Killypso Island

by Kent Holloway

  “Lot of good you are.”

  Cautiously, I step forward, keeping my gun trained dead ahead. For all I know, it could be one of the kids on the island playing games with me. But the way things have gone today, I’m not so sure. Strange things are going down in St. Noel. The feud between the Candyman and his brother. Monday’s sudden interest in my business. And those three Reds who are getting a free stay at Nessie’s.

  It’s the Russians that make me more nervous than anything. The way they hold themselves…their clothing and their military demeanor… It reeks of government men to me. KGB, maybe? I’ve heard lots of reports recently about how they’ve taken an interest in the Caribbean because of the islands’ close proximity to the United States. They’ve been stirring up trouble here and there, drumming up the dissatisfied masses in hopes of rebellion—and in the hopes of the islanders welcoming the communist way into their lives. The very thought of that happening here in St. Noel is almost laughable, though. Capitalism is alive and well here. And though many of the inhabitants are poor by Western standards, most are very content with what they have.

  I’m strolling again, keeping my eyes peeled for any sudden movements. Concern over the Russians right now is silly. They’re still back at the saloon. No way they could have gotten ahead of me and set up some sort of ambush without me seeing them. There could be more of them, but Monday specifically said there were only three. So, whoever just dashed out in front of me, was probably someone else entirely.

  Monday, maybe?

  He got shown his place earlier today, and I can see him wanting to pay me a visit after his encounter with the Candyman. But the shadowy figure was far too thin to be the obese customs agent. Plus, by now, Monday’s probably too knee-deep in rum or gin to really be much of a threat. And he’s definitely not as stealthy as that shadow was.

  I’m now about a half a mile from the dock. The same distance behind me leads to town. The silky voice of Trixie Faye is now barely audible. The jungle is still, except for the occasional breeze that nudges the palm fronds and mangrove leaves around. There’re no animal sounds of any kind, making me even more tense.

  Something’s just not right.

  “You gonna use that peashooter, or you just like strokin’ it like a security blanket?”

  The voice came from behind me. I wheel around, my finger tightening on the .45 as I move. A halo of light from Port Lucine blocks my view of the man. I take aim and prepare to fire.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The man raises his arms, waving his hands in the air to reveal he’s unarmed. “Is that anyway to treat an old friend, JoeJoe?”

  I lower the gun, and my heart skips a beat. Only one man I know ever called me ‘JoeJoe.’ And he only did it because he knew how much I hate it.

  I squint in his direction, trying to see his face, despite the backlight behind him. I don’t know why I bothered. Although I can’t see his face for squat, my one eye can’t help but take in the gaudy Hawaiian shirt covering his tall, lanky frame. That’s all I need to confirm my suspicions are true. This guy wore the brightest, most God-awful floral print shirts religiously—almost like they were a badge of courage or something. They were, in many ways, his calling card, I guess you could say.

  “Morris? Morris Grant, is that you?” I step closer, and his usual clean-shaven, rakish face comes into view.

  He’s smiling at me, though his hands are still raised for dear life.

  Lieutenant Morris Grant, US Navy Intelligence. We met during the war and became thick as thieves from that day on. I even named the monkey, Moe, after him. But we haven’t seen each other since the Allies declared victory and the Nazis were sent running to whatever dark hole they could find.

  I holster my gun and take him in a tight bear hug. He claps my back a few times before gently pushing me away. His smile dissolves.

  “Look, we can’t talk here. Now.” He shoots furtive glances over his shoulders, before continuing. “I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

  I laugh. “When the hell aren’t you?”

  “I’m serious, JoeJoe. Big time serious. And I need your help.” He sidesteps a few feet to his left, moving back into the shadows of the nighttime jungle. “Too many busybodies around now.”

  I glance around. As far as I can tell, there’s no one around for at least half a mile. But the look on his face tells me everything. My old friend is scared. And given his reputation for being fearless on and off the battlefield, that’s enough to make me stand to attention and take notice.

  “I’ll reach out to you soon,” he says. He’s already invisible within the vegetation. “Don’t tell a soul you’ve seen me, okay? Not until I can explain what’s going on.” He pauses. “Just watch your back, JoeJoe. Those commies you tussled with, back at the saloon? They mean business.”

