by Eddie Jones
“So your sister’s clean and she gets your drinking water?”
“Yeah, mon. She get all de drinking water. Cistern OK as long as de frogs be swimming in her.”
“Your sister has frogs swimming in her?”
“All de cisterns have frogs in dem.”
“And dat’s OK—I mean, that’s OK?” (Sonny was surprised at how quickly he’d picked up the dialect. He usually struggled with foreign languages.)
“You be living around here, you want de frogs to be swimming in your cistern. Dead frogs, no good, mon.”
Sonny decided the people on Cockroach Cay, while a peaceful and technologically advanced people compared to, say, Aunt Effie’s family, had some strange tribal customs for their female members.
A plump girl with oily red hair and a sweet potato nose waddled over on a pair of flip flops that were too short and narrow for her feet. She stood next to Sonny’s table, smacking gum, a square plastic bucket filled with dirty dishes resting on her hip. Crescent shaped sweat stains soiled the flanks of her gray cotton tank top.
“Would you like something drink?” she asked.
“Kalik. No glass. And cold this time, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“All out. Storm canceled our delivery. How about water?”
“Bottled?”
“Tap.”
“Are there frogs floating in it?”
Frowning, the waitress pivoted and waddled off, spilling a trail of crumbs from her bucket.
The bell above the front door banged. Sonny glanced up. A broad man, nearly as tall as Sonny, stepped into the foyer wearing a dark blue sports shirt and oyster-colored khakis. Gray shoots sprouted around his ears and side burns. His arms, face and neck had the deepwater tan of an offshore fisherman and when he grinned, which he did as he spoke with the hostess, his perfectly sculpted teeth blazed bright white.
Golfcart owner, Sonny thought, slumping in his chair. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down his side, catching on a roll of flab. He was trying to look calm. Maybe even important. But most of all he was scared. Joe was right. Coming down here was a dumb idea.
She probably won’t even recognize me, he thought. Not with the extra weight, wrinkles and thinning hair. And even if she does, it won’t matter.
Sonny caught himself massaging the soreness on the inside of his thigh and revisiting the grainy images on x-rays. PET scan, what sort of test is that, anyway? Makes it sound like I’m trying to adopt a puppy. He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself, but couldn’t shake the gnawing dread that he’d waited too late: clung to a dream that wasn’t for too long. I should’ve fought harder, stayed instead of running. Just showed up at her house and waited until she came home.
The front door bell bonged again. He twisted in his chair. Anna stood in the foyer wearing a green dress, yellow sweater and a black purse tucked under her arm. The roundness to her face and chipmunk cheeks had begun to sag some, but not too much. And there was fullness to her figure, a richness to her curves that he hadn’t remembered. Gone was the knobby-kneed girl from biology class. All these years later and she still moves me the way no girl or woman ever has.
A tapping on his shoulder jolted him out of the trance. Boat rental boy.
“Dat mon out dere, he wants to talk wit you.”
Sonny peered through the porch railing slats and saw a uniformed officer shining a flashlight on the crumpled frame of the golf cart. Next to him stood an important-looking man in a black suit, white shirt and black hat.
“I’ll be right there.”
“He say you come, now.”
“In a minute, OK?”
The officer aimed the flashlight at Sonny, blinding him.
Sonny sighed, stood and followed the boat rental boy onto the patio and down the steps, leaving his wallet and other items on the table.
****
Anna scanned the restaurant. No Boggs, just a waitress hurriedly busing a table. With a sour dishtowel, the waitress swept a wallet, bottle opener and other assorted items into her gray bucket.
Anna settled for a corner table overlooking the patio, outdoor bar and a green trash dumpster. Through the slats of the porch railing, she watched a uniformed officer interrogate a large, oversized tourist dressed in a floral print shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. The man stood with his back to her, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets.
