‘Thirty miles an hour I hear,’ David said, giving Ruth a sour look.
‘That’s right. Anyway, so far as the yoga goes, if either or both of you want to come along, you’ll be made most welcome.’
Haddon drifted away.
‘Nice guy,’ David said flatly, reaching for the bottle of wine.
Ruth looked into her glass.
A tall, lean man in chequered shirt and cowboy boots, with an unusually neat haircut for these parts, walked over. He held out his hand to Dave.
‘Johnny Finch. Deputy Sheriff. I couldn’t help hearing. There’s a gym down toward the Catalyst if weights is more your thing.’
‘Do you go there?’ Dave said.
‘From time to time. Mostly I do my own routine. It’s an Air Force thing. Calisthenics.’
‘You’ve been in the Air Force?’ Ruth said.
Finch turned at the waist to face her.
‘No, ma’am. It’s a recognised routine though. It’s been published.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought pilots needed to be particularly fit,’ Dave said. ‘Sitting on their arses all day.’
The policeman turned back to him with a surprised look.
‘That’s incorrect, sir.’
‘They fly standing up you mean?’
Finch frowned.
‘I meant the fitness requirements.’
Finch excuse himself for a moment and brought over a young woman who had just arrived – via the backyard, like everybody else – to introduce her.
‘This is Natasha Innocent, a colleague of mine.’
Natasha nodded.
‘But who knows how long we’ll be colleagues,’ she said. ‘Johnny’s too big for this island.’ She nudged Finch. ‘Miami is his dream. All those women, bronzed and bikinied.’
He looked irritated by her ribbing.
‘Sounds like your dream, Tash,’ he said.
Innocent shook her head.
‘I’m happy with Josie. But I’m serious, Johnny. Fine looking man like yourself. A lawman to boot, I figure you figure you’ll be up to your ears in what Sheriff Wilson seems to have been getting for years.’
The tips of Finch’s ears went red. Ruth found it quite endearing.
Grady Cole joined them, nodded at the two law officers.
‘Sorry I’m late – cashing up in the shop is my least favourite activity.’ He held out his hand to David. ‘You must be Ruth’s husband. How are you enjoying bohemia?’
‘Bohemia?’ David said scornfully. ‘Fucking middle-class bohemians with seven figure sums in the bank, jacuzzis and swimming pools in the yard.’
Cole tilted his head and looked at David for a moment.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ he said.
‘My rude, drunken husband will do,’ Ruth said, aware the deputies had drifted away.
She was also aware of an attractive, long-haired brunette a couple of yards away turning to them. The woman touched David’s arm.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ she said. ‘You seem a little soured on our artists’ colony.’
David curled his lip.
‘It’s a rich artist’s colony,’ he said. ‘These houses don’t lend themselves to garrets. And starving is as unlikely as colour-coordinated clothes among artists.’
Ruth hoped he was done but knew he wasn’t.
‘Why is it artists can be fine in black but when they try to do colour they go berserk?’
The others looked at each other. Cole nodded and looked at the brunette.
‘He’s got a point, Phoebe,’ he said. ‘No offence to Julian but he dresses for shit.’
‘Oh, none taken.’ The woman identified as Phoebe shook her head. ‘My husband is one of nature’s natural bohemians, for sure.’
Grady turned to Ruth.
‘Phoebe’s husband, Julian Earwaker, is one of the leading artists on the island.’ He turned back to Phoebe. ‘Is the great man going to join us this evening?’
She shook her head.
‘And not because he’s fucking Evangeline,’ she said. ‘He’s got a new project. Tres hush-hush. Hardly seen him for days.’
David looked her up and down, his lip still curled. He was swaying a little and his eyes were looking bleary.
‘Who is Evangeline?’
‘His model and assistant and mistress,’ Phoebe said, matter-of-factly. ‘But their designated screwing hours are during the afternoon siesta. It doesn’t interfere with Julian’s work time then.’
