Mingolla conveyed a sense of urgency to the man in the dory, wanting him to row faster.
‘Sixteen days,’ said Tully. ‘And by de time dat shrimper fetch us in tow, wasn’t but four of us left. The rest dey sun-killed or gone over de side.’
The man in the dory was bent over his oars, pulling hard.
‘Towed us clear to Bragman Key,’ Tully went on. ‘Dat were an upful place, Bragman. Dey lodged us in a hotel and treat our fevers. Give us fresh fruit, rum. And dere were dis little gal who gimme special comfort. ‘’Pears she just couldn’t stand to see me de way I was. We had us a time ’fore I left, me and dat gal. And I tell her I’s comin’ back for her, but I never did… I never did.’ Tully spat again. ‘I ’tended to, but when I get back to de island, everybody’s makin’ me out a hero, and I’m tellin’ my story, drinkin’. I just loose track of dat gal. I ’grets it sometimes, but it probably for de best.’
The man shipped his oars, let his dory drift near, and caught hold of the stern. ‘How you be, Tully?’ he said. He was a wiry brown man in his thirties, with glittering black eyes, the skin around them seamed and puckered. His genitals protruded from one leg of his shorts, and sweat matted the curly hairs on his chest.
‘Survivin’,’ Tully said. Davy, dis my half-brother, Donald Ebanks.’
Mingolla exchanged nods with the man.
‘What you catchin’, mon?’ asked Tully.
Donald lifted the corner of a canvas, revealing a couple of dozen fish in the bottom of the dory, some turquoise, some red, some striped yellow and black, shining like a salad of oddly shaped jewels around the centerpiece of a long fish with black sides, a white belly, and needle teeth: a barracuda.
‘How much for dat barra?’
Mingolla started to exert influence on Donald, trying for a free fish; but Tully kicked his ankle and said, ‘No, mon! Dat not how it goes.’
‘Why not?’ said Mingolla.
‘Take what you need, and give back what you can. Dat’s de only way to be in dis world.’
Tully’s stare quailed Mingolla, and he looked down at Donald’s fish, their gemmy sides pulsing with last breaths.
‘I ’spect I take four lemps for de barra,’ said Donald.
‘I ‘spect so,’ said Tully with a laugh. ‘’Spect you’d take more’n dat, and you find a big ’nough fool.’ He dug some wadded bills from his pocket. ‘Two lemps, mon. And don’t be rude wit’ me. Dat’s a fat price, and you know it.’
‘You a bitch, Tully.’ Donald picked up the barracuda, heaved it into their dory. ‘Strip de shadow from my back, I give you de chance.’
‘Don’t want your damn shadow, and if I did, I sure as hell not goin’ to pay you two lemps for it.’ Tully handed over the money.
Donald regarded the bills dolefully, pocketed them, and without another word he rowed off toward shore.
‘Sorry,’ Mingolla said. ‘Guess I shoulda figured him being your brother.…’
‘Half-brother!’ Tully snapped. ‘And dat don’t have a t’ing to do wit’ it. Son of a bitch ain’t no friend of mine. Been tryin’ to swindle me goin’ on dese ten years. What I told you, dat’s true for de world.’
Mingolla studied the barracuda’s doll eyes. ‘Didn’t know you could eat barracuda.’
‘Can’t all de time. You got to drop a crumb of de flesh on an anthill. If de ants take it, you can eat your fill. Fries up nice wit’ plantain.’
A northerly breeze sprang up, heavying the chop, stirring the palms along the shore, and the dory bobbed up and down.
‘Don’t take it to heart, Davy,’ said Tully. ‘You learnin’. Just take more time to be wise dan to be strong.’
Misty night, the moon a foggy green streak between the palm fronds, and the surf muffled, sounding like bones being crunched in the mouth of a beast. Light spilled from the windows of a small frame church set back from the shore, and sweet African harmony spilled from it, too, resolving into a final Amen. Young boys in white shirts, blue trousers, and girls in frilly white dresses came down the steps, passing within thirty feet of the log where Tully and Mingolla were sitting, their voices liquid and clear; they turned on flashlights as they moved off into the dark, playing the beams onto the shallows, lacquering the black water.
