Bahama Breeze

by Eddie Jones

  “Going out?” asked Sonny.

  “While you were stalking your Ms. Fortune I met a gal who’s down here working on the staff of some fellow running for President. Says she’s his speech writer. Promised to give me some pointers. Been thinking I might get into politics. There’s a lot I want to do in the area of conservation.”

  “Such as?”

  “Get rid of the paper recycling trend. It’s killing the timber industry.”

  Joe poured a little gin into his palm and rubbed it onto his cheeks, neck and arms. “Keeps the skitters away,” he explained. “And the chicks dig it. Anyway, don’t wait up for me. I need lots of help with my vowels and consonants.”

  “You know she’s not really a linguist, right?”

  “A what?”

  “Your writer friend. She’s not a speech therapist.”

  “All I know is she is buying my dinner,” said Joe, tucking the hem of his black tank top into the waist band of his plaid shorts. “And I’m thinking lobster and steak.”

  The motel door slammed shut. Sonny stepped into the bathroom and shed his shorts and Big Kahuna Surf shirt. Lifting the garbage bag from the trashcan, he found an extra liner in the bottom. He placed his wet clothes inside the clean liner, stepped in the shower and pulled the curtain closed.

  The hot water felt good on his shoulders, much better than the cool waters of the boat slip. He’d been surprised at how chilly the water was in the Bahamas. He’d also been surprised at how long he’d held his breath. Sonny hadn’t really thought of himself as in shape since his playing days in high school, and even then, his shape was mostly “round.”

  He’d begun that year in high school as an overweight, under achieving, B-minus trombone player in the marching band, but the football coach thought he had potential. What Sonny really had was girth. He was wider than the team’s starting right tackle. So when the coach asked if he wanted to play varsity football, Sonny traded his marching uniform for a football helmet.

  But it turned out Sonny was slow. Glacier-melting slow. Whole civilizations could rise and fall in the time it took him to get off the line of scrimmage.

  The coach moved Sonny to the end of the bench and told him to sit. Sonny sat. Then he began hitting the track early and staying late in the weight room. He slimmed down, turning fat into muscle. By the mid-point of the season, he was the quickest defensive lineman on the squad. Unfortunately, his team was on a seven game winning streak and the coach didn’t dare mess with what was obviously dumb luck.

  Then came the final game of the season and the chance to beat their arch rival, the Burgaw Bulldogs—a team whose entire offense was built around a six-foot-two, one-hundred and eighty pound halfback with massive thighs, a low center of gravity and the scholastic aptitude of earwax. Chester “Tree Stump” Holden worked on his daddy’s farm during the day and played football at night. Every night. Rain or shine, summer and winter. Sometimes Chester went to school, too.

  “Tree Stump” was the biggest thing to come out of eastern North Carolina since Michael Jordan. Everyone pulled for Chester, even the players on opposing teams. They all wanted to see him make it to the next level, which, in Chester’s case, was tenth grade.

  Nobody pulled for Sonny.

  Then, at the beginning of the second half of the last game of the season, Sonny got his chance. His team’s starting defensive tackle tripped and broke his ankle while coming out of the cheerleader’s locker room. The coach called Sonny’s number. It was Sonny’s chance to perform—his opportunity to prove the long hours of fasting, weight lifting and calisthenics had paid off.

  Sonny jogged onto the field, hyperventilated, and passed out.

  The trainer brought out smelling salts.

  Sonny recovered and wandered into the wrong huddle before finally being directed back to the correct side of the line of scrimmage. The teams lined up. Sonny crouched. The opposing center snapped the ball. Sonny shot through the gap and then it hit him.

  The “it” was “Tree Stump.” Chester Holden flattened Sonny before rumbling sixty-two yards for a touchdown. Fans booed. Coaches cursed. Teammates tossed their helmets. Sonny wobbled onto his hands and knees, searching the grass for his mouth guard. Chester jogged past and patted Sonny on the rump.

  Sonny returned to his place at the end of the bench. He was still sitting there at the start of the next defensive series when Anna Fortune, a girl in his biology class, walked up to him and grabbed the front of his helmet.

