Aground on St. Thomas (25 page)

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.

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, exhaustion, 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?”

Sanchez relayed the path she and Bobo took through the opening in the construction fence behind Fort Christian, into the courtyard, and up onto the clock tower.

“We couldn’t very well stay inside the fort, so . . .”

Abe cut in. “Why not? No one knew where you were. You were safe from the federal agents—and our separatist friends here on the island.”

“Well . . .” Sanchez stuttered, feeling flustered. Why
had
she let Bobo lead her around? She stared at the wooden tabletop, her brow furrowed. After a pause, she lifted her head and resumed her story.

“Bobo suggested we move to the church.”

“
Bah
, Bobo.” Abe snorted. “Can’t trust him.” This was his assessment of most politicians, but he’d never liked Bobo.

“Bobo stripped off his tunic, as a disguise . . .”

Abe winced, covering his eyes. “That detail, you could have left out.”

“I lost him in the crowd, but he found me outside the church. We were met at the gate by this guy in a brown robe. Dark-skinned but not West Indian. He had a gray goatee, neatly trimmed.”

She shook her head, still puzzling over the man’s religious affiliation. “He said he was a bishop, but I don’t think he was a member of the local clergy.”

Abe leaned back on his bench, his demeanor suddenly somber. He drew in his breath and then slowly let it out, as if calming his nerves.

Finally, he spoke.

“I know the Bishop.”

Honest Work

THE BISHOP STRODE
briskly through the front gates of the Lutheran church and up the walk to the annex attached to the sanctuary. The regular pastor would be returning from his vacation as soon as the island’s transportation ban was lifted.

He would not have the use of the facilities for much longer.

At the annex door, he reached into the cassock and pulled out the key to the exterior lock he had secured the night before. The door swung open, revealing a bleary-eyed Bobo sitting up on his cot in the dorm room—alone.

The Bishop glanced down the hallway. “Where’s Sanchez?”

Bobo shrugged. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.”

At the Bishop’s scowl, he added, “She was gone when I woke up.”

“How long?” the Bishop demanded as he turned toward the corridor. He trotted to the end, peeking inside each doorway but quickly dismissing the escape potential of each room—until he reached the bathroom.

Bobo caught up to the Bishop at the bathroom window. The cassocked man leaned out the opening, studying the disturbance on the muddy ground below.

“I brought her to you, just like you asked,” Bobo said defensively. “I’ll be expecting my payment. I earned it fair and square. Nothing dishonest about it.”

The Bishop pushed back from the window. Looking over his shoulder at the shirtless senator, he wondered, not for the first time, if the Reverend was playing both sides.

Reincarnation

THE FIXER SAT
at the far end of the bar inside Hotel 1829, quietly sipping a hot cup of tea. He had positioned himself so that the gash on his left wrist was facing the wall, making the injury less noticeable to the bartender and the sickly man teetering on a stool about four feet away.

The second mojito was already halfway consumed, and the bartender feared his small supply of mint leaves would soon run out. He began muddling leaves for a third glass, which he knew without asking would be requested in short order.

The drug-laced concoction had started to kick in, and the mojito drinker had a lot to say—even if his words were somewhat slurred.

“I tell you, it’s something, confronting your own mortality . . . knowing that the end is near . . . that this is it . . . this is all that life is ever going to bring. Makes you kind of wish for something more.”

He slurped up the last of the second mojito. His frail hand tapped the counter. “Like more mojitos!”

The bartender shook his head in amusement. He retrieved the empty glass and replaced it with a full one.

As the man started on the new drink, a commanding feline voice issued a stern order from the veranda.

The bartender reached beneath the counter for a container of cat food.

“Excuse me.” Grateful for the excuse to leave his station, he carried the container outside to the cat’s empty bowl.

The Mojito Man didn’t seem to notice the bartender’s absence. His rambling discourse continued unabated.

“Course, my mother, she believed in reincarnation. We all have multiple lives, so you’ve got to watch out for karma—that’s what she’d say. She always thought she’d come back as a cat.” He swiveled around in his chair, trying to see out to the veranda. “Could be
that
cat. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

After almost falling off the stool, he gave up on his effort to track the cat. He shifted his attention down the bar toward the Fixer.

“What about you? What kind of animal would you come back as?”

The Fixer took a sip of tea, thoughtfully pondering the question.

“Eh, pal? What would you come back as?”

The cup returned to its saucer with a light clink.

“Myself.”

•

THE BARTENDER COMPLETED
his cat-feeding duties and reentered the bar as his demanding patron drained the last of the third mojito. The man sat alone at the counter, his mood quickly mellowing.

“What happened to your friend?” the bartender asked, removing the empty teacup from the end of the counter.

“Said he had business to attend to. Nice guy. Quiet bloke . . .I think I’ll just take a breather over at your nice table.”

The bartender set down the cup and jumped around the counter to help the man off his stool. The spindly legs gave way as the bartender carried his customer to the bench lining the wall on the far side of the backgammon table.

Eyes drooping, the man pointed feebly at the marble game board.

“Hey, what do you call this setup you’ve got laid out here? There’s something familiar about it. I can’t quite remember.”

The bartender carefully disentangled himself from the wasted limbs.

“Backgammon. Can I get you a glass of water?”

The water was rejected, but as the man stretched out across the bench, he asked, “You ever have any pirates come down here and play?”