Authors: Anthony Bourdain
S
omething less than a full moon illuminated the grassy crest of Crystal Mountain, the windy bluff that guarded the mouth of the Oyster Pond, opposite the hotel. Frances stubbed her toe on a rock and grunted with pain.
"Hurt yourself?" inquired Henry, moving past her in the dark.
"You could say that," said Frances, limping after him.
"No flashlight yet, okay?" said Henry. "Sorry."
"Yeah, yeah."
Below them, at the bottom of a steep slope, waves exploded against the rock and coral. The churning white water almost glowed in the moonlight. Gusts of wind combed the tall, silver-peaked grass, whipping it one way, then another. Here and there, little round humps of cactus poked out of the grass, and a dark pile of boulders at the very top of the hill threw long, black shadows.
Henry found the spot, just beyond the drop-off, and began to dig, using his folding field shovel. Frances, sitting on a rock, swatted a mosquito on her neck and said, "What could I do? I was thinking about shooting the guy but,
really,
right in the hotel? I didn't know who knew he was there. The noise would have been ridiculous."
"You did exactly the right thing," said Henry, still digging.
"I just figured, what's the point?"
"We have to assume we're blown. I mean, if the one guy is so interested, others will be too. It's really just a matter of time."
"If I thought we had to split the island 'cause of him, I
would
have killed him," said Frances. "That's not going to happen, is it?"
"Not yet," said Henry. "Really. You did the right thing. Shooting federal marshals is not something we should be doing right now. Too bad he didn't die of embarrassment."
"He came close, I think. You should have seen the poor guy, trying to walk with his pants around his ankles."
Henry's shovel hit something solid.
"The flashlight," he said. "Just for a second."
Frances played the beam over the freshly dug hole. Henry plunged his fingers into the soft, sandy earth and tugged on a plastic parcel until it came free. "Okay, turn it off," he said.
He fiddled with the package for a few minutes, unwinding layers of hurricane tape and plastic trash bag from around a Tupperware container.
"Your weapon, ma'am," he announced, finally. He tossed a Walther P-5 automatic over to Frances.
He kept the Heckler and Koch VP70 for himself, then stuffed boxes of 9-millimeter shells into the pockets of his windbreaker.
"So, who are we planning on shooting?" asked Frances, kicking dirt back into the hole while Henry shoveled. She slid the Walther into her pants in front, under her sweater. Henry had his weapon in the back pocket of his jeans, sticking out. "I mean, do we have a plan here?"
"Proper prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance," said Henry, quoting his old drill sergeant. "Be prepared," he added. "That's what the Boy Scouts say."
"Henry . . ."
"We were smart, we'd leave. Now. That would be the smart thing," said Henry sadly, the hole filled. "We could pop off to another island, move to one of the other places. The place in Belize would be perfect, for instance. We have no tenant there now . . . There's the place in Antigua that's not too shabby. We could do that."
"Who has to get shot for us to stay here?" said Frances, impatiently.
"Don't know, baby," said Henry. "Maybe nobody gets shot."
"We're not going to leave unless and until it's absolutely,
absolutely
necessary," said Frances.
Henry came over and wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back. Hard. "I don't want to go either," he said.
"I'm not going," insisted Frances.
"I got a call from Anguilla the other day," Henry confessed. "From Angus at the real estate office."
"Yes?"
"A very suspicious-looking American was asking for the proprietor."
"Meaning you, of course."
"One would assume so."
"More cops?"
"I don't think so. Angus said he came in a car he knew. Hotel car from the Tropica. He thought he should mention it. I have a pretty good idea who owns the Tropica."
"Thanks for mentioning it to me," said Frances, bitterly. She started back down the hill.
"I was thinking about what to do," said Henry, catching up to her.
"I would've liked to have known."
"Yeah, sorry. I should have said something."
"So, what you're telling me is Jimmy knows where we are."
"Not yet, I don't think," said Henry, with less than complete confidence. "He's looking. We can be sure of that. And he's getting close. Like Charlie said, Jimmy's not a forgive-and-forget sort of a guy."