  Was he at Nessie’s? Did he see the fight?

  “I’ll be in touch,” he repeats, and then he disappears from sight completely.

  4

  I didn’t sleep a wink all night. My head is still buzzing with the million questions raised by my old buddy’s sudden and mysterious return into my life—and just how the three Ruskies fit into it all.

  I’ve tossed and turned throughout the night, getting up here and there for a few fingers of rum just to soothe my nerves. The sun is now inching its orange-red haze above the horizon, and I’m sitting on the upper deck of the Dream, still trying to sort it all out while eating a plate of scrambled eggs and coffee.

  I’m taking a sip from my steaming mug when the familiar, yet unwelcome petite figure of police Chief Fidel Armad strolls past the pier’s chain-link gate and bounds down the gangplank onto the dock. He’s alone, which I suppose, is a good sign for me. He’s not prone to officiate arrests without his goons as backup.

  I watch him saunter down the dock, his nose turned imperiously toward the rising sun. His coffee-hued skin glistens with sweat, even in the early morning hours. When he comes to a stop at the bow of the Dream, his jaundiced eyes turn toward me and he greets me with a sneer.

  “Captain Thacker.” He nods a greeting.

  I lift my coffee cup in replied. “Chief.”

  He sniffs. “I understand you caused quite a ruckus in Nessie’s last night.”

  I shrug. “Depends on who you ask. All but three will say they started it when they manhandled Trixie the way they did.” I finish the last bit of eggs on my plate and wash it down. “Besides, Nessie isn’t pressing charges.”

  I could be nicer to the pint-sized chief, but he’s rubbed me the wrong way since Day One. He’s never been a fan of outsiders to his island, and he generally makes life miserable for anyone of European descent who comes to St. Noel. He’s also a racist, plain and simple, and I don’t particularly like racists of any kind. That’s just the way my mama raised me to be.

  “That’s fine. That’s fine.” Though a native of the island, Armad spent a great deal of his youth abroad. He’s all but lost his Caribbean accent, which somehow makes him even more unlikeable to me. “I’m not here about that, Thacker. Not here about that at all.”

  I finish off my coffee and lean back in my lawn chair, waiting for him to continue. After a moment, he clears his throat.

  “I’m here because I’ve been made aware of an unregistered visitor to the island.”

  I stiffen at the statement, but hope he doesn’t notice.

  “An unregistered…um, what?”

  “Visitor,” he repeats. “Someone who has sneaked onto St. Noel without documentation. An American, by all accounts.”

  “Er, okay.” I shrug. “So why come to me?”

  Armad huffs impatiently. “Well, you’re the only other American on the island…”

  “So, you think I must know the guy, is that it? Tell me, Fidel… You’re from the Caribbean. Do you know Carl, who runs the bait shop on the beach on St. Thomas?”

  The chief rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I was implying. But you do often charter your boat out for tours and such. I’ve come to see if th
is man has approached you.”

  He holds out a piece of paper. I whistle, drawing Moe’s attention. When the monkey comes above deck, I point to the paper and mutter an indecipherable command. In a flash, he leaps down from the bow to the dock, scurries up Armad’s tiny leg, and takes the paper from his hand. Then the monkey brings it up to me.

  Intentionally taking my sweet time, I light up a cigar and take a few puffs before unfolding the paper and giving it a good once over. As I suspected, a black and white, hazy image of my old war buddy, Morris Grant, stares back at me. I read the print underneath the picture:

  * * *

  WANTED

  For questioning in regards suspicion of espionage and other illegal activities.

  Morris Alan Grant, DOB: July 27, 1914

  United States Citizen, Affiliation unknown.

  Considered armed and dangerous. Report him to your local constabulary if sighted.

  Do not approach.

  * * *

  Espionage? While Morris had been involved in intelligence operations while in the Navy, he’d retired when the war ended. Last I heard, he was working at his father’s furniture store, back in Virginia. I’m not sure what kind of trouble he’s currently in—Lord knows he has the propensity to grift whenever and wherever he has the chance, which got him in more hot water than I can hope to remember back in the Philippines—but I can’t imagine him being mixed up in espionage anymore. When the war ended, he couldn’t wait to get out of government service and return home to his ma and pa.

