wonderful. It’s never been like that before.”
“And you are one very special lady.”
“Then promise me you will come again.”
“Is this a new game of puns?”
And she had laughed softly in the harbor quiet. “Yes. I feel so delicious and wicked. Promise me—you will return tonight.”
“It may be very, very late.”
“I’ll give you a key. Just slide into my bed beside me. Promise?”
“Okay, Dia. I promise. No matter how late. . . . ”
So I raced the little Fiat along the seaside road of Seven Mile Beach toward West Bay. The road narrowed, the Miami Beach–style hotels slowly thinned out and became small island houses. Huge land crabs moved with ghostly precision across the asphalt as my car lights funneled through the darkness.
At a giant bend, the road diverged. Rocks jutted from beneath the brush and undergrowth in the moonswept night. A white sign acknowledged I had arrived:
HELL
I smiled in spite of myself. I always knew this day would come—but I never expected to be at the wheel of a Fiat with thoughts of love fresh in my mind.
Ragged houses lined the road. There were coconut palms in the yards. Windfall mangos added a cloying sweetness to the warm March night.
The club Inferno was a gray-and-white concrete building built on a slab. A dozen cars sat in a jumble upon the shell parking lot. A neon sign in the window promised Red Stripe beer. A handpainted sign at the door warned: Enter at Your Own Risk—It’s Hell Inside.
At least the people of the little Grand Cayman settlement had a sense of humor.
The windows of the club vibrated with music. The jukebox was turned up high. I went through the door into the loud laughter and the haze of cigarette smoke. The record playing was a clatter of steel drums and island voices: Work all day, work all night—daylight come an’ me wanna go home. . . .
Black and mulatto faces turned to stare as I entered. A couple of them nodded their welcome, then went back to their laughter and their conversations.
The Irishman sat at a table by an artificial fireplace. There were photographs of cricket teams on the wall, and a wide-eyed devil mask. Across from him was an older black man with huge shoulders. The black man wore baggy clothes and the kind of sweat-stained hat you see in 1930s detective films.
O’Davis checked his watch as I took a seat. “Bit late, aren’t we, brother MacMorgan? Did ya get waylaid, now?” He cackled at his own joke, and the black man laughed.
“Business, you big ugly Irishman. Strictly business.”
“Ah, course it was. Course it was. Dusky, I’d like ya to meet me neighbor and friend, Mr. Hubbard MacDonnel.”
He had huge hard hands, knobby with labor. “I was askin’ him about the night poor little Cynthia was murdered,” O’Davis said. “Tell Dusky what ya told me, Hubbard.”
Hubbard MacDonnel had a thick Cayman lilt. He was given to wide gestures and an infectious grin. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes—he had pale-blue eyes, evidence of Grand Cayman’s tolerance of all the early sea-blown races which had taken harbor on its shores.
“Didn’ hear much, mon. Not much. An’ ol’ Hubbard don’ miss a trick, neither.” He wiped his mouth with the back of a huge hand, then took a gulp of his Red Stripe. “Heard a car slow, then turn inta Mr. O’Davis’ drive. An’ I thought, ‘Well now, this is very fine. Westy’s gettin’ home early for once, maybe done with all the crazy weekday drinkin’. Kill a mon, it will.’ ”
“And that’s all you heard?”
He shook his big head and smiled. “Ain’t done with the story, see? Then I heard another car comin’. But this don’ sound like Westy’s car. Sound deeper. Bigger engine. This car turn, and I think, ‘That big Irishman, he given up the liquor for a pretty island lady. An’ that worse for a mon than strong drink!’ ” He laughed gaily.
Hubbard MacDonnel finished his beer with another long gulp and gave the
“And you are one very special lady.”
“Then promise me you will come again.”
“Is this a new game of puns?”
And she had laughed softly in the harbor quiet. “Yes. I feel so delicious and wicked. Promise me—you will return tonight.”
“It may be very, very late.”
“I’ll give you a key. Just slide into my bed beside me. Promise?”
“Okay, Dia. I promise. No matter how late. . . . ”
So I raced the little Fiat along the seaside road of Seven Mile Beach toward West Bay. The road narrowed, the Miami Beach–style hotels slowly thinned out and became small island houses. Huge land crabs moved with ghostly precision across the asphalt as my car lights funneled through the darkness.
At a giant bend, the road diverged. Rocks jutted from beneath the brush and undergrowth in the moonswept night. A white sign acknowledged I had arrived:
HELL
I smiled in spite of myself. I always knew this day would come—but I never expected to be at the wheel of a Fiat with thoughts of love fresh in my mind.
Ragged houses lined the road. There were coconut palms in the yards. Windfall mangos added a cloying sweetness to the warm March night.
The club Inferno was a gray-and-white concrete building built on a slab. A dozen cars sat in a jumble upon the shell parking lot. A neon sign in the window promised Red Stripe beer. A handpainted sign at the door warned: Enter at Your Own Risk—It’s Hell Inside.
At least the people of the little Grand Cayman settlement had a sense of humor.
The windows of the club vibrated with music. The jukebox was turned up high. I went through the door into the loud laughter and the haze of cigarette smoke. The record playing was a clatter of steel drums and island voices: Work all day, work all night—daylight come an’ me wanna go home. . . .
Black and mulatto faces turned to stare as I entered. A couple of them nodded their welcome, then went back to their laughter and their conversations.
The Irishman sat at a table by an artificial fireplace. There were photographs of cricket teams on the wall, and a wide-eyed devil mask. Across from him was an older black man with huge shoulders. The black man wore baggy clothes and the kind of sweat-stained hat you see in 1930s detective films.
O’Davis checked his watch as I took a seat. “Bit late, aren’t we, brother MacMorgan? Did ya get waylaid, now?” He cackled at his own joke, and the black man laughed.
“Business, you big ugly Irishman. Strictly business.”
“Ah, course it was. Course it was. Dusky, I’d like ya to meet me neighbor and friend, Mr. Hubbard MacDonnel.”
He had huge hard hands, knobby with labor. “I was askin’ him about the night poor little Cynthia was murdered,” O’Davis said. “Tell Dusky what ya told me, Hubbard.”
Hubbard MacDonnel had a thick Cayman lilt. He was given to wide gestures and an infectious grin. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes—he had pale-blue eyes, evidence of Grand Cayman’s tolerance of all the early sea-blown races which had taken harbor on its shores.
“Didn’ hear much, mon. Not much. An’ ol’ Hubbard don’ miss a trick, neither.” He wiped his mouth with the back of a huge hand, then took a gulp of his Red Stripe. “Heard a car slow, then turn inta Mr. O’Davis’ drive. An’ I thought, ‘Well now, this is very fine. Westy’s gettin’ home early for once, maybe done with all the crazy weekday drinkin’. Kill a mon, it will.’ ”
“And that’s all you heard?”
He shook his big head and smiled. “Ain’t done with the story, see? Then I heard another car comin’. But this don’ sound like Westy’s car. Sound deeper. Bigger engine. This car turn, and I think, ‘That big Irishman, he given up the liquor for a pretty island lady. An’ that worse for a mon than strong drink!’ ” He laughed gaily.
Hubbard MacDonnel finished his beer with another long gulp and gave the
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