The sound of the shower woke him up. Piet lay on the bed and felt around his mouth with his tongue. His upper lip was swollen slightly. He’d bitten his lip when she hopped off his cock, put her legs on either side of his head, and slammed her pelvis down on his face, violently thrusting her pussy against his mouth and moaning, “Eat me,” until she came. Punched in the mouth by a wild pubis—Piet felt lucky he hadn’t lost a tooth. Then again, if he had, it would’ve been worth it. His leg muscles were sore, and sometime in the night he’d managed to stub his toe by kicking the lamp off the nightstand. They’d had sex for hours and now he lay there exhausted, wounded, and famished.
Piet heard the distinct marimba sound of his cell phone ringing. The phone was sitting on the bedside table and he saw that the call was from a number in the 212 area code. New York, New York, USA. That was unusual. He didn’t have any friends in the city. It could mean someone was calling with a job. Freelance detective work was hit-or-miss, and he didn’t want to let an opportunity pass him by, but when he reached for the phone, he heard the bathroom door open and let the call go to voice mail. Work could wait. He had his priorities.
The tourist came out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel, her admirable ass wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe. She smiled. “I hope you like eggs. I ordered breakfast for us.”
Piet grinned back. “I love eggs.”
“Good. You’re going to need your strength.” She sat down on the bed and pulled the sheet back. Normally he might have felt self-conscious, his small body exposed like this, laid bare for an examination, but then she reached down and gave his penis a gentle squeeze. “Because I’m not through with this beast yet.”
Neal plucked the menu out of the seat back in front of him and scanned the options. He turned to Seo-yun and said, “They have hummus.”
“Hummus?”
“The chickpea dip.”
Seo-yun blinked at him. “I know what hummus is.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like hummus. I just think it’s funny that you spend thousands of dollars to fly business class and the snack is hummus.”
“I want to serve hummus at my wedding.” She smiled. “Hummus and guacamole.”
“Congratulations. When are you tying the knot?”
Seo-yun laughed. “Oh, I don’t think I can go through with it. Feels like a trap.”
Neal didn’t know what to say, so he decided to say nothing. He didn’t know Seo-yun, just knew her reputation at work, which was impeccable. It was rumored that she was somewhat Asperger-y. Of course the HR department was careful to couch any amateur diagnosis in its own unique legalese. There was concern expressed by one of her supervisors, who wrote, “While she excels at her job, she does not generate cultural synergy among the team.” That was typical of HR. Give someone a compliment while expressing some obscure concern about something vague. Neal had no idea what “cultural synergy” meant. She seemed nice enough to him.
Other than that, there wasn’t a lot of information about her. She wasn’t on social media. There were no warnings in her personnel file. She was, by all accounts, an ideal employee.
Neal suspected that there might have been some friction between her and LeBlanc. The higher-ups gave LeBlanc credit for the department’s successes, even though she was the managing director. Not that there was any evidence that LeBlanc had knowingly usurped her—that’s just how Wall Street operated. The patriarchy, alive and well, grooming the young, dumb, and full of come to take the reins from the old, coddled, and in need of Viagra. It seemed strange that there were so many talented women not getting the credit they deserved, and yet 99 percent of the fraudsters, crooks, and hapless investors he went after were men. It was ironic. In a real way, a woman like Seo-yun had more of a grudge against the company than LeBlanc, and yet it was LeBlanc who’d been the embezzler.
The flight attendant leaned over them and asked if they wanted a beverage. Why not say drink? he thought. Let’s be adults here. Seo-yun asked for bourbon, Neal a white wine.
Seo-yun turned in her seat to face him and said, “I’ve never been on an adventure.”
“Never?”
She shook her head. “Usually I just go on a business trip. You know, a conference or something. This is way more exciting.” She grinned. “A manhunt.”
Neal laughed. “Usually I’m staking out a pizza place in Jersey, waiting for some poor schlub to pick up a pie so I can hit him with a court order.”
