Read Windward Whisperings Online
Authors: Kathleen Rowland
Soon around a dozen entrepreneurs from coastal areas were making themselves known as they
pumped hands. Woody introduced himself as Harry Woodster and wore a white Emporio Armani
shirt. The group moved to the conference room where a buffet was being set up. Christian Spencer
handed out packets with reports going back three years. When food was brought in, Woody raised
his hands, and then spread his arms out like wings. “Isn’t this nice, Pacific salmon.”
“How much of this damned fish have I consumed?” cut in a voice. It was supposed to be a joke.
Except for Woody, the buyers were sober. They were hardworking successful men and women
who’d worked their entire lives saving money. Some would give up their retirement nest egg to buy
Piermont Sails. Others might refinance their homes.
Averting his eyes with an effort to appear impartial, Garrett went through the buffet line and
made polite conversation with a businesswoman with two kids in college. She said, “I own a
windsurfer shop on Half Moon Bay. I might like to manufacture sails.” Other buyers spoke of
possibilities. There might not be a decision that day. He served himself salmon, asparagus, salad, and
sourdough bread. He picked up his fork and flaked off a piece of the grilled fish. Fresh and pink. A
sprig of basil on top. He moved over by Woody and spoke close to his ear. “I’d like to head down to
St. Vincent. Can you dog sit?”
Woody laughed, and there was niceness about it. Nothing fake, just full and open. “That’s cool.
Jeez, did I actually get my mouth around that word? Drop Thor at my office.” He knitted his fingers
over his belly. “Oh, God, I managed to skip the St. Vincent trip.”
He told Woody about the private jet.
“I’ll be calling Millie every night. Can’t wait to hear her observations. I’m beginning to wonder
about Grayson Biltmore. Heard he was trying to sell viaticals last year.” He blotted his mouth with a
napkin.
“The viatical industry may not have started out as sleazy. It’s illegal now in most states.” He
knew it began around 1990 as a way to help the terminally ill, most notably AIDS patients. They
needed medical treatment and sold their life insurance policies to third party “brokers” in return for
a portion of their death benefit. The broker then sold shares of the policies to investors, who collect
shares of the death benefits from the broker when the original policyholders died. Vultures pick
over the dying. The thought numbed him.
The caterers, wearing black and white uniforms, cleared the room and arranged china cups and
glasses. They set up a coffee urn, hot water for tea, pitchers of ice water, and a tray of tiramisu
chocolates, but they didn’t taste as good as a Kit-Kat bar. The buyers were staking out spots at the
conference table. Discussions lacked heat because old Chris Spencer kept a lid on lengthy questions.
Woody mostly listened, sometimes with dramatic upsweeps of the eyebrow. He still had a mane
of wavy silver hair. His shoulders were square, his stomach ample but not fat. Garrett thought it
imposing, maybe even imperial. His skin was ruddy under a neat shave, and his mustache and beard
were trimmed. In profile his nose was bridgeless.
Three hours later, Christian Spencer looked at him over the top of his steel-rimmed bifocals.
“Go ahead, Mackenzie, you mentioned you’re going out of town. I’ll lock up. We’ll be here
tomorrow.”
Garrett had phoned Bud Logan, telling him he wanted to fly down on Biltmore’s jet. The actor
hadn’t required pressure.
“So, Mackenzie, you want to meet the folks. Not much room, but we’ll squeeze you in.”
Awaiting takeoff, the party sat on the runway at the John Wayne Airport, located fifteen minutes
inland from Landings Beach. Bottles of champagne and appetizers would be served all the way to
Barbados. From there, they’d take a boat to St. Vincent. Garrett stuffed his backpack under the seat
in front of him. He’d decided to dress casual. He packed light but threw his passport into a
backpack.
The jet was taking off. Through an oval window, Garrett watched coastal California from above.
The sparkle of neon from beach club districts and headlights on overpasses of many expressways
with concrete columns caught his eye and then faded under clouds.
Directly in front of him, Bud’s girlfriend moved her shoulders to music coming from the sound
system. She turned around and swung blonde hair across her face. “I’m Cherry. Hello, Garrett
Mackenzie.”
“Cherry Sixkiller?” He knew of her. He was in high school when she’d won beauty contests.
Now she was sliding towards forty, darkly tanned but remained a first-rate bimbo.
She stood and moved to the seat next to his. “Hope you brought your checkbook. You’ll love
this place. Parrots live in palm trees.” She put a hand on his knee. “If you’re out to misbehave, and
you don’t have a better offer, try me.”
