by DS Whitaker
Mark shook his head, pointing his thumb at Johnnie. “Chief, is this guy okay? Cause I don’t know if he’s a punk or a looney.”
Tobias crossed his arms. “I ask myself that all the time. Come on, let’s go.”
Johnnie kept gazing downward until he heard their voices drift away out of earshot.
But their voices went toward the water. A hundred feet away, the men were examining the spot where Bob washed up. The Chief seemed to be carving out an outline in the sand with his heel.
Johnnie stared at the men for a spell while he contemplated having lunch.
Stumpy ran up to him and rested his front feet on his right boot. [Johnnie, what did they want?]
“Hey Stump. They were just being jerkwads.”
[Any cheesy puffs today?]
“Sorry, I forgot. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
[What’s more important than snacks?]
“Did you see Cud? He looks great, right?”
[I liked the old Cud. He gives me mango and breadfruit.] Stumpy blinked at him, raising a front foot in the air.
“All right.” Johnnie walked to his scooter, where he stored his insulated lunch bag in the helmet compartment under the seat. He had half an ear of corn leftover from Gertie’s dinner. He put it down on the concrete for Stumpy.”
[Thanks, Johnnie! I knew I could count on you.] Stumpy attacked the cob; it rolled around as he dislodged soft kernels with snaps of his jaw.
A rival iguana ran out from under a bush and tried to take the cob away. It became a battle. The two locked their sharp mouths together, the rival smacking Stumpy repeatedly on the head with his longer tail. It was an unfair fight in that regard. Smidgens of blood formed where their jaws met. A man and woman walking along the path moved sideways to give the fighting creatures a wide berth.
A teenage girl, gangly, maybe thirteen, sitting on a beach blanket with her parents, noticed the scene and walked over. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Johnnie as they both watched the intense commotion. The girl said, “I didn’t know they could fight like that. Shouldn’t you stop them?”
The kid had a point. Johnnie felt bad for instigating the fight, albeit indirectly, by feeding Stumpy. He retrieved the half-eaten cob, and the iguanas stopped fighting, riveting their eyes on their object of desire. The rival with the long green tail sprang onto Johnnie’s leg, digging his sharp claws through his pant legs into his flesh, climbing him like a tree. Johnnie threw the cob across the sand in a knee-jerk reaction to the pain. Stumpy led the chase, but the fight between the animals continued twenty feet away.
The girl looked down at Johnnie’s leather boots. “You’re bleeding.”
Johnnie inspected the damage. There were small holes in his pants, but a thin stream of bright red liquid flowed from under his green pant hem onto his boot laces. He said to the girl, “This is why you should never feed wild animals.” He pointed to the clearly written sign next to the walkway outlining the park rules. “Now go back to your parents.”
The girl shook her head and walked away. “Whatever.”
Johnnie retrieved the first aid kit from the tool shed, finding antiseptic and bandages. He sat at a picnic table and inspected his leg. It felt worse than it looked. He was stupid to give corn to Stumpy. Technically, he should report his injury to Kemper, but it was idiotic and his own damn fault.
As he finished tending his leg, he scanned the beach. The Chief and Mark were gone.
He thought about the look on Mark’s face when he asked about finding anything else. If he had said yes, would Mark claw him like a corn-crazed iguana to get it back?
Possibly.
That guy was bad news.
He hoped Cud would be back soon.
Because now he needed to know what was in the box.
And do everything in his power to make sure Mark never got it.
***
Cud enjoyed the breeze blowing across his chest as he crested the hill and descended the winding road toward Cruz Bay. The whine of the engine intensified up the steep hills; the scooter slowed during the climbs, crawling and clawing for every foot of ascent. Conversely, the downhills were like an amusement ride; but with more inherent danger.
He regarded the worn narrow path of missing grass next to the road, the same walking path he took every morning to sell his meager fruit haul. Now, driving the scooter, he wondered how he hadn’t been killed several times walking along these roads. Between the truck drivers who acted like they had nine lives by crossing the median without a care, and the tourists forgetting to drive on the left, his walks on the shoulder seemed like lunacy.