She sighed. “I don’t expect this will be that easy. Bryan’s not playing by the rules. I kind of admire him for it.”
“Even the smartest people make mistakes. We’ll find him.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
Neal shrugged. “Well, even if we don’t, we’ll have an adventure.”
The flight attendant served the drinks and Seo-yun raised her glass. “Here’s to adventure.”
Neal tapped his glass against hers. “Happy hunting.”
She looked at him. “I’m unclear on one thing.”
“What?”
“If we find him, then what do we do?”
“It’s tricky. In any other situation I’d call in law enforcement, have them arrest him or seize his property with a court order.” Neal took a sip of wine. “If we can’t go to the police, I’m not sure what we can do. That’s why we’ve got reinforcements meeting us in George Town.”
“Reinforcements?”
“An ex-cop from Curaçao. A friend who works for the State Department said he was really good at this kind of thing.”
“Like a mercenary?”
“A private detective.”
Seo-yun smiled. “Some muscle.”
Neal watched as she knocked back the rest of her whiskey. “Even with, like you said, muscle on our side, I’m not sure what we can do legally. If we convince LeBlanc to return the money, we won’t be able to bring him back unless we offer him a deal.”
“Or stuff him in our luggage.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. She was signaling the flight attendant for another miniature bottle of bourbon. The attendant brought her two, and Neal watched her crack both bottles and dump them into her glass. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and took a slurp.
“We can’t break the law. I want to be clear on that.”
Seo-yun giggled as if the idea was funny. “I’m just here to provide tech support.”
“There’re a lot of variables. I’m not so sure he’s in the Caymans.”
“He’s got to be there. All the other bank accounts are closed, but a couple of his transactions were routed through a Cayman account.”
“The money may have gone through there, but that doesn’t mean he’s there. If I were him I wouldn’t get anywhere near it. He could be anywhere.”
Seo-yun shrugged. “He could convert it to cash.”
“Really?”
“You’d need a bank manager to look the other way or be in on it. And you’d need a pickup truck.”
Neal nodded. “Or a boat.”
Seo-yun raised her glass. “Or a boat.”
Lunch—a dour chicken breast stuffed with cheese—came and went, along with a couple of glasses of white wine for Neal and another bourbon for Seo-yun. She’d fallen asleep. Neal pulled a paperback out of his bag, A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. Neal didn’t know why he’d picked it up at the airport bookstore, but it had called out to him. Not that he was enjoying the read; the wine made it hard to concentrate and the book was making him feel sad. He didn’t like the idea of hitting the ground in Grand Cayman like a morose drunk.
Neal wasn’t sure what they were accomplishing except making the CEO feel they were doing something. He knew that if he were in LeBlanc’s shoes, he would have moved the money into something easily transportable, maybe converted the cash into bonds and taken them to Argentina or Uruguay or even somewhere in Eastern Europe. The hope was that something had gone wrong. It didn’t matter what it was, just something to throw a speed bump into his pa
th and give them enough time to find him. What happened after that, well, Neal had no idea. He hoped the private detective would know what to do.
Neal had barely gotten twenty pages in when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned toward Seo-yun as she leaned close to him and said, “Can I ask you something personal?”
Neal recoiled a bit from the whiskey on her breath. “Sure.”
“Are you a homosexual?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
“It’s that obvious?”
She gave him a funny look.
“I’m joking. I know it’s obvious,”
She smiled and shifted in her seat, leaning closer. “So you like to suck cock?”
Neal raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to be having with a business colleague, but she seemed genuinely curious, so he decided to give her a genuine answer. “Among other things, yes.”
Seo-yun grinned and clapped her hands together. “Me too.” She gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “We have something in common.”
Piet didn’t like missing person cases. They rarely ended with hugs and kisses. Half the time the people who disappeared were trying to escape something: an asshole spouse, controlling parents, a disgruntled loan shark, feelings of despair and helplessness. The other half of the time people were missing because something bad had happened to them. These cases typically involved the discovery of a corpse.
