Diver's Paradise

by Davin Goodwin

  “Can you tell me about an ad in your classifieds?” I half-yelled back at him.

  “This is circulation.”

  “I know, but can you help me?”

  “You gotta talk to the ad department.”

  “They’re closed. I just have a few questions—”

  “Can’t help ya. Call tomorrow and ask for ads.” He hung up. So much for customer service. I considered my next phone call.

  The website for Jay’s Automotive, the single-owner repair shop in Rockford where Bill took his vehicles, showed closed on Sundays. Bill and Jay were old high school chums, and Bill was a loyal customer. He told me once he’d never go anywhere but Jay’s. If anyone knew Bill’s truck, it’d be Jay. He might even know if Bill had mentioned anything about selling it.

  I dialed the number. No answer and no option to leave a message—just endless ringing. After ten minutes, I tried again. Same result.

  Next, I dialed the Rockford Police Department and asked for Penn. Usually, he wouldn’t be working on a Sunday, but considering Bill’s murder, I guessed he’d be in the office.

  Larry David answered on the second ring, and I asked, “You got the weapon?”

  “What?” he said.

  “You got the weapon?”

  He hesitated a moment. “R?” I was silent. “What are you talking about?”

  “The sketch shows a weapon on the table.”

  “You’re seeing things.”

  “Why does the coroner’s report list a .357 Magnum? You’d need the weapon to know that.”

  Penn didn’t say anything.

  “Sketch and coroner’s report,” I said. “You have the weapon, don’t you?”

  He sighed into the phone. “Look, R, I can’t comment on that. I messed up. You were only supposed to get the pictures, not the sketch or reports.”

  “Speaking of the pictures, what’s with that ad? The one circled in red?”

  “No comment there, either,” he said.

  “Anything you can tell me?”

  “After the lashing Traverso gave me? Nope, nothing. No more than you already know, that is.”

  “But I don’t know anything,” I said.

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER 11

  HAVING GOTTEN NOWHERE with three phone calls, I went out to the veranda. Sitting on the lounger with a Bright, I reached over and took my banjo off its stand. I’d been playing the 5-string since the age of sixteen, but still wasn’t very good. Probably never would be. Besides putting me in a relaxed, almost Zen state of mind, playing the banjo did one of two things: it either took my mind off everything that was bothering me, or it made me think more intensely about the things that were bothering me. But until the playing started, I never knew which one it’d be.

  Most locals had grown accustomed to the tinny sound of my banjo, not giving it a second thought. The tourists, expecting steel drum melodies and every incarnation of “Margaritaville” possible, paused and looked around for the source of the odd, unexpected music. Sitting against the back wall of my veranda, observing through the railing balusters, I watched them as they swiveled their heads in bewilderment. And it never failed. There was always one clown in each crowd who would break out in a poor rendition of a square dancer, forcing laughter from the rest of the group.

  And today was no exception.

  Gawking at the fun-loving tourists that day didn’t bring the usual smile to my face, the banjo playing having taken me to the think-more-intensely-about-what-is-bothering-me state of mind. My brain swam with thoughts of Bill, Marybeth, and their murders. The weapon. The classified ad: Four-wheel drive. Call Bill.

  No answers.

  “Hey there, Mr. Clampett.”

  Tiffany stood on the veranda, smiling and mimicking my playing by doing her version of an air banjo. My music having taken me someplace I didn’t want to go, I hadn’t noticed her walk up the outside stairs.

  A white, see-through sarong, tied loosely around her waist, covered the lower portion of a dark blue swimsuit, and a white, short-sleeved button-down shirt hid the top. Her hair lay loose on her shoulders, and a canvas bag hung over her shoulder.

  I stopped playing, leaned back on the lounger, and grabbed my beer. “Jed Clampett didn’t play the banjo.”

  “Whatever.” She set the bag on the floor. “You have another one of those?”

  I bit my lower lip and held back a smile. “Nope.” I shrugged and held my banjo out in front of me. “As far as I know, this is the only banjo on the island.”

