Eventually picking up on her vibes, Lester abandoned his attempted conquest of her, and scanned the bar, possibly seeking out other prey. He froze when our eyes met, then held up his bottle, furrowed his brow, and took a swig. Maintaining his glare, he set the bottle on the bar with a loud clunk, prompting a scowl from Jan.
Tolerating Lester without Tiffany around would be impossible. “Let’s go, Chuck. Time to get ready for your date.” In my condition, hauling Chuck to his apartment would hurt.
Chuck reached for his half-full beer. “Wait, I still have some beer left.”
Before he got the bottle to his mouth, I yanked it from his hand and polished off the contents, setting the empty on the bar. “No, you don’t.”
Chuck glared at the empty and moaned as if a prize marlin had thrown the hook. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. He waved at Jan for another one, but Jan was busy with other customers. I pried Chuck’s hands from the edge of the bar, and half dragged him the first few steps.
We stopped at the far end of the bar.
“Are we getting a beer?” Chuck asked. I ignored him and moved between him and Lester.
“Lester, why are you here?” Chuck tried to move closer to the bar, but I tightened my grip on him. “I mean … where’s Tiffany?”
Lester shrugged. A woman walked past, and he made a point of staring at her butt. “Tiff said she didn’t want to come out tonight.”
“So, you came alone?”
“Well, not exactly. Mandy is meeting me here.”
“Mandy?”
“Yeah, Mandy.” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Another person staying at your place.” When I didn’t immediately say anything, he continued. “Unit seven?”
He meant Mandy Driver, whom I hadn’t run into yet, which wasn’t unusual during the high-tourist season. When the YellowRock was at near-full capacity, as it currently was, I didn’t always meet each guest. But Erika did, and that’s what mattered.
“But …” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know what to say or think, except that Lester should be with Tiffany, not Mandy. That’s how it worked in my world—bring your girlfriend to the tropics and spend time with her.
I stood in his face a moment, then began dragging Chuck toward the exit. When we got out of Vinny’s and onto the street, he quit struggling and accepted his fate. He relaxed, seeming content to lean against me while I walked him to his apartment.
With my attention focused on Chuck, I bumped shoulders with a guy walking past.
“Sorry,” the guy said.
“Me, too.” I was about to turn away when my eyes locked on his face. Something about him seemed familiar. For a moment, I assumed the Chicago Bears hat or the sweat-stained Northern Illinois University T-shirt he wore had caught my attention. NIU, located in DeKalb, was a scant forty miles from Rockford, so numerous alumni lived in the Rockford area. I couldn’t narrow it down, but there was something more profound to this feeling of familiarization. More than his face or clothes.
He stood five feet, seven inches tall and weighed roughly one hundred and seventy pounds. Nothing out of the ordinary about him. Long blond hair, a pointed nose, and a physically fit appearance, the way laborers or union guys looked. Solid shoulders and slightly oversized forearms. He had workingman hands, scraped and red.
His eyes caught my attention. They reminded me of well-polished, dark brown marbles swimming in a sea of pale white, with a speck of black pigmentation in the white of the left one. It reminded me of a random, misplaced freckle.
Unique and somewhat distracting, I tried not to stare.
“I said I was sorry,” the guy said, his voice louder and a bit more forceful. He balled his right hand into a fist.
As hard as I had tried not to, I realized that I had been staring. With one arm around Chuck, I held up the other, palm out. “Yeah, me, too. Sorry.”
The guy relaxed and walked into Vinny’s. He sat on a stool next to Lester, the one previously occupied by the woman Lester had been annoying. She must’ve wised up and left.
“You should meet this chick, R,” Chuck said as we crossed the street, his speech slurred. “She’s a knockout.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she is.”
He smiled from ear to ear. “Her name is Jasmine.”
I turned back to Vinny’s and gave Jan a quick wave. Perched on his barstool, Lester scowled at me. Head shaking, he eventually swiveled his stool sideways, and struck up a conversation with Freckle Eye.
