Was it private property? What were the men doing? He didn’t want to get into trouble – he didn’t want to be seen on the island. Edward lept away from the door of the shack and scampered to the path, but then stopped. He turned around and ran back to the open door. He threw it closed and struggled to reset the latch. Laughter made its way through the mangrove wall. Except for a small opening where muddy ground sank into water, he could see nothing behind the mangroves. When the latch was in place, he turned and ran, making his way through the jungle, to the beach and around the island.
Edward jumped into the water, planting himself in up to his waist before beginning his swim back.
~~~
It was strange that the man ignored him, but stranger that the man was there at all, lying on a beach recliner in front of the master house. Edward, still dripping wet from his swim, walked straight toward him, expecting the man to turn his head. The man didn’t move. Sunning his face, he stared up into the sky as if napping. The stranger wore nothing but a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses. He was well tanned, had a thick mane of black hair, and looked to be a healthy fifty years old with the muscular tone of someone who often played sports or swam.
“Hello,” Edward called out when he reached the pier. “Hey, guy, sorry, but this is private property.”
The poor schmuck walked to the wrong beach, Edward thought. He must have walked all this way from the village.
“Hey, guy, you gotta go back.” Edward spoke with the confidence of someone who, the day before, had just had the police inspector of Tortola buy him a hamburger and fries. “This is a private—”
Was that one of the recliners from the main house?
When Edward was standing over him the man turned his head without lifting it, the black sunglasses facing him. The only movement he made was to scratch at the tuft of gray covering his chest and then wipe down the beads of sweat glistening around his stomach.
“It is, isn’t it,” the man said without any hint of disagreement.
Edward didn’t expect that. His confidence dropped like a door off its hinges. He opened his mouth, but quickly closed it while the black glasses watched. He thought about the business card Inspector Woodes had given him. Should he show it to the man? Would that do anything?
“I thought the beaches were public?” A smirk emerged across the stranger’s face.
“Uh, sorry. The beach where the water reaches is public. Above the berm it’s private property. The water’s public. It’s hard to put a stake in the water.”
“Really? Is that how that works?”
“Sorry, man. You got to…” Edward looked up and bit his lip.
The stranger must have seen his confidence bleeding away. The smirk stretched into a smile.
“Hey, I’m just joking with you. John Murrell.” He held out the hand that had been scratching his chest. “You must be the new caretaker.”
“Oh… ohhh. You own this place. I am sorry. Really, I didn’t know—”
John nodded as they gripped hands.
“Nooo.” John smiled. “I should have said something. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sorry. Edward Tache. I’m really—”
“Forget it.”
“They never showed me a picture of you and yesterday was, uh, beyond strange, so I’m a little wound up.” Edward nodded manically. “You wouldn’t believe what happened.”
“Really? Try me.” John gave him a comforting smile.
“Well, a man’s body washed up on the beach. Not fifty feet from where you’re sitting. I spent half the day with the police. They think the guy was murdered. Probably drug runners. The inspector told me this is a major corridor, and I’ve seen a series on Discovery about how they transport drugs. Start out in Columbia and island hop all the way up to Florida.”
“You’re kidding.” He bent his head down and looked at Edward over his black sunglasses. His eyes were dark blue, his bushy eyebrows like caterpillars.
“No, they just busted a guy with 10 kilograms of cocaine. On the news. The inspector said that’s, like, a million dollars on the street. They’re always looking for boats. That poor guy probably had a boat they wanted and, well, you know.”
John whistled and shook his head.
“That is unbelievable. Hope they catch ‘em. Bet you thought this job would be quiet.”
“Sometimes it’s too quiet – I mean most of the time there isn’t a soul around – you know it’s not like New York, where you hear some guy’s yelling at his wife or cabbies riding their horn twenty-four seven.”
John laughed.
“Well, that’s why I come here. Get away from all that.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do?”
John raised one of his bushy eyebrows. He reset his glasses up his nose and rubbed his chin, apparently surprised that Edward didn’t know.
“Metals.”
“Metals? Like making them or selling them?”
“We say mining, but yes, I do both. I spend most of my time running the company, so I hardly ever see the product. I’m supposed to be directing things, but sometimes it seems like all I do is spend my day haggling over commodity prices and labor contracts.”
Edward nodded. “Sounds pretty stressful.”
“It’s a battle. Every single day. Blood, sweat, tears. Every single day.” John bent his arms back and rested his head on his hands, exposing underarms that were pale and thick with black hairs.
“How long you been in business?”
John cracked a smile.
“Oh, about twenty five years, if you can believe it.”
“Huh. You must like it a little, right? Or else you would have retired.”
“You would think that, Edward. After a time, when you run a company, it grows into you, becomes an extension of you no different than an arm or leg. Sometimes I think I don’t make decisions, just give orders. I speak for the company. Five years back, when demand for copper spiked, we built a brand new smelting plant in Georgia. Last year there was a drop in demand for rebar and structurals, so I sold off one of our mills. Did I make the decision or did circumstances? The organization’s like an amoeba, responding to the environment around it. When a piece of food drops in front of it, it grabs it. That’s what business is all about. Adjusting to conditions, acting on opportunities.”
“Well, you don’t seem to be doing too bad.” Edward looked up at the two beach houses.
One of John’s eyebrows twitched down. It might have been a wink or it might have been an itch, Edward couldn’t tell.
“Edward, all this talk about the work has got me thirsty. Think I need a beer,” John said without moving.
Edward took the hint.
“Yeah, let me get that. Corona alright?” Edward asked.
“Sounds great, thank you.” John Murrell turned and looked off at the bay.
Edward walked to the main house and the refrigerator, feeling important and privileged talking to the CEO, owner or whatever of a company, a man who must be worth millions, speaking to him like a new friend. He knew if he weren’t working as a caretaker, he never would have had this chance to speak to some rich company president. People like John Murrell had ways of avoiding the commoners. Chauffeured cars, private jets, high-class restaurants with doormen keeping out the lowlifes. Edward was sure John Murrell never stepped into a subway.
Edward grabbed two Coronas from the bottom of the fridge, popped the caps off and hurried back outside, giddy at continuing their chat. Edward walked up to him, looking down at the expressionless glasses. When he was over John, John’s thick eyebrows slid up and out from under the sunglasses.
“Woah. I don’t think I can drink two,” John Murrell said. “Just one will do for now.”
Edward looked down at the two glasses, forcing himself to smile and not look like an idiot. He nodded, put one glass down in the sand next to the recliner, and turned to return to the house. Just one will do. Just like just one chair will do because I don’t want you sitting next to me. Edward had planned to get another chair, sit down beside John and talk about island life. But he couldn’t. According to the duties book, he was not to intrude on the owner’s privacy. He couldn’t even call him John. It was Mr. Murrell.