Bad Monkey

Still, he wasn’t worrying about the tropical storm when the mail boat docked. Françoise could slide north or south, or fizzle to a squall line by the time it touched Andros. Neville was more concerned by what was happening at the family property on Green Beach. He needed a new strategy for halting the construction of Curly Tail Lane, his voodoo scheme having failed. By seducing Christopher’s henchman the Dragon Queen had placed her own lustful urges ahead of her professional commitment to Neville. No crippling curse would be unleashed against the white devil; Christopher would have to be brought down by worldly means.

Neville’s bike was at the airport so he passed on foot through Rocky Town, keeping a wary eye out for Egg. Still bruised from the beating, Neville longed to sleep on a real mattress instead of a boat deck. Among his three girlfriends the one named Joyous owned the softest bed but the hardest attitude. Neville decided he could endure another nagging if the payoff was a good night’s rest. Joyous slept like a stump and seldom snored.

She lived near Victoria Creek, and the walk brought Neville close to the property on Bannister Point where Christopher and the woman were staying. On a whim he left the road and made his way to the shoreline. The wind had swung southeast, pushing white-topped surf. Neville sat down on a coral outcrop with a rear view of the Gibson place. From behind him came a soft rustle in the bushes—two plump lizards humping in the last of daylight.

Neville was thirsty and tired from the slow rolling ride on the mail boat. His chin dropped to his chest and his eyelids closed as he pondered the difficult path he’d chosen. People said he was mad not to walk away from Green Beach and take the money. They laughed about it at the conch shack and called him a simpleton, which stung. By nature Neville wasn’t a troublemaker; just the opposite. Never in his life had he thrown a punch in anger or caused a scene, but here was a fight from which he couldn’t turn away.

What would he ever do as a rich man that he couldn’t do now? Where would he go, and for God’s sake why? He already lived in the loveliest place imaginable and, besides, he didn’t like to fly. That’s why he took the mail boat back from Nassau, seven hours by sea being more tolerable than twenty minutes by air.

Neville couldn’t think of anything to buy with all that dirty wealth. His old bicycle carried him everywhere a car could go, and it didn’t cost six damn dollars a gallon. Nor did he need a new fishing boat. The one he owned ran like a champ; the motor was a Yahama 150, way past warranty, but never had it stranded him, not once. He wondered if something was mentally wrong with him for being content with what he had …

When he opened his eyes, night cloaked the shore. The lights were on inside Christopher’s house. Neville got up from the rock and crept closer, approaching the landscaped edge of the lawn. Music came from speakers on the screened veranda—American rock. Baby, we were born to run! Neville brushed a mosquito from his nose. Through the windows he saw no movement inside the rooms. By an outside wall stood the plastic garbage can from which he’d pilfered the items he’d given to the Dragon Queen for use in her curses.

Something soft brushed against Neville’s legs and he hopped backward. It was a young tabby cat, probably a stray. As he leaned down to pet it, a man spoke from the darkness behind him: “Don’t move, nigger, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

Neville rose slowly and turned. “Don’t do dot please.” The gun pointed at him had a long double barrel.

“Who the hell are you? Why you sneakin’ around here?” Christopher’s face was difficult to see in the shadows though his orange poncho practically cast its own light. It made him appear tall and caped and spirit-like.

“I juss chasin’ offer my cot,” Neville said.

“That’s not your fuckin’ cat.”

“Respeckfully, sir, it looks true like ’im.”

Unfortunately, the tabby wouldn’t play along. It ran off when Neville reached to pick it up. Christopher laughed.

Neville could see the whites of the man’s eyeballs but not his nose or mouth. He perceived that Christopher was wearing a clinging fabric mask similar to what the local bonefish guides used to protect their faces from sunburn.

“Okay, beach nigger, what’s your name?”

“Neville Stafford.”

“Where you from? How old are you?”

“I’m sickty-four.”

“No shit? You’re in pretty good shape for an old fart.”

“Dot I cont say.” Neville wished he was younger and quick enough to grab for the gun. Then he would have pressed the muzzle to the man’s forehead and told him to take his goddamn earthmoving machines back to Florida.

Now all Neville could do was stand still and plead for his life. In his head he said a prayer; then he asked Christopher to please kindly let him go.

“So you wanna make it to your next birthday, is that right?”

“Yah, mon,” said Neville.