  She glared at me and leaned forward, hands on her hips. “Do. You. Have. A. Nother. Beer. Smartass?”

  “Oooohhhh. Why didn’t you say so? I always have another beer.” I motioned my head toward the kitchen. “In the fridge and ignore the mess.”

  Tiffany headed for the kitchen. “Are you saving these chips?”

  “Help yourself and bring me another beer, please.” Since my playing time was over for the moment, I set the banjo back on its stand.

  “How’s Lester?” I asked as Tiffany handed me the beer, her mouth full of potato chips.

  “He’ll be fine, I guess.” She leaned against the railing and licked salt off her fingers. “He won’t go to the doctor, but that’s just the way he is.” She caught me with the corner of her eye. “I know someone else like that.”

  “Go on.”

  She chased the chips with a sip of beer. “He says he doesn’t want to go anywhere or do anything the rest of the day. Maybe not even tomorrow.” She shook her head.

  Tiffany had kept her composure and handled herself well at Tori’s Reef. If she hadn’t, the dive might’ve turned into a disaster. Her confidence and dive skills impressed me, especially for a vacation diver.

  “You did good this afternoon,” I said. “Well, mostly anyway.”

  “Thanks, Roscoe. That means a lot coming from you. But to tell the truth, I was a bit scared. I know I shouldn’t have gone for the mask alone.” She stared at her toes. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Promise?”

  She hesitated a moment, then snapped to attention, placed a hand over her heart, and said, “Promise.”

  “Okay, okay. I hope it doesn’t ruin your vacation.”

  “Well, it won’t ruin mine. Lester can do whatever he wants. He can pout in his room, or he can get on with it and enjoy the island. It’s his call.”

  “Sounds reasonable … What are you doing the rest of the day?”

  “I think I’ll go lay in the sun for a while.” She jerked a thumb at the beach across the street.

  “Good place to do it.”

  “Beyond that, I’m not sure. Hopefully, Lester will want to go out or something.” She raised her eyebrows. “Hey, when am I going to meet Arabella?”

  “Never.”

  “Don’t be like that. What’s the problem?”

  “Kind of like when Mr. Scott would warn Captain Kirk about mixing matter and antimatter.”

  She stared at me. How could she know Jed Clampett and the Beverley Hillbillies, but not Captain Kirk, Mr. Scott, or Star Trek? I shook my head. “Never mind. Maybe we’ll get together tomorrow.”

  Tiffany concentrated on the floor, head bopping, toe tapping as if keeping time to an internal beat only she heard. Eyes fixed on a precise spot a few inches beyond her feet, she seemed to have something to say but was holding back. I leaned over to my banjo, sitting on its stand, and ran my finger across the strings. The open G chord brought her around.

  “So … when do you think you’re going back to the States?” she asked.

  My heart skipped a beat as sweat pooled and ran along my spine, the temperature feeling as though it had risen twenty degrees in the last second. She must’ve known about Bill and Marybeth and thought I’d be going back for the ceremonies. Maybe she had known all along and was waiting for me to say something. I wasn’t sure how that conversation was supposed to start, or how it’d go, but this wasn’t the way I’d pictured it.
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  I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

  “What?”

  Her mouth opened, but she closed it before saying anything. She stared at me a moment, then looked at the floor again. I got out of the lounger and stood next to her against the railing. I took a sip of beer and scanned the beach area across the street. Kids were jumping off the pier, sandpipers were scurrying near the trash cans scavenging for food scraps, and someone was practicing a martial arts routine—a kata—in the sand. Several local fishermen, motoring along in their handmade wooden boats, were returning to the docks after a long day on the sea, ready to sell their Catch of the Day to the seaside restaurants.

  I waited.

  After a few long moments, she looked at me. A solitary tear ran down her cheek.

  “I’m going to the beach,” she said, pushing off the railing and picking up her bag.

  She crossed the street, spread her blanket on the sand, and lay down, apparently not giving me a second thought.

  Not even a glance.

