Little dead weenie.
I haven't been to bed with a woman since.
Royce Verriker died of a sudden massive coronary in the spring of '91. I read about it in the
I thought about going to the funeral home where he was laid out for viewing. Not to pay my respects: to spit in his dead face. But of course I didn't do it. I settled for the knowledge that the bastard wouldn't be giving any more men's wives the best fuck they'd ever had.
The new St. Thomas palled on me enough by the early nineties to force me off the island. Frenchtown was turning into a 'historic' district filled with trendy restaurants designed to attract the snowbirds and cruise ship passengers. Many of the Cha-Chas had assimilated or moved away, and mainlanders were buying up the old frame buildings and renovating them in what they considered to be quaint Caribbean styles. It was all sham and window dressing, and I couldn't stand to be a part of it.
I thought I might like living on Tortola, so I packed up my meager belongings and moved over there. It wasn't as tourist-ridden; I liked what I'd seen of Kingstown and Cane Garden Bay, and there was the lure of the Arundel distillery. But I didn't feel comfortable there, didn't fit in with the British residents and the island lifestyle. I stayed only about a year.
From there I went to St. Croix—the west end, Frederiksted, a town that had the look and feel of an old- fashioned Caribbean outpost on the five days a week it wasn't being invaded by the cruise ship armada. I rented a cottage near LaGrange Beach, one of a series of beaches perfect for long morning and evening walks. I might still be there if I hadn't come home late one night and walked in on two strangers ransacking the cottage. They beat me up, left me in a bloody heap, and ran off. As far as I know, the local law never cought them. I wouldn't have pressed charges if they had. I considered myself lucky, as it was, that the police didn't think of me as anything more than an unfortunate victim.
The thieves took $200 I had stashed in the cottage, and another $60 out of my wallet. They didn't get my passport and bank books because I keep them in my shoes, but in addition to the cash they stole the brassbound pirate's chest—the last of my possessions that I cared anything about.
When I got out of the hospital, I said to hell with St. Croix, and that was when I moved to St. John.
I've been here seven years now, living in the same south-end saltbox and spending most of my days in Jocko's.
I bought an old VW when I first arrived, drove it up to Coral Bay to shop a couple of times a month and a few times over to Cruz Bay. Once during the first year, on a whim, I rode the ferry from Cruz Bay to Charlotte Amalie, but I didn't go any farther onto St. Thomas than the King's Wharf dock. There were seven or eight cruise ships in the harbor, and the downtown streets were so thick with tourists there might have been a parade going on. I took the next ferry back to St. John and I haven't been over there since. Or to Cruz Bay, for that matter.
The VW died a couple of years ago. I sold it cheap to one of the local natives and he hauled it away. I wasn't driving it much, anyway, by then. The saltbox is only a mile and a half from here, easy walking distance, and Jocko supplies everything I need in the way of food and drink. I don't go anywhere else. I don't have anywhere else to go.
End of the Une.
ST. JOHN
THE PRESENT
I STOP TALKING and lean back in my chair. Talley has kept my glass filled and I'm very drunk, but I know it doesn't show. The one thing, the only thing, I haven't lost is my control while under the influence.
Talley is looking at me in a new way now. Part of his revised opinion of me is a grudging awe. The rest . . . I don't care about the rest.
'That's one hell of a story,' he says.
'Meaning you don't believe it?'
'Oh, I believe it all right. The essential facts are too easy to check.'
'Could be I don't care about that,' I say. 'Could be I made it all up to cadge free drinks from gullible tourists.'
'Not with the amount of emotion you put into it. Or all the gory details about Cotler and Annalise. I've written fact and fiction both—I know one from the other.'
'Details make for a better story. And emotion can be faked.'
'Are you trying to unconvince me?'
'Hell, no. On the contrary. I don't want you to have any doubts.'
It is late afternoon now. Brassy hot outside, sticky hot in here under Jocko's lazy fan. Sweat rolls down my cheeks, drips off my chin onto the sodden front of my shirt, but I don't bother to wipe it away. Heat and sweat have no effect on me. Nothing has much effect on me anymore.
'All right,' Talley says, 'so the story's true. Every word of it?'
'Every word.'
'And you want to publish it.'
'That's right. Is it publishable?'
'You know it is. But you don't need me to write it up for you. It can pretty much stand as you told it, in your own words, with some minor editing.'
'I wouldn't know how to go about getting a book published. You do. Do whatever it takes, and you can have all the money.'
'Entire advance, full royalties?'
'Every penny. I don't care about money. I have more money than I'll ever need.'
He's hooked. But he says, 'Before I do anything, I want the answers to a couple of questions. The first one is, Why me?'
'Why not you? You're the only writer I've ever met. I knew that's what you were before you approached me. Jocko told me the last time you came in. If you hadn't sat down with me today, I'd've gone to you.'
'So spilling your guts wasn't spur-of-the-moment.'
'Not hardly. Been on my mind for a while now.'
'Okay. Second question: Why do you want your story published? Now, after all these years?'
I roll some Arundel around on my tongue, savoring the taste. Outside, the sun is coming low and the bay is starting to darken. Later tonight, after moonrise, the water will be as black as cold tar and moonlight and starlight and nightlights on the anchored boats will paint it in shiny gold and shimmering quicksilver.
Talley says, 'It can't be published anonymously—you'd have to use your real name. As soon as the book comes out, you'U be arrested and tried, and there's not much doubt you'll be convicted. There're no statutes of limitations on federal crimes or on murder. And murder could be proved if the authorities care enough to go digging in the old French cemetery. You must know all this.'
'I know it.'
'Then why confess?'
'Is that what you think this is, a confession?'
'Isn't it? A way to bring yourself more punishment?'
'Come on, Wise. Those three crimes of yours weren't so damn perfect. You may not have been cought and prosecuted for any of them, but that doesn't mean you got off scot free. The woman you committed the first one for betrayed you not once but three times. You lost your only friend, your boat, your love of the sea, your sexual ability, and your zest for life. You've got the deaths of two people on your conscience. And all the stolen money hasn't kept
