Horseshoe Crab Key had not been hit by a hurricane in over a century and neither had the neighboring island of Saint James. Creole crones believed this to be the kiss of goodwill from Morgan the Pirate. The colonial township by the Bay had always welcomed him, offering safe harbor and a fat store. With the Royal Navy in absentia, Captain Morgan became chief protector. Slaves from Yoruba claimed he was an Orisha incarnate.
Shaped like the eponymous ocean cockroach, the cayo provided a natural causeway to the island. It was called "the stinger tail." Islanders trekked across this landbridge of sandspur, cracked seashell and coral shoal toward a humpback islet with a profusion of coconut palms from a defunct copra plantation, home to wild black pigs. Beyond lay a pristine shored famous for its sand-dollar. Like Moroccan nomads these trekkers pitched tents for cabanas, and like members of the Y they frolicked naked in waters reflecting all the colors of the shifting sky.
No frozen Puritan eye beheld these libertines. In this Eden there was only freedom and consequence. After a brisk swim, brown bodies would embrace without shame. Jocks could slamdunk one another in a game of Nerfball. Up in the dunes trysts began and ended beneath the murmur of sea-oats, and sodomy seemed akin to collegiate wrestling.
Cool and dry in the shade of a red-striped tent Mango opened a tin of French pate and gave it to a middle-aged man wearing white longsleeves, trousers and buckskin shoes, as if dressed for cricket in Somerset.
"Thank you, lad. Care for a bite? These wafers are delicious."
"No, sir," Mango replied. His tiger eyes darted toward the wicker basket that contained a thermos of chilled gin and tonic. Still bubbly.
The man sniffed. "Go ahead. Have a drink."
"I won't get drunk, Mister Radcliff."
"Better not."
Mister Radcliff smoothed back a blond forelock with a manicured hand and gazed at the youth. Mango is like the rest of them, he was thinking. An innocent savage.
On the contrary, Mango was a creature of charm and cunning. A wicked schoolboy versed in violent carnality. Sex and soccer.
Out of spite Mango donned his blue Ralph Lauren blue chambray shirt, depriving his patron the pleasure of viewing his sepia mahogany torso. The washboard abs were a source of venial pride. Yet when he stole a glance he saw that Mister Radcliff was preoccupied, gazing into the distance.
Mango queried: "What is it?"
"I've been offered a princely sum for this piece of property."
"The Cayman bank?"
"Yes. I told you that if I held out long enough, the real-estate would appreciate. As we speak, interests in Dubai are awaiting my wire."
"Are you going to sell?"
"Perhaps."
"M'mates say you're going to chop down all the trees."
"Perhaps."
"And sell the land to a multinational."
"Perhaps."
"No more free beaches! There'll be a resort hotel! Maybe investment condos, with fences all around!"
"Sharp lad."
Tantalizing me with that perfect body. O darkskinned angel. With such dangerous eyes. Burning with the fires of perdition!
*
Cap was sweeping the patio and terrace of the Jolly Roger. His pub shared the old Beachcomber Inn with Hannah Ramirez' bed-and-breakfast, the Pirate's Hideaway. Rennovation costs had been rather steep. It took a year for either of them to break even. A rough haul.
On breezy balmy nights folks sat out, drinking beer and rum. After midnight they began to drift away into the land of winking, blinking and nod.
Most of Cap's clientel was non-white. Sailors, fishermen, singers and poets.
Cap and Hannah were the odd couple.
He was a grizzled barrel-chested ex-diver wracked by the deepwater bends. A feisty black man from the wild coast of Greater Cayman. She was a busty forty-something Quadroon with nutmeg eyes. A refined woman with a taste for French art.
Great business partners.
*
Traditional deadbeat riffraff: hobos, tramps and bums (with subtle differences), were all warned to stay clear. Cap especially wanted his place free of panhandlers, worst of the lot. Hannah didn't allow prostitution. Her beds were clean.
Al fresco at the Jolly Roger was Caribbean nirvana. A private place for idle thoughts.
You could snag a table. Maybe read a soccer newsrag, or a Miami Herald or Daily Gleaner. Sip coffee or knock back the hard stuff. No one would bother you.
Except on a blue moon.
*
One of Hannah's guests, a white business fellow from the States, (archetypal George Babbitt, Main Street, Zenith City) was sitting out, smoking a Cuban cigar and sipping a mug of Mexican coffee laced with Tia Maria, thinking grand thoughts.
Suddenly: "Hey mon, gimmee yo wallet!"
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