American Tropic - By Thomas Sanchez Page 0,8
RACE, followed by a video shot from a helicopter of a race-marker buoy floating at sea. Tied to the pole of the buoy is the blurred image of a man’s body. Everyone in the bar stops talking and turns toward the television just as the blurred image of the dead body flashes off the screen and is replaced with DANDY RANDY FOUND DEAD. WE RESUME REGULAR BROADCAST.
Big jumps from his stool and jabs his finger at the television. “That was my Neptune Bay partner tied to that buoy! What the hell happened?”
Hard sneers. “Randy be gone, good riddance. He grew up on this island sellin’ bad fish to navy wives. In the end he be tryin’ to sell overpriced resort condos to retired military and New York divorcées. Fuck that. His white ass be fish bait now.”
Big swings around with doubled-up fists. He takes aim to punch out Hard’s mouthful of metallic teeth as a wiry woman, Pat, steps in front of him. Pat wears rubber shrimper boots, blue jeans, and a tight T-shirt. She pulls up onto the stool vacated by Big. Wrapped around the bare skin of her left arm are purple tattooed tentacles of a one-eyed octopus. She nails Hard with a mocking smirk. “Don’t be mean about dearly departed Dandy Randy. Show him some respect. That’s not any way to talk about your brother.”
Hard spews out a mouthful of foaming spit. “Dandy don’t be my brother! Dandy be a white cracker boy. My mama never let no rooster wearin’ white socks in her back door. No white chickens be in her yard.”
Pat laughs at Hard. “Your mama should’ve ate whatever rooster was your daddy for giving her a big load of crap like you to haul.”
Zoe pops open a bottle of beer and slides it across the bar counter. “Here you go, Pat, this one’s on the house. Let’s keep the peace.”
Pat grabs the bottle and swigs the beer. She smacks the bottle back down and stares at Hard.
Hard’s angry glare turns into a smile of glinting teeth. “Pat, you be a mean son-of-a-bitch. You should quit shrimpin’ and come workin’ for me. I could use a scrapper like you.”
Pat swipes beer from her sun-hardened lips. “You want me to give up being captain of my own shrimping boat to rig dogfights for you?”
“I be no dogfight gamer. That be a white-devil lie. I be a peaceful man, not like you. Word is you be the number-one killer of leatherback turtles in the Florida Keys.”
“Yeah, Chinese dudes pay a fortune for leatherbacks. They believe leatherbacks can cure everything from cancer to limp dick.”
Hard smirks. “Who you be accusin’ of limp dick? Nothin’ between your legs but eight inches of strap-on stiff rubber.”
Zoe leans in between Pat and Hard. She beams Pat a friendly heads-up. “Honey, you should use turtle excluders on your shrimp nets. If you’re caught slaughtering endangered turtles, they’ll lock you up and throw the key away.”
Pat shakes her head defiantly from side to side. “I got a right to fish anything from the sea. No one can stop me. No feds, no man, no woman. Not even a woman as sexy as you, Zoe, Miss Show My Cute White Ass in Shorts to All the Customers When I’m Bending Over to Get the Beer.”
Big Conch’s eyes go to the television, where the basketball players on the screen are replaced by the image of Luz being interviewed by a reporter. Behind Luz is the Haitian raft filled with dead bodies. Big shouts at Zoe. “Turn the goddamned TV up, for Christ’s sakes!”
Zoe raises the volume. Luz’s steady professional voice fills the room: “They died from hunger and exposure. No indication of foul play. Just a horrendous end for desperate people.”
Pat whistles and calls out to Luz on the screen. “Look at you! You’re a gorgeous star. They should put you in a Hollywood movie. You could be the warden in a woman’s prison.”
Zoe pushes a firm finger against Pat’s lips. “Quiet. Let’s hear what Luz is saying.”
Hard bangs his beer bottle on the counter. “Luz be one black sister can’t be trusted. I hate cops, ’specially colored cops. Be bad for business.”
The outside door to the bar slams open. In the doorway is Hogfish, backlit by a shaft of sunlight. His iPhone earbuds are clamped into his ears. He looks wild-eyed from beneath his long-billed fisherman’s cap and screams in panic: “This world is rigged for hurricanes! El Finito’s coming! I see the eye