  “What are you doing?”

  He looked through grill, bewitched by her blue-gray eyes. “Resting.”

  “I can see that. What I meant was why aren’t you standing over there with the rest of the team?”

  Sonny shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “You’re pitiful, you know that? Sitting here acting all sorry for yourself while the rest of your teammates encourage one another. We’re in the playoffs. Show some spunk. Get up off your fat rear and cheer. Stop looking so pathetic.”

  “Hey, thanks for the pep talk. Feel better already.”

  “How come you let that guy run over you like that?”

  “I got a slow start off the ball.”

  “You got a great jump, Sonny. I watched you. You bulled your way through that offensive lineman.”

  “Shouldn’t you be up in the stands with your boyfriend?”

  “He left, already. Said he couldn’t stand to watch us lose.”

  “You should’ve gone with him.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  A groan erupted from the stands. Players peeled off a pile. The referee blew his whistle to indicate the Bulldogs had recovered another fumble.

  “Was there something else you wanted?” asked Sonny.

  “I’m not leaving until you flatten Tree Stump. The guy’s too cocky and stupid to beat us this bad.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I want to win!”

  “I meant, why do you care that I get back on the field?”

  She let go of his helmet and stuffed her hands in jean pockets. “I never told you this, but when we were in the ninth grade I had a crush on you.”

  “You did?” asked Sonny.

  “Remember how you were the only one who sat with me in the cafeteria when I got those ugly cat-frame eyeglasses?”

  “I thought you looked cute.”

  “I looked like Mrs. Reiger.”

  “So what are you saying? Wearing glasses will make me a better ball player?”

  “No, silly. I’m saying I have—had a crush on you.”

  “That’s it? You came out of the stands to tell me that?”

  “And to give you this.”

  She bent down, pulled the helmet from his head and kissed him. A long, wet, chili-dog flavored kiss.

  “Thanks for thinking I was cute,” she said, kissing him again. “Sometimes we just need someone who believes in us. Now go back out there and win this game for your teammates, your school, and for me.”

  Anna marched up to the defensive line coach, pointed to Sonny.

  On the next defensive series, Sonny got called for offside. Twice. The Bulldogs picked up a first down without snapping the ball. Fans jeered. Coaches slammed clipboards onto the ground.

  Anna’s voice carried above the crowd noise. “You can do it, Sonny!”

  When the center finally hiked the ball, Sonny burst through and crashed into Tree Stump. The ball bounced from Chester’s hands to chest to forearm to thigh and all the while Sonny continued to drive Tree Stump backwards. Refusing to stop even after the ref blew the play dead. Sonny planted Tree Stump in the turf. The other players pulled Sonny off and stood watching as Chester lay writhing on the ground, holding his knee and screaming in pain. The EMTs carted Burgaw’s star running back off the field on a stretcher. Fans hissed. College coaches cursed.

  Sonny’s team lost by thirty-one points and Sonny’s short career as a football player ended.

  Afterwards, as he trudged up the steps of the locker room
and into the cool October air, he found Anna leaning on the stadium fencing, waiting for him. He drove her home in his dad’s rusted-out pickup. They sat in her living room until midnight listening to Jim Croce, John Denver, and an Olivia Newton John album he hoped to never hear again.

  Sonny turned off the shower and stepped onto the mat.

  The phone rang and, wrapping a towel around his waist, he exited the steamy heat of the bathroom and dove for the receiver, half-expecting it to be her.

  “Are you da mon who borrowed my golf cart?” a gruff voice asked.

  “I think maybe you got the wrong person.”

  “I tink maybe you ‘tole from de wrong person. Meet me in da motel lobby in five minutes. And bring your checkbook.”

  5

  Anna unlocked the door to the bungalow and felt a blast of hot air, flipped a floor lamp on and sent a cockroach scurrying across the hardwood planking. On the wall behind the wicker couch, a pair of harpoons formed an X. A black, mesh fishing net covered another wall. Travel magazines lay scattered on a wicker coffee table. She tugged on a tassel and a ceiling fan began to spin, making a clicking noise. Not exactly five stars but it was provision of a sort.

