Chapter 15

ONE-WAY TICKET

I sat by the window at the Nineteenth Hole, absent-mindedly watching as several foursomes putted the eighteenth hole, shook hands, and walked in, grumbling about bunker shots and sand traps. Corporate execs taking liberal advantage of their expense accounts, by the looks. Some forty-five minutes and two glasses of iced tea and a BLT later, Haggerty and Armstrong showed up on eighteen in their pastel Arnold Palmer golf shirts and crisp chinos. A young guy, dressed incongruously in cut-offs and a Nike T-shirt, was tagging along. The young guy sank his putt first, followed by the other two. Then the three paraded in, slapping each other on the back and making excuses for missed shots.

The threesome sat a couple of tables over from me, close enough for me to get a shot of them with my camera. I kept my eyes on a few duffers on eighteen, but when I heard them deep in conversation, I pulled out my Minox. Haggerty’s back was to me, but it would still be easy to identify him now that he’d removed his golf hat and looked out the window. I snapped a pic, as though I was aiming at the putter on 18, but I had the threesome in my sight.

I saw Armstrong hand the young guy an envelope. A payoff for services rendered? I snapped a shot of that exchange. Must be Matherne, I thought. He raised his voice in anger, but I couldn’t make out what he said.

“Calm down, Dallas,” Haggerty said. “Keep your nose clean and you’ll see your wife soon enough.” At that, Matherne rose and stomped out of the club in a snit.

A few minutes later, when I passed their table on the way to the front, I heard Armstrong tell Haggerty, “Yeah, Deslatte vouched for him. He was friends with his daddy.”

I hopped in a cab out front and said, “Take me to the Sheraton.”

“Yes, sir.” We bounced along in the vintage Bel Air, past resort hotels, souvenir shops, and plenty of honeymooners connected at the hip as they crept from shop to shop. I wondered cynically how many of those young cloud-walkers would still be clinging so fondly to one another a year from now.

I dialed Aunt Ethel’s number from the hotel lobby pay phone and plunked in a few dollars in change. Placide picked up on the third ring.

“Any sign of our predators?” I asked.

“No, Sir, H. I guess they think you’re layin’ low like you promised since they haven’t seen you or me around.”

“How’s Aunt Ethel doing?”

“Oh, she’s holding her own. She’s pretty tough, considering all your daddy put her through with his scrapes.”

“You got that right! Maybe we’ll just stay out of sight, out of mind for a while. Let them think I’ve gone back to the base. OK, Placide, you have my itinerary, right?”

“I’ll be at the airport.”

“Good man. You hang in over there.”

I took the three flights of stairs to my room and changed into trunks and a pullover. It would be a long time before I made it back to the Bahamas, if ever, so I decided to soak up some more rays while I had the opportunity. I grabbed a hotel towel, suntan lotion, my camera, and my Day-Timer, threw on some shades and a ball cap, then scuffed down the hall in my flip-flops.

The young shell divers were still hustling honeymooners when I rented my chaise for the day, so I walked over to say hello. The older boy looked up, didn’t recognize me or else thought I’d be good for a double-dip, and asked, “Conch shell, Mister? Five dollars.”

“No, kids. One’s enough,” I laughed. “Just came by to say hello. How’s business?” They both beamed, nodding in unison like two bobble-head dolls.

I high-fived them. “Keep up the good work,” I said. After all, they were budding capitalists, making a living off the tourist dollar.

I settled back in the chaise and opened the Day-Timer. ‘Dallas Matherne, driller, mole,’ I wrote. Having been a former Ideal Tractor employee, had he ‘advanced’ to being Sapphire’s mole in Doucet Drilling? Or was he Calco Oil’s mole? Or Haggerty’s? They were all conspiring. But why? What purpose could Matherne have served? And why did he miss work that critical day? Was the inundation planned for that particular day? If so, he had to figure he’d be investigated after calling in sick. That royal fuck up would focus the bright light of suspicion on him immediately. On the other hand, that white-collar gang had enough money to make him disappear, one way or the other, and a plane ticket clearly beat “the other.”

The perfect crime, or so they must have thought. My brain was scrambled from trying to piece it all together. In frustration, I finally just stuck the Day-Timer behind the small of my back and closed my eyes, letting the balmy sun and breeze have their way with me until I drifted into another nap on the beach.