  After a moment, I look back at Chief Armad and shake my head. “Sorry. Haven’t seen him around.” I point to the picture. “So, what’s he done anyway? He some kind of spy or something?”

  I hope my natural curiosity doesn’t draw too much suspicion, but I figure it’s a natural line of questioning that anyone might ask.

  “Right now, all I can say is that he’s on the island illegally. Snuck in somehow.” His eyes narrow as he makes a show of examining my boat. Like Monday Renot, he’s fully aware of my smuggling operation. It’s actually not surprising he might suspect me of sneaking Morris onto the island. It’s something I would have done without a second thought, actually.

  “Before you say anything, no. I didn’t smuggle him here,” I say. “Like I said, I haven’t seen the fella.” I show Armad my teeth, with a Cheshire grin. “But if I do, you’ll be the first to know. Scout’s honor.”

  “Oh, I know how much you care about your civic duty, Captain Thacker.” His polite smile appears as more of a sneer than anything else. “Just remember. The Governor has his eyes on you, and he has threatened more than a few times to deport you from our island. Just remember that when you start to wonder where your loyalties lie.”

  “Like I said, Chief. I don’t know this man from Adam.” I hold up the Wanted poster. “I’ve got no loyalty issues to worry about.”

  He nods, then turns to walk away.

  “Just remember to let us know if you see him,” Armad says, as he trudges along the wooden pier, walks through the gate, and disappears up the path heading toward town.

  Moe whimpers as we watch the Chief go. I give the monkey a good scratch behind his ear, then mash my cigar into the ashtray on the table, and let out a nervous breath. I’m not sure what kind of trouble Morris is in, but I’ve already decided that I don’t like it one bit.

  5

  The Candyman’s festival is already in full swing when I make my way up the mile-long hike from my boat to town. I’ve left Moe at the Dream. Festivals like this tend to end with massive fireworks displays, and the little monkey is ridiculously scared of loud booms. I figure he’s better off back at the boat, where he can hide under the pile of dirty clothes near my bed until I get back.

  The streets are lit with myriad colored paper lanterns hanging from twine along the lamp posts throughout the village. From the looks of things, the entire island appears to be present, wearing papier-mâché masks depicting devils and the dead, and dancing a merry jig up and down the town’s streets. The distinct odor of alcohol permeates the air, mixing sweetly with the scent of the recently blooming island flowers that paint the nearby vegetation in hues of red, yellow, and purple.

  A makeshift stage has been constructed in front of Nessie’s saloon, where a calypso band sings tunes by Louis Jordan and Harry Belafonte to everyone’s delight. Children of all ages, dressed in spooky costumes of every sort, dash back and forth through the streets, searching for candy hidden in the most devious places by the Candyman.

  I smile as I take it all in. To me, it’s just another example of what it means to live in paradise. An entire community coming together to enjoy each others’ company. Fun. Music. Dancing. And if one is really lucky, maybe a little lovemaking, to boot.

  With that thought in mind, my neck cranes as I search the crowd for Trixie Faye. It’s a relatively simple task to pick out her golden locks among the throng of black curls, as people dance their hearts out. It takes less than two seconds to find her, near Jimmy Gernot’s Apothecary. My cheeks flush as I watch her smile casually at someone, and I find myself wishing it was me.

  Then, I do a double take. I’ve just seen who she’s smiling at. It’s a well-dressed man with dark hair in a Brooks Brother’s tweed suit. One of the Reds from yesterday. I clench my fist and take a step forward, but stop myself. Trixie doesn’t appear to be in distress. She’s simply talking with the creep. Seems amicable enough, though her eyes keep darting back and forth from time to time as they chat.

  My insides begin to boil with a simmering jealousy, which is crazy. First, I’m not that kind of guy. I’m not the jealous type at all. Second, Trixie would never go for a commie. She left that life behind years ago, when her parents fled the Soviet regime. She has no love for the USSR or for anyone who’d work for them. Trixie is all American now. And third, it’s a party. People are supposed to put aside their differences and enjoy chatting people up at shindigs like this.