‘Very bohemian arrangement all round,’ David said. ‘I stand corrected. You paint too?’
‘You’re sounding sneering, David,’ Ruth said. ‘Be polite.’
‘Polite?’ Phoebe said, touching Ruth’s arm. ‘Polite went out of the window here a long time ago.’ She turned to David. ‘And, no, I don’t paint. I run the craft shop on Main Street – a couple of doors down from Harry’s Bar?’
David nodded.
‘Craft shop. Figures.’
Ruth flushed.
‘For God’s sake, David, stop being such an arsehole.’
David looked from one to the other in the circle.
‘I need the bog,’ he said, and stepped away.
‘You had a chance to explore the island yet?’ Phoebe said, turning towards Ruth.
‘Not really. Just walks on the beach so far.’
‘There’s some great wildlife: loggerhead turtles, ospreys - even feral cows.’
‘Feral cows? Should I be frightened?’
‘Only if you try to milk one,’ Phoebe said, laughing. ‘Seriously, if you want to borrow our bikes there are some great bike trails. Julian is more an in-principle cyclist than an actual one so the bikes just sit in the rack week after week. There’s marshland, tidal creeks, mudflats. You into birds?’
Ruth shrugged.
‘I like birdsong.’
‘We’ve got painted buntings and pielated woodpeckers.’
‘I’m sold, I’m sold.’
Phoebe laughed.
‘Sorry – but you’re getting off light with me – wait until Natasha and Josie gets started.’
‘Josie?’
‘Natasha’s squeeze,’ Phoebe said.
‘Ah,’ Ruth said. ‘Do many people have boats? I used to sail back in England.’
‘Nobody. No point – the rocks and reefs round the island make the waters treacherous. Matter of fact there’s only one place you can land a boat – a tiny harbour on the north of the island. And the man who owns it has a thing about his privacy. Won’t give anyone else access. It’s because the causeway is the only real way of getting onto the island that we’re pretty secluded here.’
‘But pirates came here back in the day?’ Ruth said.
‘You bet – first you Brits, then the Spanish, the French. Dutch too, I think. Then there was something of a cotton plantation for a while.’
‘So slave descendants here?’
‘Not here. On the islands further north. Sapelo has descendants of the Saltwater Geechee. They still have traditions that go right back to West African tribes.’
‘Gambia and Kunta Kinte?’ Ruth said. Then, by way of explanation: ‘We watched Roots on the Beeb last year.’
Phoebe nodded.
‘What’s the Beeb?’
Ruth’s attention had drifted to David weaving his tipsy way out into the yard, forcing his way through people calling:
‘Excuse please – off to the bog.’
Phoebe noticed her distraction.
‘Hey, don’t sweat it. Drunkenness is almost de rigueur round here. Most people are stoned, in one way or another, most of the time.’
Ruth looked back to her.
‘You?’
‘I have my moments.’
‘And this Evangeline?’
‘I’m sure she does too.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know. Odd as it sounds, given the entire island knows, that’s private.’
‘Sorry,’ Ruth said.
‘Don’t be. It’s okay. I’ll bore you with it when I get to know you a bit better.’ She lifted her glass and grinned. ‘Let’s say after another one of these. But, in the meantime, you gotta tell me what a bog is.’
Parker collared the Sheriff on his rear verandah. Wilson shouldered open the screen door, a bottle of beer in one hand, a bowl of chilli in the other. Parker could see a bottle of bourbon and a shot glass already out on a small wooden table. Parker came up behind the Sheriff and tickled his ear with his gun barrel. Wilson was a big guy but Parker thought he was essentially soft. However, Wilson didn’t flinch, Parker gave him that.
‘Help you?’ Wilson said.
‘Don’t move and especially don’t turn around. This goes the right way you’ll still be able to eat your chilli piping hot. Smells good.’
‘You know I’m the Sheriff of this island and you are committing a host of criminal offences here. Not to mention disrupting my dinner, which I don’t take kindly to.’
