Reverently, the jeweler placed a diamond of Liz Taylor dimensions upon a small felt mat and handed me a tiny eyeglass to squint at it through. Not wishing to appear gauche in the Harry Winston department, I carefully appraised the gem's many glittering facets and suppressed a profound urge to whistle. The Black Widow, whom the dusky Turkish-born proprietor had greeted with a familiarity and enthusiasm bordering on the indecent, gleefully rummaged in a tray of multi-carat stones as if they were mere trinkets at the dime store.
'Oh, yes, that is a beauty! I knew I could trust my old friend Mr. Hirsch to come up with a diamond worthy of a Neptune's bride. Oh! Oh! This is all so romantic. I just can't wait until I find myself another lovely man.'
I smiled at Mrs. Goldfinkel reassuringly. To be honest, I'd never really been one for adorning myself with expensive baubles but the woman's enthusiasm was as infectious as typhoid in the rainy season. At breakfast that morning I had allowed myself to be talked into going shopping for a ring sans husband ('never trust a man to pick your jewelry unless he's a Jewish banker, darling!') I sneaked a little plastic from the old man's wallet and hoped there was sufficient virtual cash for Mrs. Neptune to invest in a modest rock. If all else failed, we could always pawn it in a tight spot. However, gem modesty appeared to be unheard of in the tropical bastion of the seriously rich. Suddenly, I realized that there were no price tags, however discreet, anywhere in the subtly understated store.
If you have to ask the price, you probably can't afford it.
Gently, I laid the diamond and the glass upon the jeweler's mat and tried to look as if I simply hadn't found what I was shopping for.
'Um, would you happen to have anything more, erm, petite? After all, my hands are very small…'
Both the gold-toothed Mr. Hirsch and the Black Widow gave me what could only be described as an 'old- fashioned' look.
'My dear, never forget that diamonds are a girl's best friend! And, when it comes to a fine stone to represent the sublime reward of true love, let me tell you honey that size is everything. Perhaps we should take some iced tea and have a nice little chat.'
I noted with interest how Mrs. Goldfinkel's gushing firmed up in the presence of plain brass tacks. Not to mention the faint but detectable hint of Noo Joisy in the 'honey.' I imagined that no one was what or who they purported to be in the Caribbean. Maybe Harry's tales of the tropics weren't so tall, after all.
Overcome with curiosity, I mouthed 'how much?' at the frowning jeweler. Raising his dark eyes to the elegant ceiling, he mouthed the answer. It appeared to be the gross fiscal debt of a South American republic. I smiled wanly and stuffed Harry's Amex card deeper into my shopping basket. Not in this lifetime.
'That's obscene. I'm sorry, Mrs. Goldfinkel, but I think I'm going to need that cold drink after all!'
I tottered out into the bright heat of the street and leaned against a wall, a slightly cross-looking Black Widow in tow. I sensed I was about to receive tea and man-squeezing 101 from my dumpy friend. She was twittering on about Swiss banks and offshore accounts when I spotted a very different but to my mind infinitely more appealing store. Pushing through a brightly printed curtain, I found myself in an Aladdin's cave of painted wooden toys and trinkets made from cheerfully colored glass. I found a cardboard box marked 'rings, assorted' and gleefully selected a massive faux knuckle-duster of Hope Diamond dimensions.
'Perfect, only perfect.'
It fitted my slender finger like a glove and caught the rays of the intensifying sun like a precious gem.
'I'll take it!'
The Black Widow tut-tutted as I handed over a handful of coins and sashayed gracefully out to the street. Tilting my wide-brimmed hat to an elegant angle, I refreshed my lipstick and caught sight of myself in the mirrored frontage of a more plutocratic store. I felt like Audrey Hepburn and blew myself a kiss. Poor old Harry. He'd get the fright of his life when he spotted my rock. It was rather naughty but I do enjoy a practical joke…
CHAPTER SEVEN: A CULTURAL INTERLUDE
The Watering Hole was at the end of town tourists seldom frequented. Here were the docks and dockland, small ships, coasters, and the lighters that brought cargo in from the larger ships moored in the roads. A US Coast Guard cutter was tied up at the central dock, its diagonal orange stripe vivid against the grey hull. There was a popgun on the foredeck, decently covered in a tarpaulin, and various other armaments no doubt in the armory below. The men (and nowadays a few women) to wield them against the forces of evil (equals drug runners) would be out investigating the tropical delights of the island, except for the glum looking guard sipping coffee at the top of the gangplank. I gave him a cheery, 'What ho, Captain Bligh!' and headed for sustenance.
I had already had my snapper at an excellent little joint from the balcony of which one could mock fat tourists in horrible shirts. It was time for some entertainment. I had an hour to spare before my expected arrival at the Lobster Pot.
I turned into the door of the Watering Hole and paused a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Another pair of eyes already inside needed no such adjustment.
'Harr' Neptoon, yo' bastar'! Yo' owe me money!'
A mulatto the size of a cruise ship vaulted surprisingly nimbly over the bar. He leaned back to a barman's recess and extracted a cutlass. 'Cutlass' is the West Indian name for a machete, but believe me in this man's hand it was a cutlass from the old days. He advanced on me, kicking chairs and customers out of his way.
'Bastar'! Twen'y t'ree dollar! Yo' no pay for yo' roun' las' time! Yo' bastar'! I chop you!'
He flung two longshoremen aside and towered over me, the cutlass raised high while one hand gripped my shirtfront. Spittle dribbled down his chin. The whites of his wide eyes matched the white of his bared teeth. I felt my feet leave the ground.
'Toss you for it. Double or nothing.'
There was silence for a long, long moment. I felt a shirt button give up the struggle.
'All righ'. Me coin – I reme'er yo' tricks.'
The huge barman put me down and pulled an East Caribbean dollar from his pocket. The octagonal coin flew toward the ceiling from his muscular fingers.
'Heads!' I cried.
The coin reached its zenith and fell back to the floor. I reached to pluck it out of the air and felt cold steel at my throat.
'Just trying to be helpful,' I muttered carefully.
The dollar landed, bounced a couple of times, and settled.
'Heads it is!' I gloated. 'Let me down, you great baboon.'
The great baboon dropped me and I scooped the coin from the floor before he had a chance to check my reading of the face.
'Good to see you, Eldine my friend.'
Eldine looked at me quizzically for a moment, then slapped my back and held out a huge paw.
'We got good show! For Yanquis from Coas' Gaur'! Stay! – an' pay yo' bill!'
I looked around the gloom and saw a dozen or so US Coast Guards at rickety tables, imperfectly disguised in holiday attire. They looked at me with suspicion, which I ignored. Water off a duck's back, seen it too often. The rest of the clientele were some businessmen and a couple of coaster skippers and engineers. This was an up- market joint.
I looked more closely at one of the Coast Guard tables and saw that one drinker was a Latino-looking woman, wearing a muscle shirt and impressive muscle definition to complement it.
Eldine was back behind the bar with a glass ready for me by the time I had wended my way and taken in the scenery. He had a matching glass of colorless liquid. Not my favorite tipple, but I was not about to be offered a choice. I knew this stuff. Most bottles have a message on the label warning.'80% proof' or '75% alcohol by volume.'
This St. Vincent bottle just said, 'Very Strong Rum.' It wasn't kidding.
There was only one way to deal with it.
'Down the hatch!'
I threw it back and managed to keep it down. I had aimed to miss lips, tongue, taste buds, throat and