"So things are bad. Already. They're really bad," said Frances, stopping. "Shit!" In the moonlight, Henry saw that she was blinking away tears, something she almost never did. The last time he'd seen her cry was when their taxi had hit the goat. Or . . . no . . . there was the time that beach dog with the broken leg didn't show up as usual. She'd cried then, too. He felt like crying now himself.
"Let's face it," he said, patting the automatic wedged down the front of her jeans. "These are not the sort of beach accessories that leap immediately to mind when you live in a place like this." He kissed her lightly, on the lips, hooked his little finger around hers, and pulled her down slowly into the long grass.
"Christ, Henry. We're gonna get eaten alive up here," she said, unzipping his fly, kissing him so hard their teeth clicked.
When they were through, walking slowly down the mountain to where they'd left their scooter, Frances said, "So we're going to be shooting Italians." A gust of strong wind and the pounding of the surf made her have to almost yell. Henry didn't say anything.
"I guess it's better than cops," said Frances, almost to herself, her words disappearing over the water.
I
notice the boys aren't speaking to each other," said Cheryl, rolling over onto her stomach and lighting a cigarette.
"I think Tommy's still mad at Henry," said Frances, lifting a breast to oil the underside, then moving on to the other. The two women were stretched out on a nearly deserted Dawn Beach, a scraggly-looking mutt with floppy ears sleeping in the sun at the head of their blanket, legs twitching, dreaming of the chase.
"Tommy's just sulking for a while," said Cheryl. "He's a sulker."
"So, it's temporary, you think," said Frances, screwing on the top to her suntan lotion and replacing it in a plastic sandwich bag.
"Yeah," said Cheryl. "He's mad 'cause of you-know-who. Henry not telling him and all. He thinks he's some sort of hit man or something. I don't know what his problem is."
"You talked about it?"
"Yeah. I said, 'What's the problem? I mean, we're living with a gangster, right? Charlie's nice. We like him. So why can't we be friends with Henry and Frances?'" She turned her face to Frances. "How's my face? Am I getting burned?"
"No. Looks okay."
"He's got hurt feelings. That Henry didn't tell him he knew. He doesn't open up to a lot of people, and, you know . . . He felt silly. And he's jealous. That they seem to be such good friends and all . . . I don't know . . . He'll get over it."
"I hope so," said Frances. "Henry's upset about it. He likes Tommy. It's just not a thing he felt he could come out and say, you know."
"I know."
"He's a careful person. He tries to be careful."
"Where is he today?" asked Cheryl. "I haven't seen him."
"He took the ferry over to Anguilla. Business. He's got to talk to somebody about some property we're thinking of selling."
"Oh," said Cheryl. "I've been meaning to ask, where'd you two meet? I mean, you know, how?"
Frances smiled wickedly. "Oh, that's a good story. I met him in New York—"
"How old were you?" asked Cheryl, enjoying the confidence.
"I was really young. I'd been out of college for only a year. I got kicked out actually. I'd been in New York about two years. I met him at this club where I was working. He asked me out on a date. He was very sweet."
Frances was smiling. She tucked an errant strand of hair back into her French braid and then lowered her voice, needlessly, since there was no one else on the beach. "I was stripping—"
"No!" exclaimed Cheryl, clearly delighted and intrigued. "What was it like? Oh God! Tell me everything." She moved her head and shoulders closer to Frances on the blanket. "I
don't
believe it."
"Yeah . . . me and a friend from college were stripping at this club. We were dancers, but, you knowr, you don't really dance, you just kinda roll around on stage and pretend to finger-fuck yourself through a G-string. It was pretty lame. Twenty-minute sets, five times a night. But the money was good, and I needed money."
"Henry was a customer?"
"No, no. He worked there for a while. Bouncing. You could see right away he was different. You should have seen him. The middle of all these guys with their gold chains and Sta-Prest pants - you know, big lapels, the hair just right - there's Henry. He was still wearing his green fatigue jacket from the army, dirty blue jeans. He had practically a crew cut. And this was, like, shag era. Nobody looked like that. He looked totally . . . lost . . . and kind of dangerous. But he was smart. When he talked, which wasn't often in those days, you could tell he wasn't like everybody else. He read books. He thought about things. He never had to lay a hand on anybody, any customers, he looked so weird, if he said to somebody they were eighty-sixed, they left."
