by Mark Rogers
“You didn’t hear it from me, but Hilton is twisting the government’s arm. President Cabral is about to sign off on new roads and lengthening the runway at the Barahona airport.”
“Sounds big.”
“It is big. Last week the tourism minister was flying over the area in his helicopter. He had three execs from Hilton with him.”
“Pretty soon your whole country is gonna be owned by the U.S.”
“Looks like it.”
I channeled my inner Andrews Sister and sang, “Drinkin’ rum and Coca-Cola… Workin’ for the Yankee dollar.”
Renaldo made a sour face. “I hate that song. It’s about Trinidad, anyway. It’s not about us.”
“It’s about you, too,” I said. “You just haven’t grown into it.”
“Screw rum and Coca-Cola,” said Renaldo. “Just thought I’d let you know what’s going on in the west in case you want to scoop the competition.”
Someone I didn’t want to see was steaming straight toward me. Francisco Reyes, an exec with Gran Sol, a Spanish resort chain that has a big presence in the D.R. Francisco was an alpha dog type, always throwing his weight around. Today he was dressed in a long-sleeved guayabera — a weird pistachio colour with embroidery down the front. Francisco gave me a sour look and brushed past.
Renaldo shook his head and smiled. “Francisco’s still pissed at you.”
I watched Francisco make his way to the buffet line and begin piling his plate with roast pork.
Shaking my head, I said to Renaldo, “I wrote a twelve-hundred-word article about his Spanish chain. I put in one tiny paragraph with the subhead: Things That Could Be Improved.”
“Hey,” said Renaldo, “he advertises.”
The elephant in the room when it came to travel trade magazines was their total dependence on advertising. Us editors were sent out to write about new resorts, new marketing initiatives from destinations, improved service from airlines. There was no denying the fact that the subjects of our articles often had full-page ads facing our stories. Once in a while, in a bid to prove we had a measure of credibility, we’d whisper a criticism — a line or two hidden deep in the article. Invariably the subject of the article — the advertiser — would bellow like a gored water buffalo and threaten to cancel their contracts. The publisher would then have to get on the phone and promise all kinds of compensation — a cover story, an executive profile, and in some cases, a retraction, even though there was nothing inaccurate about the writer’s observation. My story had hit Francisco with a poison dart and he was still howling.
“Francisco has been polling people,” said Renaldo. “He says the bad stuff is the only thing people notice when they read the article.”
“That’s bullshit. He’s just angling for a cut in his ad rate.”
Renaldo was enjoying this. “He says business is off at his hotels.”
“One minor dig and he’s blaming me as he cries into his mojito.”
“Well, if I were you,” said Renaldo, “I’d give him some room.”
“Fuck Francisco. The Spanish chains are crap anyway. American travel agents only book them when they have no other option.”
Across the pool stood a woman in a metallic-green sheath dress. She managed to appear curvy and elegant at the same time — not an easy look to pull off. She was holding a mic up to the general manager at the resort while a cameraman captured the interview with a video camera.
“Wow,” I said. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Caterina Roxo,” said Renaldo. “The resort invited her up from Brazil. I think Francisco had something to do with it. Supposedly she does a cable travel show out of Sao Paulo.”
“You suppose she does a show?”
“I saw her photo on Instagram,” said Renaldo. “That’s all the proof I need.”
When Caterina leaned over to look through the video playback, her sheath dress grew tight over her thighs and ass.
“Brazil,” I said to Renaldo. “You ever been to Brazil?”
“Many times,” said Renaldo.
“I’ve been once. I was married. I mean to go back now I’m single.”
“You owe it to yourself.”
I looked across the patio. Dylan had found a table under a sprinkling of decorative lights.
“Listen,” I said to Renaldo, “I’m gonna sit with my son. We’ll catch up later. And thanks for the tip.”
I sat down with Dylan. It looked as though he’d already put a sizeable dent in his meal. “How’s that ceviche?”
Dylan nodded. “It’s good.”
“You’re a born traveller. You know, when you were four, you heard I was flying to Jamaica. You wanted to travel so bad you crawled under the dining room table and wouldn’t come out until I said you could go.”
“But you didn’t take me.”
“You were too young. If your Mom had come, maybe.”
There was a pause. Dylan pushed some rice and beans around on his plate, and asked, “Why won’t Mom get on a plane?”
“It’s complicated. The short answer is she needs to be in control. Once you’re up in the sky you have to put your trust in the pilot and his crew. Your Mom isn’t wired to do that.”
“Did she ever fly? Like before I was born?”
“No, never,” I said. “Some people are afraid. It’s just the way things are. I thought when I started bringing you on trips she might come along to keep an eye on me, to make sure I didn’t get you in trouble. But it’s not something your Mom can do.”
“Flying is boring.”
“The main thing is you’re not afraid.”
Across the pool stood Caterina, standing at a portable bar as a barman built a drink. I was surprised she was alone. At these events, a woman as good-looking as her usually had three guys buzzing around.
I pushed away from the table and said to Dylan, “I’ll be right back.”