All these years, he told himself that traveling by foot was preferable. Walking miles every day made his legs and heart strong and added to his self-reliance. Now he wondered if he’d only been headstrong and foolish. The early months living on the beach made him doubt his sanity. In fact, he muttered to himself almost constantly, scaring himself and others. Thankfully, his will to live came back and his rantings ceased.
But he didn’t linger on self-doubts. He was enjoying the ride on the Flying Pig and his strange and mischievous task ahead. A mystery to solve!
Once in town, he parked the red scooter at the Marketplace, a boxy structure with shops, restaurants, and offices. On the third floor, he found a payphone. They were rare to non-existent on the island now. But he paid attention of their locations, because they were his lifeline to call his grandson. Normally, he called on major holidays or birthdays. Today would be different.
He dialed the number and followed the automated menu to make the collect call to Nassau.
After a few seconds, a young man’s voice on the other end replied in a British accent, “Hello? Paw?”
Cud said, “Jackson! How are you, lad?” He responded using his native-born London accent. Not his Americanized informal mode of speech he adopted when he became Cud the recluse instead of Cudlow E. Loughton the fourth.
“I’m fine. Pawpaw, are you alright? I must say, I’m surprised but happy to hear from you.”
“I’m perfectly dandy. In fact, I met a lovely woman last night. But I need you to do some things for me and not ask questions.”
Jackson sighed. “Hold on. Let me get some paper.”
Cud waited until Jackson was ready and said, “I need you to send two dozen roses to Miss Gertie Brown, 1812 Spring Garden Road, Calabash Boom. There aren’t any florists on the island, so you must purchase them on St. Thomas and send them across on the ferry. Hire someone to deliver them the entire way so they don’t get lost. And don’t put my name on the card. I intend to be a man of mystery. Did you get that?”
“Yes. What else?”
“I need you to transfer ten million dollars into a new money-market account at the Carib Bank on St. John under my name. Don’t tell your father.”
“Why?” Jackson asked.
“It’s none of his concern. Please, right away. I’ll wait by this pay phone so you can call me when you’re finished. And I need clothes. A suit, shirt, tie and dress shoes, the whole ball of wax. You know my size. Have someone deliver them to me on the third floor of the Marketplace. Something classy yet understated. But don’t fret, they can be off the rack.”
“Pawpaw, what in blue blazes are you up to? Have you decided to come back to civilization? Dad would be so happy. We can take the jet to St. Thomas and meet you for dinner. What do you say?”
Cud was afraid of this. “No, sorry, I’m just working on a project today. Nothing has changed. In fact, if all goes well, I’ll ask you to transfer the funding back to the family trust soon after.”
Silence on the other end. Then Jackson sighed. “You need all this right now? This very moment? A little notice would have been helpful.”
“Sorry, things come up. Tell you what. Work on the suit first, then the money and later, you can work out the flowers for delivery sometime over the next few days. Does that help?”
“Marginally, Paw. As long as I’m getting you a suit, can I get y
ou anything else? New underwear? Toiletries? Anything to make your camping more pleasant?”
Cud had lied to his family when he left those years ago. He said he was camping at an eco-tent resort on the southern end of the island. A sort of ‘glamping’ in a wood-framed cabin with a canvas roof, solar-powered lighting, and rain-water gravity showers. They had no idea he was living and sleeping under a moldy tarp on a public beach.
Cud thought for a moment. He had enough toothpaste and recently bought a new toothbrush and floss. Saving up for better footwear was one of his goals, but not entirely necessary given his cache of abandoned flip-flops. “I’d like a nice hat. Maybe canvas or straw, with a chin strap. A good sturdy comb and lip balm. And some jasmine-scented shampoo and conditioner. Also, a cloth, cross-body satchel for carrying fruit.”
