Adrift on St. John

by Rebecca Hale

  Despite the best efforts of the rental car agencies, who strategically plastered shiny red stickers screaming KEEP LEFT across the front dash of their vehicles, most Americans, the bulk of the island’s tourists, had a hard time adjusting to the concept of left-handed driving.

  To be honest, on those rare instances when I’d rented a ride, I’d had a few dodgy moments with oncoming traffic. Instinct is a difficult trait to change.

  Setting aside its susceptibility to near-fatal collisions, the golf cart’s other main shortcoming was its limited power.

  Charlie lived in a sprawling concrete block house perched at the top of an inland hill about a mile east from town. It was easy enough to drive the golf cart down into Cruz Bay—Charlie had amped up the cart’s brakes so that you could hear its distinctive squall several blocks away.

  It was quite another matter to convince the golf cart to climb back up the hill at the end of the evening. No amount of tinkering had successfully modified the engine to pull it and its driver up the incline. On more than half of Charlie’s return trips, the golf cart wound up parked in the weeds at the side of the road, waiting to be towed the rest of the way home the following morning.

  After several years of ranting, raving, and inflicting a significant amount of physical abuse on the cart’s plastic hood, Charlie had finally tired of walking the last half mile up the hill.

  As it turned out, Charlie had news to share beyond his newly purchased Jeep, although he was now, predictably, having difficulty finding a place to park.

  On his second pass by the Dumpster table, he slowed the vehicle to a crawl, leaned out again, and shouted, “Who’s the guy in the black limo?”

  17

  The Vultures

  St. John typically saw an increase in rental vehicles around the middle of November, but the presence of a limo on the island was surprising—at any time of the year.

  Each fall, as the weather cooled in the States and schoolchildren were released for their Thanksgiving breaks, vacationers began their annual migration down to the Caribbean. Extra flights from the eastern seaboard to the airport on St. Thomas facilitated the uptick in population.

  The trend continued through the end of November. Then, after a short lull, the whole cycle repeated for the Christmas and New Year holidays.

  All this extra traffic was generally fine with St. John’s year-round residents; the high season was when those in the tourism industry made the bulk of their annual income.

  I didn’t know anyone, though, who didn’t let out a sigh of relief in late January, when the tide finally began to ebb, and the island returned to its regular, relaxed vibe.

  This November, however, a second type of visitor had begun to crowd Cruz Bay’s streets. It was one of those, I suspected, who had been riding in the limo that had caught Charlie’s eye.

  With the eco-resort’s lease nearing its end and a likely auction of the Maho Bay real estate looming, diligence teams from various corporate entities were now arriving to inspect the property. It appeared several parties had plans to participate in the upcoming bidding process.

  Even with the island’s exploding tourist numbers, the real estate vultures were easy to spot, conspicuous in their business-casual clothing, leather briefcases, and flashy rental cars—the last of which they picked up on St. Thomas and shipped across on the car ferry—further exacerbating the already unmanageable parking situation.

  The rental agencies did their best to prohibit transport of their nicer vehicles across the channel to St. John, where the road conditions were notoriously bad. The potholes alone could ruin the suspensions of most models. Even some of the island’s “paved” roads required four-wheel drive to safely navigate.

  My brow furrowed as I sipped on a frozen daiquiri from my seat at the Dumpster table. I could only imagine the conniption fit the limo owner would have if he discovered his pricey vehicle had been schlepped over to St. John. Someone was certainly going out of his way to make an impression.

  We expats weren’t the only ones taking note of the island’s sudden influx of ostentatious wealth.

  The crowds of day workers milling about the ferry building and the Freedom Memorial park across the street turned to stare with mounting hostility at each new batch of arriving power brokers—who in turn passed them by as if they were invisible. At the elementary school up the hill from the Crunchy Carrot, parents stood in the sun waiting for their children to be released from class as air-conditioned sedans drove by carrying the economic elite who would determine the island’s fate.

