TWENTY-THREE

Jack delivered his package to an office near the airport for express delivery somewhere the next morning. He and Abby flew from Atlanta to Miami and spent the night in a hotel near the airport. The next morning they caught the flight for Puerto Rico.

The 737 coasted in over azure seas, bleached white beaches, and acres of ramshackle tin-roofed huts. In the distance, Abby could see verdant forests and mountains sheathed in tropical jungle. The plane dropped its wheels and two minutes later the tires smoked the runway at Puerto Rico’s International Airport.

It was Abby’s first time in the Caribbean, and as the door to the plane was opened the humid smells of the tropics ignited her senses.

“We’ll get the luggage and go to the hotel,” said Jack. “You may want to freshen up before we look up Enrique.”

Enrique was a friend of Jack’s. He was supposed to help them find a place for Abby to set up, a quiet writer’s retreat somewhere further to the south in the islands so that she could work undisturbed on the sequel. According to Jack, Enrique knew the territory.

“Your friend, does he live here in Puerto Rico?”

“You could say that. His family’s been here a while.”

“How long?”

“About three hundred years,” said Jack. He left her standing there looking at him for a moment as he moved on along the concourse.

The terminal reminded Abby of a movie set from the ‘40s. Casablanca in disguise. She expected to see Bogart in his trench coat and Bergman in her hat around the next corner. While dated and in need of some remodeling, the place dripped of nostalgia and perspiration, not necessarily in that order. The lobby was air-conditioned, but the areas off of it were not.

By the time they hit the sidewalk out front, Abby was bathed in her own sweat. People jostled in the hot humid air, heading for cars or taxis. Several schoolgirls in parochial uniforms clustered like flies near one of the windows, waiting for friends or relatives to emerge. Security was tight. Except for those with tickets, the public was excluded from the main building by police.

Businessmen in suits with briefcases mingled with tourists trying to read signs and directions, all of which were in Spanish. If life was slower in the tropics, the message hadn’t reached this place.

They found a line of taxis, and Abby slid into the backseat of one of them while Jack and the driver loaded the luggage.

“Condado Plaza,” said Jack.

A few seconds later Abby felt the comforting breeze on her face as the taxi sped out along the highway, its windows down to compensate for the lack of air-conditioning in the old Chevy. They rode in silence, Abby taking in the sights as the road wound its way through densely populated San Juan. Abby noted that the most prominent feature on some of the buildings were the security bars over the windows. There were low-slung complexes of apartment buildings, brightly painted in myriad colors behind high Cyclone fences; projects, Caribbean-style.

“Some of the best beaches are over there.” Jack pointed beyond the tenements that flanked the highway. “Condado has some walled villas on the water that are very nice.”

“Is that where we’re going?”

“We’ll stay at the Condado Plaza. I think you’ll like it.”

The snarl of traffic grew thick as they approached the center of the city. The smells of hot food from roadside restaurants invaded the car. They passed over the Puente Esteves and the Puente Dos Hermanos, concrete bridges with sculpted balustrades over the Condado Lagoon. On the left was a strip of sandy white beach. Abby could see brown-skinned girls in thong bikinis lying next to bronze lovers, sunning themselves on towels. A half mile out the open Atlantic crashed on reefs just offshore.

The taxi stopped, made a left turn across traffic, and pulled under the covered entrance of an immense high-rise hotel. Behind walls of glass Abby could see the sprawl of the lobby and beyond that to the other side of the building and the cresting rollers of the Atlantic.

A young man in white livery replete with a spotless pith helmet opened the taxi door.

“Welcome to the Condado Plaza.” He was tall, young, and dark, with a flashing smile to slay any teenage girl. “Do you have luggage, sir?” His words emitted a thick Castilian trill. He snapped his fingers and a bellman wheeled up with a cart to the trunk of the taxi, and without a word unloaded the bags.

“Will you be staying long?”

“Two nights,” said Jack. He gave the kid a five-dollar bill and it disappeared like a flame under water.

“Fernando will take your bags.” The doorman led them to the main entrance and opened the door wide. “Thank you for staying at the Condado Plaza.”

