have to sacrifice one thing to make another thing right.”
“Why’d he do it anyway?” The Kid wonders. “I thought you said he was a serious collector, Mo.”
“My guess is, Roger’s salvage people were just amateurs, using explosives to get at the artifacts before everybody else. So his precious private collection would stay intact.”
I can’t get Butch to elaborate on his “sacrifice” comment. It pains me to mistrust my long time friend, but I’m beginning to wonder if he’s in bed with the devil too.
“We better tell all this to D. L., as soon as possible,” I say. I try repeatedly to raise him on the radio as we drive back to the dock, he doesn’t answer. Knowing what a ham-hound the old man is, this is a worrisome development.
**********
It’s almost dark by the time I get to Thiona's shack, which she inherited from Fiona after her sister’s sudden marriage. I find her lounging on a sagging sofa, painting her nails carmine red. She allows she has not heard from Fiona, but doesn't seem concerned.
"Sister just need some air," Thiona explains.
Thiona's roommate is frying fish, adding to the generally rancid atmosphere of inferior housekeeping and poor air circulation. The flowered curtains on the small screen-less windows hang motionless, the oppressive early evening heat has settled upon the island like a fat, sweaty guy sinking into a barco-lounger.
"Well, do you at least have a theory about where she went?" I pursue.
Thiona sighs, hunches her shoulders. "How should I know? Girl has a mind of her own."
"Shouldn't we go look for her?"
Thiona inspects her just-finished nails. "Soon as these dry," she says, blowing on them. "I know some places she might be at. You got any money?"
"A little," I say resignedly. I decline the greasy fish, which Thiona and her friend snark down with much enthusiasm and loud, gossipy talk. I drink some iced tea, watch a Spanish novella on T.V. The characters’ exaggerated scenarios somehow don't seem unnatural. Around here – we are all players in a twisted, grossly over-acted soap opera.
Tuggy arrives in his grinding, backfiring wagon. We spend a couple of hours stopping by various houses, stores, domino games and juke joints. At each stop, Thiona carries on a loud, animated conversation with whoever is there until I literally drag her away. Somehow these back-alley bungalows don't seem like classy Fiona's stomping ground, and I begin to suspect that Thiona is just passing time, enjoying herself.
Somewhere along the way Tuggy buys a bottle of Mount Gay, the two of them pass it back and forth. Every time we hit a pothole, we bounce up and hit the roof, the drink spills all over us. Soon the whole car smells like a rum factory.
We wind up at the Saltraker Inn, where "curry night" is in full swing. The inn's British owner, Kenney, prides himself on his grilled chicken with homemade curry sauce, served with bowls of pineapple, coconut, peanuts and raisins. I assume that our arrival will stir things up, with Butch playing guitar here, but I also want to see what happens. Thiona hasn't been willing to say anything about him all afternoon, except an arrogant, nose-upturned: "He is nothing to me," in answer to every inquiry.
Butch is on the makeshift stage, singing an original song called "Turks Island Blues", about a frustrated guitar player stuck on a small dry island working as a divemaster. It is pitifully autobiographical, we regulars have heard it countless times.
Guicho is sitting at the bar drinking rum with Sir Houseman, Thiona and I join them. "Madame Mojo. You look rrrrrravishing this evening," Houseman says, seizing my ultra-reluctant hand.
"Thank you, Sir Houseman," I say. "Guicho. What the hell are you still doing here?”
Guicho looks for an answer in his drink, doesn’t find one. “I donno, just wanted to catch up with my buddy Houseman. Don’t we have anything to shoot tomorrow?”
“Not you,” I say. “You quit this job. Remember? And even if you don’t want to quit, you’re fired. The Kid and I can handle everything from here.”
Guicho gives me a hard look, gets up to leave.
“I say, this is an unfortunate turn of events!" Sir Houseman exclaims, leaning in close, his eyeballs bulging out so far from his face I cannot believe they don't pop out and float in his rum glass like bloody corks.
"Not so tough," I say, backing away a little. “I don’t need him. He can do what he wants around here. He’s cut off.”
"Speaking of cut off, where is Sir