  But mostly, I tamp down my jealousy because if I act on it and my hackles get raised in front of her, Trixie will never let me live it down. She also might not forgive me, since, as she’s told me on numerous occasions, she’s ‘no one’s girl.’

  That being said, I do feel it’s prudent to approach her. Might be a nice gesture to try to make peace with the Russian, too. You know. International relations and all that. After all, if Trixie can put aside her differences over the way he and his boys treated her last night, I should be able to as well.

  I start wading through the crowd, making as straight a line as I can to the apothecary. After a few halts to say hello here and there, as well as to return a ball to one of the kids, I finally make it. Trixie’s smile widens when she sees me, and she immediately plunges into my arms with a full hug. When we separate, I look past her shoulders and prepare to greet our Russian guest, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I crane my head, looking for him.

  “Where’d he go?” I ask.

  “Where’d who go?”

  “The guy you were just talking to. That Russian.”

  She takes a look behind her and turns back to me. “Oh, he’s gone. I’ve no idea where he’s gotten himself off to.”

  My eye is still scanning the crowd, but it’s as though the Red simply ghosted away.

  “Why Captain Joe, you aren’t jealous, are you?” She giggles.

  “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” I adjust my cap across my forehead and try to look shocked at the mere suggestion. “I just wanted to bury the hatchet. That’s all.”

  Trixie shrugs. “That might be more difficult than you’d like.”

  A boy dressed in clean white pants and a shirt saunters up to us, carrying a silver tray topped with an assortment of alcoholic beverages. I take a glass of whiskey on ice. Trixie chooses a flute of Champagne, and the boy moves off into the crowd once more.

  “Why do you say that? About being difficult to bury the hatchet, I mean.”

  “Well, he certainly isn’t your big
gest fan,” she laughs, taking a sip of the sparkling drink. “And he was definitely curious about you, too. Asking all sorts of questions about you and your friends.”

  I stiffen. “Friends? What friends?”

  “Oh, just friends. He was particularly interested in some of your old war buddies. Asked if any of them ever came around to visit.”

  So the Red is looking for Morris. Definitely not good.

  “So, what did you tell him?”

  She finishes her Champagne and laughs again. “What was I supposed to tell him? You rarely ever talk about the war. And when you do, I figure over half of the stories are made up. I told him I don’t have a clue who any of your friends are—except those on St. Noel, that is.”

  Someone sets off a rope of firecrackers nearby.

  Pop-pop-pop-pow-pop-bang-bang!

  I jump, nearly spilling my whiskey.

  “Geez, Joe.” Trixie reaches out a hand and strokes the stubble of my cheeks. Her soft touch sends a wave of electricity through my nerves. “You’re awfully jumpy tonight. What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure.” I return my attention to the crowd, but there’s no sign of a suit anywhere in the vicinity. “But I don’t trust those Reds. At all.”

  “Oh, pish-posh.” She waves my concern away with her hands. “They’re not spies or anything…if that’s what you’re thinking. Boris—that’s the guy I was just talking to, Boris Usilov. He told me they are actually anthropologists. From the University of Moscow. They’ve come to the islands for some research. They’re bookworms, Joe. Nothing more.”

  She didn’t feel how hard they hit last night. Didn’t notice their military bearing and skill.

  Anthropologists, my right toe.

  “Joe!” I hear someone shouting to me from the mass of costumed people. I turn around and it doesn’t take me long to see the monstrous form of Jacque ‘The Candyman’ Lagrange making his way toward us. He’s dressed as Baron Samedi, the chief loa of the dead, with a black top hat, painted face to resemble a skull, and a black tuxedo. He’s not wearing a shirt under the tuxedo jacket, but a full set of skeletal ribs has been painted across his chest and down his immense belly. As he takes the steps up to the apothecary’s porch, he pulls me into a bear hug that threatens to crack at least three of my vertebrae. A moment later, he puts me back on solid ground, pats both my shoulders with his bear claws for hands, and smiles over at Trixie. “My Lord, girl, you are lookin’ more lovely every time I see you.”