Frances reached in her beach bag, pausing long enough to light a fat joint. She took a long hit and passed it to Cheryl.
"So, what was it like? How'd he ask you out?"
"He just came over and asked if I wanted to have dinner with him. I said yes just to piss off my boss and all his manicured buddies. They'd been trying to get into my pants since day one. Actually, some of them had been
in
my pants already, but it pissed them off all the same."
She took the joint back, took another hit, and passed it over.
"He took me to a little French place in the theater district. Some shabby little joint. Said it reminded him of someplace he'd been. He spoke French to the waiters, and it shocked the shit outta me. We had dinner, and then . . . then he took me bowling."
"You're kidding!"
"No. I couldn't believe it. In New Jersey, no less. Drove over in this clapped-out Beetle he had. Drove past where he went to school for a while, pointed out houses where he said friends had lived, a real sentimental journey. Then we went bowling. Drank long-neck Budweisers and held hands between frames. It was the craziest thing." She laughed. "I guess it's fair to say, I was impressed."
"Too much," said Cheryl. "So, did you put out on the first date?"
"Nope. The whole time, I'm thinking, end of the night, we're going over to his place or he's coming to my place and he's gonna ask for a blow job and he's probably going to get one too, 'cause I liked the guy. I thought he was interesting. But, no. He drops me off, kiss on the cheek and Til see you at work tomorrow.'"
"Were you, like, weirded out by it?"
"Kind of. I thought, maybe he got his dick shot off in the war or something. Or he's like some guys who hung out in the club, all he wants to do is hang around strippers, get their laundry and shit, do them favors. You get that a lot. But, next night, Henry comes in, and he's got a big bouquet of flowers and a nice, I mean
really
nice, antique bowling shirt with my name stitched over the pocket. Walks right up to me onstage and gives it to me. My boss almost burst a blood vessel. Of course, me being the cunt that I am, I insist on wearing the damn thing all night, so my boss, he's not too happy. I left the thing unbuttoned, so they could still see my tits, but I wore that shirt all night. My boss is getting more and more pissed off, he keeps gesturing from the bar to take it off, take it off, getting all red in the face. Then he goes over and says something to Henry at the door. We had to leave in a hurry."
"What happened?" said Cheryl, breathless.
"You're not going to take this the wrong way, I hope. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about Henry. He's a
very
sweet guy . . ."
"What happened?"
"Well, I don't know what he said to Henry, but it must have been pretty bad, 'cause Henry broke both his collarbones."
"Holy shitl"
"Yeah . . . I asked him later what was said. He wouldn't tell me. I had a pretty good idea though."
Recovered slightly, Cheryl spluttered, "Well,
what}"
"I'm sure he called me a whore," said Frances, with a matter-of-factness that Cheryl found chilling. "I mean, it had to be that. Besides . . . it was true."
Cheryl rolled over onto her back and collapsed, arms akimbo. "Whew! I mean . . . Ayiyi!"
Frances laughed and took a last hit on the burning roach. A pale, knobby-kneed tourist strolled by, eyeballing the two half-naked women openly. Neither woman said anything for a while.
"You should know something about Henry, though," Frances finally said. "He's a really
gentle
person."
Cheryl tried not to look skeptical, but something in her expression must have given her away.
"Really," said Frances. "He's a sweetheart. I was pretty fucked up back then. For a long time after, I was fucked up. I was doing a lot of drugs. I looked like shit . . . He was always sweet to me. Always gentle. And in all the years we've been together, he's never been unfaithful."
"Come
on,"
said Cheryl. "How do you know?"
"I know," said Frances, convincingly. "Worst thing you can say about Henry is he can be lazy."
"Tommy's a little scared of him, I think," confided Cheryl.
"I know," said Frances. "He shouldn't be. Really. That's why I'm telling you all this. So you know what he's really like. He shouldn't be scared of Henry. Henry would never do anything to hurt Tommy or Charlie."
"I can, like, take that as an assurance?" said Cheryl.
"Henry's not about that at all."