The guards manning the entrance stepped back from their posts. Their heads dropped in a show of respect for the man in the orange jumpsuit who strode casually through the gate.
The facility’s administrator slid a paper bag across the checkout counter to the departing inmate. The bag’s top third had been folded over and stapled shut, but the paper was crumpled along the edges and had obviously been opened and restapled. A few items had been added to the prisoner’s possessions in the thirty minutes since the center received the call ordering his release.
“Here you go, Nova. Everything should be in there.” Tentatively, the administrator held out a pen and a sheet of paper. “If you could just sign the form.”
The exiting inmate scooped up the sack and tucked it under his arm. With his free hand, he grabbed the pen and scrawled a barely legible signature—not his birth name, but the moniker by which he was known throughout the island.
Casanova.
He took far more care in his parting smirk, a superior gleam that confirmed his dominance over the administrator and everyone else who worked at the correctional facility.
His brief stint at Golden Grove hadn’t diminished his confident swagger. His stance was that of a triumphant prizefighter.
No one could touch him. He was invincible.
In his thirty-three years of life, Nova had seen plenty of death. He had smelled its rank finality, tasted its thick splatter on his tongue—and wielded its force with his bare hands.
But he had never once feared it.
This wasn’t his first stay at Golden Grove. It wouldn’t be his last.
“See ya next time, Larry.”
Nodding casually at the guards, Nova turned for the walkway leading out through the barbed wire fencing.
The morning sun streamed across his smooth brown face, illuminating the amber flecks in his eyes. High cheekbones, perfectly parted lips, and a nose with a delicate bridge that, despite numerous fistfights, had never once been broken, completed the picture. His muscles were sculpted into the type of toned physique artistically emulated by the ancient Greeks.
The effect was one of unnerving physical beauty.
True to his nickname, Casanova had no problem attracting female attention. Countless Crucian women had fallen for his handsome looks. They found him irresistible—despite his bad-boy reputation, his violent temper, and the menace behind the mask.
•
SWINGING THE STAPLED paper bag, Nova sauntered onto the main road outside the detention center and headed toward a beat-up taxi van parked on the gravel shoulder.
He pulled on the handle of the van’s side passenger door and deftly slid it open.
“Nevis, you’re right on time.”
The driver looked anxiously over his shoulder as the man in prison garb climbed into the van. Reaching into his shirt pocket, the driver pulled out a cell phone and silently passed it back.
“You seen those Coconut Boys around lately?”
Still mute, Nevis shook his head.
The two homeless men had been missing for weeks. No one had seen the hapless fugitives since Nevis dropped them off on St. Croix’s rugged northwest coast. In so doing, the taxi driver had inadvertently aided in the pair’s escape from Nova’s clutches.
During Nova’s incarceration, his extensive Crucian network had learned of the taxi driver’s role in the getaway. As punishment for this offense, Nova had sent word to Nevis that his taxi would serve as his personal transportation until the two runaways showed up and Nova exacted his revenge.
Leaving the driver to fret behind the wheel, Nova squeezed around the first two bench seats and flopped onto the third cushioned row. Ripping open the sack, he changed out of the jumpsuit and into the clean clothes that had been added by the prison administrator. He had just zipped up a pair of brand-new designer jeans when the cell phone dinged with an incoming text message.
“Nevis, it looks like I’ve got a call coming in. You don’t mind if I take it back here, do you?” With a snide chuckle, he answered his own question. “No, of course you don’t.”
The phone rang seconds later. “Hey there, lovely lady. How are things in Charlotte Amalie . . .”
The driver kept his attention fixed on a metal charm hanging from his rearview mirror. The chicken-shaped trinket pivoted on its string, glinting as the tooled surface reflected the bright sunlight. He had no wish to overhear any aspect of the one-sided conversation taking place in back of the van.
Despite the driver’s efforts to tune it out, Nova’s voice carried to the front seat.
“I figured you had me bailed out for a reason. What’cha got in mind?”
The inaudible reply generated a rumble of laughter, a maniacal sound that made the driver cringe.
“I’m on my way.”
Nova pushed a button, severing the connection.
“Get this bus moving, Nevis. We’ve got some errands to run.”
Drumming his fingers across the second-row seat back, Nova began mentally assembling the crew he would take with him north to St. Thomas.
Still organizing his thoughts, he reached into the paper bag for one last item. The shiny black semiautomatic pistol had been well maintained by its previous owner, who likely hadn’t yet noticed its theft.
A broad smile spread across Nova’s face as he checked the ammunition chamber. Reinserting the loaded magazine, he caressed the handle.
“Hello, Governor.” He pointed the pistol down the middle of the van, aiming it at the back of Nevis’s head.
“Nice to meet you.”
Miami Airport
Departure Lounge for the Last Preraid Flight to St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands
~ 5 ~
The Mojito Man
“MOJITO! MOJITO, PLEASE! Does anyone know where can I get a mojito?”
A feeble but persistent voice hollered into the otherwise quiet boarding area for the day’s first flight from Miami to St. Thomas.
