the bar. He ordered a Red Stripe and sat by himself in a dark corner of the patio. The beach in front of him was deserted. The lights of a dozen boats moved slowly across the water. Behind him were the sounds of the Barefoot Boys and the laughter of the Caribbean night. Nice, he thought, but it would be nicer with Abby. Maybe they would vacation here next summer. They needed time together, away from home and the office. There was a distance between them—distance he could not define. Distance they could not discuss but both felt. Distance he was afraid of.
“What are you watching?” The voice startled him. She walked to the table and sat next to him. She was a native, dark skin with blue or hazel eyes. It was impossible to tell in the dark. But they were beautiful eyes, warm and uninhibited. Her dark curly hair was pulled back and hung almost to her waist. She was an exotic mixture of black, white and probably Latin. And probably more. She wore a white bikini top cut very low and barely covering her large breasts and a long, brightly colored skirt with a slit to the waist that exposed almost everything when she sat and crossed her legs. No shoes.
“Nothing, really,” Mitch said.
She was young, with a childish smile that revealed perfect teeth. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“The States.”
She smiled and chuckled. “Of course you are. Where in the States?” It was the soft, gentle, precise, confident English of the Caribbean.
“Memphis.”
“A lot of people come here from Memphis. A lot of divers.”
“Do you live here?” he asked.
“Yes. All my life. My mother is a native. My father is from England. He’s gone now, back to where he came from.”
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Yes. Rum and soda.”
He stood at the bar and waited for the drinks. A dull, nervous something throbbed in his stomach. He could slide into the darkness, disappear into the crowd and find his way to the safety of the condo. He could lock the door and read a book on international tax havens. Pretty boring. Plus, Avery was there by now with his hot little number. The girl was harmless, the rum and Red Stripe told him. They would have a couple of drinks and say good night.
He returned with the drinks and sat across from the girl, as far away as possible. They were alone on the patio.
“Are you a diver?” she asked.
“No. Believe it or not, I’m here on business. I’m a lawyer, and I have meetings with some bankers in the morning.”
“How long will you be here?”
“Couple of days.” He was polite, but short. The less he said, the safer he would be. She recrossed her legs and smiled innocently. He felt weak.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“I’m twenty, and my name is Eilene. I’m old enough.”
“I’m Mitch.” His stomach flipped and he felt lightheaded. He sipped rapidly on his beer. He glanced at his watch.
She watched with that same seductive smile. “You’re very handsome.”
This was unraveling in a hurry. Keep cool, he told himself, just keep cool.
“Thank you.”
“Are you an athlete?”
“Sort of. Why do you ask?”
“You look like an athlete. You’re very muscular and firm.” It was the way she emphasized “firm” that made his stomach flip again. He admired her body and tried to think of some compliment that would not be suggestive. Forget it.
“Where do you work?” he asked, aiming for less sensual areas.
“I’m a clerk in a jewelry store in town.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Georgetown. Where are you staying?”
“A condo next door.” He nodded in the direction, and she looked to her left. She wanted to see the condo, he could tell. She sipped on her drink.
“Why aren’t you at the party?” she asked.
“I’m not much on parties.”
“Do you like the beach?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s prettier in the moonlight.” That smile, again.
He could say nothing to this.
“There’s a better bar about a mile down the beach,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“I don’t know, I should get back. I’ve got some work to do before morning.”
She laughed and stood. “No one goes in this early in the Caymans. Come on. I owe you a drink.”
“No. I’d better not.”
She grabbed his hand, and he followed her off the patio onto the beach. They walked in silence until the Palms was out of sight and the music was growing dimmer. The moon was overhead and brighter now, and the beach was deserted. She unsnapped something and removed her skirt, leaving nothing but a string around her waist and a string running between her legs. She rolled up the skirt and placed it around his neck. She took his hand.
Something said run. Throw the beer bottle in the ocean. Throw the skirt in the sand. And run like hell. Run to the condo. Lock the door. Lock the windows. Run. Run. Run.
And something said to relax. It’s harmless fun. Have a few more drinks. If something happens, enjoy it. No one will ever know. Memphis is a thousand miles away. Avery won’t know. And what about Avery? What could he say? Everybody does it. It had happened once before when he was in college, before he was married but after he was engaged. He had blamed it on too much beer, and had survived with no major scars. Time took care of it. Abby would never know.
Run. Run. Run.
They walked for a mile and there was no bar in sight. The beach was darker. A cloud conveniently hid the moon. They had seen no one since Rumheads. She pulled his hand toward two plastic beach chairs next to the water. “Let’s rest,” she said. He finished his beer.
“You’re not saying much,” she said.
“What would you like for me to say?”
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
“You are very beautiful. And you have a beautiful body.”
She sat on the edge of her chair and splashed her feet in the water. “Let’s go for a swim.”
“I, uh, I’m not really in the mood.”
“Come on, Mitch. I love the water.”
“Go ahead. I’ll watch.”
She knelt beside him in the sand and faced him, inches away. In slow motion, she reached behind her neck. She unhooked her bikini top, and it fell off, very slowly. Her breasts, much larger now, lay on his left forearm. She handed it to him. “Hold this for me.” It was soft and white and weighed less than a millionth of an ounce. He was paralyzed and the breathing, heavy and labored only seconds ago, had now ceased al
together.
She walked slowly into the water. The white string covered nothing from the rear. Her long, dark, beautiful hair hung to her waist. She waded knee deep, then turned to the beach.
“Come on, Mitch. The water feels great.”
She flashed a brilliant smile and he could see it. He rubbed the bikini top and knew this would be his last chance to run. But he was dizzy and weak. Running would require more strength than he could possibly muster. He wanted to just sit and maybe she would go away. Maybe she would drown. Maybe the tide would suddenly materialize and sweep her out to sea.
“Come on, Mitch.”
He removed his shirt and waded into the water. She watched him with a smile, and when he reached her, she took his hand and led him to deeper water. She locked her hands around his neck, and they kissed. He found the strings. They kissed again.
She stopped abruptly and, without speaking, started for the beach. He watched her. She sat on the sand, between the two chairs, and removed the rest of her bikini. He ducked under the water and held his breath for an eternity. When he surfaced, she was reclining, resting on her elbows in the sand. He surveyed the beach and, of course, saw no one. At that precise instant, the moon, ducked behind another cloud. There was not a boat or a catamaran or a dinghy or a swimmer or a snorkeler or anything or anybody moving on the water.
“I can’t do this,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“What did you say, Mitch?”
“I can’t do this!” he yelled. “But I want you.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Come on, Mitch. No one will ever know.”
No one will ever know. No one will ever know. He walked slowly toward her. No one will ever know.
There was complete silence in the rear of the taxi as the lawyers rode into Georgetown. They were late. They had overslept and missed breakfast. Neither felt particularly well. Avery looked especially haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale. He had not shaved.