“You’re making me right at home.” Garrett managed to fake a smile. “I’m looking forward to
seeing the model. It’s a condominium-and-retail development, right?”
“Yes, Biabou Paradise will be its own little metropolis. You’ll see it at the hotel.” She kissed him
lightly, impetuously, on his lips and then sat back.
“What about boat slips?” He spoke for everyone to hear, glimpsing at Bud as he came down the
aisle.
Bud snapped his fingers tango-style. “It’ll have a marina, private beach, resort pool, pool house
and bar, spa, fitness center, golf course, tennis courts, and walking trails. Please don’t spread this
around. Space is limited.”
“What about the homes? Do you know cost per square foot?” Garrett gazed around the cabin.
Well-dressed travelers stared at him with interest. Close to retirement age, they held flutes and
nibbled on stone crab claws.
“You’ll hear specifics tomorrow. All are two-level town homes, ocean front. This is for phase
one only. Consider yourself lucky, Mr. Mackenzie. You’ll pick from plans that range in size. They
start at a half-mill.” He passed out glossy brochures. “We need twenty percent down when folks sign
with us.”
“How many homes in phase one?”
“Only two hundred. We have a waiting list. Can’t promise that everyone who comes down will
buy.”
Garrett’s mind supplied an answer. “Your corporation will make ten thousand per unit. For two
hundred homes, you’ll take in two million dollars at the handshake stage. What about the
development in St. Lucia? What was the return per investment? Is anyone here from that group?”
Bud jerked to a stop. “Don’t believe so. For the most part, the Santa Barbara elite bought it
out.”
“No repeaters? Do you have names?”
Cherry put a hand to her throat, and her gold bracelets gleamed. “I knew one couple, but they
died. Killed when a barge hit their sailboat. Terrible accident.”
Garrett took a deep swallow of champagne to sooth a growing lump in his throat and welcomed
the warmth.
Bud gave him a black look and put on a cap. Garrett knew why he wore it. The Rogaine wasn’t
working. Bud looked around and began talking with a tightly built guy with a mustache. They leaned
in close. Garrett noticed Bud’s friend was missing a thumb on his right hand. He brought his friend
over. “Garrett, meet Jovanovich.”
The man walked with an upright set of his chest. His flaunting movement reminded Garrett of a
mating bird.
“Your name again?”
“Jovanovich.” His wavy black hair frizzed into graying sideburns, and his nose curved toward his
mustache and a beard-stubbled chin.
“Your name, is it Polish?”
“Croatian. Know where that is?”
“Yes, it’s on the Adriatic. Used to be part of Yugoslavia.”
“You’re a smarty.” The compact man stood over him and grinned down. Nicotine-stained teeth
appeared under his mustache. His eyes were the gray of crankcase oil. “I’ll see you on the boat. Have
more champagne.”
“I’m cutting back.”
Bud opened the entertainment center. The big plasma screen showed golfers teeing off. He’d
watched enough golf to recognize Pebble Beach. If it were at St. Lucia, the sand would be white. He
gazed at the next scene and recognized the
pool complex with a unique rock tower and waterfalls,
hot tub and lush tropical foliage. He’d been to a conference at the Trump Sonesta Resort in Miami
Beach. Its art deco bar and lounge looked dreamy and sophisticated. Garrett said, “Looks very much
like the Lime Bar at the Sonesta.”
The pilot announced that they were landing. Bud stepped over and awakened the dozing Cherry.
She lifted her cheek to be kissed and gathered her fringed, silver leather jacket and carry-on bag.
The jet landed on an airstrip in Barbados adjacent to a seawall, not an official port of entry.
Garrett could see the boat they would take to St. Vincent, about sixty feet of gleaming white muscle
with a long nose. The windshield swept backward, and radar arch thrust forward. The harbor was
tricky at night, Bud was saying. He wanted to top off the tanks. They’d be running at fifty knots.
As he came closer, Garrett heard the grumble of diesel engines and saw two men on board
preparing to cast off. This told him someone had called from the plane to say they were on their
way. A dark-skinned man at the stern held onto a piling to keep the boat secure. A heavy-set
Caribbean on the foredeck loosened the bowline. Bud told everyone to climb aboard. Guests
stepped onto a swim platform and then huffed from exertion as they walked up a platform to go aft.
