Killypso Island

by Kent Holloway

  Taking a deep breath, I move up the two steps to the saloon’s swinging doors and step though. The calypso music washes over me, mixing with the smell of rum, tobacco smoke, and urine. The squawk of the old macaw that Nessie keeps near the entrance overpowers the steel drums, threatening to deafen me. Moe, still perched on my shoulder, turns to the bird and growls, compelling it to lift its wing and hide its beautifully colored face.

  “Good job, buddy,” I say to the monkey, as I make my way to the bar.

  The place is, as I suspected, crowded for late afternoon. Although most work in the sugar cane fields will be done for the day, crowds like this rarely gather until well after sunset during the week. I glance around, returning a few nods and waves as I pass. I’m thankful that most everyone in here seems to be having a good time.

  I step up to a bar stool and lean forward, catching Nessie’s eye. She’s one of the oldest women on St. Noel, at almost sixty-six years of age. She’s been running the bar—the only legitimate drinking house that hasn’t been taxed out of existence—since her father passed, two decades ago. She never married, but something tells me she would have made a fine wife and a mother, because she’s earned a reputation for being a mother to everyone on the island at one point or another. Including me. Truth is, though I’m mighty fond of Angelique Lagrange—the Candyman’s wife—this little, bent, old woman, now looking at me, is the closest thing I’ve had to a mom since my own died, before the war.

  “Oh, I see yer finally back, child,” she says, showing me the few existing teeth still in her head. “Did you ’ave a good trip?”

  She doesn’t bother to ask me what I want. She simply bends down behind the counter and returns with an unmarked bottle of rum. She keeps it specifically for her favorite customers, and she pours its golden contents into a glass for me.

  I sit down on the stool and watch as she prepares the drink for me, adding various spices to create the concoction with no name that I love so much.

  “It was a decent trip,” I say, lighting up another cigar while she works. “Went to Miami for a days before I needed to be in Cuba. Caught the Cincinnati Redlegs in a pre-season ball game, which is always nice. Haven’t smelled the fresh cut of a baseball diamond in a couple of years. It was like being a kid again.”

  Nessie just smiles, nodding her head as she listens, then she pushes my drink across the bar to me. “You know, little Malik tells me you plannin’ on teaching him and da ot’er kids about da game. Says they even formin’ d’eir own league. D’at boy’s so excited…”

  A ruckus begins to kick up behind me, drawing my attention away from the old lady. The calypso drums peter out, and a hush sweeps over the entire bar. I swivel on my stool, taking in the room as I move. I don’t have to look for too long, as my eye quickly catches sight of a blonde whirlwind in the back of the saloon, surrounded by three sharply dressed men.

  “Stop being fresh!” Trixie Faye shouts, slapping one of the men across the cheek. The impact seems to sting almost every man in the room, who all cringe from the sound of it. “I said I don’t want to dance with you!”

  Then, another of the men grabs at her wrists, mumbling something in an accent so thick, it makes it hard to translate from across the room. But his tone speaks volumes, and I don’t like it one bit.

  I lean my shoulder to one side, and Moe climbs down and scampers across the bar to a perch near the kitchen door. I then glance over at Nessie, who nods her understanding of what I’m about to do. It won’t be the first fracas this old tavern’s seen, and it won’t be the last, I’m sure. But I hate the damage that such things cause to sweet Nessie’s little home away from home.

  With a sigh, I slide from my stoop and stalk toward the three rudely behaving gentlemen. Though I’m not aware of it consciously, my hands ball up into fists. By the time I reach the man who’s grabbing Trixie, I’m already reared back. My fist comes with no warning at all, slugging the creep across the right jaw. He stumbles backward into the chair he’d been occupying before Trixie walked by. His momentum and his weight dash the poor chair to toothpicks, but I don’t have time to worry about the damage. Instead, I prepare myself for his closest buddy, who’s lunging at me with rage in his eyes.