CHAPTER 13
A FAMILIAR SOUND woke me. I opened my eyes, and through the sliding screen door connecting the bedroom to the balcony, spied the source—a small green parakeet native to Bonaire known as a prikichis. Most mornings either he or one of his cousins perched on the railing of my balcony and serenaded me out of slumber.
I wished the little guy would fly off and allow me to sleep. But he continued to sing away and was soon joined by another prikichis, their elaborate duet trying to brighten what I knew would be a rough, slow morning. Exhausted and in pain, I stared at the ceiling and tried to muster the strength to rise.
On returning home the previous night, I had iced my bruised rib and wrapped it in a body bandage. Jabs of pain shot through me each time I rolled over in bed or took a deep breath. Halfway through the night, tired but far from slumber, I rose and sat for several hours on the balcony.
This morning I counted six empty beer cans.
Using my trusty 7-iron as a cane, I limped to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and noticed a black-and-blue shiner around my right eye. Overnight, my left eye had swollen half shut. Every blink created a rough, scratching sensation as if gravel were under each eyelid.
Lazing on a beach somewhere and letting the sun cook me for a while sounded good. I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol with codeine. The expiration date had long since passed, but I shook the last three capsules into my mouth anyway and chased them down with a swig of water. The empty container bounced off both walls as I tossed it into the corner wastebasket. No matter what else happened today, at least I had already scored two points.
I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror again, examining the damage. Not the first time I’d been beaten up. I had suffered worse in the past but couldn’t remember when.
Although food was the furthest thing from my mind, I leaned on the 7-iron and hobbled to the kitchen. My stomach growled, but after last night’s beers, the storm in my belly wasn’t hunger related. A glass of ice, a diet soda, and a slow trek to the balcony was the start of this day. Using as few abdominal muscles as possible, I lowered myself into the lounger and put my head back. Eyes closed, I breathed out through pursed lips.
The laughter and mumbled chatter of folks one story below lofted upward as they walked along the street in front of the YellowRock. Several loud cars drove past, kids with souped-up Mitsubishis or some other compact, showing off to the girls. Teenage boys are the same everywhere. A construction truck went by, suspension springs clanking as it passed over one of the speed bumps, known as drempels.
After a few minutes, my phone rang.
“Hey, Conklin. What are you doing?” Arabella asked.
“Just sitting here waiting for you to call.”
She laughed. “Could I buy you lunch?”
“That’d be great.”
“James and I are on patrol today, but we will need to eat. I will meet you at one o’clock? Coral Reef Café?”
“I like James, but can you lose him for lunch?”
She laughed again. “No problem.” Her laughter seemed to make my rib feel better.
“Good. See you there at one.”
The phone went silent, and I placed it back in my shirt pocket. I watched the sea and boats, and sipped on the soda, which worked to calm my stomach. I sighed but kept it shallow, my injured rib preventing my lungs from expanding too far.
Around noon, I hobbled downstairs to the office. Erika was curious about my condition and shook her head when
I told her about last night. She didn’t acknowledge when I mentioned meeting Arabella for lunch.
“Do not hurt yourself again,” she said, as I stepped out of the office.
The Coral Reef Café was only a few blocks north of the YellowRock, and I preferred to walk, my bruised rib notwithstanding. Parking spots downtown are scarce, and at this time of day, anything available would probably be several blocks from the restaurant anyway.
I limped up Kaya C.E.B. Hellmund, the street that ran in front of the YellowRock and through the middle of downtown. A brick-paved pathway lined the side of the road next to the sea, palm trees sprouting through concrete boxes, and wooden benches, used most often for watching the water and sunsets, spaced at precise intervals. Multinational sailboats were moored a few yards offshore, each flying a flag denoting their country of registry. On one of the boats, someone worked atop the main mast, shirtless, pounding with a hammer.