For a moment, she thought he might be the man she’d seen on the porch earlier in the evening, but before she could decide for certain, the officer’s flashlight moved from the tourist and onto the mangled frame of a convertible golf cart. Wow, some storm. Maybe this tropical storm business is worse than they’re reporting. She was still wondering if she should phone her office to get an updated hurricane forecast when a voice from the past jarred her.
“Well, lookie here. If it ain’t the lovely and single Ms. Fortune.”
She pivoted to find a tanned, fit, and jovial Congressman Bill Boggs striding towards her, wearing a blue shirt and light gray slacks.
“How you doing, darling? Long time no kissy-kissy.” Boggs puckered up and leaned down.
Anna wrenched away.
“Now is that any way to welcome an old friend?”
“First off, we’re not friends. And second, I’m here because I don’t have any choice, so can we just dispense with the pleasantries?”
“That’s my girl. All business and no fun. I’m starving. You like conch fritters?” He waved the waitress over and ordered, adding, “I’ll have whatever she’s drinking.”
“Iced tea,” said Anna, coldly.
“Make mine a New England, but not too heavy on the Tequila. Giving a ‘portant speech in the morning…”
Anna pushed her chair back and stood. “If you’re drinking, I’m leaving.”
“Hey, now. No need to get all Jerry Swaggart with me.”
“It’s Jimmy. And I know how you are when you’re drunk.”
“First off, I’m just kidding with ya. And second, I’m not like that anymore.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe a little, I am, but you got nothing to worry ‘bout. I promise.”
Anna glared. Reaching across the table, he took her hand, stroking the back of her knuckles.
“I admit, I come on too fast sometimes, but I don’t mean nothing by it. What say you give old Bill a second chance? For old time’s sake.”
“No drinking?”
“Promise. If I’m lying, you can strike me dead and call me corn-pone. Now sit before folks get to thinking we’re two lovers having a spat.”
Anna looked around the nearly empty restaurant and past the patio where the police officer escorted a dejected-looking tourist away in handcuffs.
Boggs pushed her chair back with his shoe and she sat.
“I can’t believe how good you look, Anna. You haven’t changed at all. I mean, except for that touch of gray peeking through at the roots that your stylist missed and those bags under your eyes, you’re purdy as you ever was. Remember how much fun we had that time in Haiti?”
“There was nothing fun about it.”
“You sure danced up a storm. I liked to never kept up with you. Speaking of which, what say we head back to my ship after we’re done eating and take a dip in the pool?”
“You’re on a ship? I thought you were staying in a hotel?”
“Hon, this rock ain’t got nothing nearly as nice as that luxury liner docked out yonder.” Boggs pointed to a hulking vessel moored at the end of a long concrete wharf. “Ain’t exactly the Queen Mary, but it’s not infested like that place,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward the motel. “There’s a reason they call this place Cockroach Cay. If you’re staying in those tiny cottages, you’d be smart to wear shoes to bed. Heard a dock hand talking about how they can gnaw your toes clean off while you’s sleeping.”
Anna scrunched her feet under her chair, still eyeing the vessel. “Yours?”
“Naw. Belongs to one of my const
ituents, a country singer out of Austin. Ship’s got two pools, a Jacuzzi, wet bars both topside and below. Little casino for gambling. A teeny-tiny Titanic is what it is. The Wicked Witch. That’s what she’s called. The owner was in that Broadway musical with the same name. But then he got caught sleeping with one of the munchkin girls. It’s pure entrapment the way young gals look these days. Why, when I was in school, most girls didn’t even own a training bra ‘til they were in the tenth grade. Never was real sure what they were training to do. Don’t they sort of sprout and grow on their own?”
“You get to stay on it for free?”
“Told you. We’re tight, me and the owner. He’s got it registered out of Panama. A 4,800-ton, 234-foot former Soviet mine sweeper that was converted into a cruise-booze-and-lose love boat. Her main purpose is money laundering, but you didn’t hear that from me. It’s a cash cow for a political action committee I do some work for. They have ties to military contractors, the gun lobby, and pork producers. You best help yourself to these fritters before they’re all gone.”
