“Do you have Perrier?”
Chapter 2
“D on’t touch the paint ,” I said, tapping the door farther open to give him room to enter.
While he shook my hand, his wide eyes wandered around my spartan office. “You just move in, Mr. Montague?” I liked the way my name sounded in his mild Southern accent. The “ta” wasn’t so harsh.
“Yes.”
His eyes stopped on the black and white photo of Evelyn propped on my desk. “Nice lookin’ lady. She your babe?”
“She was,” I said.
On my desk next to Evelyn’s photograph sat a green sheet of paper listing Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Dana had left it there after my last drunken debacle. I dropped it in the waste basket.
“Some broad left that there,” I muttered as nonchalantly as I could.
He nodded, then something dawned on his face. “Oh, hey, man. I’m sorry, my name’s Herbie but folks call me Junior, on account of being named after my daddy. I been goin’ off to boarding school in Georgia these last years.” He slurped down the glass of water in a single gulp.
“Sorry it’s not Perrier,” I said. “I’m not really a sparkling water kind of guy.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Montague. Water’s good too, but to my mind Perrier improved it. Heat’s hot here, even if you’re coming from Georgia.”
“You can call me Boise,” I said. “How old are you, Junior?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Are you lost?” I asked.
“Sir?”
“Are you lost? Maybe I can help as you don’t really look like you know where you are or where you’re going.”
At this Junior took another drink. “Well, sir ... ”
“Boise,” I repeated.
“Sir Boise, right. I’m lookin’ to speak to someone at The Daily News I think. I’m sorta from around here and I’m back.”
That sounded all too familiar. A stranger in his own land. At least I was a little darker. His milk-white skin made him out to be a classic tourist with greenbacks in his pocket and wide-eyed naivete on his face.
The Daily News was the pride of St. Thomas. The primary source for news in the three U.S. Virgin Islands and the British island of Tortola. The newspaper’s editorial and staff offices were housed on the second floor.
I leaned on the corner of my rutted desk. “Are you placing a classified ad or something? You can go online to do that.”
“No, sir. Ain’t about classified ads. It’s concerning my grandma.” He kicked at the floor like a kid in a Mark Twain novel. “On account of she hasn’t been in touch with me in a while and it isn’t like her.”
“Maybe her cell phone died or something. Is she over sixty?”
He nodded.
“The elderly can be confused by technology,” I said.
“Sir, I appreciate the water, but it’s all right, I’m gonna go on up and speak with that reporter. I’m supposed to go talk with him about her ... I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s been a little confusing. I mean, what’s happening around lately.”
I dragged one of the two chairs I had for clients away from the wall and parked it in front of my desk. I refilled his water glass and held it out.
“You want to sit down, Junior? I’ve got a few minutes to speak if you’d like to run your concerns by me before you go spilling your guts to a reporter. They’re great at what they do, but they tend to do things in a very public manner and you sound like you might not be ready for that quite yet.”
That stillness came over him again as he studied me. He took the glass and began running his finger over the condensation. He remained standing like a singer on stage waiting for the music to start. This kid kneaded things before he baked them.
He sat.
“Maybe it’d do to talk with you a spell. What’s your line?”
“Do you mean my work?”
“Yessir, your line of business.” He made a lazy circle with his glass of water. “In this here office? Whatever it is, it appears you’ve only begun.”
This had somehow started to feel like a job interview. Junior was studying my every move, waiting for me to do something he didn’t like, something disingenuous.
“I’m a private investigator. This,” I spread my hands grandly, “is my place of business.”
He picked a business card out of the brand-new wood holder I’d purchased from a vendor on the Waterfront last week.
“These business cards are a bit flimsy, don’t ya think?”
“Uh, no, just economical.”
“You mean you printed them at home?”
“No, I printed them at a friend’s home. I don’t have a printer ... yet.”
Great, an eighteen-year-old had me scrambling to explain my marketing materials. I debated exaggerating my experience, but something told me he’d sniff it out and leave without another word if I didn’t tell the whole thing straight. My wallet was so thin I had to pat my pocket to make sure it was still there.
“I’ve had two cases with positive resolutions. Right now, I’ve got nothing going on, so I have time to listen to lost kids tell me about grandmothers. I don’t have the extra money for gold wrapped or foil-printed or glossy raised indigo twenty-pound stock business cards.”
A stinging sensation shot up my arm and I slapped a savage mosquito dead. Outside, a car crunched over a bit of loose gravel before the engine died, followed by a cruise ship horn’s sad blare.
“All right. I’m gonna tell you about my grandma. This is confidential, right?”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t have to hire you.”
I chuckled, but his face remained impassive. Missing grandma, no sense of humor. Check.
“No. I’m offering to hear you out, that’s all. If you want my help, we’ll talk about that later. Are you going to college?”
This made him sit straighter and his countenance brightened. “I’m fresh-meat at Georgia Tech. Go Yellow Jackets!” He cleared his throat and lowered his raised
