by B R Snow
“Welcome to The People’s Paradise,” she said. “Please have a seat. I just need to finish this up. I’ll be right with you.”
I sat down across from her and looked around the room. It was painted a bright red, the preferred color of communists everywhere, and a diverse collection of posters of famous revolutionaries inscribed with pithy quotes about the common good and struggles of the working class adorned the walls. Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Fidel, and Che were all well-represented, and my capitalist instincts raised their ugly head when I caught myself wondering if their various estates were receiving royalties.
Then I caught a strong whiff of the dominant odor pervading the room. Eau de Frat House was what came to mind, and I picked up the scent of fruit, rum, stale beer, sweat, and weed. Then I noticed a couple of broken lamps and chairs that had been tossed haphazardly into a corner of the room. If this place was indeed considered paradise for those on the far left of the political spectrum, I think I’ll keep dancing with the one that brought me, our present state of affairs notwithstanding.
The woman must have noticed my reaction, even though she hadn’t looked up from her computer screen. “Staff party,” she said, tapping the keyboard. “We have one each week after the new issue is put to bed.” She glanced up briefly. “Last night was a particularly good one.” Then she went back to her typing. “We have quite an interesting mix of people working here, and sometimes the conversations tend to get pretty heated.”
“I guess your brand of politics attracts a wide range of different people, right?”
“Politics doesn’t make strange bedfellows, marriage does,” she said, finally making eye contact. “One of Marx’s better quotes, don’t you think?”
“Karl Marx said that?” I said, frowning.
“No, Groucho,” she said, grinning. “They hate when I joke about their political views.”
“So, you don’t consider yourself one of the downtrodden proletariat?”
“Usually only on Monday mornings,” she said, shrugging as she reached for her cup of coffee. “I work on commission and have a mortgage to pay. As such, my politics are more grounded in reality. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to place an ad for our restaurant,” I said, pulling out the mockup Josie and Chef Claire had helped me come up with over breakfast. I handed it to her. “We’re starting a two for one special on Tuesday nights.”
“Okay,” she said, scanning the mockup. “What size ad would you like to run?”
She handed me a laminated pricing sheet that outlined the various sizes and prices of each option. I studied it, decided on a quarter-page ad that would run for the next three weeks, then slid a credit card across the desk. As she processed the payment, I took another look around the otherwise empty room.
“I read a very interesting article in one of your recent issues,” I said, casually.
“Really?” she said, sounding surprised. “Which one?”
“It was focused on the battle between the developers and environmentalists over what should and shouldn’t be protected land.”
“I remember that one,” she said, sliding the credit card back to me. “It raised some interesting points, but I had a hard time following the thread.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said. “Do you know who wrote it?”
“Apparently, it was some guest columnist that Frederick crossed paths with. I never met the person who wrote it.”
“Frederick?”
“Our publisher,” she said, nodding her head toward the doorway behind her. “He’s the leader of this intrepid little band of 21st century revolutionaries. His term, not mine.”
“Are there others like you working here?” I said. “You know, other capitalists who like having a little walking-around money?”
“Well, there’s Frederick. And there’s one other person who sells ads, but I haven’t seen him in three days,” she said, shrugging. “I think he might have quit.”
“That must make it hard on you,” I said, sneaking a peek past her desk at the doorway.
“Not really,” she said, shaking her head. “More money for me. And the rest of the staff pretty much leaves me alone since I’m the only one generating any revenue that keeps the place running.”
“I see,” I said, frowning. “What do the other people do?”
“Talk and argue mostly,” she said, sliding my receipt across the desk. “Just sign the top copy, please. And when they’re not arguing, they’re usually drinking and smoking weed.”
“Nice work if you can get it, huh?” I signed the receipt and slid her copy back.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “As long as they don’t interfere with my ability to make a living, I don’t care if they spend all day sitting in a tree.”
“Is Frederick around today?”
“Yes, he’s back there.”
“Do you think it would be possible for me to have a quick word with him about the article?”
“I don’t see why not,” she said, standing up. “I’m sure he can tear himself away from the worker’s struggle for a few minutes.” Then she chortled, obviously delighted with her joke.
I sat quietly and checked my phone for messages while I waited. A few minutes later, she returned and gestured for me to follow her.
“Down the hall on your right. Just stay out of arms reach, and you’ll be fine,” she said, handing me one of her business cards. “And thanks for the business. I hope the ad works for you. If you want to run more, just stop by or give me a call.”
I entered the large, plush office that contained an ensuite, and I assumed it used to be the master bedroom. The man behind the desk had his back to me and was intensely focused on the video game he was playing. He had streaks of gray in his ponytail and was wearing a faded tee shirt and beach shorts.
“Have a seat,” he said, thumbs a blur and not looking up from the imperialist army he was doing battle with. “Want a cookie? They’re really good.” He paused long enough to nod at the plate of chocolate chip cookies next to him.