“No thanks,” said Anna, watching Boggs chew with his mouth open. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
“So, anyway, twice a week the Wicked Witch sails out of West Palm. When she hits the three mile mark, she’s technically entered international waters. We’re the world’s last super power, for crying out loud. Ought to own the whole dad gum ocean…”
“The three mile limit was established in 1702 because it was the maximum range from which a cannon ball could fly from shore and still strike a ship.”
“Well I’ll be. Pretty and smart. You got the whole package.” Boggs dunked another fritter in hot sauce and licked his fingers clean. “So, anyway, once the Witch reaches the limit, the passengers, mostly in the hundred dollar donor category, cut loose with their cash. She don’t have much competition.”
“Who?”
“The Wicked Witch. Fact is she’s got none. That’s ‘cause she’s got a spotless safety record, free shore-side parking and ties to Latin American para-military groups. Besides which, every so often the owners rig the slots, making it so just about everyone who plays is a winner. They use the same folks who oversee the Dade County Florida election machines, so you know you’re gonna get a good return for your money.”
“And I care about all this, why?”
Boggs dabbed hot sauce from his chin. “After my speech tomorrow I got a little something special planned for you and me and my staff. A treasure hunting expedition.”
“I’m only here long enough for you to complete that ribbon-cutting ceremony. Then I’m on a flight home.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you volunteered for the assignment.”
“Volunteered? Believe me, this is not how I wanted to spend my last weekend before retirement.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“You heard wrong. I didn’t even know you were on my detail until I got a call from the CIA Director. Not that it won’t be fun having you around. But I don’t need someone like you watching my back. You still certified to dive?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Are ya or aren’t ya?”
“Yes, but I didn’t bring my gear. Didn’t even bring a bathing suit.”
“Don’t matter. We can get what we need at the dive shop. Except for the suit. Be more fun if you didn’t wear one, anyway.”
“You said you’d lay off the innuendos.”
“What can I say? I’m incorrigible.” He stuffed another fritter into his mouth. “And single. And available, if you’re interested.” His cheeks bulged as he talked.
“I’m not,” she said pushing her chair away and standing. “Meet you at the dive shop when it opens in the morning.”
7
Sonny lay on a metal bunk bolted to a cement-block wall painted a violent color of fuchsia. He had a scratchy green blanket for a mattress pad and an aluminum pail for a sink. Every few seconds, water dripped from a bare pipe protruding from the wall, missing the pail. No windows. A wire mesh cage protected a low-watt light bulb in the ceiling. Sturdy iron bars hung on heavy hinges. No tables or chairs. From outside his cell a light clicked on. Footsteps approached from down the hall, stopping at the adjoining cell. A door squeaked open. A drunk began cursing. Sonny heard feet shuffling and the heavy thud of a body landing onto cement.
He stood and walked to the front of his cage. “Hey!”
No response. Sonny gripped his “sink” by the handle and raked the bucket across the bars. “You down there, this ain’t Abu Ghraib.”
Footsteps clomped away. Far off, he heard the opening of an electric lock, a door latch clicked. Sonny banged his pail against the wall. The footsteps returned, approaching faster this time.
That’s right, fella. I’m talking to you, Sonny thought.
Sonny hung his arms through the iron, pressing his face close as he tried to peer past the bars. He caught sight of black polished shoes moments before a jet blast of cold water slammed into his chest, driving him backwards.
“We don’t take to no thieving on our island,” the guard barked.
Sonny lurched away, the geyser continued.
“Best be getting your mind right.”
Sonny crouched with his back to the guard, and struggled to stand against the blast. Finally the dousing ceased.
“Suppose you’s ta back-slide on us?”
“I won’t,” answered Sonny.
“Or back-sass me?”
“No, I promise!”
“What if you’s to try runnin’?” The guard’s words began to sound familiar.
Sonny cocked his head. “I won’t, boss, I promise.”
