Tom Maloney looked at Nathan Stein; they needed to talk. He said, “You two stay here a while. Relax. Unwind. Support each other.”
He led Nathan into the private apartment. Nathan flopped onto the king-sized bed, head on pillow, short leg dangling over the side.
“Why aren’t we dead?” Tom said, looking down.
“Why are you asking me?” Nathan whined.
“There’s a reason for all this,” Tom said. “I want to tell you first, before I talk to the others. I don’t think it’s all that bad.”
“Oh? What’s the good news? Maybe this nutcase won’t boil us in oil before he blows our brains out?”
The grandson of the founder of Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills turned his face into the pillow and sobbed. “He’s gonna kill me because of some shitass meat.”
The sound filled Tom with satisfaction. He heard his voice deepen triumphantly. “We’ll hear from Walter soon enough. But that’s not what I’m talking about.” Tom had already come to the conclusion that Leonard Martin had stopped killing people because there was something else he wanted. He didn’t know what, but felt certain it would be revealed. If Leonard Martin wanted a deal, that was fine with Tom Maloney. Dealing was his life’s work.
“Nathan,” he said. “I strongly suspect we’re as safe as cows in Calcutta.”
St. John
They wound it up at six. Isobel badly wanted to go to the beach. “I am a beach girl, you know,” she laughed. “And you are a beach man, aren’t you?” They changed, jumped into Walter’s open-top Jeep, and took off down the hilly road heading toward the sea.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her girlish enthusiasm bubbling over. “Wheee!” she shouted, smiling, spreading her arms high and wide in the open air as Walter sped down the hill.
“Cinnamon Bay,” he said.
“What a wonderful name,” said Isobel. “Cinnamon Bay.”
There were four beaches, he told her, one after another. Caneel Bay was the first. That’s where the island’s biggest resort was. Then they would pass Hawk’s Nest and Trunk Bay before finally arriving at Cinnamon Bay. Once there, Isobel quickly threw off her long shirt, dropping it at Walter’s feet, and, not looking back, dashed to the water, kicking up sand behind her as she ran. She wore a two-piece black suit with the bottom cut low, very low, and the sides, no bigger than the straps on her blouse, rose high on her hip. Walter felt an unfamiliar stirring, watching her from behind as she raced into the surf. “Oh, shit,” he said to himself, “I can’t stand here like-this.” He pulled off his T-shirt, slipped out of his sandals, and ran after her. He didn’t stop until the cold water covered him above his waist. He had a hard time looking at her and she knew it. She splashed him and he dove headlong into the Caribbean.
Later, Walter offered to throw some steaks on the grill, but at Isobel’s insistence, they went back to Billy’s for dinner.
She’d arrived that morning unnerved and uncertain; the siege with Leonard burdened her, strung her out. When she spoke with Walter on the phone she’d fought against feeling unhinged. Today had dissipated that. She felt a much greater sense of control. She felt that she had a stronger, more subtle grasp of the facts. Her working alliance with Walter made her feel good. It gave her a deeply reassuring groove. And quite aside from that, she’d found a new sense of comfort with herself, some traction on how she felt about her story, some certainty about what to do next. All that and it was still early. She remembered the dishes she’d seen at Billy’s and passed up for a sandwich. She’d promised Ike a drink. She’d been feeling a sexy edge for a while, and she wanted to let it sharpen. A long and promising night lay ahead. She wanted some dinner at Billy’s.
“Back again?” Ike piped up. “I was just on my way out of here, but if you’re ready for that drink, I’m staying.”
Isobel smiled at him, wondering if he ever really went home. It was too early for the dinner mob. The place was far from empty but hardly full. Billy stood behind the bar, at the far end, as usual, reading what looked like a menu from one of his competitors.
“Drinks and dinner,” Walter called to Billy, and then to Ike, “got room?”
“My treat, if you don’t go overboard.” Ike garnished the offer by raising his cap and showing off his teeth again.
