Diver's Paradise

by Davin Goodwin

  CHAPTER 52

  I HAD MY feet propped on the office desk, playing my banjo, having been practicing the same song for about twenty minutes. Two of the five strings were out of tune, and, because it annoyed Erika just enough, I left them that way.

  “Are you not going fishing with Jan soon?” she finally asked. “I have work to get done, and it will not get done with you here, old man.”

  I stopped playing and pulled my feet off the desk. “Yup. He’ll be picking me up any minute.” I latched the banjo into its case. “By the way, I’m not old. I’m a classic.”

  “Well,” she said, turning around to look at me, “my English is not as perfect as yours, but I think classic is just another word for old.”

  “Maybe, but don’t wait up. He’s taking this classic out for his birthday.”

  She shook her head. “Lord help us.” She stood with a stack of papers and walked to the filing cabinet. She muttered under her breath, “Lord help the whole island.”

  I chuckled, but not too loud.

  A horn beeped, and I caught a glimpse of Jan’s truck through the window. He had pulled into the lot and was loading my gear into his truck bed.

  I poked my head out the door. The buzzing of tools and the chatter of men working came from the alley between the YellowRock and the building next door. Boards dropping, hammers hitting, an occasional laugh or command. Marko Martijn and his crew were finishing the foundation work. I had agreed to pay him half of the remaining balance if he’d get back to work, then the rest upon completion.

  I yelled to Jan, “I’ll get the cooler and be right out.”

  “I already have plenty of beer on the boat.”

  “Ha! No such thing as ‘plenty of beer.’ I’ll be right back.”

  I took my banjo upstairs and grabbed the cooler, already loaded with beer and ice. Heading downstairs, I anticipated an afternoon of sun-filled sea fishing and an evening of island nightlife, all of which I’d regret tomorrow morning.

  I set the cooler outside the door for Jan to load.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Just about.” I turned to Erika. “I’m leaving.”

  Before I got out the door, the landline phone rang. Erika looked at the phone, then at me.

  Second ring.

  I looked at the phone, then at Erika.

  Third ring.

  “I’m going to lunch,” she said and squeezed past me.

  Fourth ring.

  Jan stood by his truck drinking a beer, fiddling with a fishing rod.

  The phone rang a fifth time as I closed and locked the door behind me.