Off Season
By David Grace
Hildago opened the worn gate in the Blue Bell's
port side and extended the ramp. Today eight people, not counting
With a perfect economy of
motion Cox raised a pair of miniature binoculars and studied the last two travelers as they walked down the ramp. The first was white
man in his middle thirties dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt, tan slacks and polished brown loafers. A gold pen was clipped in
his shirt pocket and he carried a soft brown leather suitcase in his left hand.
Businessman, Cox decided. Probably has some scheme
to build a hotel and lure the tourists away from St. Kitts or
When the last visitor slid into the binoculars’ field of view, Cox's ebony forehead
wrinkled in confusion. Winston Cox prided himself on his ability to identify people by their dress and appearance. Such a skill was
vital since Cox considered the citizens and occasional visitors to St. Crispins as innocents under his protection. He viewed himself
as akin to a sheep dog bred and trained to ward off wolves and was convinced that he had been blessed with a sixth sense that allowed
him to recognize carnivores in all their guises. The last man on the dock, however, presented a confusion of signals.
His skin reflected
a mixture of races whose origins and composition were muddied and unclear. Basically Caucasian, it held hints of both Red Indian and
far
The man's hair, too, was neither brown nor black but some color in between, combed straight back, unparted, but, when he lifted
his hat, Cox saw that it was waved like Chimago Bay in the morning breeze.
Cox re-focused the binoculars, and though his eyesight
was as perfect as his gleaming teeth, he found himself squinting at the crescent of face beneath the blue slouch hat. Twenty five?
No, a wrinkle here, a sag there, surely too young. Fifty? But look at his step, the lithe movement of his hips. Not past forty-five
certainly.
Even the visitor's clothing confused Cox as if each piece had been randomly collected from the closets of a host of men.
The Nike sneakers belonged on the feet of a college boy or an athlete. The khaki shorts and long white socks a mirror of Cox's own
dress. But from the belt up! A crimson t-shirt with the picture of a green-leafed palm on the back, and on the front a pocket with
a notepad and ballpoint pen all topped by a pale blue, soft brimmed cotton hat which the man periodically removed to wipe his brow.
Cox admitted that he was stumped. Tourist, student, beach bum, businessman, college professor, adventurer, drug smuggler -- the stranger
could be any of these or none.
Cox slipped the tiny binoculars into his pocket, adjusted his black-brimmed cap to its regulation angle,
and assumed a measured pace through the hotel. He waited just inside the lobby doors, expecting the stranger to enter and book a room.
Glancing casually left and right down Blythe's main street, the man maintained an air of polite indifference and walked past Porter's
Hotel, the Harmony Bakery and Cecilia's Restaurant without slowing.
Winston adjusted his perfectly pressed olive uniform shirt with
the red shoulder patches and piping at the top of each pocket, checked the rubber coated extensible steel baton at his belt, the whistle
hanging on the black nylon cord around his neck, then exited the lobby and sauntered up High Street a hundred feet behind his quarry.
In
the thick afternoon light the colors of the buildings deepened, Edwards' Marine Supplies and Chandlery almost fluorescing a deep royal
blue, Cecilia's Restaurant brick red. The hotel's white walls were made even more intense by the forest green trim around the windows
and doors. Apparently oblivious to it all the stranger continued to the end of the block, then turned right on Queen's Drive. Halfway
down the block he entered the Royal Island Realty. Involuntarily, Winston frowned.
Harold Carver, a meaty, broad-shouldered conniver,
owned Royal Island Realty and despite Winston's careful attention, Carver had managed to remain at least two steps ahead of the Lieutenant's
grasp. Crossing the street, Winston ducked into
"Lieutenant?"
"Afternoon,
Confused, Shaw shrugged and waved at the pane. "Sure, the view's free. Help yourself."
For
ten minutes Cox stood at the edge of the window, half sheltered by the large red script words 'Barber Shop' painted on the glass.
Then the stranger appeared with Harold Carver right behind him. Carver led the man to his gleaming Honda Accord parked at the curb.
Having imported the Honda at huge expense, Carver paid a boy to wash and polish it twice a week until its deep blue surface glowed
like an immense Faberge egg.
"Corporal Stanley, pick me up at
"Where are we going, sir?"