  She carried her duffle bag into the bedroom door, dropped it onto a chair, and saw another Hershey’s Kiss on the pillow. Oh God, not another. And not him. Please, Lord, not him.

  The thought of Boggs standing in her bedroom, jostling the canopy over her bed and turning back the sheets beneath her pillow made her shudder.

  You promised after the last time, Father. “Seek refuge under my wings,” You said. “Call upon Me in your time of trouble.”

  Well I’m calling: calling this off, too, if he makes one wrong move. Clutching the Kiss in her fist she marched into the kitchen and flung the candy into the trash.

  The heat was suffocating so she opened the fridge, swinging the door back-and-forth until the chilled air dried her skin. In the hall leading to the bathroom, she found the thermostat and turned on the AC, waiting as the rasping rattle of a motor kicked on. Shucking her sandals next to the front door, she stepped onto the porch.

  The smell of rain hung in the air. Palm fronds rattled as the ocean breeze worked its way around the edge of the cottage. A tree frog belched.

  She recalled the last time she’d seen Congressman Bill Boggs and how he’d turned on the charm, meeting her gaze, and holding the door open for her. Pretending to listen when she’d explained the intricacies of the redundant database grid she managed. He was all nodding and smiling and caring at the right moments. Charismatic—like the weaseling politician that he is. After dinner he’d walked her to his stateroom aboard the cruise ship.

  When it came to men, especially men like Boggs, she was out of her element, unsure of how to react to the aura of power. He was the Angus bull, pawing and sniffing and causing her to feel small. He’d tried to take her right there, with the porter still clearing the dishes from his stateroom. Even now, looking across the harbor, she remembered how his eyes had roamed over her body, silently undressing her, and the thought sickened her.

  She heard her satellite phone chirping from inside the cottage. Maybe the mission was off. Maybe Boggs cancelled. I mean, how much money can you raise at a memorial and ribbon cutting ceremony for a dead stripper?

  She picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Is this line secure?”

  “Sorry, chief.” Anna hit the END button, found her purse, keyed in her clearance code again and returned the call.

  “You need to get with the program, Fortune.”

  “I’m trying, sir. Honestly I am. But you caught me outside and I―”

  “Listen; there’s been a change in plans.”

  “He’s not coming?” Anna said, hopefully.

  “Who?”

  “Boggs.”

  “He’s not?” her boss asked.

  “It was a question, sir.”

  “What was?”

  “‘He’s not coming.’”

  “You said that already.”

  “I know. I’m asking, is he coming?”

  “Who?”

  “Boggs!”

  “Why? Have you heard otherwise?”

  “No, you said there was a change of plans and I thought…doesn’t matter. Why’d you call?”

  “Remember what I said earlier about there being chatter coming out of Latin America? Our sources think it might have something to do with Martinez.”

  “Martinez, sir?”

  “The Cuban. You worked on his personality profile a few years back. Recommended him for the “Miami Vice” treatment.”

  “Oh, that Martinez,” said Anna. “I thought we shipped him to an undisclosed location in North Dakota.”

  “We did, but with these congressional hearings and the way the media’s spinning this water-boarding thing, we had to outsource the facility.”

  “Outsource it, sir?”

  “Move the detainees offshore. Those bleeding-heart liberals think every tortured terrorist deserves a dream-team defense. We put him on a plane to Guantanamo but it never reached Cuba. Got diverted because of the storm.”

  “And that’s got to do with me, why?”

  “Plane landed about fifteen minutes ago on Cockroach Cay. Pilot was gonna refuel and wait for the weather to clear. But as they were taxiing to the gate, Martinez overpowered the air marshal and escaped. Hate to do this to you, Fortune, but I need you to be our ears on the ground until we can get a team in place.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’m going to have a hard enough time keeping track of Boggs.”