  The topic of Maho Bay also began popping up in the Constitutional Convention debates, which the local radio stations seemed to be broadcasting nonstop.

  Sensing a theme upon which to expand their base, the Native Rights advocates asked why such a pristine and valuable piece of land should be controlled by a foreign entity. Shouldn’t it belong instead, they argued, to the people of the Virgin Islands?

  An uneasy tension was settling in—one for which there seemed no ready means of release.

  As Charlie and his Jeep made another futile pass by the Crunchy Carrot, César stuffed the last bite of his fish sandwich into his mouth, wiped a napkin across his flushed face, and waved a short good-bye. He was needed back at the kitchen.

  The real estate teams were having a noticeable impact on the island’s food consumption. Reservations at the higher-end restaurants had filled up as the business executives used their lucrative expense budgets to sample the best of the local cuisine.

  Seats at Pesce were the hardest to come by, and César was feeling the pressure. His consumption of fish sandwiches had dramatically increased in number, even as the length of his lunch breaks at the Crunchy Carrot grew ever shorter.

  Richard the rooster kept a close eye on the stressed-out Puerto Rican. As soon as César scuttled away from the table, the bird pounced on his discarded wrappings. A moment later, an excited squawk signaled the discovery of an overlooked French fry.

  Grinning at the bird’s delight, I returned my attention to the street as Charlie’s limo turned the corner at the ferry building and proceeded up the road toward the Dumpster table. Squinting, I stared at the rear windows, but the tinted glass prevented any visual of the shadowed figure in the backseat.

  I couldn’t help but think of the large man from Miami as the car rolled slowly past.

  18

  The Invitation

  A few days later, I was enjoying a morning walk through the resort when I heard the approaching hum of one of our many motorized golf carts. I stepped onto the curb of the brick path to let the cart through, but it slowed to an idle beside me.

  Manto leaned out from the driver’s seat and motioned for me to join him.

  “Cum’ on, Pin,” he said jovially. “Eye’ve broker’d a truce.”

  A smile of relief broke across my face. Despite all my complaining, I’d missed tormenting my cranky assistant.

  “She’s lonely, isn’t she?” I replied as I climbed into the passenger seat.

  Shaking his head, Manto pressed down on the accelerator.

  “How’d you get pulled into this?” I asked as we sped off toward the resort’s recreation area.

  “Ain’t no fun wit’ you two nut talk-in’.” He chuckled. “More enter-tainin’ to wat’ch ya bicker.”

  After a short drive, Manto parked the cart in a shady spot near the tennis courts. He turned off the ignition, reached into a shirt pocket, and pulled out a small flask of rum. Handing me the bottle, he pointed to a narrow compartment in the molding between the seats.

  “Plas-teek cups een there.”

  Then he exited the cart and strolled off, grinning to himself. About twenty yards down the path, he turned back and pointed a finger at me.

  “Play nice, Pin,” he admonished with a wink. “At least for a leet-tle while.”

  I cracked open the bottle and took a sniff. If the scent was anything to go by, it was strong but drinkable. After lifting the lid to the compartment
between the seats, I fished around inside for one of the plastic cups. I held the cup up to the sunlight, blew out a few cobwebs, and dumped in an inch of the dark amber liquid.

  Leaning back in my seat, I let my gaze travel to the sand-filled playground near the fence surrounding the tennis courts. Several black and green torpedo-like shapes were stretched out across the shadowed ground where Fred and his fellow iguanas stalked one another beneath the jungle gym equipment.

  Slowly, I brought the rim of the cup to my lips—and nearly choked as the first sip burned down my throat.

  “That’s not a peace offering, Manto,” I muttered under my breath once I finally managed to swallow. “She’ll think I’m trying to poison her.”

  I didn’t have long to wait. A moment later, the golf cart groaned as Vivian’s sturdy figure climbed into the vacant driver’s seat.

  “Vivian,” I said with mock surprise, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the iguanas. “How’ve you been?”

