muscled in that clearly defined way which showed he spent his free time in the gym, shifting weights. Bit of a cliche but each to her own. Roughly, he pushed the Black Widow down onto her hands and knees and forced his rigid cock between her large, plump buttocks to give her a sound doggie-style pounding. There was a lot of slapping and a considerable amount of wobbling, and I stifled a giggle. Troy looked on impassively, a similarly impressive if redundant swelling in his skintight shorts. The Black Widow's breasts flopped wildly and a large collection of gold chains tinkled musically as she ground and bucked her ample rump against the young stud's frantic thrusts.
'Owowowowowowowow!!!'
A familiar squeal but, this time, nothing to do with burning sand. Mrs. Goldfinkel had attained orgasm. The blond immediately withdrew, seemingly unconcerned about his own satisfaction. I saw him exchange a knowing glance with the waiting Troy. The Black Widow looked rather dazed and, for once, seemed lost for words. Finally, she carefully eased herself back into her swimsuit and reached for a large floral beach-bag. I knew what was coming. The brace of gigolos' eyes lit up with the unmistakable glint of impending payment. Playfully, Mrs. Goldfinkel stuffed several one hundred-dollar bills into each young man's swim-shorts.
'And there's plenty more where that came from if you take good care of your Auntie Gigi!'
The three emerged from the shade of the tree line and sauntered nonchalantly off across the sand. I noted that Mrs. G had substituted a more practical pair of beach shoes for the high-heeled mules. Suddenly, I noticed that a discarded book lay near the scene of the menage a trois. Aflame with curiosity, I wandered casually over and picked it up. It was just the type of trashy paperback novel I could imagine Mrs. Goldfinkel reading, some lurid 1970s Hollywood bonk-buster with a glitzy cover. Idly, I opened the book and spotted a sprawling signature in a large, multi-curlicued hand.
Lily May Scroggins
The handwriting was familiar, often seen embellishing checks on my little shopping expedition with Gigi Goldfinkel. Thoughtfully, I replaced the book and, noticing that the Bingo had finished, I decided to brave the crush in the shelter and have a long, cold drink. Maybe, while my errant spouse was AWOL elsewhere on St. Kitts, I would solve the case of the mysterious Lily May.
I propped the bicycle against a bollard with a certain sense of achievement. It wasn't far from The Circus to the cruise ship dock, but there were many and various obstacles along the way to be avoided. Considering my sight was a little blurred after the afternoon's entertainment it was no mean feat to arrive without biting the dirt even once.
I had ruled that discretion was the better part of valor and left the good Captain in the telephone box. Someone would let him out when the tourists had tired of taking snaps.
'Good evening, Mr. Neptune.'
The Third Officer stood in his immaculate whites beneath the awning at the top of the stone steps leading down to the tenders. The Caribbean Conch lay at anchor a mile offshore, wisps of smoke already drifting from her high raked funnel.
'Good evening, Admiral. Seen the memsahib anywhere? She went hunting rhino or something in the hills and hasn't been seen since.'
The young man looked at his feet.
'Mrs. Neptune went aboard on the last tender, sir. She gave me a message for you, but as I am Plymouth Brethren I fear I cannot pass it on. Not that I fully understood it, anyway.'
'Don't bother, old boy, I can guess. Well, off we go. Where's the next port of call anyway?'
'Antigua, sir. Wadadli in the old Arawak tongue. Sugar mills, Nelson's naval dockyard, and a rather splendid museum.'
'Indeed, yes. I recall the place. Not the spot for a bit of bird shooting.'
The Third Officer winced. The Birds, father and son, have ruled Antigua for fifty years, before, during and after independence. The once rich sugar island is now almost entirely dependent on tourism, the fledgling offshore finance industry having been largely shut down by international pressure and online gambling going the same way with the help of outrageous demands for fees and licenses from the government. It's a pity. Antigua should have a lot going for it.
'Never mind, the beaches are still there I imagine. 365 of them it's said, one for every day of the year. And I dare say the rum hasn't gone off.'
'Indeed, sir,' muttered the Third Officer in barely disguised disapproval. The Lord knew what his idea of fun was. W.C. Fields had something when he said, 'Never trust a man who doesn't drink.' I discretely checked my wallet though I couldn't really see Young Upright doing anything more dishonest than cheating at Happy Families.
'We must get on, sir. This is the last boat. We nearly went without you.'
He gave an officious glare that was rather out of place on his pink face. I made my way down the steps and onto the tender.
'Cast off forrard! Cast off aft! Full speed ahead to that big bateau yonder!' I struck a pose in the bow.
The crew ignored me but managed to follow my orders anyway. I suppose they knew what they were doing.
We arrived at the gangplank with what I considered unnecessarily violent application of the brakes. I leapt aboard – twice, because the ship lurched and moved away the first time and a crew member rescued me by the shirt collar from a briny fate – and breezed up the gangplank to the hole in the ship's side that doubled as a portal for returning passengers. I was beginning to feel thirsty.
'Where the hell have you been, fish face?'
'Welcome home the wandering sailor, my love! Let the whole world know you have been pining for my return! Don't hide your relief under a bushel – embrace me!'
'Have you been drinking?'
'What a stupid question! Of course I've been drinking – drinking is what I do. You should know that by now.'
Miss Lawrence didn't bother pursuing the issue. She knew well enough. She looked remarkably sober for twilight after a run ashore, so I guessed the question might have had something to do with being miffed at not having shared the nectar.
'Come, my dear, let us toast St Kitts as she disappears into the sunset.'
I took my wife by the arm and led her glaring but not resisting in the direction of the Sharp End Bar.
'You wait 'til you hear what I found out today,' she said with venomous glee.
'Not as juicy as what I found out, I dare say. Not as juicy at all. Why, Captain…'
'Watch it, buster. Ladies first. Unless you want those shiners touched up?'
My black eyes had reduced to barely discernible bruises by now, and I had no desire to recreate the panda look. I watched it. Ladies first it was.
We collared a couple of steamer chairs and in a trice a waiter with a good memory delivered margaritas. He went straight off to collect a couple more – he had a very good memory.
'The Black Widow got rogered by a couple of beach lotharios. She gave them wodges of money for the pleasure.'
'That's hardly news, my love. Happens all the time. A well known industry in the West Indies. Frustrated honky women pay for a good seeing to then dump the poor buggers and go back to their secretary swiveling chairs or whatever. Services rendered, and a few more greenbacks into the local economy. Supply and demand.'
I leaned back with the air of a man of the world who has imparted wisdom. The second margarita followed the first.
'That's not it, you fool. I couldn't care less how many beach boys she deflowers!'
I raised my eyebrows but refrained from comment.
'Lily May Scroggins!'
'Lily May who? What are you wittering about?'
'That's the name she had written in her book! In her Jackie Collins shopping and bonking book! In the same handwriting she wrote Gigi Goldfinkel on her checks! Have you got it yet?'