Several dive boats sped toward the smaller island of Klein Bonaire—which means Little Bonaire in Dutch—located a half mile out to sea. Their foamy wakes rocked the sailboats, causing the guy on the mast to quit hammering for a few minutes until the waves subsided.
The open-air Coral Reef Café was on the opposite side of the street from the sea and about midway along the downtown strip. It occupied the lower floor of a newer, upscale three-story condominium complex, one of several built over the last few years. Arabella had not yet arrived, so I grabbed a sidewalk table underneath an oval Amstel light and ordered water and a glass of iced tea. The table offered a good view of the sea interspersed with the local foot and motor traffic.
An older couple held hands as they walked past on the other side of the street. They wore brightly colored, newish T-shirts with dive flag emblems embroidered on the backsides. Drawstrings drooped from the brims of their floppy hats, and they each had a pair of dark sunglasses. Their arms, legs, and necks were crispy red. When they sat at one of the benches, the man put his arm around the woman. They looked at each other for a moment, then gazed across the water.
They reminded me of Bill and Marybeth.
The memory wasn’t sparked by their age, what they wore, or their appearance. It had to do with their display of affection toward one another. Bill and Marybeth were committed to each other and often held hands while walking.
I’d never been able to make a serious commitment to a woman and had always been jealous of Bill and Marybeth’s relationship. Often, Bill told me that my noncommittal nature wasn’t a big deal and not to worry about it. Conversely, Marybeth said I had a problem and needed to deal with it soon. If not, she said I’d end up a lonely old man.
Arabella would agree with Marybeth.
Or maybe not. Arabella and I had never talked about it, so perhaps she felt the same as me. As far as I knew, Arabella had similar commitment problems.
The waitress came by and refilled my tea. She was slender and in her mid-twenties. Her hair was several shades of purple, and she sprouted not one, but two nose rings. Multi-colored tattoos layered her arms and neck.
Turning fifty didn’t make me feel old. However, my inability to relate to today’s youth sometimes did.
Shortly after one o’clock, Arabella arrived. “Hey,” she said, dropping into the chair next to me.
“Ready for some lunch?”
“Ja hoor.”
Arabella wore her full police uniform—or Polis in Papiamentu. Around her waist, a thick leather belt supported pouches for a set of handcuffs and two full pistol magazines. A leather holster attached to the belt cradled a Walther P-5 nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. By policy, she carried her weapon fully loaded, with a cartridge chambered, and the trigger de-cock mechanism engaged. Previously, she had confided in me that, thus far, in her law enforcement career she’d never used her service weapon in the line of duty.
Few ever did.
She tossed a couple of folded papers on the table and smiled.
I knew what they were before unfolding them—three-foot-high targets used at a shooting range. One had a silhouette of a person while the other had a five-ring mark in each corner and one in the middle. The inner ring in each target had two holes, indicating multiple rounds fired in succession.
Double taps.
The one with the silhouette had numerous holes in the head and chest area. Scanning the shape further, I noticed three holes in the groin section.
Better than I could do.
“Nice shooting.” I pointed at the holes in the groin area of the silhouette target. “I hope this isn’t a message to me.”
Her smile vanished; her eyebrows tightened. “Of course not.”
I folded the targets and handed them back to her.
“You know,” she said, “you can join me on the range anytime.”
Not the first time she had invited me to the range. It’d been a long time since I’d fired a handgun. Glancing at her weapon, I gave my pat answer. “Someday.”
She knew that was as good as a no. Her shoulders slumped. “Well … Okay, but you never know when it might come in handy.”
“One never knows,” I said.
Purple Hair came by to take our order. Arabella glanced at the chalkboard menu over the bar and ordered an iced tea, French fries, and the daily special—karko stoba, a concoction of conch, rice, and fried plantains. My stomach churned like a mild hurricane, keeping my appetite at bay, not yet settled from last night’s bender. I opted for an order of funchi, the island’s version of cornbread. The Coral Reef Café added a special touch to funchi by toasting both sides, giving it a mild, crunchy exterior. A beer would’ve tasted good, but with this afternoon’s flight, I opted to abstain.
