“I’m not sure I wanna part with that kind of cash, Al.”
“You’re not exactly a pauper, kid. You can afford to spend a little of that money.”
“But it’s my nest egg.” Al was referring to the money I’d made solving a big theft my first week on the island. Even though I’d made off with nearly seven million bucks, I’d lost the majority of it in the fucking Atlantic—a ransom drop gone bad. And the small amount that we’d been able to fish out of the ocean had gone to pay for the damages to the Cruz brothers’ fleet of boats. In the end, I’d wound up with only the interest I’d earned on the money for the couple months that I’d had it. It wasn’t enough to live the rest of my life on, but with Al’s help, I’d invested it properly and it was already growing steadily. I really didn’t feel like touching it.
“You need your own car, kid.” Al held up his hand and pointed at his little finger. “Besides. You owe me.”
“Oh, come on. You’re gonna bring that up?”
“The fact that you got my finger cut off? Yeah, I think I earned the right to bring that up a time or two a week for the rest of my life.”
“It’s not like I was the one that cut it off, Al.”
“Really? That’s how you’re gonna spin it?”
“Spin it? I’m not—look. I put it on ice for you, didn’t I? They sewed it back on. It hardly looks used. Well, except for all those wrinkles on it. But those are your fault, not mine.”
“Hardly looks used? I can’t bend it anymore, kid!”
I fought back a laugh. Watching Al drink a cup of coffee now was like having a tea party with the queen. I had to look away to convince my lips to cover my teeth again. When I had myself under control, I turned to Al.
“Fine. I’ll look at cars.”
Al’s head bobbed as if it was settled. “We’ll go see Steve Dillon this week. I think Artie knows the guy. He’ll give us a good deal.”
I glanced over at Al as I hit the main road that would take us back to the resort. “You’re kinda bossy, you know that?”
“Yeah, well, you’re pain in my ass.” He was quiet for a minute. “And you drive like an old woman.”
I pulled the car over at the first convenience store I could find. “Yeah, well, I took lessons from you.”
2
Early the next morning, my sneakers pressed rhythmically into the wet sand, leaving the scant imprint of my size thirteens along the shoreline. The air, riding in on a balmy ocean breeze, smelled fresh, maybe even a little sweet. With the rising sun at my back and the Caribbean Sea on my left, my legs carried me along at a steady clip. Tom Petty’s “Running Down a Dream” pounded in my ears, blocking out the sound of the surf breaking next to me and the gulls screeching overhead.
My arms pumped by my side as I ran, my lungs demanding more oxygen the harder my calves worked. Getting back into shape felt good, like I was finally getting my life together. And after a few months on Paradise Isle, I was finally at the point where I felt like this was where I belonged. My life had gone from this chaotic messy pile of crap to something Zen and, dare I say, enjoyable.
I mean, let’s be real. I got to wake up on a fucking tropical island every day. I was the head of security at a resort where very little ever happened. I had money in the bank, and an endless supply of women at my doorstep, though most of them were pushing eighty and smart enough to turn me down flat every time. But truth be told, I wasn’t sure how life could be any better.
I kept my head up scanning the horizon. From my peripheral vision, I caught Evie Becker’s broad wave from the porch of her beach front cottage. As she was every morning at this time, Al’s little missus was seated against a pillow on her Adirondack, likely reading the latest Dean Koontz or Nora Roberts, always in hardback. I swore the books weighed more than she did.
I waved back but kept running until I hit the rocky coastline. Hooking a right and breathing heavily, I headed up the loose, sandy beach towards the Pepto-Bismol-pink duplex-style cottages and cut between cottages ten and eleven. I paused next to cottage eleven long enough to catch my breath, grab my tank top off the railing, and tug it on over my head, covering my sweaty torso.
At one point, cottage eleven had been my place, but when Vic and Shirley Hoffman had returned to the island and wanted their cottage back, Artie had gotten me a permanent place next to his in the back of the resort. Now the Hoffmans were back in the US once again, this time to attend their first great-grandchild’s christening, so their place sat empty until Artie was able to rent it out.
