squabbling.
Which was pretty much what Lex had intended.
T HEY DROVE IN just the one car, Lex’s, to where Wilberforce’s seaplane was berthed, and during the journey nobody spoke, apart from Wilberforce making the occasional aside about how Lex was a sick man, a sick, sick man, and should go and see a therapist to get his depraved brain fixed.
Lex grinned to himself, enjoying the blissful reprieve from the cousins’ seemingly constant antagonism. He watched the island’s verdant scenery pass by, and even hummed a tune under his breath.
Wilberforce’s De Havilland Canada DHC-2T Turbo Beaver had been elderly when he’d bought it, and during his years of regular flying he had done little in the way of maintenance beyond the bare minimum necessary to keep the plane from plummeting out of the sky. It now resided at a boatyard situated a few hundred metres inland on a broad river inlet. The boatyard owner was a mechanic, Virgil Johnson, to whom Wilberforce paid a peppercorn berthing rent, supplemented by free drinks at the rum shack every Monday. This wasn’t an absolute bargain, since Virgil could consume his own bodyweight in booze on any given night, but it still worked out cheaper than the fees for a slip at the marina at Port Sebastian.
“There she is, the old girl,” Wilberforce said, springing from the Subaru. “Looking lovely as ever.”
In fact, to anyone not as fond of it as Wilberforce was, the Turbo Beaver looked dilapidated and forlorn. The paintwork on the fuselage and tailfin was peeling, the wing struts bore an alarming amount of rust at the welds, and there was even the odd barnacle clinging to the floats. The plane bobbed at its mooring, riding up and down on the gentle river wavelets with the air of a retiree in a rest home dozing off in a rocking chair while musing on the good old days. Alongside it, a handful of motorboats and small fishing vessels sat in various states of disrepair and decay.
At one time, the Turbo Beaver had shuttled back and forth as industriously as its namesake between Manzanilla and Haiti, Manzanilla and the Turks and Caicos, Manzanilla and Jamaica, even Manzanilla and Cuba. Propelled by its single Pratt and Whitney PT6A-27 turboprop engine, the seaplane had lunged through clear air and the occasional thunderstorm, transporting passengers, delivering parcels, and picking up luxury items for resale. Havana cigars had been a nice little earner for Wilberforce, and fresh spices even more so. The mail boat to Manzanilla would put in only once a week, whereas Wilberforce had been able to get certain items of perishable produce to your kitchen table almost on the day they were picked. Bundles of marijuana had found their way into his cargo hold from time to time, but the vast majority of his trade had been legitimate.
Then had come the boom time for the island, and with it the construction of the airport. Virtually overnight Wilberforce’s business had evaporated, as commercial air haulage carriers began freighting goods and people in and out of Manzanilla, offering a much cheaper and more reliable service. Puddle Jumper had had to be put out to pasture and Wilberforce had been obliged to seek a new revenue stream. The seaplane could still be chartered for sightseeing tours if anyone was so inclined, but there was a company in Port Sebastian offering helicopter rides around the island, and its Eurocopter AS350 Ecureuil was faster, more exciting, and in considerably better shape than Puddle Jumper .
Virgil Johnson emerged from the corrugated-iron shed that doubled as both workshop and office. He was a tubby, froglike man with greying dreadlocks and a faded Evinrude T-shirt stretched tight as a drum skin over his pot belly. He was simultaneously wiping his grease-covered hands on a rag and talking into a mobile phone crooked between shoulder and ear.
“...yeah, better go now,” he said. “That’s right. So we’re cool? Yeah, same here. It’s good, man. It’s
Which was pretty much what Lex had intended.
T HEY DROVE IN just the one car, Lex’s, to where Wilberforce’s seaplane was berthed, and during the journey nobody spoke, apart from Wilberforce making the occasional aside about how Lex was a sick man, a sick, sick man, and should go and see a therapist to get his depraved brain fixed.
Lex grinned to himself, enjoying the blissful reprieve from the cousins’ seemingly constant antagonism. He watched the island’s verdant scenery pass by, and even hummed a tune under his breath.
Wilberforce’s De Havilland Canada DHC-2T Turbo Beaver had been elderly when he’d bought it, and during his years of regular flying he had done little in the way of maintenance beyond the bare minimum necessary to keep the plane from plummeting out of the sky. It now resided at a boatyard situated a few hundred metres inland on a broad river inlet. The boatyard owner was a mechanic, Virgil Johnson, to whom Wilberforce paid a peppercorn berthing rent, supplemented by free drinks at the rum shack every Monday. This wasn’t an absolute bargain, since Virgil could consume his own bodyweight in booze on any given night, but it still worked out cheaper than the fees for a slip at the marina at Port Sebastian.
“There she is, the old girl,” Wilberforce said, springing from the Subaru. “Looking lovely as ever.”
In fact, to anyone not as fond of it as Wilberforce was, the Turbo Beaver looked dilapidated and forlorn. The paintwork on the fuselage and tailfin was peeling, the wing struts bore an alarming amount of rust at the welds, and there was even the odd barnacle clinging to the floats. The plane bobbed at its mooring, riding up and down on the gentle river wavelets with the air of a retiree in a rest home dozing off in a rocking chair while musing on the good old days. Alongside it, a handful of motorboats and small fishing vessels sat in various states of disrepair and decay.
At one time, the Turbo Beaver had shuttled back and forth as industriously as its namesake between Manzanilla and Haiti, Manzanilla and the Turks and Caicos, Manzanilla and Jamaica, even Manzanilla and Cuba. Propelled by its single Pratt and Whitney PT6A-27 turboprop engine, the seaplane had lunged through clear air and the occasional thunderstorm, transporting passengers, delivering parcels, and picking up luxury items for resale. Havana cigars had been a nice little earner for Wilberforce, and fresh spices even more so. The mail boat to Manzanilla would put in only once a week, whereas Wilberforce had been able to get certain items of perishable produce to your kitchen table almost on the day they were picked. Bundles of marijuana had found their way into his cargo hold from time to time, but the vast majority of his trade had been legitimate.
Then had come the boom time for the island, and with it the construction of the airport. Virtually overnight Wilberforce’s business had evaporated, as commercial air haulage carriers began freighting goods and people in and out of Manzanilla, offering a much cheaper and more reliable service. Puddle Jumper had had to be put out to pasture and Wilberforce had been obliged to seek a new revenue stream. The seaplane could still be chartered for sightseeing tours if anyone was so inclined, but there was a company in Port Sebastian offering helicopter rides around the island, and its Eurocopter AS350 Ecureuil was faster, more exciting, and in considerably better shape than Puddle Jumper .
Virgil Johnson emerged from the corrugated-iron shed that doubled as both workshop and office. He was a tubby, froglike man with greying dreadlocks and a faded Evinrude T-shirt stretched tight as a drum skin over his pot belly. He was simultaneously wiping his grease-covered hands on a rag and talking into a mobile phone crooked between shoulder and ear.
“...yeah, better go now,” he said. “That’s right. So we’re cool? Yeah, same here. It’s good, man. It’s
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