“Where’s the nearest marina?” I asked.
“Marina? Mi son, I don’t know nothing about marinas. I look like a sailor? Where we going?”
Looking around desperately, I had him pull over. I searched in my phone for marinas. The closest one was only about a mile away where Veterans curved inland as you left the waterfront. There were seven others.
WE STOPPED AT YACHT Haven Grande, which was located in Havensight. It moored large yachts for the most part, hence the name. According to the security guard at the gate, they typically didn’t take boats. They took ships since they could accommodate up to four-hundred feet. They were also very prestigious because of their proximity to downtown and the main harbor.
“Everything is close. You go out to Sapphire or Boat Hawk, you’ll find more of the local flavor. Is this guy major league?”
“What’s major league?” I asked the muscular guard sporting a flat-top.
“Is he a hot-shot business guy or Brad Pitt?”
“No. He’s a guy who works and lives here with an upper management job making rum.”
“That’s guppy-class. I put him at Sapphire or Fish Hawk. Under fifty feet and maybe barely six.”
“Six?”
“Figures. You gotta be high six or seven and up for these real places.”
We headed for Fish Hawk. The place was dead. A couple of drunk sailors lounged around in a hut that passed for a bar at the end of a poorly maintained dirt and gravel road. Four small boat slips were occupied by vessels of dubious seaworthiness, all badly in need of barnacle scraping. One appeared to be taking on water.
I watched and waved to a dingy that motored through the channel between the mangroves and the shoreline, then asked one of the bleary-eyed loungers if he had seen a Mercedes come by. This elicited a toothless laugh followed by an extended fist, which I dutifully bumped.
We slalomed along Bovoni Road to Red Hook where the ferry for St. John anchored. I paid the cabbie and dismissed him since Red Hook had taxis on every corner.
Before combing the area for the Mercedes or Gilroy, whatever came first, I bellied up to the bar, ordered my Guinness and their Cheeseburger in Paradise with onion rings. I doused everything in ketchup and chugged the beer. As I got up to leave, I spotted him at one of the tables, his back to the door, as he chatted up an angry man who looked vaguely familiar. Where did I know Gilroy’s table-mate from? I suspected it was his outfit. Gilroy’s companion wore some strange glasses that looked like goggles ala James Worthy and a knit cap. Whoever he was, he appeared to be undercover. His baggy attire, made it hard to determine a body type. As I considered the companion’s identity, I realized I’d made a mistake not wearing my own hat for the first time in weeks.
Slipping out, I jogged across the parking lot to the Marina Market and purchased a St. Thomas baseball cap and four-dollar Ray-Ban knockoffs, all the while watching to make sure they didn’t disappear on me.
Feeling suitably concealed, I perched on a different seat at the bar that offered a better view. I pretended to take a selfie with the Duffy’s Love Shack heart logo hanging on one of the wooden stanchions, but snapped Gilroy and his friend instead. The light was poor, so the photo could only serve as a general reminder, perhaps a means of getting an ID on Gilroy’s companion later. It certainly wasn't worthwhile evidence in any criminal proceeding.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, I thought. This might be nothing more than him meeting a friend in the middle of the work day just to hang out.
The bartender, a small woman with an emo hairdo, cutoff jeans, and a plaid, sleeveless shirt, sauntered over. She had the gait of a cowboy in chaps who’d dismounted from a horse five minutes earlier.
“Are you Boise?” she asked.
The disguise didn’t seem to be working. Whatever the two men were discussing, they were engrossed. I shifted position so I could look at her and watch Gilroy out of the corner of my eye.
“That’s my name. Who are you?”
“I know Irene.”
“Who’s that?” I immediately regretted the question.
“I’m gonna tell her you say that,” the bartender said, her hands positioned on her hips like Wonder Woman and her voice rising.
I pulled her closer, realizing people were starting to pay attention. “Sorry, sorry. You mean that Irene.”
“That’s what I say.”
I shook my head apologetically. “My bad. I thought you said Ilene.”
“Serious? You think I dumb?” She pulled out her phone and started texting. “I going tell she about you. What you doin’ out here?”
Her theatrical volume was drawing more and more attention from patrons in the bar. People loved to watch a man and woman fight.
“Hey, uh ... ” I searched for a name tag, but Duffy’s was too casual for that, “ ... Miss, please don’t tell Ilene, I mean, Irene, you saw me. Please.”
“You do that to me friend after she put herself out to you and you expect me to respect your wishes? You can’t treat a woman like that.” Her head was shaking back and forth so rapidly, I wondered how she didn’t get dizzy. Over her shoulder I saw Gilroy’s eyes narrow as he studied my countenance. Even with sunglasses and a hat, a hint of recognition crossed his face and then blossomed into full realization.
“Shit,” I whispered, ducking my head and shrinking behind the irate bartender. Gilroy pointed and said something to his companion as they dropped money on the table and hurried out.
“Excuse me.” I slipped around the furiously texting woman. As I moved past her, she gave me the finger.
“Yeah, you best run! Loser!” she yelled as I exited.
Now, I know