I added the black fedora and shades I’d left on their steps and plugged my earbuds back in, grabbed a dog biscuit from the coffee can next to their back door and picked up a jog once again. Running into the sun now along the cobblestone driveway, I slowed next to cottage five and unplugged my buds. Sure enough, I could hear the barking growing progressively louder. I eased myself around the corner and Scully, Gary Wheelan’s pint-sized Pomeranian, came tearing out, yipping at my ankles. To prevent him from following me back up to the resort, I threw the dog biscuit up onto Gary’s deck, and Scully took off on a mad dash to retrieve his present.
Leaving my buds dangling around my neck, I jogged past the resort cottages until I got to the bottom of the steep hill snaking between the main resort hotel on the left and the three-storied motel buildings on the right. I slowed to little more than a walk to catch my breath and then began the arduous climb. The steep, shaded corridor was landscaped with palm trees and low shrubbery on both sides. Lizards and island birds played in the road, not intimidated in the least by the resort guests and golf carts that zipped past regularly.
“Oh, Daniel!” shouted an old woman from just outside one of the motel room doors. The hunched-over woman had a cane in one hand and struggled to push a small red canvas laundry cart with her other hand.
“Need some help, Mrs. Agostino?”
I wasn’t even sure why I asked. Of course she needed help. She always needed help.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said without looking the least bit apologetic. “I did a load of wash in the laundry room and need to get it up to my room. It wouldn’t be an issue if you had a laundry room on the top floor.”
Mrs. Agostino was an eighty-five-year-old widow from New Mexico with hip problems. Two years ago, she’d subleased her apartment in Albuquerque to her niece and was now spending the rest of her days traveling the world. The fact that she still managed to travel alone shocked the hell out of me, but she was so feisty that I imagined her family had a hard time corralling her.
I jogged over to her and her squeaky cart. “It’s no bother.” I looked down into the basket. There was a small load of wash inside and a miniature bottle of detergent.
With two shaky fingers, Mrs. Agostino beckoned me to follow her before turning around to slowly face the wooden flight of stairs. Her cane tapped the first step, then she hefted her left leg up, then her right trailed behind next. She had to stop there to take a big breath before attempting the next step.
It was painful watching her walk up the stairs, one step at a time. I half-debated just picking her up and tossing her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry to speed up the process. Instead, I tucked her clothes and soap under one arm and jogged up the stairs ahead of her. “Can I just put them on your bed Mrs. Agostino?”
She waved her arm after me. “Yes, room …”
“Room 337, I know. You want me to grab you some ice while I’m up there?”
“Ice?” Her crackly old-lady voice dragged the word out, putting emphasis on the question mark at the end as if I’d never gotten her ice before and the idea intrigued her. But I knew the drill. I’d be at the bottom of the stairs, halfway back into my jog, and she’d shout back down at me. “Daniel, while you’re over here, would you mind getting me some ice?”
I held up a palm and tipped my head sideways. “Only if you need some.”
“Oh, well, yes,” she agreed, nodding. “Extra ice would be lovely.”
I nodded, unloaded the clothes in her room, grabbed her ice bucket and strode down the length of the exterior deck to the ice machine. I refilled her ice bucket and placed it back in her room. By the time I’d finished all of that, Mrs. Agostino and her cane had just gotten to the top step. She stood a little more erect to look at me and to smile sweetly.
“Such a sweet young man. I bet you make your mother proud.”
I lifted a shoulder. “She tolerates me.”
Mrs. Agostino’s cackle followed me back down the stairs. I gave her a backwards wave and took off running again.
That was when Caesar Bishop, the new maintenance guy Artie and I had hired, spotted me. Caesar was a short man with a protruding belly and a severe case of plumber’s crack. He’d just gotten out of a golf cart and slung his tool bag over his shoulder when I ran past.