  As he gets close enough, he swings at me, but I lean out of range, just in time. I take hold of Trixie’s wrist and spin her out of harm’s way, like a man twirling his partner out from him in a waltz. It’s a distraction I shouldn’t have allowed myself. The first guy, his cheek bright red from Trixie’s smack, dives at me, tackling me to the floor. The back of my head comes down hard against the wood, and my ears ring like the bells of Notre Dame. I’m going to have a swell goose egg on my noggin in the morning, but I don’t care. These guys have now royally ticked me off.

  The guy who tackled me is pounding at my face and my gut with all his might. I hear Trix yelling at him to stop, but he doesn’t seem to care what she wants at the moment. I take the pounding, biding my time and letting him wear himself out. If there’s one thing boxer Jammin’ Jim Thacker’s boy knows what to do, it’s take a punch.

  I glance around the bar from the floor. Everyone’s now on their feet, watching and waiting. They all have my back, I know. If it gets too serious, they’ll intervene. For now, they’re just enjoying the show.

  And it’s time to give them one they won’t soon forget.

  When the man on top of me rears back for another punch, throwing himself slightly off balance, I buck up, hurling him to the side. I roll to my left, climbing to my feet in a single motion, and I crouch down with my dukes up near my face in a defensive position.

  But one of them is ready for me. The man throws a haymaker at my head before I can blink. Fortunately, I’m faster, and I raise my left arm up to block before immediately throwing up my right leg and kicking him where the sun doesn’t shine. He buckles over, holding his family apples and struggling to breathe.

  Hey, in a barroom brawl where it’s three against one, a fella’s got to play dirty if he hopes to get out in one piece, right?

  The other two have similar ideas about fair play. The guy I threw off me slips in from behind, grabbing my arms and holding me up. His remaining pal moves in with a one-two punch to my right kidney.

  I wheeze, sucking in air. The pain would have doubled me over, if I wasn’t being held upright by the lug in the three-piece suit.

  “Keep him still,” the one that just punched me says. I recognize the accent. I’ve flown with a handful of Russian pilots a few times during the war. I’d recognize their stilted cadence anywhere.

  They’re stinking Reds.

  The goon holding me pulls me back toward him, tightening his grip, just as his partner moves in for another series of punches. But before the flurry of fists find their mark against my gut, there’s a tinkling thunk behind me. I’m suddenly free, and I jump out of the way, just as the blow would have connected. His fist pounds into the guy who’d been holding me, just as he’s dropping to the floor. I look over to see Trixie standing awkwardly while holding a beer bottle in her hand like a club. She winks at me with spitfire in her eyes. She apparently whacked my captor good with it, and he was already in la-la land before his partner’s punch landed in his gut.

  And that just leaves one functioning creep to finish off, before this brawl is concluded. I turn toward him, but before the two of us can charge each other, we’re interrupted by the shrill screech of a whistle piercing through the roars of excitement in the crowd. We stop and turn toward the saloon’s entrance, where a duo of khaki-uniformed police officers—two of the three lawmen who work on St. Noel—stands with hands on their hips, staring us down with disapproving glares.

  “Ah, crap,” I mumble, stepping back from my opponent, while wiping my bloody nose with my jacket’s sleeve.

  The remaining Red looks at me with questioning eyes. He can obviously tell the difference in my demeanor has shifted from confident brawler to compliant suspect. Of course, if he knew how much Chief Armad hates me—hates any ‘
white devils’ who visits his island, really—he’d understand. Last thing I need is the local constabulary to get involved in all this.

  “Well, well, well,” one of the officers says, as he moves through the parting crowd with his hands behind his back. His name is Marvin Conard, the second senior officer of the force. He’s not nearly as ambitious as the Chief, but he’s got his own quirks that spell trouble for guys like me. “If it ain’t da famous Captain Joe, in da flesh. Back from his big trip to Havana.” He stops in front of me and offers a series of ‘Tsks’ in my direction. “Should ’ave stayed there, if you want me unsolicited advice.”

  The other two men in suits have finally picked themselves up off the floor and gathered around the third in a protective huddle. They’re glaring at me and ignoring the coppers, as if they have no qualms about the law at all.

  Which makes me even more nervous about my situation.