‘I’ll be brief. I was going to play this a different way but I’m on a clock so I think the straightforward way will work best.’
Wilson didn’t say anything. His hands holding the food and beer remained steady.
‘I know you’re thinking about somehow getting that hot chilli in my face but you’d miss and it would be a waste of good food.’
‘Pull another chair up to the table and we can share it. Plenty for two.’
‘That’s civil of you but, as I said, I’m on a tight schedule.’
‘Then get to your business.’
‘I represent people who are keen to locate a certain person. These people are willing to pay a large amount of money for information leading to the discovery of this certain person. I believe you can provide that information.’
‘You’re trying to bribe me, sir?’
Parker took a silent step back.
‘Not at all, Sheriff Wilson – although I believe you do have experience in that kind of transaction.’
Wilson tensed.
‘Say what?’
Parker ignored him.
‘I’m going to run some names by you. If you can be of assistance with any of them you only need to nod. Then we can work out how to proceed.’
Wilson shook his head.
‘Strangely I was just thinking about you.’
‘Me?’
‘Or someone like you. You’re pretty interchangeable. What’s your name?’
‘The names I’m going to run by you do not include my own.’
Wilson hefted the bowl of chilli over his shoulder. The bowl smashed, its contents slathering down against the wall where Parker had been a few moment before. Wilson was turning. Parker rammed the butt of his gun into his neck. Wilson stumbled but stayed upright.
‘Now that’s a damned waste, Sheriff. And foolhardy. You want to die?’
‘You’re not going to kill me when you want something from me. Now I asked for your name. And whilst you’re about it, I’d like you to show me your I.D. and tell me where you are staying.’
Parker laughed.
‘Jesus, Sheriff. Keep the quaver out of your voice if you’re going to ask for those damned foolish things.’
‘Your I.D. please.’
‘I don’t appear to have any with me, Sheriff. My name is Bob Smith and I’m just passing through. But let me withdraw my insolent remark and perhaps we can move forward in a better direction.’
‘Attempting to bribe an officer of the law has serious consequences, Mr Smith – accusing an officer of succumbing to a bribe has pretty much the same outcome in my book.’
‘Call me Bob. And that quiver in your voice really doesn’t become you.’
‘Well, Bob. Let me fill you in on something that might have eluded you. I am the law on this island. I don’t report to any county or state officer of the law. I am independent of both.’
‘Then that eases our situation significantly.’
‘All it eases is the way for me to toss you in jail and throw away the key.’
‘Don’t you want to know who my principals are looking for?’
‘I do not.’
‘He’s in the Witness Protection Programme –’
‘Mr Smith –’
‘Call me Bob –’
‘Mr Smith – I want you off this island. Am I clear?’
Parker shook his head.
‘You have balls of brass, my friend, balls of brass. Luke Hanson is the person in question, though you will have another name for him.’
Wilson remained still.
‘I figured secretly you’d guessed and would want me to confirm it. My principals have found him twice before - once calling himself Gary Barker, the second time Todd Clearing. He got away both times. So they sent for me. He won’t get away a third time.’
‘So you’re not here just to find him. You’re here to kill him.’
‘I’m going now – I’m giving you twenty four hours to come up with his current name and whereabouts.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Smith.’
Parker brought his gun down on Wilson’s head. Wilson slumped to the floor, the bottle of beer rolling off the verandah.
‘Think of it as au revoir.’
Luke Hanson sat at the bar of the Catalyst, working his slow way through bottles of Bud – he was three down and counting, listening to the music of a local blue-eyed soul band. It was late and pretty low key. Occasionally people stopped by and perched on the next stool to say Hi. The butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker. A couple of women he’d had dates with gave him wary smiles from a table over by the jukebox. He knew why.
The price he paid for being alive was not daring to be wholly alive. He drew back from involvement. He knew, in consequence, some of the girls wondered whether he was gay. Fine with him.
