There were about a dozen fat gulls atop Mama Lizbeth’s grocery store’s dried wood awning, and they all seemed to give Gannon the stink eye as he jogged in off the beach the next morning at a little after 8:00 a.m.
As he caught his breath, he spotted an old red Toyota sedan with missing hubcaps and tinted windows at the other end of its sandy asphalt lot.
Gannon smiled as the island beater gave off a brief honk.
As he stepped over, its driver’s door swung wide. A thin, smiling, mischievous-looking young black man with long dreads stepped out and gave him a funny little bow. His white wifebeater and khaki shorts were immaculate, pristine.
“Oh, so you really are still alive,” Gannon said as he came over and gave his on-again, off-again first mate, Little Jorge, a hand slap and hearty man hug.
Little Jorge laughed.
“Alive and kicking, Captain Mike, always,” he said in his musical island drawl.
Gannon shook his head at him.
When he first came down to the islands, Gannon took an instant liking to the cute, funny, hustling kid who hung around the docks with his older brothers. He’d actually been pretty good buds with Little Jorge’s whole large family ever since he had taught the motley lot of them how to dive free of charge in an effort to keep them out of trouble.
The sun caught the glint of gold in Little Jorge’s pirate’s smile.
Gannon definitely had his work cut out for him there.
Little Jorge wasn’t exactly what one would call a reliable employee, but when the wiry twenty-two-year-old showed up for work, he was actually top-notch. He knew the waters around the Bahamas better than anyone and was one of the most skilled, natural fishermen Gannon had ever seen.
“How’d your, um, vacation go?” Gannon said.
“Just got back this very minute when I saw your text,” Little Jorge said.
“Three weeks this time?” Gannon said.
Little Jorge shrugged and laughed again.
His family was originally from San Andrés Island in Colombia, and sometimes, he and his brothers—like other reckless young island men—would try to make a quick and extremely dangerous buck by acting as pilots on the Picuda go-fast drug boats that played cat-and-mouse in the Caribbean with the coast guard from South America to Miami Beach.
Gannon had tried to talk to him about it, about what a .50-caliber bullet could do to a young man’s future, but every time he would explain how unwise it was, the amiable young man would just giggle until he stopped.
Little Jorge was giggling now.
“I was actually starting to get a little worried this time,” Gannon said.
“Worry? No, no, Captain Mike. About me? Never. Like the man says, ‘Don’t worry. Be happy.’”
Gannon rolled his eyes then laughed himself at the goofy, crazy kid as he shook his head.
“So tell me, did you replace Buster yet?” Little Jorge said.
“No,” Gannon said. “I keep forgetting.”
“I miss watching the lines with old Buster,” Little Jorge said. “So what is it, Captain Mike? Where are we heading out this morning? The resorts? Is it diving or fishing or both?”
“No, I’m heading to the States for a bit, but I have some fishing appointments coming up, and I was hoping you could cover for me.”
“You mean you want me to go out on the Rambler on my own?” Little Jorge said, blinking at him in shock.
Gannon blinked back. He was a little wary about it himself, but he wanted things to seem as normal as possible while he was gone.
And who knew? Maybe the responsibility would do him some good, Gannon thought.
“First time for everything, Little Jorge. I thought you could take Peter with you.”
“No, my brother Peter is away, but Andre is here.”
“Go with Andre, then,” Gannon said. “The boat’s at Davis Head. We need everything. Water and gas and bait. Oh, and a new radio antenna. I left some money under the seat with the schedule.”
A touched expression crossed the young man’s face when Gannon handed him the boat keys.
“I’ll take good, good care of her, Captain Mike,” Little Jorge said, looking down at his hand.
“You damn well better,” Gannon said, giving the kid another clap on his back before he went up the steps for the store.