  I remember what Monday told me about the Russians. They’re guests of the Governor. He even set them up in some rooms at Nessie’s inn—free of charge.

  “Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter, rolling my eye as I stare up into the ceiling. They’re not afraid of Marvin and his young partner, Lloyd Gano, because they’re protected here. They can do pretty much anything they want, and they won’t have to answer to anyone other than the Governor.

  “Okay, Marvin,” I start to say, while holding up my hands. “I see what this looks like, but…”

  “They were harassing me,” Trixie suddenly speaks up, slipping between me and the copper, with her hands firmly on her exquisitely curved hips. “They grabbed me. Joe here was just looking out for me. He was just being my knight in shining armor. That’s all.”

  Her eyes burn like lava at the police officer, challenging him to arrest me. I stare at her in awe. If Jayne Mansfield had a prettier twin sister, who had the fierceness and fortitude of Katherine Hepburn, it would be Trixie. Not many people on the island would ever dare cross her, and I know Marvin will be no exception.

  “If you want to arrest someone, arrest them!” she says, pointing at the three Russians.

  Officer Marvin’s eyes drift down to his shoes, unwilling to look her in the eyes and duty-bound to ignore her accusations toward the Russians. His partner, a youngster really, whose qualifications came down to the fact that the uniform fit him, stands back. His eyes are wide with uncertainty, but he’s already made up his mind not to anger Trixie any further.

  Smart boy.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” one of the Reds says. “We are guests on your island.” The man who went to town on my kidney, points at me. “I demand you arrest this man, this instant. He assaulted us unprovoked. Without warning. It was most unsporting of him.”

  I turn and glower at him. “Look, Ivan, where I come from, a man doesn’t try to force a lady to dance when they don’t want to. And your comrade there…” I nod to his friend on the right while emphasizing the word ‘comrade’ with as much contempt as possible. “…just took it one step too far, when he grabbed her wrists.”

  Someone quietly clears a soft feminine throat, but the entire crowd grows stock still at the sound. Each of us turn toward the bar, where Nessie stands, a shotgun the size of an elephant gun gripped tight in her little hands.

  “Gentlemen, if you please,” Nessie says. Her brows are arched at a jagged angle above her eyes. “Dis is me establishment, and I expect you all to settle down.” She nods at Marvin and his partner. “Ain’t no serious crimes been committed here tonight. Ain’t no need for your services here, neither. So, be on your way and leave d’ese boys to me. I’ll see to d’em good and proper.”

  One look in her eyes and everyone in the room can tell she means every word of it, too. And my legal troubles just ambled out the door like dogs with their tails between their legs.

  3

  Although the coppers have gone, I’m by no means out of the woods yet. There is still the matter of Nessie’s wrath to contend with, though I’m pretty sure it’s only the Reds that have anything to truly worry about.

  Moving around the bar, still leveling her double-barreled shotgun at us, she eases herself across the saloon. Her withering stare never falters from the Russians, and she moves, catlike, toward us. When she’s within five feet of us, she stops.

  “I typically don’t mind none if some of my patrons get a little rowdy in me bar,” she says, looking from one man to the next, including myself. “But when yer antics draw the attention of da law, d’at’s where I draw da line.”

  She looks over at Trixie. “You all right, child?”

  The songbird smiles, then nods.

  Nessie looks over at me. “You about as sharp as a box of the Candyman’s gumballs, ain’t ya, boy?” She shakes her head. “Takin’ on t’ree of d’em on your own, knowin’ full well Trixie can handle herself just fine wit’out you.”

  Though I’m not aware I’m doing it, my head scrunches down into my shoulders, like a scolded kid getting reamed by his granny. She stares at me for another moment, then nods back toward the door.

  “Go on home now, child,” she says to me. “I’ll deal wit’ d’ese ‘friends’ of da Governor and smooth t’ings over nice and good.”

  I know better than to argue. Turning, I move over to the bar, where Moe quickly finds his perch on my shoulder again, and I walk out the swinging doors while nursing my swelling lip. As I leave, I can hear Nessie lecturing the Russians so bad it would have made Hitler himself run with his tail between his legs.