“Mornin’, Caesar,” I hollered.
He looked up. When he saw it was me, he lifted a hand. “Oh, Mr. Drunk, there you are! I needed to speak with you.”
I glanced down at the Fitbit on my wrist. “My run’s not over, Caesar,” I huffed, not bothering to stop.
He chased after me, running several more paces before realizing he couldn’t keep his pants from falling down and his tool bag from bouncing on his hip all while trying to run. When I didn’t stop, he turned around and ran back to his golf cart, catching up to me in it.
“Mr. Drunk, I’m working on installing those new security cameras you ordered for the employee parking lot,” he hollered at me from behind the wheel.
My head bobbed as I jogged next to him. “Good.”
“You said you wanted no gaps in the coverage, but there’s one spot that no matter what I do, I can’t get covered.”
“Then order another camera.”
“How do I do that?”
“Get a purchase order from Mariposa. Fill it out. Put it on my desk, and I’ll sign it.”
“Mariposa?”
“At the front desk.”
Caesar smiled at me and brought the golf cart to a stop on the road, waving. “Thank you, Mr. Drunk.”
“Hey, Caesar,” I hollered, turning around to run backwards up the hill.
“Yeah?”
“Just call me Drunk.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
The top of the hill was hopping as it usually was around this time. Checkout time. Airport shuttles, cabs, and resort cars zipped around the circle driveway in front of the resort’s lobby, which was tucked back into a swathe of palm trees and low growing shrubbery on my left side. To my right, on the far side of the driveway which overlooked the pool and beach down below the hill, I noticed a pair of gardeners tending to the landscaping. Sticking out from between two hibiscus bushes, a perfectly heart-shaped bottom swayed from side to side, making my head tip slightly to the side. None of the gardeners I was aware of had asses quite like that. I veered to the right to investigate.
“Hey, Carlos, what’s happening?” I said, stopping to check out the brightly colored hibiscus flowers. I looked down at the person buried beneath the bushes.
“Hola, Drunk. Nada. Just training the new girl.”
“New girl? I didn’t know we were hiring new gardeners.”
“Well, she’s just going to be helping out for the summer.”
Oooh. I liked the sound of that. Temporary summer help. I was down for a summer fling. “Oh, well, I don’t want to be rude to a new employee. You should introduce me.”
Carlos quirked a brow. “I don’t think Mariposa would like—”
“Tut-tut-tut,” I argued, wagging my finger in the air. “Gardeners aren’t on Mariposa’s staff. She doesn’t have a say.” As part of my commitment to turn over a new leaf and get my act together, I’d agreed to leave Mariposa’s staff alone. No more fraternizing with the cleaning girls or the front office staff. But she had absolutely no say over any gardeners hired. Especially not gardeners with asses like that.
“But, Drunk…”
“Carlos, please. We don’t want to be rude,” I interrupted.
He shrugged and then cleared his throat. “Giselle,” he began, “I’d like you to meet the head of resort security.”
The heart-shaped ass in the bushes began to wiggle, backing out of her position just as the resort’s sliding glass doors slid open and Mariposa Marrero came flying out, scuttling across the circle driveway towards us. “Drunk! Oh no you don’t! Don’t you dare! You just stay away from her.”
I frowned as I saw all the bellhops and Desi, the concierge, turning around to stare. “Mari, you’re making a scene. I was just getting introduced to the new gardener. Relax.”
“I know exactly who you’re about to get introduced to.”
I glanced over at the new girl, who was now on her feet. She was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and dark eyes, very modelesque. Her onyx hair was pulled back in a tight bun, showing off just how young her face really was.
“Giselle, this is the man I warned you about,” said Mariposa to the girl.
“Mari! So now you’re warning the staff about me?” I felt insulted. I looked at the girl. “Please, don’t listen to Mariposa. I’m a really nice guy.”
The girl giggled. “This is Drunk, Mom?”
