St. John
February is high season. The Caribbean sun blazes from early morning until early evening. For those on the beaches, a sunblock with a number at least as high as thirty is recommended. Lean and pretty young girls in skimpy bikinis, and not a few middle-aged, fat guys in Speedos, seem to be everywhere. Even the rain, which comes down in short, sudden outbursts in the late afternoon, makes the tourists glad they’re not in New England or the Midwest. “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” has been heard more than once on the streets of Cruz Bay. The island is as packed as it ever gets. In addition to the bushwhackers, day-trippers from St. Thomas crowd the shops and bars near the dock in Cruz Bay. St. John’s taxis, pickup trucks with rigged canopies and benches for their riders, drive load after load from the dock to the beaches. The ragged, narrow streets are jammed, and every so often someone from Ohio or Iowa or someplace like that drives the wrong way on a one-way street. Traffic gets snarled, tempers frayed. New Yorkers in new shorts and pastel shirts show their true colors. All the island’s restaurants are full, and for many, getting a table at lunchtime is almost impossible. Later in the evening, when the last ferry has taken the final load back to the rock, things get a little quieter. The best places still manage to turn their tables twice for dinner. A reservation is a necessity. February is a tough time for the locals. Even at Billy’s, some days go by without Ike or Walter making an appearance.
“There’s two kind of locals,” Ike once said. “February and March.” He wasn’t talking about himself, about the real locals-those who’ve been on St. John for generations, the blacks born and raised there. He meant the newcomers. He was talking about people like Walter and Billy, and whatshisname, the pop singer living on his boat out in the harbor, and all the others who left their roots on the mainland to take up the island life. There were those who came for the lifestyle, flat broke or loaded with all the money they needed, and there were those on the run looking for a place to stop. These were the February people, according to Ike. They could be found eating lunch or dinner at Billy’s alongside the tourists and visitors. Or they might be the ones waiting tables, crewing the charter boats, hanging out on the beach, living on the cheap. Walter was not a February person. “Never was,” said Ike. He was a March person. He tolerated high season, taking comfort in the certainty that it would end, the crowds would lessen, if not leave altogether, and life would return to normal.
Walter came back from Atlanta and stayed home. It took Clara no time at all to see what happened. She wouldn’t be seeing that girl Isobel around here anymore. She did what she could to care for him, but Clara had no medicine for Walter’s blues. He moped. He sulked. He sat alone on the patio until all hours of the night. He didn’t talk much. Clara told her sister. Her sister told her friends. They told theirs. Before long everyone knew. It’s a small island, and they do know everything. To make matters worse, Walter had that CD Clara had heard a million times, The Best of the Cadillacs. It was a rare day she enjoyed listening to that one. He played that one song, “Gloria,” too many times to Clara’s way of thinking. It was hopeless, she concluded. How could he miss both of them? At the same time? Poor man. His sadness was not a pretty sight. She figured he had to hit the bottom of lonely before he could pick himself up. She prayed it wouldn’t take him long. Ten days into his depression, Clara said she needed to see a sick friend. “I’ll be gone all day,” she said. She gave Walter a list of groceries and household items and asked him to pick them up in Cruz Bay. “I can’t be making you lunch either,” she said. “I won’t be here. You should stop at Billy’s, get something to eat, and see your friends.” She said she’d be back by eight o’clock to make him a late dinner.
Billy’s was so crowded Walter almost decided to turn around and go someplace else. When Billy saw him he hurried to the end of the bar, moved the last two patrons out, and signaled to Walter his regular place was available. Both seats.
“Thanks Billy,” he said.
“Anytime. Anytime, Walter. You doing alright?”
“Great. Fine.”
“Hungry? You want something?”
Walter shrugged. Billy didn’t budge. “A sandwich,” Walter said. “Anything at all will do.”
Billy said, “Coming up.” He opened a bottle of Diet Coke, placed it on a coaster in front of Walter, and walked back into the kitchen.
Walter heard the familiar footsteps even in the noisy bar. It was a skill he developed early on. Perhaps it was a talent, something you had or you didn’t. He was never sure. When you’re following someone you can’t always count on being able to see them or look directly at them. Learning to recognize someone by the sound of their footsteps had helped him many times and saved him on more than one occasion. He knew a blind man who said he could hear a friend coming a block away. He wished he were that good. Without looking up, he said, “Sit down, Tom.” Maloney sat on the same barstool he used when they first met, the one next to the fan at the very end of the bar, near the kitchen. Walter looked at him. This time Maloney was comfortably dressed. He wore white pants, a cream-colored, loose-fitting golf shirt, and sandals on his bare feet. His cheeks and forehead were red. “He’s been here at least a few days,” thought Walter. Probably looked for him in Billy’s everyday. Walter’s elbows rested on the bar. He opened both hands and moved his arms out as wide as his elbows would allow. Without saying it, the look on his face asked, “Why? Why are you here? What do you want?”
Maloney’s rigid shoulders made him appear as if he had no neck at all. His tight-jawed anger allowed him to speak only through clenched teeth. He said, “Where is it?” Walter said nothing. “It’s gone, isn’t it?” Maloney asked. “Where’d you put it? Where is it! It’s mine, goddamnit!”
“Easy, big guy. Remember where you are. Show respect if you want to get some.”
Tom Maloney may have dressed more comfortably than the last time he was on St. John, but he was definitely agitated. He tapped his feet and licked his lips. Walter sized up his loose-fitting outfit, looking to see if it was possible he might be carrying a weapon. A man with a big gut has a hard time concealing a gun in his waistband. Maloney was unarmed. He was just angry.
“What’s the problem, Tom? What are you doing here?”
“The money. The account’s closed.”
“My account?” He looked at Tom Maloney with contempt. “You’re surprised? What kind of a fool do you take me for? You gave me my exact balance the day we met, remember? When Pitts gave me the briefcase, I realized you didn’t want my money, so I wasn’t worried. Then you deposited quite a lot of money in my account, again getting access without me knowing about it. That’s twice.” Walter looked at him like a stern uncle might a recalcitrant nephew. Billy brought Walter’s sandwich. He recognized Maloney too and spoke right up.
“Anything else you want, Walter? You need anything, I’m right here.” Billy glared directly at Tom Maloney, then walked away.