Piet studied the photo he’d been sent: a picture of a handsome enough Caucasian guy in a suit and tie who went by the name Bryan LeBlanc. The dude looked as if he had money. For sure Piet’s client did. They’d wired a fat retainer into Piet’s bank account in Willemstad and told him to spare no expense. The only lead they had was this resort in Punta Cana. It was the last place LeBlanc had been seen, and so Piet was on a plane, flying first class to the Dominican Republic.
The Playa Palms Resort was only a short cab ride from the airport, but Piet treated himself and rented a convertible.
He’d called ahead, spoken to the manager of the resort and the head of security. They confirmed that LeBlanc had been there. There was no record of any complaints by him or about him. LeBlanc had kept a low profile, paid his bill, and left. Piet was hoping he could talk to some of the waiters or bartenders and start to build a picture of this guy. The information he got from his client didn’t tell him anything. All he knew was this missing person lived up to his name—the only thing everyone agreed on was that he was white.
The resort was one of those all-inclusive adults-only places that catered to honeymooners and couples trying to get away from their bratty children. Piet assumed there would be some single men and women staying there, people hoping to read a book on the beach, drink some rum, and maybe hook up with each other in the evening. But it wasn’t a swingers club; this resort was classy, with tall open buildings made to look authentic by having palm fronds stuck into every conceivable nook and cranny and rattan wrapped around every piece of brightly cushioned furniture.
Piet checked in and then met with the head of security. She had very kindly arranged for the people who had met LeBlanc to stop by her office for a chat. It was slow going. Piet didn’t speak Spanish—a drawback of growing up on one of the Dutch-speaking islands—and the employees’ proficiency in English was spotty. Piet learned that LeBlanc was a good tipper, liked Presidente beer, and didn’t throw his used towels on the floor. He had eaten dinner a couple of times with two women who were also staying there, but the housekeeper had not found any used condoms in the trash. Mainly it seemed that LeBlanc had been relentlessly polite. The only breakthrough was when the resort’s driver told Piet that he had taken LeBlanc to the ferry terminal in Santo Domingo instead of the airport, so that LeBlanc could catch the boat to Puerto Rico.
Piet walked out on the beach and sat down on the sand. The beach was lovely. But were Dominican beaches better than beaches on Curaçao? Not really. The sand was softer. Piet wondered if Playa Palms had imported the sand. Resorts did that sometimes, bringing in truckloads of soft sand for the paying customers. He let out a sigh. He wanted to curl up on that nice imported sand and take a nap. First day on the case and he was already tired. This was the problem with police work: it was slow, methodical, and exhausting. His client would be expecting him to drive down to Santo Domingo and interview the ferryboat workers, but Piet decided he’d sleep on it. He could drive there in the morning and see if anyone recognized LeBlanc. Maybe he hadn’t gotten on the boat. Maybe he had. Piet would know more in the morning. Right now, he needed a drink.
Piet went to his room and changed into a fresh guayabera; he might as well enjoy the Caribbean buffet while he was here. And who knew? He might get lucky. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The bar was busy with guests fueling up with predinner cocktails. He walked up to the bar and ordered a rum and Coke. A drunk American man—Piet could tell he was American from his accent and knew he was drunk from the blotchy gin blossoms on his face—turned from the bar and bumped into Piet. The man reeled back, spilling some of his piña colada, and shouted, “Midget!”
From the reaction of the people around them, you’d think the man had just announced he had a bomb. The buzz and good vibe of the bar evaporated.
The man’s face reddened. “This midget made me spill my drink.”
The bartender handed Piet his drink. Piet turned to the drunk American and said, “I’ll be happy to buy you a new cocktail.”
Another drunk tourist shouted from a table across the room. “Little people, Don. Little people.”