“Thanks,” I said, starting to reach for one before pausing when my neurons fired urging caution. “What makes them so good?”
“Oh, just a special ingredient,” he said, giggling. “Dang it. I never saw the little bugger coming.” He tossed the handheld game console away in disgust and swiveled around in his chair. “Whoa. Jessie didn’t mention how hot you were.”
“Good for Jessie,” I said, her comment about keeping my distance now making sense.
“Who are you?” he said, extending the plate of chocolate chip cookies that looked delicious.
“I’m Suzy Chandler,” I said, staring despondently at the plate. “There’s weed in the cookies, isn’t there?”
“Sure,” he said, nodding. “I find the symmetry of eating something that continues to make you hungry the more you eat fascinating.”
“Sure, sure. Sort of a circle of life thing, right?”
He frowned, considered the idea, then gave me a bobblehead doll nod.
“Good analogy. Try one.”
“I think I’ll pass. Thanks,” I said, sitting down without being invited. If it offended him, he didn’t show it. But he was so stoned, he might not have even noticed I’d sat down.
“Jessie mentioned you wanted to discuss a recent article. The one about the protected land movement, right?”
“That’s the one,” I said, draping a leg across my knee and realizing that my sunburn was starting to abate. “I just have a few questions about it.”
“Don’t we all,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “I tried to read it after smoking this huge blunt and got completely lost. All those different scenarios and company names. After I’d reread the first paragraph four times, I gave up.” He moved his hand over the top of his head as if it were a plane taking off. “You know, it went way over my head.”
“Got it. So, you didn’t work on the article?” I said.
“Me? Oh, no way,” he said, shaking his head again
as he reached for another cookie. “Are you sure? They’re really good.”
“No, thanks. I never cookie and drive.”
He stared at me, trying to make sense of my comment, but decided clarification probably wasn’t worth the effort. He draped a leg over his knee, revealing a very expensive style of shoe.
“I’m hoping I might be able to speak with the person who wrote the article,” I said, leaning my head to one side to catch his eyes that were drifting around the office.
“I can’t help you with that,” he said, eventually. “I’m not sure where she is.”
“She? So it’s a woman?”
“Yeah. Abigail,” he said, nodding. “She had an accident on Christmas Day, and nobody has seen her since.”
Lightbulbs started popping in my head, and I forced myself to remain calm.
“What’s her last name?
“No idea,” he said, shrugging. “I’m surprised I remembered Abigail. We only met a couple of times.”
“What sort of accident did she have?” I said, casually.
“Apparently, she almost drowned and had to be rescued. I heard about it and went to the hospital to see how she was doing, but she’d already been discharged. And nobody has seen her around since then. Her taking off like that has left a big hole in the paper. We were planning on doing a four-part series.” He drifted off and started talking to the wall. “I guess I’ll just have to dig up a few classic manifestos out of the archives. We’ll call it… a retrospective collection. Yeah, that’ll work.” Then he turned back to me and flinched, apparently surprised to see me still sitting there. He flashed me a small grin. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
I flashed him a grin and nodded. He grabbed another cookie and stared lovingly at the game console.
“You don’t have any idea where she might be?”
“Not a clue,” he said, shrugging. “Like I said, I barely knew her, and she seems to be a very private person.”
“But she shares your political views?”
“When it comes to the environment,” he said, taking a bite of cookie. “But when it comes to money, she’s pseudo-proletariat. I’m pretty sure she comes from big money and doesn’t seem to mind if people know it.”
“Just like you, right?” I said, deciding to test out one of the theories my neurons had been nagging me about since I’d sat down.
“What?” he said, stuffing the rest of a half-eaten cookie in his mouth.
I swallowed hard. They did look like some very tasty cookies.
“You also seem to be a man of considerable means,” I said. “That’s a top of the line computer, your taste in art is impeccable, and those Mauri ostrich sneakers you’re wearing go for nine hundred a pair.”
“What are you, some sort of lifestyle consultant? Maybe a fashion expert?” he said, dropping his leg from his knee and sliding his feet under the desk.
“No, but my mother is determined to teach me everything she knows,” I said, shrugging. “You come from money, don’t you?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but as a matter of fact I do,” he said, rediscovering a bit of focus.
“Are you a local?”
“Pretty much. We moved here when I was very young. But I try to get away a few times a year. I like to ski.”
“Ah, Aspen and the Swiss Alps,” I said, giving him a knowing smile. “Not places I would choose to assuage the guilt that comes with being a man of means. But whatever works, huh?”
“Do you come from money?” he said, studying me closely.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then you know what it’s like to be able to do anything you want while millions of people are starving. How do you deal with it?”
“I spend as much of mine as I can on dogs,” I said.
