"Perfect, only perfect."
It fitted my slender finger like a glove and caught the rays of the intensifying sun like a precious gem.
"I'll take it!"
The Black Widow tut-tutted as I handed over a handful of coins and sashayed gracefully out to the street. Tilting my wide-brimmed hat to an elegant angle, I refreshed my lipstick and caught sight of myself in the mirrored frontage of a more plutocratic store. I felt like Audrey Hepburn and blew myself a kiss. Poor old Harry. He'd get the fright of his life when he spotted my rock. It was rather naughty but I do enjoy a practical joke…
CHAPTER SEVEN: A CULTURAL INTERLUDE
The Watering Hole was at the end of town tourists seldom frequented. Here were the docks and dockland, small ships, coasters, and the lighters that brought cargo in from the larger ships moored in the roads. A US Coast Guard cutter was tied up at the central dock, its diagonal orange stripe vivid against the grey hull. There was a popgun on the foredeck, decently covered in a tarpaulin, and various other armaments no doubt in the armory below. The men (and nowadays a few women) to wield them against the forces of evil (equals drug runners) would be out investigating the tropical delights of the island, except for the glum looking guard sipping coffee at the top of the gangplank. I gave him a cheery, "What ho, Captain Bligh!" and headed for sustenance.
I had already had my snapper at an excellent little joint from the balcony of which one could mock fat tourists in horrible shirts. It was time for some entertainment. I had an hour to spare before my expected arrival at the Lobster Pot.
I turned into the door of the Watering Hole and paused a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Another pair of eyes already inside needed no such adjustment.
"Harr' Neptoon, yo' bastar'! Yo' owe me money!"
A mulatto the size of a cruise ship vaulted surprisingly nimbly over the bar. He leaned back to a barman's recess and extracted a cutlass. 'Cutlass' is the West Indian name for a machete, but believe me in this man's hand it was a cutlass from the old days. He advanced on me, kicking chairs and customers out of his way.
"Bastar'! Twen'y t'ree dollar! Yo' no pay for yo' roun' las' time! Yo' bastar'! I chop you!"
He flung two longshoremen aside and towered over me, the cutlass raised high while one hand gripped my shirtfront. Spittle dribbled down his chin. The whites of his wide eyes matched the white of his bared teeth. I felt my feet leave the ground.
"Toss you for it. Double or nothing."
There was silence for a long, long moment. I felt a shirt button give up the struggle.
"All righ'. Me coin – I reme'er yo' tricks."
The huge barman put me down and pulled an East Caribbean dollar from his pocket. The octagonal coin flew toward the ceiling from his muscular fingers.
"Heads!" I cried.
The coin reached its zenith and fell back to the floor. I reached to pluck it out of the air and felt cold steel at my throat.
"Just trying to be helpful," I muttered carefully.
The dollar landed, bounced a couple of times, and settled.
"Heads it is!" I gloated. "Let me down, you great baboon."
The great baboon dropped me and I scooped the coin from the floor before he had a chance to check my reading of the face.
"Good to see you, Eldine my friend."
Eldine looked at me quizzically for a moment, then slapped my back and held out a huge paw.
"We got good show! For Yanquis from Coas' Gaur'! Stay! – an' pay yo' bill!"
I looked around the gloom and saw a dozen or so US Coast Guards at rickety tables, imperfectly disguised in holiday attire. They looked at me with suspicion, which I ignored. Water off a duck's back, seen it too often. The rest of the clientele were some businessmen and a couple of coaster skippers and engineers. This was an up-market joint.
I looked more closely at one of the Coast Guard tables and saw that one drinker was a Latino-looking woman, wearing a muscle shirt and impressive muscle definition to complement it.
Eldine was back behind the bar with a glass ready for me by the time I had wended my way and taken in the scenery. He had a matching glass of colorless liquid. Not my favorite tipple, but I was not about to be offered a choice. I knew this stuff. Most bottles have a message on the label warning."80% proof" or "75% alcohol by volume."
This St. Vincent bottle just said, "Very Strong Rum." It wasn't kidding.
There was only one way to deal with it.
"Down the hatch!"
I threw it back and managed to keep it down. I had aimed to miss lips, tongue, taste buds, throat and anything else containing nerve cells, but a few drops escaped on the way to my stomach and cauterized whatever they landed on.
I maintained an admirable sangfroid. The top of my head came off, my stomach retired to another dimension, I smelled burning flesh, but I maintained an admirable sangfroid. I leaned on the bar to help it stay admirable. Eldine refilled our glasses without exhibiting any ill effects from his own tot. I was not surprised. I happened to know he was weaned on the stuff.
"Slan' ee var'!" offered Eldine as a toast with the next glass. I was partly anesthetized already and felt only excruciating pain this time. I looked at my slightly unfocused watch. Forty-five minutes to go until rendezvous at the Lobster Pot. Time enough to be polite with another glass or two and still hit ETA. I settled on a barstool and eyed the next glass – or it could have been glasses. They breed, you know.
"Got good show! Great girls! Enjoy, yo bastar'!"
A few minutes preview of the entertainment could do no harm. It would be nothing but politeness to catch the early moments. I would still meet my lovely wife in plenty of time.
Eldine roared to the bar.
"Lady an' gennulmen! Da show!"
He switched on an earth shattering boom box and flicked various light switches. Everything in the joint vibrated with a reggae beat as a small stage was illuminated by random colored spotlights. I felt my contact with reality start to fray at the edges.
A figure appeared on the stage. Tall, jet-black, arrogant, breasts thrusting against a full length black peignoir, one athletic thigh visible as the figure posed and waited for undivided attention. It didn't take long for her to get it.
Eldine walked to the stage and looked down at the unmoving woman. With a sudden movement he gripped her gown and ripped it from her body. Naked, she did not move. She sneered back at Eldine contemptuously. He picked up a bucket from behind the tatty curtain.
Eldine raised the bucket over the girl's head and tipped a golden syrup over her. The smell of Barbudan honey filled the room. Honey ran down her body, flowing over her head and her breasts and her belly and her buttocks, flowed between her legs and down her thighs. She raised one breast to her lips and slowly licked then sucked her nipple. The room vibrated with the visceral music.
I reached for the rum bottle.
"…And that was when I discovered pre-nuptial agreements, Jay, sweetie. I really must give you my attorney's number. It seems you're in dire need of some sensible advice from a nice strong father figure…"
The Black Widow prattled on as we wandered down a shady side street, seeking refuge from the powerful heat of the midday sun.
"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Goldfinkel. I assure you that my heart has always belonged to Daddy. Where are we, incidentally? This is beginning to look a little unsalubrious."