  She assumed a similar visual stance. “Busy,” she replied crisply, as she stared out over the steering wheel.

  “Can I pour you one?” I asked, digging into the compartment for the second cup.

  Vivian scowled. “You know I don’t like that stuff.”

  “That’s all right,” I said with a shrug. “Leaves more for me.”

  Her thick lips pinched with disapproval. She thrust her hand into the compartment and pulled out the cup. “Fill it up, then,” she grumped.

  The two of us sipped in silence as the iguanas waddled on their crooked legs across the sand. They appeared to be participating in some sort of elaborate mating ritual. Every so often, they all froze in position and gave each other affectionate, lizard-eyed looks.

  “I got your message,” Vivian said, tersely breaking the silence. “About Miss Sheridan.”

  I scratched my chin thoughtfully. “Message?” I repeated with exaggerated puzzlement, already dismissing Manto’s parting words of caution. It was never too soon to start pushing Vivian’s buttons.

  “There was nothing in her file,” she said stiffly, ignoring my tease. “That’s how it came in the pouch from headquarters.”

  She swiveled in her seat, her accusing glare turned to its highest setting. “Just like four years ago—when you arrived.”

  Fred looked up from beneath a teeter-totter as I cleared my throat uncomfortably. I’d never given Vivian credit for having that much intuition.

  Vivian snorted as if she had come to the same conclusion about me.

  “At least that one does some work around here,” she added with a grumpy smirk. “More than I can say for the likes of you.”

  She lifted the top layer of papers secured to her clipboard and pulled out a legal-sized envelope. It was similar to the one that had held the Maho Bay information I’d received the previous week.

  “Something came for you in the mail,” she said cryptically as she handed it over.

  With a sigh, I set my cup on the dashboard and sized up the envelope. Given its light weight and lack of bulging, there couldn’t have been more than a single sheet of paper inside.

  “More from the home office on the Maho Bay deal,” I moaned.

  Vivian rejected this notion with a firm headshake. “They’re not in that hunt. You know they don’t have that kind of money.”

  Perplexed, I thought back to the previous package. With a start, I realized it had come in on the same day that Hannah Sheridan had visited my office. In my mind’s eye, I saw the young woman nervously crossing from the couch to my desk—and bumping into a stack of papers on its surface. Was the package a fake? Had she slid it into my inbox?

  After another glance at Vivian, I pulled out a short typewritten letter from the current envelope and began reading it aloud.

  Dear Ms. Hoffstra:

  I look forward to making your acquaintance during my upcoming trip to St. John. Your agreeable assistant Vivian Jackson has graciously arranged our dinner reservations for a week from Friday…

  “Agreeable assistant?” I chortled, despite my growing apprehension. I turned my head sideways toward the driver’s seat. “Graciously arranged?”

  Not once in Vivian’s entire miserable life had she been described as agreeable or gracious, and certainly not in the same sentence.

  Vivian replied with her iciest stare. “I can assure you, I did nothing of the sort.”

  The paper in my hands was appearing less authentic by the minute.

  “Keep reading,” she added with a grunt.

  “Ahem,” I said, briefly raising my eyebrows.

  My driver will pick you up outside the front desk at five p.m.

  Yours truly…

  When I reached the signature line, there was no longer any doubt. My face paled as I read the sender’s name.

  The person listed at the bottom of the letter was one I’d never seen or heard of before. A final look at Vivian’s skeptical face confirmed my suspicions. Despite the printed stationary and the formal-looking address label, the writer wasn’t in any way affiliated with the resort’s parent company.

  My upcoming dinner meeting was with a man I presumed to be the “uncle” Hannah had referred to that first morning when she arrived at the resort.

  I felt certain I was about to receive a visit from the wide-girthed man from Miami.

  The signature line read “Hank Sheridan.”