3
“Mom?!” My eyes widened and I glanced over at Mariposa in shock. This was her daughter? One of the little children she always spoke about?
“Yes, Mom. This is my daughter Giselle. Giselle, this is Drunk, the man I told you to stay far, far away from.”
“I’m offended, Mari. Really offended,” I said, touching my fingers to my chest. “You really think I’d hit on your daughter?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes hard.
I caught Carlos nodding his head too. I stared at him in disbelief. “Carlos!”
His eyes floated up and away and his lips puckered, in whistling fashion. He pulled a pair of pruning shears from his belt and pretended to clip the hedges.
I looked at Giselle and extended a hand to her. “I’m so sorry for whatever your mother told you about me, Giselle.” I paused for a second as she giggled. Then I narrowed my eyes. “What exactly did your mother tell you about me?”
Letting my hand go, she shot a furtive glance in her mother’s direction. She smiled at me, blushing. “I’m sorry, Drunk. It wouldn’t be polite to repeat what she said about you.”
I sighed. “I’m not like that anymore. I swear. That’s the old Drunk. You know that, Mari. I’ve cleaned up my act.”
Mariposa gave me a tight smile and a little head nod. “You’re doing better, yes. But my daughter is off-limits. She’s only seventeen years old.”
“Well, obviously she’s off-limits,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I don’t date seventeen-year-olds. I’m not a pedophile. Plus she’s your daughter. I like you, Mari, but I wouldn’t want you for a mother-in-law.”
That made Giselle giggle.
“So, Giselle. Your mom got you a summer job here?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from me being such a manwhore that Mari thought she had to warn her seventeen-year-old daughter to stay away from me.
“Yeah, I’m trying to save up money for college,” she explained. “Mom said I could work as many hours as I wanted this summer here.”
“Nice. Good for you.”
“Yeah. So, I hear you’re from the US? How do you like it here?”
I smiled. “I love it. It’s really grown on me.”
“I’m kind of surprised to hear that. Mom said you’ve had your hands full.”
I tipped my head to the side. “You mean…”
She laughed. “I mean with all the problems you’ve had. You know, between your ex getting kidnapped and that dead guy they found in your room.”
“Oh, that stuff.” I grinned. “Yeah, it was kind of crazy for a while. Things are settling down now, though. I’m starting to enjoy myself.” I glanced over at Mari. She had one brow lifted while she watched us interact. “So, when’s college?”
“In the fall.
I got into PIU, but we’re short some cash.”
“Well, I’m sure Carlos will keep you busy.” Catching Mari’s continuous skeptical stare, I threw up my hands. “What?! I’m just making conversation. I can’t even talk to Giselle?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Look, Mari. She’s seventeen. I swear, I’m not looking at her like that. She’s like a niece or something.”
“A niece?” asked Mari, putting a hand on her hip.
“Yes.” I looked at Giselle. “Just consider me your good old Uncle Drunk. Okay?”
Mari shook her head. “No, no. I don’t think so, Drunk. There are some bad uncles out there.”
I shook my head. Mari really didn’t trust me. I felt hurt. “Those are cruncles. I’m not a cruncle.”
“What is this ‘cruncles’?”
“Creepy uncles?” I thumbed my chest. “I’m more of a funcle, myself.”
Giselle giggled. “A fun uncle?”
“Yeah. See, you’re already laughing. That’s me. The fun uncle. I’m the guy you come to when you want to do something your mom won’t let you do. Or when you need a favor or help with something.”
Mariposa wagged her finger in my face. “No, Drunk. She doesn’t come to you to do something I wouldn’t approve of. My Giselle is a good girl. You just leave her be. Understand?”
“Sure thing, Mari.” I shot a wink in Giselle’s direction, making her laugh again. “Well, I better get inside. I’ve got work to do. It was a pleasure meeting you, Giselle.”
“It was nice meeting you too, Funcle Drunk.”
I chuckled. “See, Mari? Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”
Drunk Driving Page 2