Inside Abby was beginning to wonder if she had packed the right clothes, or for that matter whether she owned them. Most of the women were dressed elegantly, basic black with tasteful jewels, pearls and diamond necklaces. A young Latin woman, tall and stately, wearing an evening gown that clung to her curvaceous contours, stood with a small group of men, each elegantly attired in thousand-dollar suits. The woman was on the arm of an older gentleman six inches shorter than she. He had hair like spun silver. As Abby passed she could hear them speaking in Spanish.

Jack caught her gawking. “They come up from Rio, and Argentina,” he told her. “Bring their oil and cattle bucks, sometimes narco dollars. They do a little business. Bring their mistresses along and drop a bundle in the casinos. Then they go home to their wives and ten children. You know,” said Jack. “Traditional old-world values.”

It was Abby’s first look at the upper crust of the Southern Hemisphere, and she was feeling like the ugly American.

“Jesus, you’re a cynic,” she told him. “How do you know it’s not his daughter?”

“Because she’s too young.”

“Maybe it’s his granddaughter,” said Abby.

“Well, there you have me.”

“Maybe you’d like to ask them?” said Abby.

“I’m not the one getting whiplash,” he told her. “Besides, I don’t judge them. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with a good mistress. It’s why Catholics have fewer divorces. It also makes abstinence easier.”

Abby started to laugh, shook her head, and gave up.

The few U.S. tourists in the lobby stood out like vagabonds, a couple of the men in baseball caps and tourist-trap T-shirts. The women did no better, some in jeans with fanny packs.

Abby nervously rubbed the wrinkles from her own slacks, and adjusted the collar on her blouse, which was soiled and wet with sweat.

“I’m going to need some clothes,” she whispered to Jack as they approached the registration desk.

“Go ahead. Take your time. The shops are down there.” He pointed toward an arcade of boutiques, richly dressed mannequins behind glass and windows of glittering jewelry.

She hesitated while Jack dealt with the woman at the counter. He passed her his credit card.

“Ah yes, Mr. Jermaine, we have your reservation. We also have a message for you.” The clerk handed Jack a small envelope.

He opened it and read. “Henry’s found us.”

“Henry?”

“Enrique.”

“Did you tell him we were staying here?”

“No.”

“How did he find us?”

“There is very little that happens on this island that Henry doesn’t know about Seems his limo missed us at the airport. He’s sending it by in a few hours to pick us up.”

“Limo,” said Abby. “Pretty generous of him to rent a limo.”

“Oh, he didn’t rent it,” said Jack.

The clerk took an impression from Jack’s credit card and a moment later handed him two electronic card keys and hit the bell for their luggage to be rolled upstairs.

“We’re on the ninth floor, adjoining rooms.” Jack handed Abby one of the keys in a little envelope with a room number written on the outside. “Go ahead. Go shopping. I’ll take care of the bags and meet you upstairs. Oh, and we’ll need to dress for dinner.” He turned and started to leave, but Abby just stood there.

“I . . . ah . . .”

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“I don’t have a credit card,” said Abby. Six hundred thousand dollars in the bank and no way to spend it.

“They’ll cash a check at the desk,” said Jack.

“I can’t do that, either.” Abby remembered the warning from Morgan not to tap her account while the police were trying to find her.

Jack leaned over the counter and whispered something to the clerk on the other side. The woman nodded and pointed to the shops down the way.

“Not a problem,” said Jack. “You can use that.” He pointed to the key in her hand. “Charge it to the room.”

“I can do that?”

“It’s probably how she got the dress she’s wearing.” Jack nodded toward the young Latin woman on the older man’s arm. “Mistressing has its benefits,” said Jack.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He smiled and moved quickly toward the elevator before she could grab him.

“It’s on your credit card,” she hollered after Jack.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll pay you back,” she said.

“We’ll figure something out,” said Jack.

“Wait a second.”

Before she could catch him, Jack and his infectious grin disappeared into the elevator and the door closed behind them.

Abby stood alone in the lobby looking at the young woman in the shimmering black evening dress, then down at her own wrinkled slacks. She closed her hand around the card key. It seemed no matter how much money she made, she could never come out on top.