Like everyone else, Garrett was expected to head for the cabin’s living room, but he purposely
lagged. His watch showed 3:29 A.M. “So this is Biltmore’s boat. I’m disappointed. I thought he
sailed.” He’d assumed.
Jovanovich. Take some of these.”
“Sure, sure.” He was drinking beer now and set a bottle in the holder on the captain’s bench.
They attached cushions and stowed everything below deck. Jovanovich’s dark eyes followed Garrett.
He gave the Croatian a nod. “Coming along for the ride?”
No reply.
Bud swung around the radar arch, jumped into the cockpit, and went for the captain’s seat at the
helm. He stood at the wheel, toggled the bow thruster, and turned the yacht away from the dock. He
pushed the throttle, and water splashed on the hull. Soon, the boat zipped at no-wake speed, and the
shoreline lights of Barbados dimmed.
With a nod toward Bud’s unlikely companion, Garrett said, “Is he here on business?”
“We both work for Biltmore. If you’re staying up, there’s beer in the cooler there. Liquor’s in the
galley. We’ve got meat, cheese, bread. Oh, and pasta salad, made by Cherry. We’ll make one stop for
fuel in Kingstown. That’s on St. Vincent, and then we’ll drive around the cape to Biabou. That’s
where we’ll get off. Go ahead and put your bag below.”
Narrow steps descended to the cabin. Garrett looked behind a curtain and saw a sleeping
compartment with a double bed. Cherry was sprawled out on satin-covered pillows with another
couple. She was giving the woman a back rub with one hand. If the woman fell asleep, the other
might go down the man’s pants.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Come watch a movie if you want.” She had turned on a flat-screen TV bolted to a polished
teak bulkhead.
“No thanks.” He looked around the captain’s quarters. Opposite the compact stove and fridge,
he opened a narrow door and found a compartment with a pump-toilet, sink, and tiny shower. He
carried his backpack to the V-shaped cushioned seating in the bow. He noticed three large suitcases.
Each had a locked buckled strap around it, a lot of luggage for a weekend trip. Several bags of
groceries sat on the counter. The remaining group sprawled everywhere in the huge living space.
Looked like most of them planned to sleep. He didn’t think he could and decided to take his
backpack out with him. Topside, he grabbed a Guinness from the cooler and sat beside Bud rather
than in the back with the unfriendly Croatian. A stiff wind came out of the east.
They sped south, and Bud talked about equipment on the boat, the GPS and satellite dish.
Garrett zoned out and thought of Kitzie’s parents. When they’d put down money for a St. Lucia
property, he wondered if they were close to being broke. He turned sideways and saw that the man
in the back was watching him. The Croatian’s eyes shifted away as he cupped his hands and lit a
cigarette.
Bud stood up. “Garrett, can you take the wheel for a minute? I need to use the head. Keep it
between the channel markers if you see them. Red triangles on your left.” He paused at the cooler
and pulled out a beer. He opened it on the way down the steps.
From the stern, Jovanovich came forward to sit by him. For something to say, Garrett asked
him, “First time in the States?”
“Yes, and I love it here. Love the clubs.”
Garrett could see a groove over his ear. A bullet had creased his skull. “You’re from Croatia.
What city?”
“Dubrovnick. It’s on the coast. I like fishing.”
“There was a war there.”
“A war, always.” Jovanovich aimed his thick pointer finger at Garrett’s head like a gun. “We like
to fight. Like Americans. We get the Muslims.”
“We’re not out to get the Muslims. The war in Yugoslavia is over.”
“Officially, maybe, but never over. We fight another five hundred years.”
“What do you do now?”
“I sell equipment for big trucks. Mr. Biltmore likes them for construction.”
“That’s only if construction takes place. I heard it doesn’t.”
Jovanovich turned on his seat and looked directly at him. “There’s a saying we have. One piece
of dung spoils the pot. Know what? Bud thinks the same thing.” He laid his arm across the back of
his chair and leaned looser.
An hour or more passed before Bud came topside, wearing a jacket. “My turn. We’re getting
close to the marina where we’ll refuel.”
Garrett moved to the cockpit. Jovanovich did the same, taking a corner seat. With the white
caps, the ride in the back was getting rougher. He dropped his backpack in the corner. To keep it
there, he tied it with the stern line. He decided to let Jovanovich experience the bounces alone and
got up.
