Aground on St. Thomas (30 page)

Fresh Coconuts

“CURRIE-MON, THIS ISN’T
the turnoff to Coki Beach.”

Mic and Currie had hobbled almost a mile outside of Charlotte Amalie before abandoning their brown cassock disguise. After a short walk, they’d caught a ride on a passing safari truck. The other passengers had shared the news of the Governor’s return and the lifting of the island’s transportation ban.

Currie had watched the road, carefully gauging the length of ride they could afford. At the appropriate moment, he’d signaled for a stop.

The pair had been heading due east for about fifteen minutes when Currie steered Mic toward the Red Hook ferry building.

“Aren’t we going back to Coki?” Mic asked again as Currie hurried to the ticket window. He reached into his pocket and took out their last few dollars.

There was just enough left to buy one ticket on the next departing ferry to St. John.

“One ticket, please,” he said, pushing the crumpled money through the slot to the attendant. Gulping, he turned and handed Mic the ticket.

“Nova won’t stop looking for us. Our only choice is . . .”

The words were too difficult to speak. Currie cleared his throat and finally completed the sentence. “Our only choice is to split up.”

“No,” Mic replied, shaking his head. “No, we can’t do that.”

“We have to,” he insisted solemnly, pressing the ticket into Mic’s hand. “Besides, I’m the one who cut Nova’s face—he’ll remember that. I’m too dangerous for you to be around.”

Mic shook his head. “No, mon, I can’t make it without you.”

“You can set up a hair-braiding business in Cruz Bay. I’ll send Spike over with your kit. You’ll do great there. I’m sure of it.”

Mic swallowed hard. “What will you do?”

Currie shrugged wearily. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “When it’s safe again, I’ll come find you.”

A voice came over the terminal intercom, announcing the ferry’s imminent departure.

“It’s time to go,” Currie said, gently turning Mic toward the gate. Mic took a step forward and then turned back.

“Curie-mon, I refuse to say it.”

He gave his short friend a tight squeezing hug.

“To fresh coconuts.”

Currie could hardly push out the words.

“To fresh coconuts.” Then he added a choked, “Mon.”

•

THROUGH TEARS, CURRIE
watched the ferry turn away from the dock, carrying the only thing in the world that he cared anything about.

The boat powered up its engine and rumbled toward the open water, shrinking in size until it disappeared into the horizon of the Pillsbury Sound.

THE AUTHOR SETTLED
into her ferry seat, relieved to at last be on her way to her intended destination. She glanced out the side window as the boat picked up speed for the short ride east to St. John. Then she began her regular routine of cataloguing her fellow travelers.

A few rows up, a tall West Indian man with a head full of stubby dreadlocks stared morosely at the floor. She wondered for a moment what calamity had struck the poor fellow—before a second passenger grabbed her full attention.

It was the Bishop, or at least, it was a gentleman with the same distinctive goatee.

She blinked, trying to be sure. He sat on the far side of the ferry’s passenger compartment. He had abandoned the tailored brown cassock for far more ragged clothing.

I must be mistaken, she thought—until he ran his hand over his smooth brown scalp and the light reflected off the ruby ring on his index finger.

THERE WERE TWO
more passengers of note on the day’s first departing ferry.

Seated five rows behind the writer, well out of sight of the other passengers, the couple appeared to be enjoying their unexpected getaway. They had packed their bags in a rush that afternoon. Neither was sure how long they would be gone or when they might return.

The KRAT DJ turned his head toward the nearest open window, letting the sea breeze ruffle his frizzy mane of hair. He wrapped an arm around his girlfriend, who was ready to take a much-needed vacation after quitting her job at the local attorney general’s office.

Aground on St. Thomas

THE GOVERNOR’S BLACK
SUV left Emancipation Park and circled through downtown Charlotte Amalie, a victory lap, of sorts, celebrating the most unlikely of political resurrections. The Governor looked out at the passing city—still, remarkably,
his
city.

Eventually, the driver steered the vehicle onto the curving road that wound up the hill to the Governor’s Mansion.

The SUV pulled to a stop in the driveway, but the passenger remained seated for several minutes. Finally, he opened the side door and climbed out. The reckoning could be delayed no longer.

The house was quiet as he approached. He crossed through the front entrance and walked inside.

The place felt oddly different to him. It was uncomfortable, like an ill-fitting shoe. He tried to attribute the sensation to the fact that federal agents had been camped out there for the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps they had moved a piece of furniture or disrupted some other established pattern—but he knew it was the residents who had changed, not the building or its décor.

The Governor paused in the living room by the backgammon table. The position of the checkers still meant nothing to him. Even after all this time, he had no idea how to play the game. Uncle Abe had given up trying to teach him.

Their frequent backgammon lessons had been nothing more than a subterfuge for information exchange. When it came to summoning the Fixer, the old politician was the only reliable means of initiating contact.

A movement on the second floor caught the Governor’s attention.

He turned away from the game board and met the gaze of the woman standing at the top of the staircase. The First Lady stared down at him, her expression unreadable.

He called out with gusto, “Honey, I’m home!”

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