Bartenders on St. Thomas all knew each other, at least the females seemed to, because Duffy’s and The Normandie were about as far apart as two businesses on this rock could be. Did they have a bartender’s union or something?
Once outside, my thoughts quickly returned to the crisis of the moment. Gilroy and his buddy had split up and were speed-walking across the parking lot in opposite directions.
Gilroy found his car, ripped out of his space and sped away. The other guy was nowhere to be found, so I headed to the boat slips in hopes of finding Gilroy’s boat, if indeed he owned one.
Having nothing whatsoever to go on, I helplessly scanned the marina. One of the St. John’s ferries motored in, a mixed crowd of natives and tourists dotting the deck. The wind caught one man’s baseball cap and sent it flying into the face of a woman behind him. She laughed and handed it back.
Swinging my attention back to the parking lot, I spotted Gilroy’s companion, who gestured feverishly as he shouted into his cell phone. Anticipating he would leave soon, I hailed a cab and waited. We sat in the lot, the meter ticking away, while the gray-templed man continued his heated conversation.
He ended the call, then hopped on a motorcycle parked outside Duffy’s.
The cabby dutifully took off in pursuit of the bike on my command.
There was little traffic going out of Red Hook, so although his bike was fast, the cabby, once I promised a generous tip, kept pace. After a while we circled back around up the north side to the small road that led to only one place: the archery club Harold and Junior had taken me to.
The cab let me out at the end of the road. It was quiet and green. The only noise, the distant sound of a car motoring up a steep incline and shifting gears. My mind also shifted as I switched my focus from the Bacon family to the Bacon family business.
I couldn’t enter the archery range without a Bacon in tow, and I didn’t want this suspect to know I’d followed him. That’s what I told myself. The reality was entirely different.
Chapter 27
The Normandie hadn’t changed much in the thirty-three years I’d been around, and probably hadn’t changed much in fifty. A large plaque bearing my father’s name should have been mounted on the wall for being a lifetime donor.
Irene stood behind the bar, pouring Bacon Rum and shooting Coke from a soda gun into a glass. She plopped a skinny straw in and stirred it expertly before placing it in front of a fat guy with slicked back hair and his ass-crack showing.
“Belt’s not working,” I said before sitting two stools away.
“What?” he slurred.
I shook my head, then repeated myself.
“Hey, man, fuck you!” he said, but remained seated. “I’m too tired after a hard day or I’d ... ”
“You’d what?”
Irene slapped the bar. “Boise! What the hell? What you want?”
“What do you think?” I said.
She watched me a long moment, then turned and poured a perfect Guinness from the tap.
“Eight bucks.” All business, as expected. “I better collect now or you might forget to pay.”
She made change, and I left a couple of ones on the bar. She picked them up and dropped them into a glass pitcher full of bills.
“So what, buying a beer and a twenty-five-percent tip supposed to make up for what you done?”
“No, but I’ve also apologized.”
“Yeah, once, over twenty-four hours later. How’s that make a girl feel, you think?”
“I’m an ass, what can I say.” The Guinness tasted good. “But your girl out at Duffy’s, that was uncalled for.”
She poured some whiskey into a glass for another guy at the far end, then came back.
“I can’t stop what people do,” she said.
“Oh, so you think that’s funny?” I muttered. “Real funny. I was working. That bitch ... jerk ... blew my cover. I lost my mark.”
She was doing something behind the bar which forced her to lean forward. She wore a loose-fitting tank top and her cleavage nearly smacked me right between the eyes. I maintained eye-contact, barely. What was it about this woman? Thank God for peripheral vision. On the top of her left breast, I could make out a small red butterfly tattoo.
“Boo-hoo, what you want me to do? You be nice and shit like this don’t happen.”
“I got caught up with work. Time got away.”
“I don’t go on dates much. That was the first in two years.”
“You won the bet,” I said. “I still want to honor it.”
“You still hanging around with your little red-head?”
“Dana? We still friends, but she off on some assignment. I’m more on my own this time.”
“Good. I no like she,” Irene sneered.
“Don’t worry about her. What about you and me?”
“I liked you better when I baby-sat for you, but I always liked your father. You have his nose.”
Here I was, trying to make time with a woman who only liked me because she had some power over me and I probably only liked her because when you’re a ten-year-old boy, of course you fantasize about having sex with your baby-sitter. The ten-year age difference didn’t feel so significant anymore. Something about her having been my first crush, I couldn’t let it go.
The case was important and the iron was hot, but right now, I wanted this more. I had forgotten about the dough and the family and Pickering and Kendal. Things were primal tonight. I wasn’t even thinking about a date, I wanted to consummate, but I’d never been smooth with women. I was a
