Baja Florida by Bob Morris Page B

believe in wisdom defeating ignorance, love conquering hate, good winning out over evil, some beauty being just skin deep and some ugly going all the way to the bone. I believe in skies of blue, clouds of white, bright blessed days, and dark sacred nights.”
    â€œMr. Louis Armstrong.”
    â€œYeah, I believe in him, too.”
    Boggy put a hand on my shoulder.
    â€œThat’s a start,” he said.

18
    The Sarah Mitchell pulled up to the ferry dock in New Plymouth, Green Turtle’s only town and as charming a place as you could hope to find in the Bahamas. Yet another Loyalist community, with its roots in the 1780s, it still had the narrow streets and tabby walls and pastel buildings that hearkened to that era, although few of the structures dated back much more than a hundred years. Numerous fires and hurricanes had seen to that.
    We had at least another hour before the Trifecta arrived, so Boggy and I walked around.
    We passed half a dozen churches, an elementary school where kids were playing dodgeball on the playground, a couple of cemeteries, five places that rented golf carts to tourists, the Alton Lowe Museum, four restaurants, three grocery stores, two hardware stores, a bank that was open only on Tuesday and Friday afternoons, and the Plymouth Rock liquor store, which was notable for the fact that it also served chicken souse for breakfast and sold real estate, your basic full-service establishment.
    We walked out on Government Dock and took in the view. A group of young boys were jumping off the end of the dock, turning flips on the way down. A group of young girls were pretending not to watch, giggling among themselves.
    Boats were tied off at mooring buoys just inside the harbor. Nice boats. Cruisers and charters like the Trifecta . When it finally arrived this was where it would be.
    We walked around some more and wound up where everyone who visits New Plymouth eventually winds up—Miss Emily’s Blue Bee Bar. The sign outside proudly proclaimed it the “Original Home of the Goombay Smash.”
    Emily Cooper passed away years ago and, being a good Christian woman, swore she never tasted the concoction that launched a zillion hangovers. The secret recipe resided with her daughter Violet. She was behind the bar.
    â€œHello, dahlin’,” Violet said. “Haven’t seen you here in too long now. Where you been keeping yourself?”
    She gave me a hug. She gave Boggy one, too. We did some catching up.
    Violet poured us each a plastic cup of the house specialty. Even with all the fruit juice and the froufrou, the rum, which there were three kinds of, went directly to that part of the prefrontal cortex that elevates higher thinking.
    We found a table and sat down.
    I got out my cell phone. I’d forgotten to charge it the night before. It was running low on juice and I was keeping it turned off unless I really needed it. Plus, roaming fees in the Bahamas are brutal.
    I switched on the phone and was rewarded with an assortment of beeps and blips that let me know I was way behind on the human contact front.
    A message from Mickey Ryser saying I should give him a call. A message from Barbara saying I should give her a call, too. I was still sorting through all the messages when the screen lit up with an incoming call and I clicked over to that.
    A man’s voice…
    â€œZack Chasteen?”
    â€œYou got me.”
    â€œAbel Delgado. You called?”
    â€œI did. We need to talk.”
    â€œSo talk.”
    â€œFace-to-face, Delgado. Where are you?”
    â€œListen, Chasteen, I already know about you. I talked to my wife. She said you’d bothered her.”
    â€œI paid your wife a visit, Delgado. I did not bother her. And I don’t believe she would tell you otherwise.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    â€œTell you the truth, if she was bothered by anyone it was you.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that?”
    â€œJust a personal observation,”