The drunk—apparently his name was Don—shouted back, “If I wanted to be politically correct, I’d go to California. I know a midget when I see one.”
Piet squeezed the lime into his rum and Coke and took a big swallow.
The drunk American stood in front of Piet, swaying a bit from the booze, and adjusted his cap. “Did I offend you, little fella?”
Piet noticed that Don’s cap had the outline of a bald eagle and said USA in bright red machine-embroidered letters. He took another sip of his drink and rattled the ice around in the glass. Piet looked up at the drunk and said, “Let’s take the asshole test.”
Don blinked. “What?”
“The asshole test. Do you want to take it?”
Don straightened, looming as tall as he could over Piet. “You talk funny. Where’re you from?”
“The Netherlands.”
Don looked toward his friends and laughed. “A midget from the Low Countries. Isn’t that what they call ironic?”
“Irony implies the opposite of what you normally expect.”
Don did a slow blink. “They teach you that in tulip school?”
Piet smiled and finished his drink. “Take your hat, for example. You would think a hat that proclaims USA would be made in the USA, but I’ll bet you it isn’t.”
Don whipped the cap off his head and looked at the label. His expression changed. “Vietnam. Goddamn it, the midget’s right.” Don threw the hat at the bartender in disgust. “All right, what’s this asshole test? Is that where you come up behind me and smell my farts?” Don laughed at his own joke. “Get it? Because you’re at the right height to sniff my butthole.”
Piet laughed too. “Good one. But that’s not the test. Here …”
Piet motioned for Don to lean closer. Don bent down to hear what Piet had to say, and that’s when Piet smashed his glass against the bar, breaking the top half off, and punched Don in the face with the jagged edges. Don shrieked and dropped his piña colada. He slipped on the creamy coconut cocktail and fell on his ass as blood spewed out of his face. “Oh my God!”
Piet stepped forward and said, “You’re in shock, I know. Nobody likes to learn that they’re an asshole.”
Then he turned and left the bar. Piet realized he had a long night ahead of him. He’d be driving to Santo Domingo after all.
Bryan had started the evening calmly enough, eating fish and chips and drinking a la
ger in a local bar, watching the evening news to see if there were any reports of a murder or the mysterious disappearance of a local bank manager. Bryan couldn’t decide if he was relieved there was no news or if that just added to the suspense. He could feel the pressure build in his chest and then he felt his cheeks get wet. It was embarrassing. He went through several paper napkins trying to dry his eyes.
Bryan unfolded a copy of the Cayman Compass, the islands’ “most trusted news source.” A sixteen-year-old boy had been arrested for riding a stolen bike; six attorneys had been named Queen’s Counsel, whatever that meant; the blood bank was looking for donations in preparation for hurricane season; and there was a renewed push for tax transparency—nothing about some poor fucker with a conch shell sticking out of his face.
That was worth drinking to.
Bryan wondered if Leighton had any family nearby; someone must be wondering where he was. The family would be sad when they found him, heartbroken and angry at the unfairness of it all. Maybe Leighton had a girlfriend or a boyfriend who loved him. What about that? When someone dies there’s a ripple effect, loss and sadness that travel outward in all directions until the absence of that person encompasses the world. Would someone clean out Leighton’s bungalow the way Bryan had cleaned out his father’s apartment? Bryan hadn’t thought about the apartment in Long Island City since he’d left New York, but now he realized that the rent would come due in a few weeks, and the landlord would send an eviction notice and eventually be forced to hire a locksmith to open the door to his father’s place. There was no one to contact, no one to claim the contents, so everything would be thrown away. The last traces of a life—a life full of food and friends and poetry—would end up in a dumpster in Queens. The walls would be repainted, the refrigerator replaced, maybe there’d be an upgrade to the stove and toilet, and then a new person would move in and there would be nothing left of his father: no trace he was ever on this planet, only what Bryan could remember. And Bryan was almost gone; he would be Cuffy soon.
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