"Seven Mile Beach!" Avery commanded as he turned up the remnants of his last rum punch.
"Okay, mon," the driver drawled. He gunned the taxi and laid rubber in the direction of Georgetown. The radio blared reggae. The driver shook and gyrated and kept a steady beat with his fingers on the steering wheel. He was on the wrong side of the road, but so was everybody else. Mitch sank into the worn seat and crossed his legs. The car had no airconditioning except for the open windows. The muggy tropical air rushed across his face and blew his hair. This was nice.
The island was flat, and the road into Georgetown was busy with small, dusty European cars, scooters and bicycles. The homes were small one-stories with tin roofs and neat, colorful paint jobs. The lawns were tiny with little grass, but the dirt was neatly swept. As they neared the town the houses became shops, two- and three-story white frame buildings where tourists stood under the canopies and took refuge from the sun. The driver made a sharp turn and suddenly they were in the midst of a downtown crowded with modern bank buildings.
Avery assumed the role of tour guide. "There are banks here from everywhere. Germany, France, Great Britain, Canada, Spain, Japan, Denmark. Even Saudi Arabia and Israel. Over three hundred, at last count. It's become quite a tax haven. The bankers here are extremely quiet. They make the Swiss look like blabbermouths."
The taxi slowed in heavy traffic, and the breeze stopped. "I see a lot of Canadian banks," Mitch said.
"That building right there is the Royal Bank of Montreal. We'll be there at ten in the morning. Most of our business will be with Canadian banks."
"Any particular reason?"
"They're very safe, and very quiet."
The crowded street turned and dead-ended into another one. Beyond the intersection the glittering blue of the Caribbean rose to the horizon. A cruise ship was anchored in the bay.
"That's Hogsty Bay," Avery said. "That's where the pirates docked their ships three hundred years ago. Black-beard himself roamed these islands and buried his loot.
They found some of it a few years ago in a cave east of here near Bodden Town."
Mitch nodded as if he believed this tale. The driver smiled in the rearview mirror.
Avery wiped the sweat from his forehead. "This place has always attracted pirates. Once it was Blackbeard, now it's modern-day pirates who form corporations and hide their money here. Right, mon?"
"Right, mon," the driver replied.
"That's Seven Mile Beach," Avery said. "One of the most beautiful and most famous in the world. Right, mon?"
"Right, mon."
"Sand as white as sugar. Warm, clear water. Warm, beautiful women. Right, mon?"
"Right, mon."
"Will they have the cookout tonight at the Palms?"
"Yes, mon. Six o'clock."
"That's next door to our condo. The Palms is a popular hotel with the hottest action on the beach."
Mitch smiled and watched the hotels pass. He recalled the interview at Harvard when Oliver Lambert preached about how frowned on divorce and chasing women. And drinking. Perhaps Avery had missed those sermons. Perhaps he hadn't.
The condos were in the center of Seven Mile Beach, next door to another complex and the Palms. As-expected, the units owned by were spacious and richly decorated. Avery said they would sell for at least half a million each, but they weren't for sale. They were not for rent. They were sanctuaries for the weary lawyers of Bendini, Lambert & Locke. And a few very favored clients.
From the balcony off the second-floor bedroom, Mitch watched the small boats drift aimlessly over the sparkling sea. The sun was beginning its descent and the small waves reflected its rays in a million directions. The cruise ship moved slowly away from the island. Dozens of people walked the beach, kicking sand, splashing in the water, chasing sand crabs and drinking rum punch and Jamaican Red Stripe beer. The rhythmic beat of Caribbean music drifted from the Palms, where a large open-air thatched-roof bar attracted the beachcombers like a magnet. From a grass hut nearby they rented snorkeling gear, catamarans and volleyballs.
Avery walked to the balcony in a pair of brilliant orange-and-yellow flowered shorts. His body was lean and hard, with no flab. He owned part interest in a health club in Memphis and worked out every day. Evidently there were some tanning beds in the club. Mitch was impressed.
"How do you like my outfit?" Avery asked.
"Very nice. You'll fit right in." "I've got another pair if you'd like."
"No, thanks. I'll stick to my Western Kentucky gyrh shorts."
Avery sipped on a drink and took in the scenery. "I've been here a dozen times, and I still get excited. I've thought about retiring down here."
"That would be nice. You could walk the beach and chase sand crabs."
"And play dominoes and drink Red Stripe. Have you ever had a Red Stripe?"
"Not that I recall."
"Let's go get one."
The open-air bar was called Rumheads. It was packed with thirsty tourists and a few locals who sat together around a wooden table and played dominoes. Avery fought through the crowd and returned with two bottles. They found a seat next to the domino game.
"I think this is what I'll do when I retire. I'll come down here and play dominoes for a living. And drink Red Stripe."
"It's good beer."
"And when I get tired of dominoes, I'll throw some darts." He nodded to a corner where a group of drunk Englishmen were tossing darts at a board and cursing each other. "And when I get tired of darts, well, who knows what I'll do. Excuse me." He headed for a table on the patio where two string bikinis had just sat down. He introduced himself, and they asked him to have a seat. Mitch ordered another Red Stripe and went to the beach. In the distance he could see the bank buildings of Georgetown. He walked in that direction.
The food was placed on folding tables around the pool. Grilled grouper, barbecued shark, pompano, fried shrimp, turtle and oysters, lobster and red snapper. It was all from the sea, and all fresh. The guests crowded around the tables and served themselves while waiters scurried back and forth with gallons of rum punch. They ate on small tables in the courtyard overlooking Rumheads and the sea. A reggae band tuned up. The sun dipped behind a cloud, then over the horizon.
Mitch followed Avery through the buffet and, as expected, to a table where the two women were waiting. They were sisters, both in their late twenties, both divorced, both half drunk. The one named Carrie had fallen in heat with Avery, and the other one, Julia, immediately began making eyes at Mitch. He wondered what Avery had told them.
"I see you're married," Julia whispered as she moved next to him.
"Yes, happily."
She smiled as if to accept the challenge. Avery and his woman winked at each other. Mitch grabbed a glass of punch and gulped it down. '
He picked at his food and could think of nothing but Abby. This would be hard to explain, if an explanation became necessary. Having dinner with two attractive women who were barely dressed. It would be impossible to explain. The conversation became awkward at the table, and Mitch added nothing. A waiter set a large pitcher on the table, and it quickly was emptied. Avery became obnoxious. He told the women Mitch had played for the New York Giants, had two Super Bowl rings. Made a million bucks a year before a knee injury ruined his career. Mitch shook his head and drank some more. Julia drooled at him and moved closer.
The band turned up the volume, and it was time to dance. Half the crowd moved to a wooden dance floor under two trees, between the pool and the beach. "Let's dance!" Avery yelled, and grabbed his woman. They ran through the tables and were soon lost in the crowd of jerking and lunging tourists.
He felt her move closer, then her hand was on his leg. "Do you wanna dance?" she asked.
"No."
"Good. Neither do I. What would you like to do?" She rubbed her breasts on his biceps and gave her best seductive smile, only inches away.