burnt rum 5

        The venetian window opened upon a harsh Magritte sky, not turquoise, not cerulean. He adjusted the blinds before it gave him a headache. A small electric fan with rubber blades whirred like moth wings on the night table. His wind-up traveler's clock had stopped. He sat on the bed. The jade green bedspread had a paisely pattern so dense it gave him the hives.
        Jesus Christ, I'm sweating like a dromedary's ass.
        A discreet knock at the door.
        "Extra linen," came the voice. It was that earthy woman whom he desired.
        "Please come in."
        Hannah was quite voluptuous, as most women on the island were. Black women, white women, and all shades in between. Her gingham gown clung to her bosom and belly, but swished about her ankles as she strode in. Her canvas-top wooden clogs scooted like boats across the pinewood floor.
         He watched her as she stocked the linen closet. He ogled the curve of her buttocks and the cleft between them. The exquisiteness of the moment moved him. This was no ordinary sea change. An enormous drawing up had occurred along a shore flecked with the jetsam of his previous life. His lust for Mango and all the boys of Mann, swept off. The coming tsunami would be swift, terrible.
        No turning back, you old prick.


                                                                                   *


        Happy with his bottle of Pinch, Mister Radcliff was up before Creation.
        Homeric hues of rose and coral arose in a fan of light. Moments later the sun emerged from its womb chamber in the sea. Perfect as one of Hannah's glorious breakfast yolks.
        His head was clear and he felt hungry.
        The scotch had brightened his appetite. He capped the bottle and slid it into the side pouch of his knapsack.
        This is so fucking grand. God, let me die now.
        The Cinzano umbrella wafted pleasantly above his head. He had spread the pages of his brief upon the table, using his pocket watch as anchor. Was reading the particulars when a boy's voice announced with a melodic island tang: "Your Gleaner, sir."
        Once again Jimmy-Scamp had crept up and startled him.
        "Thank you, lad. I believe your early arrival demands a gratuity."
        "Yessir."
        He opened the newspaper and there it was.
        LOCAL SOCCER CELEB MURDERED
        Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman
        Found Sunday in trophy Jeep
        Following game loss shocker!