What seemed like just moments later, I was jerked awake, steel drums ringing out their island calypso beat from the beachside bar nearby. Dusk was already settling in, and the beach was nearly vacant. It took a moment to shake out the cobwebs and realize that Dallas Matherne standing over my chaise lounge with a gun, saying, “OK, Doucet, now it’s your turn,” had all been a scattered dream. I gathered my thoughts and my things and headed upstairs to catch the news, maybe order room service.

Wide-eyed an hour before my wake-up call on Christmas morning, I went out for an early walk by the surf. The sun was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky, but the hour hadn’t deterred the two little conch shell salesmen. There they were on the pier with a large cardboard box full of shells. As the larger boy dove off the pier, the younger boy tossed the shells out to him, which he then planted randomly near the pier, in preparation for unsuspecting customers. What little con artists. I had to laugh, but I couldn’t help marveling at their ingenuity. They were collecting their shells every night, planting them early every morning before the rich Americans arrived on the beach. Tomorrow’s conspirators, I chuckled. At the same time, I couldn’t help recalling my own privileged Christmases spent around a gaudy ten-foot pine tree in Aunt Ethel’s parlor among brightly wrapped boxes of hastily purchased and overly extravagant toys, soon to be lost, broken, or neglected. The contrast unsettled me.

I wandered up the beach a little way, people-watching, as one does. The beach was nearly empty this early: the little con artists planting their shells for the benefit of gullible tourists; a couple of bronzed girls in bikinis finding early spots for a day of competitive tanning; a wizened old man with his metal detector occasionally picking up a dime or a quarter; the tiny plovers with their rapid sprints and stops finding breakfast along the shore. The hushed early morning hour that would soon be brought to an end by the throngs of sun worshippers with umbrellas, coolers, beach balls, volley balls in tow. Youngsters would soon be running and squealing in and out of waves, anxious mothers hollering not to go so deep. Honeymooners would curl up on beach blankets and grope each other, order piña coladas from the roving waiter.

When the sun sat like a sunny-side-up egg on the eastern horizon, I headed out front for a taxi. “Over here, Chief,” called the cabbie at the front of the queue. After bumping along Bay Street in a ‘57 Chevy, he dropped me off at the airport right at 0700 hours. I handed him a good bit extra, which he answered with bright eyes, a tip of his hat, and a wide grin. “Yes Sir, Chief! Thank you, Sir!”

I picked up a Miami Herald at the news stand and found a bench near departures to park myself on. Within thirty minutes, Dallas Matherne arrived, carrying two decent-sized bags up to the Bahamasair counter. I folded my paper and slipped into the queue a couple of places behind him, snapping a pic when he got to the counter.

“One way, San José, Costa Rica?” the preoccupied young lady behind the counter asked when it was Dallas’s turn to lift his bags to the scale.

“Correct.”

“I.D., sir?”

He pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket.

“Passport and Visa?”

He reached in his breast pocket and pulled out the documents rubber-banded to the envelope I had seen last night. I wondered how much the going rate was for complicity in a dozen deaths. It must have been a big chunk. Had to leave his life in the states, whatever that consisted of. I snapped another pic, then exited the line.

Disgusted by the cesspool of murderous thieves, I took a cab back to the hotel and retraced my steps to the Patio Bar and Grill for some grapefruit juice and a few handfuls of peanuts.

Since today, Christmas Day, was my last in this tourist mecca, a lonely place when you’re all alone, I picked up a historic walking tour map and strolled the city, stopping at some high points. I jogged up the Queen’s Staircase, dropped a couple dollars in the reggae guitar player’s cup. The sun and breeze were magnificent, the islanders were jolly and welcoming. A light lunch of conch fritters and a Kalik beer at an outdoor patio topped off the day nicely. The city was bustling because tomorrow was their main festival, Junkanoo, based on a century-old slave festival, to begin at 0100 hours the morning after Christmas!

The Junkanoo street parade woke me the next morning, the islanders dancing in bright masks and elaborate costumes, accompanied by the rhythm of drums, whistles, and cowbells. After a cup of joe, I made my way down to the street, where I saw my favorite little conch shell divers enjoying the parade, decked out in their own homemade crepe paper costumes. “Happy Christmas, boys,” I said, handing each a five-dollar bill. They responded with wide grins and their own little junkanoo dance. Now my trip was complete. Time to pack my gear and head to the airport.