The surrounding passengers pretended not to hear the thirsty man in the wheelchair. As the appeal continued, a college student turned up the earphones for his mobile music device. Farther down the row, a businessman hunched over his laptop computer, staring at a spreadsheet while purposefully ignoring the clamor. The rest of the crowd migrated to the opposite end of the seating area.
After several more minutes of the haranguing mojito plea, the flight attendant working the check-in counter hurried over and crouched beside the wheelchair.
“Sir, it’s eight o’clock in the morning.”
The Mojito Man beamed up at her with a crooked grin that revealed swollen gums and whittled-down teeth.
“Is it, now?” he replied. His gaze dropped pointedly to the attendant’s chest and the unhooked buttons at the top of her blouse. Despite the woman’s admonishing tone, he was clearly enjoying her attention.
Lifting an anemic arm, he waved his hand at the wheelchair, gesturing to his thin frame and spindly legs. His muscles had atrophied from lack of use, and the skin sagged from his bones. His narrow ankles looked as if even his diminished weight might cause them to snap should he try to stand.
The back of the man’s head had been rubbed bald from weeks spent lying in a hospital bed. He wasn’t old, at most middle-aged, but his body had worn out. The warranty had expired, and the pieces were falling apart.
“The doc says I have less than a month to live. I can’t be worried about social protocols.”
Self-consciously tugging at her shirt collar, the attendant issued a placating smile. “Just try not to disturb the other passengers,” she said before scurrying back to the counter.
For a brief spell, the frail figure remained quiet. He watched the people milling about the gate. Then he rotated his chair so that he could observe the pedestrian traffic in the main corridor. His eyes began to glaze over, as if he might fall asleep.
&nbs
p; But it was only a temporary reprieve.
An unwary author entered the waiting area and, oblivious to the previous outbursts, took one of the many open seats near the wheelchair. She removed a travel magazine from her backpack, flipped through to an article she had started earlier, and resumed her read.
Instantly wide-awake, the man leaned toward the hapless woman and whispered loudly, “Excuse me, miss. Do you know where I can get a mojito?”
~ 6 ~
The Call of the Mojito
THE DEPARTURE LOUNGE outside the St. Thomas gate filled to capacity as the time drew near for the plane to begin boarding. Several passengers milled about the entry lanes, maneuvering for position, eager to get space for their carry-on luggage. Others slumped in the rows of floor-anchored seating, yawning as they waited for the next intercom announcement.
There wasn’t an open spot to be found—except in the space immediately surrounding the ailing man’s wheelchair.
“Mooooo-jito?” he called out pathetically, his parched voice rasping.
For those trapped in the departure area that morning, the popular Cuban cocktail would never be the same. The classic image of a narrow glass filled with muddled mint leaves, light-colored rum, sugarcane juice, and a splash of lime was now inextricably linked with that of the alcohol-obsessed cancer patient, for whom any public sympathy had long since dissipated. For years to come, mere mention of the sweet drink would bring to mind the sight of the pestering man, disconcerting in both his overt ogling of every passing female and his corpse-like appearance.
As for the unwitting author who had drawn his attention, her mojito misery was just beginning.
•
WITH A VULNERABLE target identified and pinned within reach, the Mojito Man refined his approach. His plea was no longer directed to the departure lounge as a whole. Instead, he focused his efforts exclusively on the woman seated next to his wheelchair.
The author had missed her chance to find another place to sit. If she moved now, her only choices were to stand on the crowded floor space or to lean against a wall. Given the limited options, she’d decided to remain next to the wheelchair.
She had tried without success to shrug off her neighbor’s pleas. She avoided eye contact with him, even shielding the side of her face with her hand. At one point, she lifted the magazine she’d given up trying to read, propping it like a fence between them.
This too proved an ineffective barrier.
The raised magazine resulted in a verbal pause from the wheelchair, accompanied by a strained shuffling sound. Seconds later, a twenty-dollar bill folded in the shape of a paper airplane flew over the magazine’s top edge.
“Mo-jito! I beseech thee, beautiful lady. Please, bring me a mojito!”
The author checked her watch, estimating the minutes remaining until boarding would commence. She had just enough time to circle through the nearest food court. Capitulating, she slid the magazine into her backpack.
She suspected she was being sent on a futile mission.
While mojitos were commonly served throughout south Florida, she couldn’t imagine where the man had come up with the idea that the drink would be readily available inside the airport. It wasn’t the type of item served by the many fast-food burger joints and coffee kiosks that operated within the terminal.
She figured her best bet was to try one of the airport restaurants, but it seemed unlikely she’d find a bartender serving cocktails during the breakfast hour—or that she would be allowed to purchase an alcoholic beverage in a to-go cup.
She shrugged her shoulders. Given the harassment she’d endured during the past forty-five minutes, she didn’t much care one way or the other.
She was, however, feeling a tad hungry. Maybe I’ll get something to eat for myself, she mused.
I’ll take a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit plus a mojito—to go, she thought wryly.