The more he thought about the things that would make life easier, he realized the list could go on forever. Sleeping on Johnnie’s sofa yesterday—with a pillow and clean sheets—was a bittersweet respite. He missed pillows perhaps most of all. Still, more physical possessions would ultimately encumber him, driving him back to a life indoors. And that could lead to falling back into his old ways. No, he couldn’t let that happen.
“I think that will do it. I’ll wait here at the Marketplace. Cheerio, Jackson.” He hung up the phone and doubts seeped in. He was entering dangerous territory.
As a matter of habit, he checked the coin return. Nothing. He sat cross-legged next to the wall-mounted phone and watched shoppers duck into the various shops. The shoppers appeared happy, ogling trinkets and magnets at the gift shop across from him. The store window showcased bright paper flowers, mugs, shot-glasses, T-shirts that said ‘Don’t Hassle Me I’m On Island Time’, copper wind chimes with sailboat or shell motifs, hand-painted spoon rests, and plush mongoose toys with blue satin bows.
No, he decided, he didn’t need that kind of happiness.
As soon as his task was complete, he’d head back to the wild.
Chapter 7
Curled on the floor, Cud woke, startled by someone calling his name. “Mr. Loughton?”
A thin woman, dark-skinned and short, stood over him. She was young, maybe in her twenties, wearing a crisp white hotel uniform with a name badge the read “Denise”. She was smiling—a good sign—and had a gray vinyl garment bag draped over her arms.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Yes, dear. I take it that is for me?”
“Yes, sir. Your grandson said I could find you here. If you’d like, I could drive you to the resort where you could get changed properly. It’s only a five-minute trip. We have a tailor on call to assist if you’d like.”
He had wanted to keep things simple. And he couldn’t blame Jackson for adding certain amenities, but still he wished he hadn’t made such a fuss. “No, dear. I’m eager to get my project started. Did Jackson say anything about the account?”
“Yes, everything is set up. I wrote the account number and the branch manager’s name and placed it in the jacket pocket. I put my own business card in there also, in case you need further assistance.”
Cud squinted at Denise. Even in the uneven lighting, he could make out a green aura around her. Intelligent and quick—a powerful combination. Jackson had selected a good emissary.
His back ached as he grabbed the hand rail on the wall to ease up. He dusted off his shorts and raked his hand through his newly cropped hair. “What do you think of the hair cut? I think Miss Sheila did a superb job.”
Denise laughed. “My mom goes to Sheila’s. Jackson sent me your picture — so I could find you. The hairstyle in that picture was a bit severe. I like this one better.”
“I do, too.” He ran a hand through his hair again, relishing the silkiness. He thought about what picture Jackson could have given her. Probably one from his old life. When he wore it slicked back like Gordon Gecko in Wall Street.
“The other items, the hat and toiletries? We are still working on those. Can I messenger them later to your Eco Tent residence? Can you give me the building number?”
“Um. No. Tell you what…meet me here same time tomorrow and I’ll pick them up in person. Does that work for you?”
“It’s no trouble, sir. I’m happy to deliver—”
“No!” He couldn’t risk Denise finding out the truth and somehow relaying his state of habitation to Jackson. “Sorry, I mean, it would be more convenient for all if you could kindly bring them here tomorrow.”
Denise nodded. “I understand. This time tomorrow.”
Cud smiled to make amends. “Well, Denise, it was lovely to make your acquaintance. But I have to be going. Thank you for your prompt service.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze after he took the garment bag.
He headed to the public rest room.
Ten minutes later, he was decked out in his new attire. He hadn’t worn underwear during the last five years, but Denise included crisp white boxers in the garment bag. A civilized gentleman wears underwear, he thought. To pull off the disguise, he needed to dress the entire part.
He fiddled with the tie. It was red silk, reminiscent of those he wore in the time before. Momentarily, he wondered if he’d forgotten how to tie a Windsor knot, but it came back to him with pure muscle memory. The first attempt was no good, because his neck was thinner now. He got the length correct on the second try.
His heart broke a little seeing himself in the restroom mirror. He looked like his old self. The self that took and kept taking, who hurt people, stealing away homes from families, raiding their retirement accounts for his own gain.