Garrett was the only one standing when Bud shoved the throttles forward, and the big engine
roared in response. The bow shot up, left the water completely, and then slammed down. It leveled
onto a plane at around fifty miles-per-hour. If Garrett hadn’t grabbed the handhold on the back of
the captain’s bench, he would have been knocked into the water. “You’re an ass, Bud.”
“I’m kidding around, that’s all. See? I’m wet.” Bud’s hat flew off. His beer bottle fell from its
holder and spun on the deck floor. Garrett’s feet left the floor each time the boat dropped from
crest to trough. Jovanovich came up behind him, put an arm around his throat, and lifted quickly.
Garrett gagged, afraid he’d pass out but more afraid, the thug would snap his neck. A second later,
he was going backward, his feet dragging across the deck. The hairy, thick arm had his neck in a
squeeze. Garrett dug his fingers into his arm, thrashed his legs, and felt his chest slam against metal.
He was pushed down an incline and then was conscious of being underwater. Jovanovich’s fist held
the back of his pullover. The boat moved up and down which gave him a chance to breathe. The
waves swirled over his head. Jovanovich let go, but Garrett had a tight grip on the swim platform.
He managed to find a stronger hold with one hand on the brace under the walk-through. The boat
dipped again and again, but he held his breath through each wave. He didn’t dare cough.
Guests from the cabin were screaming and complaining. Someone crawled out and heaved.
“Where the hell is Garrett?” The shrill voice sounded like Cherry’s.
Bud threw the engines into reverse. “Calm down.” He went down below, wanted to get
something to eat, he said. The boat slowed and wallowed drunkenly. The pitch of the engines
increased, but by this time, Garrett was securely lodged on the swim deck.
It was still dark when the boat approached the narrow channel. Bud finally closed in on a
rundown dock, again not a customary entry. Garrett thought of his backpack. He reached an arm
and felt for the rope. The boat dipped slightly, and he tried again. He had the rope, pulled it, and the
backpack dropped. It was halfway in the water when he caught it. He coiled the stern line and
shoved it over the deck. He raised his pack above him and slid into the water, hoping he hadn’t been
seen. Under the dock, he took a dark shape of shadows.
Both Bud and Jovanovich threw lines to an old Vincentian man in an unbuttoned shirt. He
wondered how long they’d tender to the wharf. Bud said, “What did you go and do that for? I just
wanted to scare him.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“Son of a bitch. You can’t tell Biltmore about this.”
Garrett heard clinking of metal, and a lid snapped shut. The gas pump nozzle was pushed back
into place. The Vincentian said, “Five hundred dollars.” In another moment, he felt engine
vibrations and heard water splash at the stern. He moved to shore, went behind lobster traps, got his
bearings and ran.
He looked backward now and then. He stopped running after a quarter of a mile. He shook his
head to rid his ears and throat of seawater. Salt felt encrusted around his eyes. He pulled his wet
sweater over his head and tied it as his waist but kept walking.
He knew he was at the edge of Kingstown. The town was nestled against a steep cliff. The
island’s extreme topography made it beautiful, but he knew about the wet summers and fall
hurricanes. Feisty tropical storms would take away from its pristine perfection. He didn’t know the
layout of the town. He passed marinas and bars in the early morning light. Cinderblock houses,
some painted pink, had tin roofs and chickens in the yards. He walked onto Upper Bay Street, and it
appeared to be a main road with cafés and dive shops. Smelling coffee, he entered a restaurant with
the door open.
“Do you accept U.S. dollars?” he asked.
The dark-skinned counter girl in a colorful dress nodded.
“Coffee, water, and I’ll try that pastry.” There were other good smells, parsley and garlic. He
looked at selections through a refrigerated glass case but they were pig-centric. He wasn’t usually
carniphilic, but the ears, tails, blood, and liver didn’t appeal to him. “Give me the rice and squid
combo, please.” He’d have to tell Louie he’d ordered calamari, island style. He paid for his food,
threw in a couple extra dollars, and went outside. Sitting in a flimsy plastic chair, he pulled out his
cell and phoned Leviticus. It only took an hour to reveal his entire story.
Garrett said, “Grayson Biltmore doesn’t know I’d come. I heard Bud tell Jovanovich not to tell
Biltmore they dumped me in the ocean. Biltmore thinks I’m in Landings Beach.”
“Bud probably thinks Jovanovich is a lunatic. He might have to kill him.” Leviticus exhaled a
held breath. “Keep walking on Upper Bay Street. You’ll find the police station. Might be good to
work with them.”