“Keep an eye on my seat,” she said out loud, in what she knew to be an unnecessary request. Wearily, she hefted her backpack onto her shoulders and grabbed the handle for her roll-around suitcase. “I’ll see what I can round up.”
The man gave her a crafty grin.
“You’re so kind. Thank you, love.”
~ 7 ~
The Bishop of St. Thomas
AS THE MINUTES ticked by, the agents behind the check-in counter doubled and then tripled in number. While they waited for confirmation from the flight crew that the plane was ready to board, a great amount of effort went into fussing about the computers, scanning passenger printout lists, and speaking into an antiquated plastic phone—anything, it seemed, to avoid making eye contact with the crush of antsy passengers who had transformed the departure lounge into a three-ring travel circus.
It was a typical preflight scene, a mix of travelers in mental states from crazed to dazed and everything in between—with one isolated spot of serenity. For the first time in almost an hour, the Mojito Man sat peacefully in his wheelchair, quietly sipping his favorite drink.
With the help of a generous tip, the author had cajoled a waitress at an Irish pub into mixing up the cocktail and pouring it into a foam cup.
The only downside to the resulting silence, she reflected, was that the area around her seat had grown far more crowded than before. Fellow travelers stood within arm’s length in every direction.
Most members of the encroaching mass were new arrivals, blissfully unaware of the earlier mojito siege. The author gazed up at them as she munched on her breakfast sandwich, envious of their ignorance but happy to have a chair.
The group included a number of curious characters, the most notable being a Miami socialite with a carry-on-sized lapdog. The woman and the tiny canine wore matching outfits: the owner a sparkling tank top, necklace, and sandals, the pet a shiny collar and vest.
With a smile, the author wrapped the remains of her breakfast, wiped her hands on a napkin, and reached for a small notepad she carried in her backpack. This was the type of detail that might come in handy for a future work of fiction. She scribbled a brief description, looked up to confirm her observations, and did a blinking double take. She had missed an item on the list of human/canine similarities.
The woman and the dog also sported matching pedicures.
After adding a bemused notation to the notebook, the author shifted her attention to a priest who had walked into her periphery.
His was a less obvious oddity, but it was still one that drew her interest.
The man was dressed from head to toe in a brown cassock—a monk’s garb, if she had to guess.
That conclusion, however, didn’t jibe with the rest of his outfit. Beneath the pious outer layer, he wore hand-stitched leather shoes. An expensive watch glinted on his wrist, a ruby ring garnished his index finger, and a gold chain hung from his neck. Even the simple brown cassock, she now realized, had been tailored with an elegant drape.
The author tapped her pen against the paper, trying to sort out the man’s religious denomination. She hadn’t met many monks in her life, so she had few comparisons in her memory banks, but she couldn’t reconcile him into that category. His wealth, while discreet, was far from subtle.
No, she thought, intrigued as the jeweled hand reached into one of the cassock’s hidden pockets and pulled out a high-end cell phone. This guy’s in an entirely different income bracket.
She leaned forward in her seat, continuing to study the religious figure.
His hair had been shaved close to his head, accenting the round curves of his skull, and a pair of fashionable rimless eyeglasses rested on his nose. A goatee sprouted from his chin, the gray hair a contrast against his satin brown skin.
There was something grand and powerful about his appearance, an intangible quality that commanded respect.
Seeing the author’s fascination, the Mojito Man gummed his straw, bent toward her, and whispered l
oudly in her ear.
“Bishop of St. Thomas,” he said informatively.
“I doubt it.” Her brow furrowed. “Wrong costume.”
She glanced over at the check-in counter. The plastic phone was at last being put to good use. The settings had been adjusted to broadcast across the departure lounge. Anyone who needed assistance or extra time to traverse the gangway was now invited to board.
The author looked at her wheelchair-bound companion, expectantly raising her eyebrows. At first, he seemed not to have heard the announcement—or to comprehend that the preboard invitation applied to him.
“Oh, right,” he finally said after the agent repeated the message.
The author waved a relieved good-bye as he rolled his chair toward the counter.
Slipping her pen and notepad into the backpack, she muttered wearily, “I hope he’s seated on the opposite end of the plane.”
~ 8 ~
The Middle Seat
A HALF HOUR later, the author found herself in the plane’s packed coach section, staring up at the ceiling. The Mojito Man sat beside her, hogging the armrest.
She groaned, anticipating the flight ahead. She was certain the assigned seating was not as he had insisted.
Midway through the boarding process, right after the author had taken her seat, her friend from the departure lounge had appeared in the adjacent aisle. He’d apparently stopped in one of the plane’s tiny restrooms, negating his preboard advantage. He stood wavering in the narrow walkway, loudly proclaiming that he held a ticket for the middle spot in her row.
Out of necessity, she had offered him her aisle position, which was easier for him to access. His wheelchair had been left at the end of the gangway, and the walk through the plane had worn him out. His spindly legs shook as if they were about to collapse beneath him.
It took several seconds for the author to shift to the next spot over. The man moaned loudly throughout the wait, finishing with a painful grunt as he dropped onto the seat’s flat cushion.
Aground on St. Thomas Page 3