I walked over as the barman was handing Caterina what appeared to be a Cuba Libre.
She took a sip as I got the barman’s attention. “Gin and tonic.”
I managed to catch Caterina’s eye. “So, you’re done for the night.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Renaldo warned me about you. He called you Mr. Caribbean.”
The barman handed me my drink and I clinked glasses with Caterina. “Tim-tim.”
She gave me a smile. “Tim-tim. So you know how we toast?”
“I never get to Brazil often enough,” I said. “One of my favorite places in the world.”
“What do you like about it?”
“The country’s position on pleasure. They’re committed to seeing the bright side of being alive.”
Caterina nodded. “I like the way you put it.”
“If my magazine allowed me to write the way I think, we’d all be better off.”
“Even Brazilians?”
“Yeah. My countrymen would be packing the planes.”
“That would be good, “said Caterina. “I’d like to see more Americans in Brazil.” She paused and then continued with a smile. “Maybe we’d even see more of you.”
My God. I’d come to flirt and I was being one-upped.
Over the next half hour, the drinks flowed. Verbally I got as good as I gave. From time to time I’d look over at Dylan, who sat alone at our table. At some point, a dessert cart must have floated by since a bowl of ice cream sat in front of him.
I was laughing at something Caterina said and staring at her ripe lower lip when I felt a tap on my back.
Dylan. My son looked tired.
“Hey, buddy,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I want to go back to the room.”
“Take a walk with me.”
I put my arm around my son’s shoulder and walked toward the edge of the pool. The reflection in the water seemed to pulse with the sound of music from the band. I wasn’t sure if the effect was real or an alcohol-induced mirage.
“Can we just go?” asked Dylan.
“You got your key?�
�
Dylan pulled his key card out of his pocket. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” I said. “You know how to get to our room. I’m not done here yet.”
Dylan glanced across the pool at Caterina. “Who’s she?”
“Your Mom and I are divorced, Dylan.”
My son gave me a solemn nod and then walked away.
When I turned back to Caterina, she was giving me a smile.
Sometimes first prize falls in your lap.
I’d been to Brazil before but never like this.
Two o’clock in the morning. Laying back on a heap of pillows as a naked Caterina padded over to the minibar.
She looked over her shoulder. “The same?”
“Perfect.”
She came back to bed with a fresh gin and tonic in her hand. Caterina licked my cheek as I pounded down the drink. When I set the glass on the bedside table, she climbed on top of me for another session.
I didn’t know I had it in me and pretty soon I didn’t.
Chapter 5
A pillar of light, like King Arthur’s sword, glowed through my half-open eyes. It took a second for my lids to become fully unstuck and for me to see that it wasn’t a glowing sword at all — it was the gap in the drapes and the blazing Caribbean sun.
Where was I?
Caterina’s bed.
My hand reached out beside me, expecting to come in contact with a warm hip.
Nothing.
Rising on one elbow, the sword appeared again — this time piercing my skull with a hangover headache. I listened for the sounds of a shower running and heard nothing. I got out of bed and pulled a bottle of spring water from the minibar, along with a packet of over-priced Excedrin. Gulping the water made me feel drunk for a moment, from the alcohol being wrung out of my stomach lining. I was too old for hangovers like these.
I went over to the bathroom door and in a cracked voice, said, “Caterina? You in there?”
There was no reply. I slowly pushed the door open. There was no Brazilian beauty toweling off. There was also no makeup bag, no wet swimsuit, no toothbrush in a glass.
Back in the room, I looked in the closet. Empty. Caterina had packed up and gone when I was comatose on the bed. Had she told me she was leaving early? No, in fact, it was the opposite — she’d mentioned something about morning dance lessons by the pool — that she wanted us to learn merengue together before Dylan and I left for our flight.
My head still hurt like hell. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I took a series of deep breaths, trying to jumpstart my system into something resembling normalcy. I let my mind flip through moments from the night before. There was lots of laughter. Some serious conversation. And plenty of what I considered good sex. Although who knows? I’m from New Jersey. We make good pizza and have a couple of first-rate rock ‘n’ rollers. When it comes to sex we’re not even in the same game as Brazil.
I dug my phone out of my pants pocket: 7:35. Still time to rouse Dylan and go down to breakfast. I was going to be useless this morning. Dylan was going to have to be content with a pre-flight swim in the pool as his father tried to knit himself back together with a routine of three bottles of water to one light beer — over and over again — coupled with frequent immersions in the deep end of the pool.
The first thing I saw when I unlocked the door was Dylan’s empty bed. I did a quick check around the room. The morning was developing a pattern of me searching for people and not finding them. It was hard to imagine Dylan was up and about so early — maybe he was growing up after all. Usually, it took quite a bit of coaxing to get him out from under the covers. I hoped he wasn’t down at the beach, swimming. He’d done great yesterday but no way was he ready for an unsupervised swim in open water.
Breakfast was served buffet-style in the resort’s large palapa-roofed dining room. I roamed among the diners amid a clatter of plates and conversation in low tones. It was rare to hear someone raise their voice in these dining rooms. Probably because the setting was so weird — eating breakfast wearing shorts and beach coverups while surrounded by complete strangers.