“Thrift” was a word the shopkeepers at the Condado had never heard. Abby hoped Jack had a high limit on his credit card. She bought only two outfits: a casual change of clothes, slacks with a blouse and a light sweater, and a pair of matching navy loafers and handbag. She also found an evening dress. The dress set her back half a month at her former salary. Still it looked better on her than anything she could remember wearing in years. It was a kind of flowing feminine tuxedo. Simple, but with the appearance that it could magically complicate the intrigue of an evening. She purchased a pair of three-inch heels to go with it. It was the most expensive shopping spree she had ever taken. Abby was used to waiting for season-end sales and buying from some of the cut-rate catalogs. People who thought all lawyers were rich were nuts. She would tell Spencer to wire the money immediately, the next time she talked to him. She didn’t like the idea of owing Jack money.

Two and a half hours after leaving him in the lobby, the phone in her room rang. The limo was waiting for them downstairs.

Jack was waiting by the elevator when Abby stepped out of her room, dressed in her new evening clothes. He gave a low whistle of appreciation. “You look great.”

Abby flushed. “So do you.”

With a genuinely pleased look he took her hand. “Come on. Let’s go see how the other half lives.”

They emerged from the elevator and were greeted by a tall man in a chauffeur’s uniform. He was not Hispanic but Anglo.

“Mr. Jermaine, good to see you again.” He spoke with a clipped British accent.

“How are you, Zeke? It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” said the driver.

“Zeke, I’d like you to meet Abby. Abby, Zeke.”

The chauffeur tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

Abby smiled at him. He led them to the car parked at the hotel entrance. It was not the usual stretch limo, but a sleek black Rolls-Royce.

“I see you’re still driving the Phantom,” said Jack.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” said the driver. “They can keep the stretch Lincolns and Caddys. They just don’t have the ride.”

“You ought to talk Henry into buying you the Silver Ghost.”

“He’s talked to them about it,” said the driver. “Rolls won’t let it go.”

The driver held the door while Abby and Jack got into the backseat. The driver went around to the other side.

“What’s the Silver Ghost?” said Abby.

“The first car Rolls-Royce ever made. Nineteen-oh-eight. They say it’s worth forty-four million.”

“Must have been quite a year,” said Abby.

“But as you heard, Rolls won’t sell it.”

“And that’s the only thing stopping your friend from buying it?”

Jack looked at her and smiled.

“Right.” Abby gave him a skeptical look.

The engine purred softly as the Rolls pulled into traffic.

“I’ve kept the receipts for the clothes,” she told him. “I’ll pay you in a few days. Just as soon as some financial affairs are straightened out.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jack.

“But I do worry about it.” Abby didn’t like wearing clothes bought for her by a man with whom she had nothing but a business relationship.

“These financial affairs, are they being handled by your friend Spencer?”

Abby looked at him but didn’t respond.

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“I can trust him.”

“As I remember, there were a lot of zeros on that check I endorsed over to you,” said Jack. “There’s an old saying. When you have that much money you should put it all in one basket, and watch that basket very carefully.”

“I’ll watch it,” said Abby. “And I’ll pay you as soon as the money is available.”

“No hurry.”

The car breezed along narrow streets, some of the worst slums Abby had seen. These slowly changed to small houses. Another mile and the houses grew walls around them. As they moved on, the buildings inside of the walls got progressively larger, until some of them rivaled the size and stature of art museums, what Jack called Mediterranean villas. The Rolls took a turn toward the coast. Now the traffic was much thinner.

“Where are we headed?”

“Out along the ocean,” said Jack.

“Your friend lives on the beach?”

“Sometimes. He has a couple of different places on the island. Sorta splits his time between them.”

They drove along a rocky shore interspersed with beaches until all of the houses seemed to disappear behind them. A few miles out, the car turned out onto a point of land and a quarter-of-a-mile down the road slowed just a little. An armed guard in uniform stepped out of a stone kiosk, recognized the Rolls, and waved them through a large iron gate that opened and then just as quickly closed behind the car.

They drove further. It seemed like forever to Abby until finally out of the canopy of trees a large house could be seen in the distance across a rolling, verdant lawn. Below it swept a broad beach and the azure-blue sea. It was evening and the sun was etching the underside of a cloud at the horizon like mother of pearl.

The house itself was unique, unlike anything Abby had ever seen. It was made up of a number of circular pavilions, each with a massive thatched roof. The front door was carved mahogany, and the small-paned windows were framed in teak.