  CHAPTER 12

  TIFFANY AND ARABELLA were determined to meet, so I gave in and planned to have everyone over for food and beer. My apartment was the quintessential bachelor pad, and as such, in desperate need of cleaning.

  With a trash bag in each arm, I walked around the corner of the building and heaved open the dumpster lid. My nostrils flared, and my eyes watered as the stench reached out and swallowed me. Before I threw the bags on the smelly heap, I heard a footstep and turned around.

  Someone hit me in my right eye.

  I dropped the bags, and before I could straighten, was struck on the other side of the face. My head spun and jerked as my legs began to buckle. A third hit caught me square in the jaw and knocked me to the ground.

  I slumped to my knees, and before looking up, got kicked in the lower rib cage. My diaphragm collapsed, forcing the air from my lungs, and I hit the ground hard, unable to breathe.

  Lying on the gravel, the salty taste of blood tickling my tongue, oozing from my upper lip into my mouth, time meant nothing—it could’ve been a few seconds, or it could’ve been a few hours. I didn’t know. My right eye was already difficult to open, and I swallowed hard to choke back bile. Consciousness began to slip, and I fought to remain lucid.

  A faint voice yelled “Hey.” I heard footsteps, maybe running, and in the next few seconds, someone helped me stand and lean against the Wrangler.

  “Are you alright, mister?” someone said. “I think you blacked out for a second.”

  With the world spiraling out of control, I spit blood on the ground, mumbled something even I didn’t understand, and sought to find the source of the voices. My eyes were slow to focus, but two blurred figures, males, stood in front of me.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  “That way,” one of the guys said, pointing down the street toward the business district.

  It hurt, but I sucked in several breaths, then squinted and peered down the street. A figure, walking casually, turned the corner two blocks away and disappeared.

  “Thanks,” I said and patted one of them on the shoulder.

  After the first stride, pain shot through my midsection. I straightened and, with a hand, applied pressure to my upper abdomen. Teeth clenched, I squeezed my eyes shut. The throbbing pain in my lower rib cage was no stranger, and I knew it’d prevent me from running.

  A bruised rib.

  “Maybe I should call the cops or an ambulance or something,” one of the guys said.

  I shook my head and waved him off. Stopping the pursuit and losing my attacker wasn’t an option. Every step was a struggle as I hobbled down the street, trying to keep myself upright. I dragged my feet more than walked and braced myself against every car, wall, or bench.

  The pain worked its way up my side and into my shoulder. I wanted to stop and lie down but limped along the street to the downtown area of Kralendijk. Vehicles, moving no faster than snails, clawed their way through town, lining the one-lane road that spanned the length of the business district. Dinner guests crowded the open-air restaurants along the street, and the oceanfront bar, Vinny’s, teamed with patrons. Smells of fresh lobster, wahoo, and swordfish filled the air, and the sound of people conversing in multiple languages echoed across the street.

  Not a picture-perfect Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras, but crowded and hectic enough to lose sight of a person.

  And lose him I did.

  With a mixture of Cabana and Latin-style music playing at Vinny’s and the faint sound of a steel drum band somewhere down the street, I made my way past each successive restaurant. I peered at the tourists, eager for a familiar face or any hint of an abnormal situation. Nothing. No sign of him. I turned and scanned the crowd at Vinny’s.

  Nothing.

  Turning to start the long, painful journey home, I noticed Jan behind the bar at Vinny’s, waving his hands at me, trying to get my attention. After raising my hand in acknowledgment, Jan pointed to a person sitting head-down at the bar.

  Built on a wooden and concrete pier, Vinny’s jutted out over the sea. I stepped onto the planks and nursed my body over to the bar and sat next to the guy Jan had pointed out.

  At least the guy was conscious.

  Chuck Studer, another American living on the island, had an apartment above one of the storefronts across the street making Vinny’s his favorite—and closest—hangout. Out of synch with the music, he tapped his toe on the stool’s footrest. His head rested on his left arm, which he had formed into a makeshift pillow. In his right hand, he held a half-empty bottle of beer. Thirty dollars in paper and coin lay scattered across the bar.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Chuck, you alright?”

