'It's all right, angel. You just have a bit of a Pygmalion complex. It's every man's dream to create the perfect partner for himself. Now, take Boner, for example. He's a prime exponent of that particular syndrome. You wanted to know why he called me Jaylene? Why, when we were living together, he defined my whole existence, from the number of laps I swam in the morning, to what I ate for lunch, to my very name itself. To merely call me Jay was to leave me unmarked. I'm lucky I escaped without a B for Boner brand on my bum…'
Harry grunted.
'I thought you liked all that kind of thing.'
'Well, yes, my love, I do, but it kind of got like kinky boot camp after a while. Too regimented and somehow lacking in joy. I like a varied diet.'
My partner smiled and pinched my well-rounded thigh.
'Talking of food, pass me a banana from that fruit bowl, will you? Dinner was rudely interrupted and the breakfast buffet is still a few hours away. Tomorrow, my dear spouse, we drop anchor at Saint Martin. We'll need to keep our strength up for the tropical treats onshore.'
'Aha.'
If I knew Harry Neptune, those treats would be both dark and sweet…
CHAPTER SIX: THE JEWEL OF DENIAL
Our first port of call was Saint Martin, or Sint Maarten depending on which side of the French / Dutch border you happened to be at the time. This is where the duty free lives, by the yard. Jewelry, watches, electronics, cameras, booze, you name it. Colombian Emeralds and Diamonds International would disappear without trace were it not for Sint Maarten. More credit card limits have been blasted here than anywhere else in the world, including Hong Kong.
My interest in duty free is limited to the booze. I wear watches until they break, which is quite often considering how often I seem to have to flail my way out of trouble. I don't watch TV or take photographs. Jewelry is only as attractive as the woman wearing it. I remember a girl in Bali who wore bracelets made of Coca Cola cans…
Talking of Coca Cola cans, in the Cayman Islands hermit crabs use them as surrogate shells when they can't find a suitable cast-off. Not a lot of people know that.
Back to the story. The Caribbean Conch tied up on the Dutch side at Philipsburg and we lined up at the top of the gangplank with suitable paraphernalia to sample delights of shore life. In my case suitable paraphernalia was a back pocket of US dollars ready for spicy snapper with rice'n'beans and a refreshing beverage or two. When I extracted the cash from my wallet my credit cards had done a runner, but I didn't panic – or not too much anyway. I really must sign them 'Harry Neptune' instead of 'H. Neptune'. Miss Lawrence finds it too easy to assume the persona and autograph of 'Harriet'. Anyway, the damage was usually not too great.
Miss Lawrence and the Black Widow had struck up a conversation at breakfast and were standing arm in arm with shopping baskets and floppy hats.
'And where are you two lovely ladies off to today?' I asked in the holiday spirit.
They looked at each other, giggled – actually giggled – and said nothing.
'Don't snigger! What's it to be – shopping or beach?'
Jay glared. 'Bastard!'
'What? What have I done now?'
I felt aggrieved, because as far as I knew I had behaved very well for several hours. Jay had an early morning tingling bottom and pussy to prove it. Not to mention the breakfast drink she prefers to orange juice.
'It's what you haven't done,' said Mrs. Goldfinkel.
'Bastard!' growled Jay again and kicked my shin.
'I give up.' I moved out of range.
It seemed to be taking a long time to let us into the willing hands of Dutch Immigration and Customs and out to the fleshpots of Mammon. I was about to kick off a choral rendition of 'Why Are We Waiting?' when there was movement at the bottom of the gangplank. Two large black policemen appeared, flanking an even larger black man in a long-sleeved shirt and Barbados Cricket Club tie. He took point as they marched up the gangplank. As they reached the deck a hearse appeared on the dock and two black-tied gentlemen extracted a stretcher from the back.
As the policemen – the guy in the middle had CID written all over him – reached deck level I looked as guilty as I could. I hunched shoulders, shifted eyes, and hid my face with my Panama hat. I live in hopes of wrongful arrest and massive damages. So far none of my arrests have been wrongful, but there is no harm in trying.
The detective stopped and tipped my hat up.
'Mr. Neptune,' he nodded.
I looked at him with a certain amount of amazement. I was sure I had never been arrested on this island.
'We have a mutual friend,' he said. 'Inspector John Henry Fernack of the NYPD.'
'Ah.'
'Friend' was perhaps not the right word in my case where Inspector Fernack is concerned. 'Acquaintance' is nearer the mark, but still regretfully short of it. I surmised that someone had been checking the passenger list.
The copper moved on to speak to Captain Ahab in the shadow of a lifeboat. After a couple of minutes he turned and waved a hand at his uniformed colleagues blocking the way to shore. They stepped aside and allowed the flow of passengers to start dockward. They were obviously confident that if the guilty party scarpered, they would catch him or her at the airport or in whatever leaky scow they hijacked to head for Puerto Rico or the Dominican Republic. There is no point going to Tortola in the British Virgin islands because a strange face gets noticed immediately. I know.
Mrs. Goldfinkel was looking at me in a strange and rather fascinated way after my encounter with the policeman, but Jay ignored it. We have known each other a long time.
Jay also ignored me as she and the Black Widow hustled down to the dock and through the fairly perfunctory formalities. Jay had wrapped a scarf round her head and donned dark glasses – my dark glasses – to evade Captain Ahab's house arrest order. He was too busy talking to the police official to notice. They disappeared in the direction of shopping opportunities without a backward glance.
I saw Miss Swat near the taxi rank studying a tourist map with Dr. Dunnett. I looked again to make sure I saw right as they climbed into a battered Datsun and disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Chacun a son gout, as those who can't speak the Queen's English put it.
Boner and Frippery brushed past me.
'What ho, Frip! How's the old bum today then? Not much padding to absorb the whatsit!'
Frippery looked at me with her what-the-dickens-are-you-talking-about-now expression.
'I have no idea what you're talking about. Explain yourself, you…'
Boner grabbed her arm and almost whisked her off her feet as he headed for the road.
'A nice drink is called for, my dear. A health food cafe run by Netherlands expatriates is marked on the map not a few streets from here…'
Frip cast a frowning glance back over her shoulder then returned her attention to locomotion as she tripped on a coconut shell. My ex-wife and Jay's ex-lover disappeared at a rate of knots.
I stood alone and slightly bemused. It looked like I was left to my own devices until mid-afternoon when I was to meet Miss Lawrence in the Lobster Pot.
Never mind. I could amuse myself. Snapper. And then there was a rather interesting watering hole that I wot of. On the French side, of course. Dutch debauchery is far too civilized.
I put the best foot forward and hailed a taxi to take me over the non-existent border to Marigot.
'Now, I think you might find this particular stone of especial interest, ladies.'