“Henry saw something like it in a village in Bali a few years ago,” said Jack. “He liked it.”

“I can tell.” Abby stepped out of the Rolls as Zeke held the door open.

“Of course the one in Bali wasn’t this big. Still, he had his architect fly over there and take a look. This is the result.”

“I’d hate to have him take a fancy to the Taj Mahal,” said Abby.

“Yeah. It’s amazing what a little creativity and five million dollars will do,” said Jack.

Abby was wondering what anyone with that much money would be doing living here, and more to the point, where he got his money. The thought crossed her mind: drugs.

They walked to the front door and Jack pulled a woven silk cord that rang a bell somewhere deep in the interior of the house. A moment later a houseman in a white linen coat opened the door.

He smiled broadly. “Ah, Mr. Jermaine. We have been expecting you. Please come in.”

Abby walked into the entry, a lavishly appointed room with carved and painted native masks hanging from terracotta walls. The furnishings were all Polynesian, dark hardwoods, and heavily carved. It was cool, and Abby wondered how it was possible to air-condition a dwelling with a high-thatched ceiling.

“He is anxious to see you.” The houseman showed them the way. They passed through several large rooms until they came to what appeared to be a library with a heart-stopping view of the ocean. A ship with lighted portholes stood just offshore, a cruise liner that appeared to be anchored in the lee of the bay.

A man was seated at a large carved desk. He looked up as they entered the room.

“Jack, you scoundrel.” He laid his pen down and was immediately out of his chair. “You did not tell me where you were staying. It was the devil trying to find you.” He was a big man, tall and rangy, with dark hair and eyes and an infectious smile, the kind that deceives you. Abby sensed that it could turn cold in an instant if he were displeased. He crossed the room in five easy strides, and his arms embraced Jack in a bear hug.

Jack was clearly uneasy with this display of affection. He patted Henry on the back with one hand while the other hung limp at his side.

“Henry,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

Abby watched, laughing at Jack and his embarrassment.

“Goddamn, it has been a long time,” said Henry. “I keep telling you, you must come down and visit more often. What has it been?”

“I’ve lost track,” said Jack.

“Precisely. It is how you lose track of friends. You know,” he said, “I would have sent the Gulfstream to pick you up in Atlanta or Savannah. All you had to do was pick up the phone.”

Then Henry realized there was a stranger in the room. “Where are your manners?” he told Jack.

“Excuse me. Henry, I’d like you to meet Abby Chandlis.”

The man named Henry backed away from Jack and for a moment took in Abby with deep-set dark eyes. Then he extended a hand and a warm smile.

“Abby, meet Enrique Ricardi.”

“Henry’s fine,” said the man. “Everybody on the island calls me Henry, except my mother. She gives me no end of grief. She tells me I’m becoming Anglicized or Anglophiled or some damn thing.”

As he spoke, Abby’s jaw hung open. She knew the name. Anyone who had ever entered a bar knew the name. Lamely she took his hand and shook it. The name Ricardi was synonymous with rum, the largest distiller in the world, with plants in the United States and Europe. There were signs with the name on half the roads in America and all over the island. It was no wonder, as Jack said in the hotel lobby, that nothing happened here without Henry knowing about it. For all intents, Enrique Ricardi owned the island. He was one of its wealthiest men, well up on the food chain on the Fortune 500.

“Are you feeling alright?” asked Henry.

“Ah . . . oh, yes,” said Abby. She caught herself staring and averted her eyes.

“Did you catch the look on her face?” said Jack. “I’ve been telling her about my friend Henry for two days, and now you could knock her over with a feather.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me,” said Abby.

“Excuse my ill-mannered friend,” said Ricardi. “May I call you Abby?”

“Sure.” Abby was trying to appear casual in such lofty company.

“Please, have a seat.” Henry called the houseman and ordered drinks, piña colada for Jack, rum punch in honor of her host for Abby.

“You are probably wondering how someone like myself, cultured and refined, could have ever had the poor judgment to have become involved with someone like this?” He pointed to Jack and shook his head. “A mean lowlife.”

“Just a minute,” said Jack.

“Now that you mention it,” said Abby.

“Oh, here we go,” said Jack.

“Well, I had the misfortune, the incalculable poor judgment, to admit him to my fraternity at Stanford.”