"Head out Queen's Drive. Harold Carver's taking a visitor someplace and I want to know where."
"Yes, sir!"
"Keep
it under forty, Corporal. I don't want them to know we're watching."
"Yes, sir," a dejected
Inwardly Cox smiled, though no trace of humor reached
his placid, pitch-black face. A quick flick of his eyes confirmed his suspicions. Shoulders hunched forward, both hands tightly gripping
the wheel,
"That's close enough, Corporal. The island's not so big that
he's likely to lose us."
Frowning sourly,
"Nothing
down there but the old Mayhew place,"
"I'll go on foot.
Pull the car around the next bend and wait for me."
"I'd be happy to come along, sir, in case there's trouble."
Three months ago the
Big Box had announced a give-away of DVD's of the first season of something called Miami Vice to purchasers of the first one hundred
a new DVD/32 inch TV combination.
"Thank
you, Corporal, but I'm sure I'll be fine. Just make sure Carver doesn't spot the car."
Cox jogged down the gravel road as it first
cut through scrub palmettos then wound between dunes and dove for the beach. The Lieutenant paused at the edge of the last dune and
swept his glasses over the cove. A single story house was perched three feet above the sand, open on all sides save for the sliding
windows and screens. Quite small, it had belonged to a retired British Army Colonel from
Through the screens Cox could see Carver giving the stranger a tour, obviously
pointing out the supposed advantages of the little retreat. Cox jogged back to his car and ordered
"A decisive man, Corporal," Cox said as they watched the Jeep's taillights disappear into
the darkness.
"I could stake the place out, sir,"
"Thank you, Corporal, but I don't think that will be necessary."
"You
think he's all right, then, sir?"
"All right? No, Corporal, I don't think he's all right, not right at all."
* * *
For the next few days Cox kept his distance, allowing the stranger to grow complacent. Finally, when
almost a week had passed, Cox contrived to bump into the man at Jenny's Grocery and General Emporium. Today, wearing a blue and red
patterned short-sleeved shirt with a button down collar, cut-off jeans, white socks and sandals, the visitor was perusing the tinned
foods when Winston walked by.
"Excuse me," Cox said politely, reaching for a can of Spam, then pausing as if noticing the stranger
for the first time. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Winston Cox." Cox extended his huge right hand.
"Vinge Moreau," the stranger
replied. "Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant."
Cox suppressed a small jolt of surprise that the man knew who he was.
"Are you enjoying
Saint Crispins, Mr. Moreau? Finding everything you need?"
"Oh, getting on quite well, thank you." Moreau smiled politely but volunteered
no further information.
"We're quite informal here but if you intend to stay longer then three months you'll need to stop by Government
House and have your passport stamped and fill out a form."
"Thank you. Every place has its own system." Moreau glanced politely at
the shelf of canned goods.
"If you think you'll be here that long, I'd be happy to walk you over there right now and take care of you
myself, if it would be convenient."
"That's very kind of you, Lieutenant, but I have a few things to do today. I'll be sure to stop
by Government House long before three months have gone by."
"So, you'll be staying with us for a while then?"
Moreau shrugged as if
his future were as much a mystery to himself as it was to Cox. Turning away, Moreau picked up a can of corned beef and peered intently
at the list of ingredients.
"May I ask you," Cox continued in a friendly tone, "where you are from? I pride myself on my ability to
identify a person's background but you're something of a challenge."
"Really? I feel quite ordinary myself, as lacking in mystery as
that can of Spam."
"You do yourself a disservice. So, you are from . . . ?"
"Where do you think?" Moreau asked with a polite smile.
Moreau?
French? No, too easy. American? No, something about that didn't quite fit. "
"My dear fellow, you're a wonder.
"A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Moreau," Cox said finally.
"The pleasure was all mine, Lieutenant." Moreau plucked
a tin of salmon from the shelf and wandered away.
* * *
For the next three
weeks, life on St. Crispins droned along at its normal relaxed pace. Two cane cutters got drunk and borrowed the foreman's truck and
were promptly arrested then released into their employer's custody until the end of the season. Cox and his men dealt with their usual
ration of fist fights, a stolen bicycle, and the other petty crimes and misdemeanors common to the island. In addition to their normal
duties, from time to time Cox randomly assigned one of his men to keep a careful but distant eye on Vinge Moreau.