Billy towered over them. “Diet Coke. Usual. And for the lady?”
“Vodka martini, plain as day.” She unleashed her smile at him.
“Don’t look at the menu,” Billy said to Isobel. “I’ll take care of dinner. Everything’s good, but I know what’s best. These two don’t know nothing.” He left with what looked like a wink of his own. That was just as well. She’d left her drug-store glasses at Walter’s; the menu would be useless.
Ike squinted intently, as though he were trying to see through her skin. It was not an unpleasant sensation. “Is something wrong?” she said.
“Where you from?”
“Fiji.”
“That’s an island too?”
She nodded, charmed.
“Out by Australia, in that direction?”
She gave him the coordinates. He nodded and sipped his usual, visibly satisfied. “Always like to learn new things. You sound like some kind of island, but…”
“I don’t look it?” she laughed a wondrously full, strong laugh, and looked at Ike as if they shared a secret- which they did: white girl and black man, both island people.
She asked if Ike knew the old man sleeping in the park. “The Poet,” Ike said. He told her everyone did. “You heard of Clarence Frogman Henry? Very good singer, sadly departed. He could sing in three different voices: high, low, and medium. One song goes like this [Ike threw his head back and tried out his partly mended falsetto]: ‘I’m a poor little frog and I ain’t got no home.’” His ancient feet kept time loudly beneath the table.
He sipped his usual, cleared his throat, and then told Isobel, “That was in the song. Difference is, the Poet don’t want no home. He’s what you call the outdoor type. He’s the only homeless person we got, to my knowledge. Also, he is a poet. He’ll say one for you if you ask, if you got a little money. Sometimes they rhyme. Sometimes they don’t. The Poet sell some stuff right here. Got a young boy lives on a boat down here. What’s his name, Walter? Kenny something? I don’t know. He’s got a really great big boat. Boy is a famous performer. Sings rock and roll songs all over the world. Got records and all the rest. And he lives on a boat right here. My boy Truman rebuilt his engine couple years back. That man’s got some boat. You can see it from Walter’s house most of the time. He bought poems from him and paid him some money too. But the Poet prefers to be homeless and everyone shows him consideration, looks after him very good.” Ike looked around to see where Billy was and then leaned forward toward Isobel and said in a low whisper, “Even Billy feeds him, and won’t admit to it neither.”
Isobel quickly came to admire Billy’s kitchen. Curried goat, jerk pork kabobs, coconut jasmine rice, sweet potato wedges. Ike warned her off the scotch bonnet peppers. Isobel took care not to stuff herself and noted with deep satisfaction that Walter was eating light. He took it very easy from first to last. At one point Ike said, “You feel okay?” then covered himself with a friendly chuckle. “No reason to get no fatter than you are.” He talked at some length about his family’s predisposition to leanness of body and limb, tactfully excepting from this description two cousins on his long-passed father’s side and several of their daughters. Very fine girls, but not thin.
“Dessert’s on the house,” Billy announced, Jenna trailing. Billy pulled up a chair. Jenna had brought four portions of Billy’s Island Pudding with the coffee. “The recipe dies with me,” he said. “I brought it down here from… all I can say is one word: ‘Bacardi.’ And that’s the only word I’ll ever say about Billy’s Island Pudding.”
He noticed Jenna standing behind him and shooed her away.
They talked a while about smuggling, and how American cops and Island cops, French and English cops, and mostly South American cops are basically the same, except for some being stupider and cheaper to bribe than others. Isobel rang the final bell by faking a generous yawn. As chairs began squeaking, she apologized, saying, “I’ve got to get an early plane.” She and Walter thanked Ike for the dinner, said their goodnights, and left.
“Then why don’t she take the ferry tonight?” Billy demanded of Ike.
“’Cause she ain’t going nowhere tonight. She’s going with Walter now.”
“That’s my point,” Billy persisted. “ Didn’t you say it wasn’t gonna be? Better chance I fucked a whatever, and all that?”