After the final set, he got into a desultory conversation about music with Ray, the chubby barman. He was exhibiting an unfortunate taste in Hawaiian shirts.
‘So are the Stones coming through, Ray?’
‘Rumours, rumours. They’re all private planes and privileged parties these days. What they going to want with my little shack on the beach?’
‘Sex Pistols then.’
‘That punk shit? What is that about? That’s just noise, man.’
‘You’re sounding a little like our parents, Ray. Besides, although I haven’t seen any Mohawks with straight jeans and pins in their faces wandering around town yet, it may only be a matter of time.’
‘Yeah, well, we’ll see how long that crap lasts. I’m not booking them, that is for sure. Except that Blondie - she can visit anytime.’
‘Talking Heads, I like,’ an older woman said, standing a couple of yards along the bar. She nodded at Luke and Ray. ‘The Ramones. That Limey, Costello.’
Hanson looked at her, gave a little nod.
‘Lady looking to be served, Ray.’
Hanson swivelled on his stool to look into the mirror behind the bar. There was a man beyond the woman, working on a draft beer. Long hair and Zapata moustache. He was studying himself in the same mirror. Hanson took a swig of his beer, letting his eyes drift over.
The man didn’t fit together. He was getting too old for the hair and the moustache. Dressed in jeans that were too neatly pressed, a chequered shirt with one too many buttons done up, trainers that were too white. When the woman left the bar with her drinks the man’s eyes shifted and Hanson and he were looking at each other’s reflections. Hanson tipped his bottle the man’s way. In return, the man tipped an imaginary hat, took his glass of beer and stepped over to a table in the corner of the room.
‘Who’s a girl got to sleep with to get a drink around here?’
Josie was standing on the other side of Hanson, leaning into him. He could tell from her breath she’d already had a couple.
‘Nobody but me, honey,’ Natasha said from just behind her. ‘Nobody but me.’
Natasha nodded at Hanson.<
br />
‘Evening again.’
‘Evening yourself, Natasha.’ Hanson looked at Josie. ‘How’re you, Josie?’
‘Oh, you’re seeing it.’
‘Then you’re swell,’ Hanson said.
‘Hear that, Tash? How come I don’t hear that from you?’
‘’Cos I’m not a kiss-ass,’ Natasha said, ordering two margaritas.
‘Excuse me,’ Hanson said. ‘I might be inclined to take offence at that remark.’
‘Take it to the sheriff, you got any complaints about me,’ Natasha said, just as the juke-box started up with I Shot The Sheriff.
They all laughed and Hanson watched the stranger walk back from the juke to his table.
‘Hey, mister, you still got a couple of selections for your quarter.’
Parker looked over to the tipsy girl at the juke box.
‘Choose something for me,’ he said. ‘Anything.’
‘Hope you like the Bee Gees,’ she said, giggling for no reason he could see.
He nodded stiffly and raised his glass of beer to obscure the expression on his face.
Parker hated small town jobs. Anonymity went right out the window. You come into a bar, conversation stops, all eyes turn to you. In the movies the only way to get it going again is to announce, ‘the drinks are on me’ but no way would that work in real life.
He was wondering if he’d acted too precipitately going for the Sheriff. But maybe he’d shaken something up. He was here to check out the barman, who’d come onto the island 18 months earlier. But now he watched some other familiar guys propping up the bar too.
From conversation overheard at the next table – that gaggle of women on a bender – he gathered the island’s token queer was among them.
He’d lost his radar for queers. Way most young men dressed over the past ten years or so any one of them could be queer. He opted for more sober, unobtrusive attire. But then he didn’t share their taste in music either. He’d heard that reggae song and liked it only because of the sentiment. Plus, he’d recognised one of that group as that cocky looking deputy from the toll booth, now wearing civvies and flush-faced from beer. He got a little kick from putting the song on the jukebox.
He’d shot more than a few sheriffs in his time. But, unlike the singer, he didn’t stint at deputies.
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