  19

  The Trunk Bay Parking Lot

  Manto hummed happily to himself as he steered a truckload of resort guests off North Shore Road into the parking lot for Trunk Bay, the access point for St. John’s signature—and most visited—beach.

  The passengers scrambled out of the back bed’s covered seating area and hurriedly stopped by his driver’s-side window to pay their fares. After making change for the last amount, Manto tucked the residual into his bulging wallet. Then, he climbed out of the truck’s cab and watched as his passengers eagerly approached the ticket kiosk at the edge of the parking lot.

  It had been a busy couple of days on the truck-taxi shift, he reflected as a pleased smile creased his ruddy face. He was enjoying the reassurance the extra dollars would bring to his bank account.

  Trunk Bay was the only beach in the national park that charged admission, but the payment brought with it a nice array of amenities that many considered worth the fee. In the calm water beyond the beach, an underwater trail led snorkelers to a large cay patrolled during the daytime hours by a lifeguard. Shower facilities, storage lockers, a food stand, and a snorkel rental shop serviced the hundreds of vacationers who traipsed through the area during the high season.

  For most of the island’s visitors, it was a must-do, if crowded, experience. On a day like today, Manto mused as the line in front of the ticket booth continued to grow, the water probably held more people than fish.

  He glanced down at his silent two-way radio and then checked his watch. By now, there should be plenty of trucks waiting in town to carry potential riders into the park. It was late enough in the afternoon, he decided, to wait there at Trunk Bay for the flow of tourists to reverse course from the beaches back to the resorts.

  Stretching the soreness in the small of his back, he meandered over to a row of shaded picnic benches where several of the other drivers had gathered.

  Throughout the daytime hours, the truck taxies maintained a visible presence throughout the national park, informally organizing into a network of impromptu drop-off and pickup points at the most popular beaches. The largest congregation of drivers were generally located at the Trunk Bay parking lot, which had a sizeable marked-off area for their vehicles. In the slow period during the early afternoon, ten or more men could often be seen sitting or standing around the picnic tables.

  Manto nodded hellos as he approached. It was a cordial group, and he had known most of the men for years.

  The drivers rarely competed with each other for rides; such behavior would have broken their unspoken code of conduct. Each of the men wore a quiet, detached de
meanor that matched their loose-fitting slacks and button-down linen shirts. Tourists frequently misunderstood this reserved attitude for laziness, but a driver would sooner refuse a fare than take on an insulting or disruptive passenger.

  The men were all wired with cell phones and walkie-talkies that squawked and chirped as they chatted with one another. The contents of several sack lunches were spread out across the tables. This was a communal time, an important social hour in their day, dedicated to a few games of chess and the exchange of local gossip. The eyes and ears of the truck-taxi drivers picked up everything that went on in this small island community. Little escaped the wide net of their surveillance.

  As Manto strolled up to one of the picnic benches, he caught sight of a small transistor radio that had been plugged into the power outlet of one of the trucks’ cigarette lighters.

  The radio was an almost permanent fixture at the Trunk Bay truck-taxi stand. Recently, it seemed, the dial had been fixed to the station relaying the Constitutional Convention proceedings. This afternoon, Manto noted with relief, the signal had been switched over to a broadcast of an event in Charlotte Amalie commemorating the 1733 Slave Revolt.

  This was a welcome change in programming—or so Manto thought until he heard an old woman’s coarse, lilting voice emitting from the black box.

  Despite the afternoon heat, Manto felt an involuntary shiver down his spine as the radio carried Beulah Shah’s words into the Trunk Bay parking lot.

  When thuh slave sheep arrived een Char-lut Amal-ya, thuh Amina Preen-cess wuz auctioned off to a plant-ter who had just bought a par-cel of land on St. John…

  The Amina Princess had suffered through several hours of pushing, prodding, and frightening confusion before finally being bundled onto a small ferryboat and transported with several other new slaves to a small mountainous plot on St. John, where the ill-favored son-in-law of a St. Thomas planter was struggling to set up a fledgling sugar plantation.