“Your fraternity?” said Jack. “I seem to remember that I was on the membership committee the year you rushed.”

“Goes to show you how clouded your memory becomes with age,” said Henry. “Ah.”

Before Jack could counter, the houseman came back into the room with a tray of drinks.

“Time for my medicine,” said Jack.

“Yes. To improve your memory,” said Henry.

They laughed and each took a glass as the houseman passed among them. Abby’s was tall and frosted, with a small parasol poking from the top, and a slice of pineapple over the edge. Suddenly it started to make sense: Stanford and a degree in Latin American Studies. Where else would you meet the commercial royalty of the Caribbean?

“You know, you really should be scolded,” said Ricardi. He was talking to Jack. “You come to my island and reject my hospitality. Of course you will stay here tonight.”

“We have rooms back at the Condado Plaza,” said Jack.

“You had rooms at the Condado Plaza,” said Ricardi. “It seems they have suddenly become overbooked.” A wry smile spread across his face as Henry settled into the couch across from them. “Zeke has already gone to retrieve your luggage. I have spoken with the hotel manager. There is no charge.”

“What about the charges I put on the room?” Abby said this in a low tone to Jack. She was wearing part of them. Henry picked up on the comment.

“As I said, there was no charge,” said Henry. “We supply a major staple to the hotel, and their guests imbibe rather generously.”

“What Henry is saying is that he owns a chunk of the Condado,” said Jack. “Along with every other major hotel on the island.”

“A small family franchise.” Henry grinned, something insidious. She could imagine him owning slaves and giving them away with similar equanimity in another age. It invaded her sense of Yankee independence, which seemed to be eroding like a landslide the further down the road she went with Jack.

“Now we will put you up in rooms in the guest wing,” said Ricardi. “I understand you are a writer?”

Abby shot Jack a look. She wondered how much he had told Ricardi about their arrangement.

Jack shrugged. Whipped dog. He knew he was going to get a tongue lashing later.

“Yes. Well, Jack has those ambitions,” said Henry. “I have told him to give it up. To be realistic. That all of that is in the past. But alas, Jack and reality, they are strangers.”

“Really?” said Abby.

“Oh yes. He chases the dream ever since . . .”

“That’s enough,” said Jack.

“No, I want to hear more,” said Abby.

“Who am I to interfere with dreams?” said Ricardi. He let it drop. “I have even offered him a job here, but he will not take it.”

“Nepotism,” said Jack.

“No, nepotism is when you hire your family. God knows I have done enough of that. I think they call it cronyism when it is a friend. Just think, we could travel the world, chase women, and drink.”

“You can do that down the road in your refinery,” said Jack.

“Distillery. Please,” said Henry. “Anyway. Back to matters at hand. I have a wonderful place selected for you down in St. Croix,” he told Abby. “I think you will like it. Very quiet. Very private. The Kennedy family, Ted, rents the house down the road for Christmas sometimes. But the house I have selected for you is less conspicuous.”

Abby was wondering how much it would cost.

“Now, how long are you going to be on the island?”

“Two days,” said Jack. “We have a flight out day after tomorrow in the afternoon.”

“Nonsense,” said Henry. “Certainly you can stay longer than that.”

“I wish we could, but there is a deadline,” said Abby. “We have to start work immediately.”

“Work,” said Ricardi. “The nemesis of us all. I myself am off to Europe in the morning. But surely you could stay here. Have the run of the place.”

“Gotta be moving on,” said Jack.

Ricardi understood. “But you will not fly down to St. Croix on that little twin prop job. It is so uncomfortable,” said Ricardi. “I would give you the Gulfstream, but I need it to fly to London.”

“Not a problem,” said Jack.

“Of course it is not. You will take the Isabella.” He pointed to the cruise ship moored in the bay beyond the study window. “I have already given instructions. Alerted the crew and the captain. And while you are on the island, you will use Zeke and the car.” Henry was the kind who didn’t take no for an answer.

Jack made a face, like what could he say.

“I have some last-minute matters to clear away and then we can have dinner. Ah, before I forget,” he said, “I have the key to the house, and something that arrived for you earlier today,” he told Jack. He reached into a drawer in his desk and removed a small box, an express package that looked remarkably like the box that Jack had dropped off at the office near the airport the day before.