Greater Trouble in the Lesser Antilles by Charles Locks

Author:Charles Locks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scarletta Press
Published: 2010-11-16T00:00:00+00:00

13

WHEN MY DINGHY CLEARED THE HARBOR’S MOORED BOATS, I spotted Billie standing alone at the end of the dock, barefoot and holding a flip-flop in each hand. She wore a dress. I’d never seen her in a dress before. I agreed to have dinner with her, but this was looking like a date. I’d cleaned up for the occasion—laundered T-shirt and shorts. I would’ve returned to my boat to upgrade my attire, if I wasn’t already wearing my most presentable clothes. I goosed my outboard’s throttle a bit, perhaps fearing she’d be gone when I tied up.

Fashion doesn’t exist as a priority for most Continentals in Flamingo Bay, including the women. Clothes cost nearly as much to launder as they do to buy—water’s scarce and electricity erratic. And if your clothes aren’t especially attractive, what’s the point of cosmetics? Members of both sexes powder their noses, but there’s no Mary Kay here. There is an Avon lady, but her success is closely tied to Skin-So-Soft’s reputed protective barrier against no-see-ums.

I figured clothes may make the man, but it’s lack of clothes that make the woman—the more severe the deficit, the better. I didn’t recall ever making that observation to Billie, but if she’d asked me to dress her, I’d have come up with the same outfit she wore, a simple cotton sundress in pale green that ended a mile short of her knees. Still, it surprised me to see her for the first time in a dress and without her usual accessories: baseball cap and backpack.

I nosed my dinghy to the dock, tied it off, and greeted her. “Who are you waiting for?”

“You.”

“Then do you mind just standing on the end of the dock all evening, maybe turning slowly every hour or so?” I asked. “I’ll just sit here and watch.”

“Maybe if I weren’t so hungry.”

I climbed onto the dock and gave her one of those intense cocked-head stares she always gave me. “Ready to run off down island with me?”

“Oh-my-god! You’re serious.”

“I haven’t much money, but I think I could afford to keep you in underwear.”

We walked together in the direction of Billie’s jeep.

“It’s that noticeable, huh?”

“It’ll be dark in five minutes.”

Billie informed me earlier in the day that dinner—not a meal at Easys or the Congo Club—would be the proper gesture to cement our agreement to work together to find Leif’s killer. It seemed a reasonable request, and I had a credit card on which I’d be able to squeeze dinner. I hadn’t a clue what I’d do if more meals were required.

Billie’s twenty-three-year-old jeep—a true island vehicle—was born the same year she was. It had no top, no windshield, and its frame—bent and twisted from a long-ago collision—caused the vehicle to lead with its left front wheel. It sported plywood quarter panels, and a wood bench replaced the original front seats. Enough blue smoke poured from the tailpipe to considerably reduce the chances of contracting dengue fever, as long as the engine was running. It started right up, and we headed across the island toward Sugar Harbor.

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