Dylan was nowhere to be seen.
Over in a corner sat Renaldo, with a group of polo-shirted execs. Renaldo looked up from his plate as I walked over.
“Mr. Caribbean,” said Renaldo, with a smile.
“Hey, have you seen my son?”
“No,” said Renaldo. “What did he do? Run off?”
“He’s got to be around here somewhere. We have to leave for the airport at noon.”
“Did you check the pool?”
“Not yet. If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.
I walked over to a young hostess standing at a podium near the door.
“Did a young boy come in here alone? It would have been room C-132.”
The woman ran her finger down a list of names.
“No,” she said. “No one from C-132.”
A circuit around the pool was a waste of time. A quick scan of the beach only turned up a few early birds scoring shade under scattered palms.
Going back to the main building, walking down a hall to reception, I came face-to-face with the one person I didn’t want to see. Francisco.
I gave him a brief nod but that wasn’t good enough. Francisco moved his bulk in front of me. This morning he wore an expertly tailored dark suit and tie. I felt at a disadvantage dressed in the same linen shirt I wore last night. A childhood joke came to mind: even his wrinkles had wrinkles.
“Did you get my message?” asked Francisco.
I thought for a moment. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, it wasn’t to you directly. It was to Chris Tulley.”
Tulley was the magazine’s sales rep for the Caribbean.
“I’m this close to pulling my ads,” said Francisco.
“You sure you want to do that?”
Francisco held up a thumb and forefinger. “I’m this close.”
“You know where that leads,” I said. “No ads, no edit.”
“That’s not the way Tulley sees it. You’re gonna cover us until you dig yourself out of the hole.”
“You know, I’m in the middle of something. So, do whatever you have to do.”
I stepped around him. From behind me, I heard Francisco’s wheezy voice, saying, “Oh, I’m gonna do what I have to do. You better believe it.”
The clerk at reception watched as I crossed the lobby, bearing directly for him.
“I need you to do something for me,” I said, leaning on the counter.
A few minutes later, as I searched the grounds of the resort, I heard my request in action. Over a loudspeaker came a heavily-accented voice, saying in English, “Dylan Turner… Dylan Turner. Please report immediately to the main reception desk. I repeat. Please report immediately to the main reception desk.”
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I dug the phone out. I didn’t recognise the number. “Hello?”
The voice that answered was either a bad connection or electronically altered. “Turner?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Go to your room.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Go to your room.”
The call ended. I held the phone in my hand and stared at its screen. It was a WTF moment and instead of going to my room I cupped my hand to my mouth and hollered, “Dylan!… Dylan!”
A fish-belly pale elderly couple looked at me with disapproval.
I didn’t blame them but I yelled again anyway.
“Dylan!”
Errant tumblers in my brain clicked into place. I took my phone out of my pocket and using the resort’s Wi-Fi Googled “Caterina Roxo Sao Paulo.”
Nothing.
I tried a few other configurations, even adding the Portuguese phrase for travel show host: apresentador de viagens.
My search pulled up nothing at all.
There was only one thing to do.
Go to my room.
Chapter 6
Our hotel room was empty, exactly as I’d left it. Except for one detail. A room service cart containing a stainless-steel cloche sat in the middle of the room.
My phone rang again. The same distorted voice, this time asking, “Do you see the room service cart?”
“Yeah, I see it.”
“Lift the metal cover.”
This was beginning to feel like an elaborate practical joke. “Is Renaldo there? You’re fucking with me, right?” I couldn’t help laughing. “Renaldo, you motherfucker.”
“Lift the cover.”
“Okay, okay, what the fuck.”
I walked over to the cart with the phone in my hand, wondering what I’d find. A box of cigars? A bottle of premium rum? I lifted the cover —
There was Dylan’s Stingray City T-shirt splattered with blood.
The steel cloche fell from my hand, clanging on the floor.
The distorted voice now had an insistent edge. “Turner?… Turner?”
I looked at my phone as the voice said, “Don’t make a move until you hear from us.”
There’s a sound a conch shell makes when you hold it to your ear — a soft roaring sound some people liken to the sound of surf. As I sat in a chair on my room’s balcony, looking out on the Caribbean, that’s the sound I heard, but without the benefit of a conch shell. It was a low roar in my brain that kept me from losing control, that centered me as I waited for the next call. The voice on the phone had told me not to move and I was going to sit until I heard something different.
I looked at the time. I wasn’t going to move, but I had to make a call.
Sally answered on the second ring, her voice stiff. “What is it?”
“We have a change in plans. Dylan and I have to take a later plane.”
Sally’s voice got even more brittle. “That’s not acceptable.”
“Well that’s how it has to be.”
“You can’t rearrange my schedule like this. You have to treat my time with respect.”
“This isn’t about you. Everything isn’t always about you.”
“Put Dylan on.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Put him on.”
“He’s not here.”
“What do you mean he’s not there?”