‘Dere,’ said Tully, indicating two teenage girls holding hymnals to their breasts. ‘De one on de left. But don’t mess wit’ de other… that my cousin ’Lizabeth.’
‘She’s not tryin’ to swindle you?’ said Mingolla.
Tully grinned. ‘Don’t be mouthin’ me. Naw, dat ’Lizabeth’s goin’ to stay sweet ’long as I can help it. But dat Nancy Rivers, she been wit’ half de island. You go on’n go crazy wit’ her if you want.’
Mingolla checked Nancy out: flat-chested, light-skinned, with a lean horsey face. He was not inspired to craziness, but nevertheless he touched her mind with desire. She glanced at him, whispered to Elizabeth, and after a second they walked over to the log.
‘How de night, Tully?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘It’s goin’ all right,’ said Tully. ‘And you?’
‘Not’in special, y’know.’ Elizabeth was sexy, tall, and had Tully’s coal-black skin; her heavy-lidded eyes and pouting mouth and broad nose reminded Mingolla of statuettes he’d seen in displays of African folk art. Nancy elbowed her, and she performed the introduction.
Mingolla grunted, gouged a trench in the sand with his toe.
‘Well,’ said Elizabeth after an uncomfortable silence. ‘Guess we’ll be marchin’. You come see us, Tully.’
‘Dat I will.’
The two girls ambled off, whispering, and Mingolla watched the roll of Elizabeth’s hips. Tully shoved him, knocking him off the log. ‘What’s wrong wit’ you, mon? T’ought you was after some squint?’
‘Not her, man… she’s ugly.’
‘Shit! You got eyes ’tween your legs? C’mon!’ Tully hauled Mingolla to his feet. ‘We goin’ to de Hole. Dey got bitches dere will tie a knot in it for you!’
They returned to the hotel, where Tully changed into slacks and a rayon shirt with the silk-screened photo of a blonde in a bikini on the back. He broke out a bottle of rum, and they drank from it as they hurtled over the bumpy hill road in the hotel’s Land Rover, swerving around tight corners, driving blind through patches of mist, past thatched farmhouses and banana plots, once nearly hitting a cow whose horns were silhouetted against the lesser blackness of the sky and faint stars. They seemed to be pulling the night along with them, to have the kind of delirious momentum that Mingolla associated with freeway flying, with speeding into nowhere, an angel in the backseat, a fortune in your veins, following the white lines to some zero point behind the horizon, the end of a black rainbow where the wrecked cars were piled to heaven and smiling corpses leaked golden blood. Tully sang reggae in a hoarse raucous voice, and Mingolla, not knowing the words, pounded a drumbeat on the dash. Then he sang a Prowler song: ‘Got see-thru windows, hyperventilation in my ride, and little Miss Behavior in a coma by my side…’
‘What kinda hollerin’ dat?’ said Tully. ‘Dat ain’t no damn song!’
And Mingolla laughed, knowing it was going to be a good time.
In Coxxen Hole, the yellow dirt streets were ablaze with glare from weathered shanties that perched on their pilings like ancient hens straining at empty nests, their slatboard shutters wobbling one-hinged, plastic curtains belling, rusted tin roofs curled at the edges. On the main street stood a two-story frame hotel. Hotel Coral, painted pink, with a light pole lashed to its second-floor balcony, and a cinderblock office building patrolled by Indian soldiers in camouflage fatigues. Between the offices and the hotel, a concrete pier extended out into the blackness of the sea; two stubby turtling boats with furled sails were moored at its extremity. Heat lightning flashed orange above the Honduran coast thirty miles away. Music blared from the shanty bars; fat women in print dresses and turbans to match waddled in stately pairs, staring down the black men—most as skinny as stick figures—who accosted them. Dogs skulked among the pilings, nosing at crab shells and broken bottles.
There was so much activity that Mingolla—accustomed to the peace of the hotel—became flustered and in order to escape the confusion went with the first prostitute who happened along. She led him into the back room of a large shanty whose sole designation as a bar was a hand-lettered sign nailed above the entrance that said FRENLY CLUB—NO RIOT. She stripped off all her clothes except her brassiere and lay down on a straw mattress