  Chuck stood five feet, nine inches tall with short-cropped graying hair and a clean-shaven face. He had served many years in the Air Force as an aviation mechanic and still maintained the build of a former military person, albeit, these days, a bit thicker around the waist, the result of beer, late nights, and too many late mornings. Beyond my comprehension, the island women—especially the younger ones—found him irresistible. Chuck was seldom alone.

  He rolled his head, one eye open, peering at me over his arm. “What’s up, R?” He fiddled with the money on the bar. “Want a beer?” He wore a surplus Air Force pilot suit, which he had claimed many times “the chicks dig.”

  I decided a beer couldn’t hurt anything. My pursuit was finished … for the night, anyway. Besides, knowing Chuck, he wasn’t going to leave until the last drop of beer disappeared from his bottle. Jan stood nearby and nodded when I held up two fingers. Bar service was on island time, and I had learned soon after moving to Bonaire to order two at a time.

  The recent excitement faded, and my senses began to return, along with aches and pains in various parts of my body. Alcohol might be just what the doctor ordered.

  “I meant to call you,” Chuck said. He snapped his head up, one eye closed. “Hey, do you know why scuba divers roll backward off a boat into the water?”

  He had told me this joke two days ago. “Yes, I do.”

  “Because if they rolled forward—” he began to chuckle—“they’d still be in the boat.” Laughing, he placed his head back onto his arm-pillow.

  “Chuck, you were going to call me?”

  After a few moments, he spoke, head still down, into his folded arms. “Oh yeah, what are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

  I had a good idea where this was going.

  He rolled his head a couple of times in his arms. “Can you take a flight for me, around three?”

  Chuck owned a Cessna, model 180, single-engine airplane that he used in a sightseeing business on Bonaire. He gave rides to tourists, contractors, and anyone else who wanted an aerial view of the island. Occasionally, when something came up, but more often, when he was hungover, I would take a flight for him.

  “Three o’clock?” I said. “You still be hungover by then?”

  Chuck looked at me and smiled. “I hav
e a date later tonight.”

  “A date? Tonight?”

  “Yeah, when she gets off work,” he said and closed his eyes. “I’m hoping it’ll last till tomorrow.”

  I turned toward the sea and watched a pelican paddle along, probably hoping to snag a stray piece of bread or French fry that happened to float pass. I didn’t mind helping. Besides, it kept my pilot skills from getting rusty. After a moment, I smiled and turned back to Chuck.

  “Sure, I’ll do it.”

  Chuck raised his head, opened both eyes. “Thanks.” His brows crinkled, and his eyes narrowed a bit. “What happened to you?”

  “It’s been a rough night.”

  “You and me both.” He lowered his head and resumed his near passed-out position on the bar, toe still tapping.

  I clanked my bottle against his sitting on the bar. My first beer went down in one, quick upturn.

  It was a typical crowd for Vinny’s—a solid mixture of tourists and locals. They laughed and drank, not having a care in the world. A big-screen TV mounted on one end of the bar televised a Dutch soccer match. In the corner, a group cheered as one of the teams scored a goal, or point, or whatever it’s called.

  Another night in paradise.

  A flood of recognition overtook me as I did a double take on a figure at the far end of the bar. His bruised nose made him impossible to miss. Lester Jeffrey held a bottle of beer and chatted with a local girl, who didn’t appear interested in him.

  No doubt, a woman with good taste.

  No sign of Tiffany. I watched for her, thinking she might return from the bathroom or enter Vinny’s off the street. After a few minutes, and half a beer, she hadn’t done either.

  Lester was here without her.

  He hadn’t noticed me yet and continued to annoy the girl sitting alongside him. He leaned in close to her several times, and each time she twisted her body, so more of her back faced him. She appeared to be part of a group of people mulling along that side of Vinny’s and showed no interest in Lester.

  Go figure.