  “I already told the Director you were on this Martinez thing. Won some brownie points with that one. Might bump me up a pay grade.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Look, I’m not asking you to find Martinez. Just make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near Boggs. Could be a real embarrassment to the Administration if a terrorist kidnaps a U.S. Congressman. Speaking of which, Boggs left a message. Said he’s looking forward to the two of you catching up on old times.”

  “Can I just say again how uncomfortable I am about doing this? I mean, what if he tries something?”

  “Martinez?” her boss asked.

  “Boggs!”

  “You’re a smart girl. Play to your strengths. Boggs is single, straight, and except for that one incident with Miss Texas, scandal free.”

  “You’re not suggesting I sleep with him, are you?”

  “Sleep, stand, or crawl around on all fours, I don’t care. Just keep an eye on Boggs and report anything you hear on Martinez. The Congressman has that whole John Wayne, Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee thing working for him. It’s part of his campaign promise to put family, flag, and fighting back into the fabric of America. If he finds out there’s a terrorist nearby, who knows what he might do?”

  “But it’s Boggs, sir. I mean we do have a history together.”

  “Seriously, Fortune. You need to get past that. Offer to work with him on his debate prep. He could use some coaching in the area of foreign intelligence. I’m not asking you to marry the guy. Just keep him out of trouble until we can get a team in place to handle the Martinez situation. You’ll report to them when they arrive.”

  “Where’s the rendezvous point?”

  “TBD.”

  “The Tiki Bar and Disco?” Anna asked.

  “To Be Determined.”

  “Chief, are you’re sure all this is necessary?”

  “He’s a nasty one,” her boss said.

  “Boggs?”

  “Martinez. Been linked to Al Qaeda, Al Michaels, Sinn Fein, the FARC, Hezbollah, Hamas, and Halliburton. He’s been implicated in the Olympic Park bombing, Twin Towers, the Alfred P. Murrah Building bombing, Ruby Ridge, Ruby Tuesday, Bloody Sunday, Bloody Mary’s and the assassinations of JFK, RK, Dr. K. and Jam Master Jay.”

  “Are we talking about the same guy they picked up outside a strip mall in Miami in his underwear?” Anna asked.

  “It’s part of his MO. Und
ercover without cover is his cover. I know I’m putting you in a tough spot, but you’ve had the same training as our other field agents. It’s time you earned your pension. At least for another week. We can’t let anything happen to Boggs. He could become the next President of the United States.”

  “But he’s running as an independent and polling in the single digits.”

  “What can I say? Things change in politics. Look what happened to Gary Hart.”

  “Who?” Anna asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “That’s what concerns me. Report back as soon as you make contact with Boggs.”

  Click.

  6

  The splintered blades of a ceiling fan spun in a looping orbit beneath the cedar beams of the restaurant, distributing the heavy aroma of steamed lobster and fried conch. Mamy Pearl’s Bait and Tackle Shop sold neither bait nor tackle, but the waterfront café did offer a wide variety of aquatic mollusk and arthropods to tourists who, back home, would never touch, much less eat, large saltwater snails.

  Sonny settled for a table in the corner overlooking the patio deck, tiki torches, and a green trash dumpster. He removed his blue poncho, fishing cap with extended bill, wrap-around sunglasses, cell phone, room key, multi-tool, bottle opener, and wallet, placing them all on the plastic checkerboard tablecloth. The rain returned, torrential showers quickly becoming the tropical theme of his vacation.

  He nervously watched the front door of Mamy Pearl’s, expecting the owner of the golf cart, or Anna, or both, to arrive at any moment.

  Beneath the slanting roof of Mamy Pearl’s, lay a network of industrial grade PVC pipes channeling rain water into a squatting cement tank located behind the kitchen. Sonny knew this because earlier that day, while waiting for the boat rental boy, he’d mistakenly called the tank a “well” because—well, it looked like a well.

  But the boat rental boy had quickly corrected him, calling it a cistern. This had only confused Sonny more.

  “All de water for de restaurant comes from de cistern, mon, but it’s OK. She clean.”

  “Who’s clean?” asked Sonny.

  “De cistern. She clean. We make sure of it ‘cause, ya know. We depend on her.”