“What we got here is—”
“A failure to communicate,” finished Sonny. “Cool Hand Luke, right?”
“Love dat movie. Sorry ‘bout havin’ ta hose ya down. Boss mon’s orders. Every inmate gets a sonic shower. For the bed bugs.”
“Any idea how long I’m gonna be locked up?” asked Sonny.
“‘Til you come up with the money for that golf cart.”
“Did you ask the waitress about my wallet? I know it’s on the table in the restaurant.”
“Says she hasn’t seen it. In the meantime welcome to Cockroach Resort.”
****
Anna stepped onto the porch of her bungalow, wet, weary, and anxious to call her boss. If Boggs didn’t ask for me, who did? And why? No way am I going to put up with him on me, especially if he’s going to keep hinting about diving in the buff. The chirping of her global satellite phone came from the bedroom. She quickly unlocked the door, and darted inside. She carefully punched in the clearance code and hit the ENTER key. Nothing. She tried again. An error message. The chirping continued. Cancelling the command, she said, “hello.”
“Is this line secure?”
“Call you back.” She hung up, re-entered her access code, and hit ENTER.
Her boss answered. “What did I tell you about that?”
“It’s not my fault, sir. I did like you said. I entered the access code but it wouldn’t take.”
“So you keep trying ‘til it does. Jeez, Fortune. I’m beginning to think you want to lose your job and that fat government pension of yours.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
“Good ‘cause I’m beginning to hear things.”
“Like?”
“The director called a few minutes ago. Said he’s getting complaints from Boggs that you’re being uncooperative. Refusing to work undercover on his detail.”
“He asked me to go diving with him.”
“So?”
“Naked.”
“Those are the risks of a field agent.”
“Speaking of that, Boggs says he never requested me for his detail. What do you make of that?”
“He’s a politician, Fortune. You expect the guy to tell the truth? Listen, I have a briefing at the White House in a few minut
es. The President wants an update on the situation.”
“You?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. The Director’s busy doing who knows what. I’m just filling in until he gets back.”
“Sorry, sir. It just seems—I don’t know, so—”
“Exciting?”
“I was gonna say idiotic.”
“We’re getting intel that suggests Martinez may be up to something.”
“What sort of intel?” asked Anna.
“We think it may be tied to a surprise birthday party for you-know-who.”
“Who?”
“Can’t say. Your clearance level doesn’t go that high. But, if you look south and west, you might see a faint glow on the horizon. ‘Course it depends on the weather. Might be cloudy where you are. But you know that old Buffett song don’t you, Havana Daydreaming?”
“Seriously? They’re throwing a birthday party for―?”
“Quiet! This is on the down low. Classified intelligence. But we’re getting confirmation that major players are gathering for a big wing-ding. Representatives from Iran, Iraq, Ireland, North Korea, Libya, Syria, and the Mayor of Baghdad, to-be-named-later.”
“Any idea who might get the job?”
“Of Mayor? Word on the street is that a suicide bombing will determine whether it’s a Sunni, Shiite, or maybe one of the Sheens—Martin or Charlie. Then there are the Taiwanese. They’re threatening to build a Barbie doll plant in Mexico if the U.S. doesn’t back down from its talks with the Chinese. Plus, we have confirmation that North Korean President, Lil’ Kim Jong, has taken ill, so Pakistani leader General Pervez Mustaf is filling in. One of our agents saw him playing craps in a casino near Hemmingway Harbor. And don’t even get me started on what the Russians might have planned for this.”
“What about the Russians?”
“The Kremlin is cracking down on internal dissent and pressuring its neighbors. President Sergey is putting some teeth into the home-owner covenants that limit the type of lawns Russians can have. The people in Kiev are taking to the streets demanding that the government stop forcing them to pay home-owner dues for shoddy landscaping in the common areas. Anyway, the point of this call is to remind you to be careful. And to tell you that we need you to steal the Congressman’s cell phone.”