“I want a window!” Floyd says.
There’s a guy in a knit cap with a hipster beard getting ready to take the seat next to Baker. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads WASPS OF GOOD FORTUNE—a band, maybe?—and jeans and a Gucci belt and a pair of black Sambas exactly like the ones Baker used to wear to soccer practice when he was nine years old, and on his wrist is a forty-thousand-dollar Rolex Daytona with a light blue pearlescent face. He has AirPods in.
The guy—he looks to be somewhere in his mid-twenties—nods at Baker and goes to lift his duffel into the overhead space.
Baker says, “Hey, man, any chance you would mind switching spots with my son so we can sit together? He’s only four.”
The guy blinks at Baker and says in a broad Australian accent, “Sorry, mate, I prefer the window.”
“No problem, mate,” Baker says. He slides out of the way so that Mr. Samba, Mr. Wasps of Good Fortune, Mr. Young Crocodile Dundee can take his seat. Baker tries not to feel put out. It’s the guy’s seat, Baker has no right to it, but still—who says no when asked to help out a four-year-old child? Baker glances at the woman next to Floyd, but she has fallen asleep.
“Looks like we’re staying put, buddy,” Baker says, and he fastens Floyd’s seat belt.
“Daddy?” Floyd says. “May I please have the iPad?”
Baker doesn’t speak to Young Croc during the flight, though he does keep tabs on him out of the corner of his eye. Young Croc orders Maker’s Mark straight up (two) to Baker’s Bloody Mary (one). Young Croc watches Deadpool 2 (no surprise there); Baker chooses old episodes of The Office. Young Croc declines breakfast; Baker inhales the kale and sausage omelet, the soggy home fries, and even the sad, wrinkled cherry tomatoes. Young Croc does the sudoku puzzle in the in-flight magazine astonishingly quickly, which actually makes Baker like him a little better. He doesn’t get up for the bathroom at all, whereas Baker gets up once for himself and twice for Floyd.
As the plane descends, Young Croc finally turns his attention to the window, tapping on the glass with his forefinger in apparent anticipation. And isn’t that an emotion he and Baker share?
When the plane’s wheels hit the runway, people sitting in coach clap and cheer. Baker checks on Floyd, who is fast asleep, then turns to Young Croc. “You going to St. Thomas?” he asks. “Or St. John?”
“St. John.”
“Us too,” Baker says. “We’re moving down for good.”
“Oh yeah?” Young Croc says. “You running a business down here? Doing the EDC deal?”
“EDC?” Baker says.
“Yeah, that’s the tax-incentive plan for businesses that relocate to the USVI.”
“Legal?” Baker asks, because this sounds like something his father might have been involved in. Anyway, it would explain why the hedge fund was run down here instead of in, say, New York or Chicago.
Young Croc laughs. “Yes, legal. Lots of people do it. I moved my company here from Houston in the fall. I’m saving tons of cash.”
“From Houston?” Baker says. “Are you American?”
“Naturalized,” Young Croc says. “Originally from Perth.”
Perth is in…Australia? New Zealand? Baker should know but he hasn’t got a clue and he’s embarrassed to ask. “What’s the name of your company?”
“Huntley International?” he says, like maybe Baker has heard of it. “Real estate development.”
Baker is rendered temporarily speechless. The dude looks twenty-five. But that would explain the watch. It’s probably his father’s company. Or—he hears his ex-wife’s voice in his head asking him to think and act in a way that promotes gender equality—his mother’s company. “Baker Steele,” Baker says, offering his hand.
“Dunk,” the kid says and they firmly—aggressively?—shake. “Duncan Huntley. Nice to meet you, Baker. What do you do?”
Baker isn’t eager to admit that he’s a stay-at-home dad supported by his superstar-surgeon almost-ex-wife. He could say that he day-trades and has accepted a coaching job at the Gifft Hill School, but does that sound any more impressive? “Investments,” Baker says.
“Oh yeah? For whom?”
“I have my own shop,” Baker says. “Coincidentally, I’ve been thinking about getting into real estate myself.” By this, Baker means he’s considered getting his real estate license because he isn’t sure what else he can do that will make a sustainable living on St. John.
“Take my card,” Dunk says. “I’m always looking for investment partners.”
Baker accepts the card even though he knows he has severely misrepresented himself. Baker has money in the bank—both a healthy brokerage account and a fund that he day-trades with—but he immediately realizes that he’s not in a position to be anyone’s “investment partner” unless Dunk Huntley is looking for an investment of five hundred dollars.
Still, it can’t hurt to know people. DUNCAN HUNTLEY, CEO AND FOUNDER, HUNTLEY INTERNATIONAL LLC.
Founder? Baker thinks.
He’s distracted by the business of getting off the plane. He pulls down his carry-on and Floyd’s Toy Story knapsack, then he bends at the knees—protect the back—to pick Floyd up without waking him.
Baker gravitates toward Dunk while they’re standing at the baggage carousel waiting for their luggage. Baker is sweating despite the air-conditioning. Floyd is as hot as a glowing coal.
Dunk smiles. “Seeing you with him makes me miss my girl.”
“Your…” Baker isn’t sure if Dunk means his daughter or his girlfriend. He doesn’t seem like the paternal type.
“My girl, Olive. She’s a harlequin Great Dane.”
“Oh,” Baker says. “Your dog.”
“Yep,” Dunk says. “Olive stays here and I fly back and forth to Houston. She weighs a hundred and fifty pounds, so she’s too big to crate. I had to fly down private with her when we came initially.”j
“Right,” Baker says, nodding, although, honestly, every new sentence out of this guy’s mouth is crazier than the last. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem pretty young to be a CEO.”
“I’m twenty-eight,” Dunk says. “I look older without my hat.” He shrugs. “Losing my hair.”
“Still,