Cud stepped closer to the wall mirror, gazing into his own green eyes. Were these the same eyes? Or was he different now? A better person? Was hiding from the world the right move? He admitted to himself that he avoided self-examination, fearful that the old demon was still lurking.
The man in the mirror had set aside his fortune, hoping to make amends. But it felt like an empty gesture. Giving up comforts was a start. His father had always said the path to true salvation was through active measures, as in good deeds.
His excursion to snoop inside a dead man’s safe deposit box didn’t seem like a good deed.
Cud backed away from the mirror, his head down. He’d committed to the plan. It was too late to back out now. And besides, perhaps they could solve the case and bring Bob’s murderer to justice.
Walking to the bank, he found the note in his jacket pocket. He examined the piece of paper with the account information. In his worn canvas billfold, he noticed his driver’s license from the Bahamas had expired three years ago. Normally, a competent bank manager would laugh him out the door with such a pitiful form of identification. But no bank manager would eject a customer with a ten-million-dollar account.
Along the sidewalk, he recognized some folks walking past. He gave them knowing looks, searching their eyes for an unspoken greeting. They didn’t acknowledge him. His disguise was effective.
A minute later, the bank was in sight. Cudlow practiced his greeting, using his native accent, whispering to himself. A Brit in a nice suit would surely impress them.
He walked in, his shoulders back, chin up, his suit jacket buttoned. At the teller's window, he asked for the manager. The teller directed him to a guest chair near the front and told him to wait.
Cudlow tried not to fidget. The collar of his shirt strangled him. The sharp unbroken leather of his cognac-stained dress shoes dug into his ankles, despite the slight buffer provided by his thin black socks. He’d forgotten antiperspirant and he could feel the wet circles forming under his jacket. As a reward for his sacrifice, he decided he must get a gelato afterward.
The bank manager appeared and took his seat at the desk, smoothing his tie. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Samuel. What can I do for you today?”
The man was thin, wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a pink tie with palm trees embroidered on it. His hair was short, his skin dark. He had a gold watch, but not an expensive one. Under the fluorescent
lights, he couldn’t surmise the man’s aura color accurately. This wasn’t unusual. Whoever invented this kind of lighting was a monster. Aura colors appeared distorted. Green looked yellow, pink looked purple. He’d need to see Samuel in sunlight for a true reading. But without the aura, he could tell Mr. Jameson was a gentle soul, with an inner glow. The small gold cross around Samuel’s neck was a good sign.
Cud shook his head, knowing it was time for some serious play-acting. “Good day, Samuel. I’m looking to obtain a safe deposit box for my valuables. Is this something you could help me with today?”
“Certainly, sir. Do you have an account with us?” Sam looked to his computer screen.
“Why, yes! Cudlow Loughton. L-O-U-G-H…”
Sam typed as he listened. “I’ve got it here, sir.”
Cud slid his driver’s license across the desk and waited for the reaction.
Sam looked at Cud, then the screen, then the license, then back at Cud. “Mr. Loughton, thank you for coming in today. Can I get you some coffee or water?”
Cudlow grinned. “Well, a bottled water would be very nice.”
“Absolutely.” Sam snapped his fingers to the woman at the teller window. “A water for our guest.” Sam made another hand gesture to the woman, but Cud didn’t know what it meant. Probably something signaling an important customer was in their midst. Yes, it was working.
Sam continued, “Mr. Loughton, as a valued client, we’d be happy to offer one of our premium boxes free for the first year.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you. But I have what you might call an eccentric request.”
“Sir, at Carib Bank we are always happy to accommodate our clients.”
Cud smiled. “You might think me a bit daft when you hear this.”
“Sir?”
Cudlow bit his bottom lip. This was where the plan become tricky. It was his own idea and he felt clever when he suggested it to Johnnie last night. But now in the light of day, he had his doubts. Still it was a much better idea than Johnnie’s plan to simply bribe the man. And hopefully more fun. “Well, do you believe in the afterlife?”