“Dogs? Yeah, I can see that working,” he said, giving it some serious consideration. “I sure hope Abigail’s is okay. He’s a cool little dog.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” I said, deciding not to divulge what I knew for the moment. “Why the need for the big act?”
“Oh, you mean the plight of the working class and all that?” he said, managing a small smile.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it does help a bit with the guilt,” he said. “And you have to admit that the combination of a left-wing free paper that funds itself by selling ads to the very same businesses it constantly condemns has a nice ironic twist to it.”
“I have to give you that,” I said, laughing. “It does.”
“But mostly I do it to just to annoy my old man. I keep spending his money while publishing a paper that regularly refers to people like him as disciples of the devil.”
“Aren’t you worried he’s going to cut you off?”
“Nah, he can’t touch me. My mom set up an irrevocable trust for me before she died. And as soon as I turned twenty-one, it was off to the races for me when it came to burning through it.”
“But you haven’t been able to spend it all?” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, I’m sure I could if I tried hard enough,” he said, frowning. “But between you and me, I like having it. Does that make me a despicable person?”
“I’d probably go with confused and leave it at that,” I said. “It might help you sleep easier at night.”
“No problem with that,” he said, holding up his cookie. “After a couple of these, I sleep like a baby.”
“Again, whatever works,” I said, my neurons overloaded with new information. “I need to get going. But thanks for your time.”
“No problem,” he said, standing up and extending his hand. “And if you happen to run into Abigail, remind her that she still owes me some more articles. But since she’s doing them for free, I don’t have much leverage with her.”
“She’s not charging you for them?”
“No, she said that all that mattered was getting them out in print,” he said.
“Interesting,” I said, then another question popped into my head. “How did your father make his money?”
“He’s a doctor. But several years ago, he got into real estate development. That’s where he made most of his money.”
“A doctor?” I said as another neuron fired hard. “Your last name isn’t Couch by any chance, is it?”
“Yeah, it sure is. You know my dad?”
“I’ve met him a few times. He’s a friend of my mother.”
“Everybody knows each other down here. Especially those in the ruling class with means,” he said, shrugging and allowing himself a momentary lapse back into revolutionary rhetoric. “He hates my guts. But I can’t really blame him. I do everything I can to give him lots of reasons.”
His last cookie seemed to kick in, and he began to drift away. I waved goodbye and left the office to the sound of an intergalactic battle playing out on his computer. I walked outside to my jeep, waving goodbye to Jessie on my way past her desk, and headed for the bakery to pick up a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies on my way home.
Even though they weren’t the type of cookie that produced the ongoing urge to keep eating, I was pretty sure I could force down a half-dozen before I filled up.
My munchies didn’t need any help.
Chapter 19
Captain Jack greeted us on the pier like we were long, lost friends, but I assumed the source of his excitement was driven more by the fact that he’d been spending the day on the water with the three of us instead of trying to avoid flying treble hooks while attempting to teach a boatload of tourists the finer points of deep sea fishing. We’d been talking about visiting Little Cayman and Cayman Brac, the other two islands that, along with Grand Cayman, comprised the Cayman Islands. We really couldn’t consider ourselves residents, even part-timers, if we hadn’t at least visited the other islands, so we agreed to set aside the day to explore and relax. After leaving all the dogs with my mother, we headed for Captain Jack’s boat and a day out on the water.
Josie and Chef Claire were in the
two-piece suits my mother had gotten them for Christmas, something that got Captain Jack’s attention faster than a poorly thrown treble hook when they removed their shorts and tee shirts and stretched out in the sun. I had opted for full-coverage white linen and a floppy hat my mother said reminded her of Katherine Hepburn’s outfit in The African Queen. The three of them could laugh all they wanted, and they did, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
Little Cayman is located about eighty miles northeast of Grand Cayman, and Captain Jack told us to kick back and enjoy the ride that would take just under two hours. The early morning sun was already hot, the sky cloudless, but the breeze created by the boat’s speed of forty knots, along with the cooler Chef Claire had packed, helped us relax. Josie removed one of the containers filled with a variety of sliced fruits and passed it around. Then she grabbed another, this one loaded with a bacon spinach quiche Chef Claire had brought home from the restaurant. I filled a small plate and stretched out and nibbled on a piece of mango.
“Are you sure you’re okay with the two for one special?” I said to Chef Claire. “I sort of sprung that one on you.”
“A little late to start worrying about that now, isn’t it?” Josie said through a mouthful of quiche.
“No, it’s fine,” Chef Claire said. “Tuesday is a good night to do something like that. And it can’t hurt to start bringing in some more first-timers.”
“The place is off to a great start,” Josie said. “And I really like Chef Finn.”
“Yeah, he’s great,” Chef Claire said. “We’ll be fine unless the police decide to arrest Rocco.”