“Only funchi?” Arabella asked.
“Moving slow this morning.”
Arabella understood. A slight smile crept across her face.
“French fries?” I asked. “How is that healthy?”
“You know I am weak.” She shrugged. “So how was last evening? Did you finish your cleaning?”
I removed my sunglasses.
“What happened?”
I explained last night, including my attempts to find the guy.
“I bet it was that Martijn creep. You should file a report.” She pulled out a pencil and a notepad.
“Why? Could never prove it was him.”
“It was him.”
“I don’t think so. Not big enough.” I took a sip of water. “Besides, Martijn would’ve wanted me to know it was him. He wouldn’t have run off. He would’ve stayed and pounded on me a little more.”
“I will fill it out, and you can sign it.”
“Maybe it was some punk wanting to grab something out of my Wrangler.”
“I am going to question Martijn.”
I grunted. “Okay, it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Did you see a doctor about your rib?”
“No … but I will.”
Arabella sighed, knowing I wouldn’t. Thankfully, our lunch arrived, and we began to eat. Arabella laced her fries with a squeeze of mayonnaise our Dutch waitress had knowingly placed on the table.
She dipped a fry into the mayo, and slowly laid it on her outstretched tongue. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and moaned, smacking her lips in the process.
“So good,” she said.
She opened her eyes, brows raised, and pointed her chin in my direction.
“No thanks.” Mayonnaise on French fries was a sin the Dutch would have to bear on their own.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the movement of someone walking up to our table.
“Hi, R.”
Lester had crept up behind me. I put a hand on Arabella’s shoulder. “Lester, this is Arabella.”
Smiling, he nodded at Arabella then turned his attention back to me. “Look what I bought.” He removed a large scuba knife from a plastic bag and set it on the table.
I stared at the knife a few moments, then unbuckled the strap securing the handle and slid the knife out of th
e sheath. The blade was titanium, close to seven inches long and two inches wide. One side had a smooth cutting edge; the other serrated along the outer half. Near the handle on the serrated side was a deep groove intended for hooking and cutting stray fishing line. The end tapered to a sharp point. I looked at Arabella. She shrugged. I returned the knife to its sheath and laid it back on the table.
“Lester, you don’t need this. Not for Bonaire diving,” I said.
“Maybe not, but you never know. Besides, it might be nice to have some protection.”
“From what?”
“Anything … or anyone.”
“I would suggest against it,” Arabella said.
I gave up. “Just be careful,” I said.
He held the knife in front of him, studying it. “Don’t have to now. Not with this baby.” He put the knife back in the plastic bag. “Hey, can Mandy come to your place tonight for the party?”
“Mandy?” I said, feeling like last night’s conversation might happen all over.
“Yeah, Mandy.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “The more, the merrier, I guess.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why he wanted Mandy around so much. Or why Tiffany tolerated it.
“Sure, why not,” I said. After all, Mandy was a guest at the YellowRock, and I had yet to meet her. Be a good time to do so.
“Okay, great.” He looked down the street. “I need to go. Meeting Mandy for lunch.”
Arabella and I watched Lester walk away, disappearing into the crowd.
“I thought Lester was here with Tiffany,” she said. “Why does he care about this Mandy person?”
Good question. Same one I had last night at Vinny’s. I didn’t say anything and shook my head. As Tiffany’s self-proclaimed older brother, I was annoyed with Lester’s attitude toward her.
“By the way, I filed a request to test for inspector,” Arabella said.
My head snapped around. “Wow, that’s great.”
In the past, she had explained the test had three parts; physical conditioning, academics, and experience. Of the three, Arabella excelled at the physical portion and, when stressed, would fall into her comfort zone. The test was the trigger for her recent over-obsession with exercise.
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