Boris, whose real name was Howard Charles William, was one of the few men Burt knew who could wear a wispy goatee, a purple beret, stride on black bare feet across the plank floor of an open, thatched clubhouse, then bow from the waist with all the massive dignity of a headwaiter at the Waldorf. Burt offered him the bright Hawaiian shirt he’d brought; Boris thanked him gravely and strode behind the bar to mix the drinks.
An Isle de Trois rum punch bore no resemblance to the effete cocktails served in Barbados and Jamaica. It was a potent jolt of black rum, nutmeg, brown sugar and lime. Water had to be requested, and ice was unknown on the island. Burt forced himself to sip the heavy mixture slowly; he was anxious to get to Mrs. Keener, but irritated at his own impatience.
“What’s this about being full up, Joss?”
“Oh...” She waved her hand vaguely. “I just meant the cabins are all rented.”
“But... I thought Mrs. Keener was the only guest.”
“Her husband’s due in a few days. He reserved cabin one, and she’s in number two.”
“Separate cabins? Why?”
“Maybe it’s that kind of marriage, or maybe one of them snores. He didn’t say in his letter, and I haven’t been able to get ten words out of her.”
Burt frowned to himself; he wanted more information, but was reluctant to tell Joss what he already knew. “Okay, that still leaves cabins three and four.”
Joss sighed and spread her hands. “A week ago I got a letter from a man named Smith. He enclosed a money order. Wanted two cabins for himself and three associates—”
“Associates? A man named Smith?”
She looked at him. “I know what you’re thinking and you can stop worrying. If they’re gay, they don’t stay. But I couldn’t tell that from a letter, could I? And there are people named Smith.” She looked down at her hands. “Hell, I know it sounds fishy. But I needed the money, Burt. It’s been a long summer.”
“You want me to leave?”
She looked up quickly. “No! Lord no, stay in number one until Keener gets here. After that... well, there’s my house...”
“I wouldn’t put you out.”
“I wasn’t thinking of—” She stopped suddenly and stood up. “Go on, deliver your purse and then we’ll have another drink. Lobster okay for supper?”
“Great,” he said. He watched her walk behind the bar, through the door which led to the kitchen. Joss seemed unusually nervous, and uncharacteristically hostile to her female guest.
Godfrey, the mulatto youth who served as dishwasher, beachboy and bellhop, was waiting beside Burt’s leg. The boy was painfully bandy-legged, and as Burt followed him along the sandy path, he could see at least a foot of clearance between the knobby knees. They passed cabins four and three, in that order, and beyond them Burt could see the rollers marching in like ranks of plumed soldiers, then crashing down on the sand. It was a good day for body surfing.
Ahead, Godfrey walked beneath tall, somber manchineel trees, setting his bare feet carefully down among the sharp-husked fruits. Both the sap and the fruit were poisonous, and Joss had been advised to cut down the trees. But she had a theory that any change in nature is bound to be bad. Having seen the manicured, geometric ugliness which man had produced in his own state, Burt was inclined to agree.
Ah, here was cabin two. Now he could dispose of this purse, which was turning into a millstone around his neck.
“Godfrey.” His voice was lost in the booming surf. He called louder. The boy stopped and turned. “Take the bag on to the cabin. I’m stopping here — wait, here’s something.” He drew out a flat packet and tossed it through the air. “Strings for your guitar. See you later.”
He waited until Godfrey had gone behind the ancient gnarled banyan which separated cabins one and two, then knocked on the door. The silence stretched into a full minute before a low husky voice came from the other side.
“Who is it?”
“Burt March. I just came in on the schooner.”
There was another long pause. “Really? I hope you had a pleasant voyage.”
Burt frowned. There was no interest in the voice, not even idle curiosity. “Are you Tracy Keener?”
“I... what if I am?”
Her voice had taken on a tense belligerence, almost as puzzling as her lack of interest.
“Did you leave something on the ship?”
“Oh.” Was that a sigh of relief? Had she expected something worse?
The door opened slowly to a width of four inches. Burt glimpsed a huge, floppy beach hat which hung down to her eyebrows. A pair of oversized sunglasses covered her face to the cheekbones, and from there to the collar of her robe was a pale leprous expanse of skin which glistened wetly. Some kind of lotion...
“Oh, my purse.” Her white hand snaked out, clutched the purse, and pulled it inside. As the door was closing, she spoke with the stilted formality of a child suddenly remembering its manners: “Thank you. I’ve been terribly worried.”
And that was all. The door clicked shut, and Burt felt like kicking it in. What kind of reward was that? Hell, for all he’d seen of her she could have been a Martian. Maybe she didn’t know about the heroin; maybe the stuff had been a plant.
He walked quietly around the cabin and leaned against the screen door of the veranda. If she were a hypo, she’d be fixing now.
Five minutes later he heard her sandals scrape on the concrete. “Oh! You... what do you want now?”
He turned and saw that she still wore her all-concealing costume. The robe ended at mid-thigh and he saw that her legs were heavier than he’d expected from her description. They were thick and muscled, like those of a dancer.
He realized he had no real plan of action, no desire to do more than have a good look at her. “If you’ll come to the club, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“No.”
“You don’t drink?”
“I—” She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Look, you brought me my purse. Okay, what do you want, a reward? I’ll have to get some change—”
Her voice was rising. It could have been anger, but Burt heard an undercurrent of alarm. “I don’t want a reward,” he said softly. “I just thought since we’re the only guests, we should get acquainted.”
“Oh, well... later. I’ve got a terrible sunburn and I don’t feel like—”
“Are you sick?”
She faced him a moment, her chin thrust out in what was unmistakably anger. Then she whirled and went inside, slamming the door behind her.
Jata was scrubbing out the patio when Burt reached his cabin. She was a tall, thin, blue-black woman from Petit Martinique who lived in a world of death, blood and black magic. She wore a skin bag around her neck which might have contained obeah charms, but which really held tobacco. She took the two packs of Granger pipe mixture he gave her and said morosely she hoped he would enjoy his stay.
“Las’ night, moon he come up all bloody. Trouble comin’, sieur, truly.”
Burt smiled. “Where’s Maudie? I brought her something.”
“Look behind you, sieur. She follow as always.”
Burt turned as Jata’s daughter came through the screen door. The girl he’d first seen as a gangly, tongue-tied eleven-year-old with round violet eyes and a braid like the tail of a rat, had now acquired a brazenly buxom brown body which rolled and bounced beneath a threadbare T-shirt. In past years she’d shadowed him around the island so closely that her mother had sometimes locked her in their shack.
“Remember what you asked me to bring you?” Burt asked. “You showed me the picture in the magazine.”
Maudie nodded, her round violet eyes fixed on his.
Burt opened his bag and took out the brassiere he’d brought from the States. He frowned as Maudie held it speculatively to her bosom; he’d made the purchase from last year’s measurements, forgetting that Maudie was a growing girl.