The doc was in fact passed out on his couch next to an empty bottle of our rum. I didn’t bother Shelly with that detail. We raided his medical cabinet and fridge, getting what we needed. Shelly said she’d like a drug more specific to his condition but broad-spectrum would work.
We found Hack where we left him with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. She sat next to him and swabbed the vein on his arm. When she did, the short, thin, see-through skirt she wore to cover up her bathing suit fell off her thighs and slit to her waist. Hack rested his palm on her thigh.
She eyed his hand and held the needle where he could see it. A smile cracked her lips. “You want pain or no pain?”
Hack put his hand back in his lap and spoke to me. “I like her.”
Shelly spent the weekend checking on Hack, and consequently, based on the tilt and angle of her shoulders, not to mention the disappearing wrinkles on her forehead and the way the edges of her mouth began to turn up every time Hack started telling her a story, the effect of the island, along with us, was good for her.
Being a doctor, she was naturally curious. About Hack. The skiffs. Our fishing. But mostly about me. She also had a thing for good coffee, so I introduced her to Legal Grounds. Sunday afternoon, I took her out on the skiff and helped her catch a few bonefish. She enjoyed that.
She told me more of her story, about medical school, marriage, and why she chose to specialize on kids and their faces: “There’s something special about a kid’s smile. I see in their faces what we all used to be before the world got hold of us.” I liked her. And I liked being around her.
She asked me about me and I told her my story. High school. College. Playing cards. London. Amanda. Marshall. Landing here. Hack. And I told her about “my business partner, Colin.” And how we were in the fragrance and spirit and wine import business. And yes, I left out one important detail.
Before she left, I said, “I’m in Miami about every other week, mind if I check in on you?”
“I’d like that.”
On our first official date, Colin let me borrow his Mercedes because I didn’t own a car, so I took her to my favorite restaurant, Ortanique on the Mile, on the Miracle Mile in downtown Coral Gables. She ordered a mojito and I ordered water. She eyed my decision. “You really don’t drink, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Ever done drugs?”
“No, but I was a miler in college and running is a pretty strong drug.”
“Ever done anything you regret?”
“Sure.”
“Such as?”
She waited. Shelly had a strong intuition and suspected something about me was not on the up-and-up. I didn’t flaunt money and I didn’t spend a lot of money, but she saw the boats I drove. Colin’s Mercedes. She knew there was more to my story than I’d admitted.
“I have not been truthful when I should have.”
“Have you been truthful with me?”
“I’ve not lied to you.”
“There’s a difference between not lying and being totally truthful.” Another sip. “So, have you been totally truthful?”
There are several moments in my life that hurt me. This is one of those. I looked her straight in the eyes. “Yes, I’ve been totally truthful.”
“And you’re not into something that could come back to bite you?”
The problem with being a good cardplayer is that I held my cards close to my chest and I could bluff most anyone. “No.”
She crossed her legs, sipped again, and her foot nudged mine. “Good.”
When I look back across the war-torn landscape of my life, at the people I’ve hurt, those I’ve taken advantage of, and those I’ve betrayed and lied to, I think back to that afternoon with Shelly. I’d like that one back. I’d like to tell her that I’m sorry. Really. Poker players are some of the most constantly optimistic people on the planet. No matter what you lose, it can be won back, and double, at the next deal. Nothing is ever truly lost forever.
Problem is, people are not cards or the chips we bet with. Neither are the relationships we share across green-felted tables and smoke-filled rooms.
* * *
A blissful year passed. We were happy. I never took Shelly on a drop, but I’d pick her up on my way back and we traveled a lot by boat. Spent lots of time on all the islands. She’d hop in the boat on Thursday or Friday afternoon with nothing but a small bag and say, “Which island?” We became island hoppers. Then we started venturing farther. Central America.
What Shelly didn’t know was that loaded in the belly of our vessel, in specially crafted holds made to look like the hull or engine or anything but a storage department, was enough cocaine to put us both in jail for several lifetimes. There were times when I thought she suspected, but if she did, she kept it to herself.
And yes, I was risking her life, which was a risk I was willing to take. Which should tell you everything you need to know about me.
One Friday afternoon, I was late picking her up. Again. I hadn’t worn a watch in about eight years and other than my schedule with Colin had become chronically late in pretty much every other area of my life, so whenever we made plans and I told her I’d pick her up at a certain time, she’d ask me, “Now is that ‘real time’ or ‘Charlie time’?” When I slid up to the dock almost two hours late, she stepped into the boat, both eyebrows raised, and handed me a small wrapped box. A present.
I was about to say, “I’m sorry,” when she shook her head and pressed her finger to my lips. “Don’t. Just shhh.”
I opened the box to find a beautiful Marathon dive watch. It looked bombproof and was reported to be waterproof to over a thousand feet. She took it from my hand and rolled it in hers. “I found these guys online: topspecus.com. Couple of self-described ‘gearheads.’ So I called them on the phone and asked them what was the toughest, most accurate watch they sold. They say this thing is nearly indestructible and only loses like a second every hundred years or something.” A playful smirk. “I had them set it five minutes early. So…” She was smiling now. Wrapping my arms around her waist. “You should never, ever, as long as we live…be late again.” A tilt of her head. Half a smile. “Right?”
I nodded obediently. “Right.”
She put her hand on my head and turned it left and then right, prompting me to repeat after her. “Never again.”
I continued moving my head left to right. “Never again.”
She turned and sat in the captain’s chair next to me. “Good. ’Cause if you are, you’re going to need more than just a good plastic surgeon.” A smile. “You’re going to need a donor.”
I laughed.
“And just so you don’t forget”—she pulled the band away from the back of the watch—“I had it inscribed.”
Chapter Fifteen
I had just closed my eyes when Paulo woke me. He whispered, “Vamonos, el doctor. We go.”
I heard myself mumbling something about not actually being a doctor, but he was gone. I stood and pulled on my shoes, whereby my toes poked out the ends. When I exited my shed, he put his hand on my chest and motioned back in my tent. “Agua.”
I grabbed the water jug, we refilled it, and then he handed me a long machete. I followed him out the yard and down the road beneath a dark sky. We walked in silence for almost thirty minutes, returning in the same direction we’d walked yesterday—uphill toward the volcano. When the sugarcane rose up on our right, he took a hard right turn and I followed him through the cane. We walked down long rows and were soon joined by other men, silently stepping through the night. Each carried a machete with the same ease that men carry umbrellas on Fifth Avenue.
It was still dark. Well before daylight and yet people were alive and awake and moving and working. Fires were lit, people were chatting, men were hurrying to work, and all before the first ray of sunshine had cracked the summit of Las Casitas or San Cristóbal. Unlike the world I came from, these people were on the earth’s schedule—the earth was not on theirs.