  I smile at the thought, as I dust off my captain’s cap and light up another cigar outside the saloon. Nessie is right. It’s been a long day for me, and the best place for me to go is back to the Dream and get some shuteye. It certainly seems to be the safest plan at the moment. But I came to Nessie’s to see Trixie, and I haven’t even been able to have a single quiet moment with her ruby red lips. To me, that’s just not fair at all.

  I hear the saloon doors squeak and the soft tread of dainty feet on the bamboo porch behind me. I turn to see Trixie Faye herself, smiling down at me from the step.

  “Howdy, cowboy,” she says, giving me a wink. The dress she’s wearing would be illegal back in the States. Red sequins cover most of the fabric. The fabric, however, leaves little to the imagination, with its low-cut design and a slit that runs from the hem of the dress up to her upper thigh.

  I can only stare back at her, trying to find the right words.

  “Um, hi,” I finally say. Not exactly Shakespearean, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.

  Her hands behind her back, she steps down from the porch demurely, and strolls over to me. When she’s within a handful of inches away, she steps on her tiptoes and plants a heavenly kiss right on my lips. My legs feel like jelly from the warm contact.

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” she says when the kiss is over. Though born in Budapest, she lived in New York City since she was thirteen. Her Hungarian accent has all but disappeared in the fifteen years since. “Nessie’s right. I could’ve handled them just fine, but it’s always nice to know my knight is there to watch out for me, when the time comes.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m blushing when she reaches up, takes me in her arms, and kisses me again. This time, harder. More passionate. I return the passion, enjoying the heat that radiates against both of us as we embrace. We stay like that for several minutes, entwined in each other’s arms. The steel drums of the calypso band has already begun their melodic beat again, meaning that Nessie must have diffused the situation as she promised. But at the moment, I don’t care. The only thing that matters is the soft, warm curves of Trixie’s waist in my hands, and her wet lips pressed against my own.

  Finally, she pulls away. I try to hold on to her, but she laughs and thumbs back at the saloon. “Sorry, Captain, but it’s almost time for my show.” She kisses my cheek and backs away. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  She rolls her eyes. “The festival, you big lug.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, yeah. Right. The festival.” I nod. “Sure, yeah. I’ll be around.”

  She backs up the steps, beaming from ear to ear, then tucks a strand of her golden hair behind her ear, gives me a wave, and turns into the saloon without another word. I stand there watching her disappear into the smoke-filled bar and sigh, while gently touching my lips where she’d kissed them.

  She’s quite a woman. No wonder everyone in town is nuts about her.

  With her gone and no other reason to stay, I turn toward the town gates and start making my way back to the dock and my boat—the second love of my life. My bed most definitely is calling me, and I look forward to a good night’s rest.

  I casually stroll down the dirt road, enjoying my stogie as I gaze up into the star-filled canopy of the night sky. The view is hampered by the dense jungle vegetation of the island, but the deep blues and purples mixing with the silver pinpricks of light that stretch above the trees is mesmerizing.

  The sound of Trixie’s angelic singing is carried by the wind, and I’m only half aware of where I’m going as I move along the path. Moe, for his part, seems oblivious to the tranquil beauty of it all and, instead, zips from one tree to the next in playful leaps.

  It’s a gorgeous night. The reason I moved to the Caribbean in the first place. If not for the throbbing pain of my lip and the knot on the back of my head from the fight a few minutes ago, it would be near perfection. So perfect, in fact, that I almost don’t catch sight of the furtive figure moving a few yards ahead of me. The figure—very much of the masculine variety—dashes from the trees on the side of the road to my right, toward the left. He’s quick. Stealthy. If not for the silver light of the crescent moon above, I might not have seen him at all.

  I reach into the inside of my jacket and pull my .45. Moe, seeing the gun, leaps back around my neck, preparing for action.

  I stop. “Did you see him, too?” I whisper to the monkey.

  Moe looks at me, cocks his head, and begins scratching at the fleas behind his ear.