I didn’t pay much mind to the car behind me until almost Maracas. Truthfully, even if I’d noticed the car before, coming over the hill with one lane in either direction and too many bends to overtake safely, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. And since Moka, I’d been lost in my favorite view, again with one eye on the road while the other ingested the edge of civilization, quick peeks accumulating to slow discovery of coastline all the way to the bay. I loved rounding a bend to catch a glimpse of mist hanging low over the sea, the Green Hut coming up on the left for my required dietary supplement of red mango, chow, and tamarind balls. I dropped at least twenty dollars there every time and made a second stop for bake-and-shark at Maracas, regardless of which beach I spent my day on. For now, I pretended to ignore the warm smells emanating from Richard’s and Natalie’s that almost made me wish I were already on my way back to make that second stop.
Did I vaguely remember this pale blue Sunny behind me since Diego? If so, it didn’t pass by while I was pulled over at the Hut and was now up my backside again. I tried to recall if the license plate in my rearview was the same, because the car was on the nondescript side of familiar, one of thousands on the road in that make and color, but something about it tickled the back of my brain. Was it following me? The job wasn’t high-profile — nobody reads bylines except media people — but I couldn’t think of any other reason I’d be a target. One look should assure would-be bandits or kidnappers I wasn’t worth their time.
After the last ten minutes of more-pothole-than-road to Hundred Steps, I made the hard left onto Phillips Trace slowly, trying not to fuck up my ride, coasted to the dead end of unevenly packed dirt and parked, the sole car. I’d never seen more than three cars at Hundred Steps, so on a random weekday if I were one, chances were slim the Sunny’d be another. It had to be going on to Blanchisseuse.
I grabbed my bag off the passenger seat and got out just in time to hear muffler and undercarriage bang and scrape off the bumpy and potholed ground, hardness belied by the weedy cushioning sprouting everywhere. Pale blue Sunny. And it was impossible to squeeze back out past someone driving in.
Lacking the hasty-exit option, I debated fiddling around in the car until they had trekked the 136 steps down to the beach versus pelting down there and picking a cave where I might remain undiscovered and unbothered. Assuming the tide was out enough, the beach was just big enough for a full Sunny and me.
The blue Sunny pulled uncomfortably close, its heavily tinted passenger window slid partway down. A pair of fake jewel — encrusted darkers hissed, “We watchin’...” The intimidation attempt suffered from the obvious difficulty of projecting the evil eye from behind fancy darkers with one’s driver-slash-backup also obscured, even if his darkers weren’t also distractingly bejewelled. Thus dismissing the encounter as stalled small talk with overly accessorized strangers, I spun out from between our cars, hit the lock button on my key ring, and skipped down every other step, more buoyant with each one. The beach jumped up to meet my increasingly jubilant feet, and none followed.
I dropped my bag on the deserted swath of sand, flung keys and wrap inside, and ran to the water. It licked my toes, dragging tongues of waterlogged sand over them on its retreat. I waded out till I was chest deep, bobbing gently in water calmer and warmer than any man-made and maintained pool.
Having navigated the steps and the first splash of water on inner thighs and lower belly with that slight chill of sea breeze, I flashed back to the mystery lady in the blue Sunny. Why follow me all the way out here behind god back to accost me with some cryptic bullshit? Who was that masked woman? She didn’t look like #1’s type. Or #2’s. Something about the pale blue Sunny faintly rang a bell, but I still couldn’t quite pull it into focus.
I shook my brain for loose change. Any recollection of a pale blue Sunny — had #1 ever driven one? gotten picked up in or gotten out of one? mentioned somebody driving one? #2, maybe? Kaya? Pale blue Sunny... and there it was. The memory popped so clearly into my mind — being pushed into it outside the Henry Street hawk and spit, looking up at gold-teeth Rasta in confusion, marking Fidel’s face. No wonder the driver hid behind darkers, too, just now. He knew I’d make him out.
Waterlogged and pruny now, lingering feet dragged me back up the beach. It was hard to leave the water, but lunch with Kaya was the reason today’s bake-and-shark would be going home for dinner. The wrap was just enough clothing for Frankie’s.
Inside an hour later we were carrying curry goat and buss-up-shut to an outside table to watch the avenue mêlée while I gave Kaya the rundown on everything since we’d spoken the previous day. She smiled slyly, dropping her eyelids and her voice into its lower register. “Look you,” sucking thick brown sauce from articulate fingers, “you didn’t even want a boyfriend. Now you have live-in man and outside man, plus me. Should I be worried about my shrinking time slot in your busy schedule, my Social Dora?”
“I am not a Dora. God, my mother says that shit.”
“Mother know what she talking ’bout.”
“You don’t know that woman. And lemme tell you, she wouldn’t like you if she knew the sexual deviancy you engage in, encouraging me — her one girl-child who she hoping will provide her with some picky head grandchildren. That woman would cut your tail. Anyway, what the ass going on with #1? Tell me stop seeing #2, ride out in super-stealth mode, can’t reach home or answer phone since. I gone looking for him, and his goldteeth Rasta partner take me for some obedient little wifey to just hustle out the bar talking ’bout I shouldn’t be there, boldfaced enough to try and send me home, and know my address to boot. You said #1 could handle my stories, and he say the same thing when we put down ground rules, so wha’ he acting up for now?”
“Dread. I don’t know. All I saying is he fine, paying the bills, he have goals, he love you, you already living together in the house you own, so just fucking commit to your life already. You don’t even have to give me up. He’ll find it hot if we just let him watch, and you know I don’t business.”
“But #2 think the sun rises and sets in my eyes.”
“Yes, yes. I get all that Roberta Flack shit, but look. He’s a child, can’t do nothing for you, and when you get older faster than him, he’ll stray anyway. Plus, you only act a little interested in monogamy, #1 might think the sun rising and setting in your damn eye, too.”
I trailed Kaya home, tormented both by the now pervasive aroma of bake-and-shark (even with a bellyful of goat) and knowing her beautiful body would have to wait while I made some considerably less enticing calls. Since Face was tracking those tracking my car, I wanted him on Fidel, goldteeth Rasta, and darkers-wearing mystery lady one time. At least we’d find #1. Who still didn’t answer his phone.
I finally sat on the bed, reexamining the details with Kaya’s naked bottom. “And why Fidel and fancy-darkers follow me from quite Diego to accost me by Hundred Steps just to say they watching me, no particular reason? They reporting to #1 if I see #2, or wha’?”
The bottom I was admiring dimpled attractively as Kaya lifted her head just enough to speak. “Obviously goldteeth Rasta in something with #1, and whatever it is deep enough that he know ’bout you. So his people musta recognize your car from when you park in Charford — or maybe they following you since you leave home, or regular, since he clearly know where you living — and they tell him you coming before you reach the bar. They know you only know one place to look for #1. But hear what — I really don’t care. What I care about is why you still wasting time wearing so much clothes.”