Tony leaned back and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “The license could take months.”
“Assuming we cut a deal, I’ll want to sign everything possible before I leave on Friday. You can handle any remaining details later. I’ll wire the money.”
Tony shook his head, but Els caught that broker’s glint in his eye. She fished out a business card and scribbled the phone number at her flat. “And do inquire about that citizenship.”
He studied the card before sticking it into a clip on the visor. “You’ll hear from me.”
“My breath is bated,” she said.
The same fisherman had been on the Resort beach the previous afternoon, following the pelicans and scanning the shallows where they dove. His cast net dangled like a crinoline from his hand, the hem weighted all around with leaden teardrops. His dark skin was grayed with dried salt, his back broad, his legs bowed.
He stood thigh deep and peered into the water. A minute, two. When he swung his arm in a wide arc, the net sailed and landed in a perfect circle. He tugged the mesh closed, lifted it from the water, and carried it back to shore as tenderly as a small child. The low sun glinted on flashes of silver caught in its folds when he shook the catch into his bucket.
Els took out her camera and stood up. “Toss that again.”
He looked at her. “Five dollars. US.”
“You’re joking.”
“Local color ain’t free.” He slung the net over his shoulder. “It take years scraping for a livin’ to make me this pictureful.”
She lowered her camera and squinted at him. “Cheeky bugger.”
He stared back, then smiled, a broad, generous grin. “Damn right.” He moved a few feet away, cast another perfect circle, and let the net sink. She could have sworn he was posing.
After bringing in his last catch, the fisherman gathered up his gear and sat on a chaise at the end of the long rank. Tybee, the attendant whose job it was to adjust Els’s umbrella, spritz her with spring water, and bring her drinks, dropped an armload of used towels and hurried to the foot of the fisherman’s chaise.
“I should ’a guess this a you sorry ass again,” he said, arms akimbo. He cut his eyes in Els’s direction. She pretended to read. “Move along, man. The chairs for the guests dem.”
“If you think there is one local that doan know the Resort policy on these fuckin’ chairs,” the fisherman said, “you even more chupit dan people say.”
Tybee responded in rapid-fire dialect; all Els could understand was, “Don’t interfere with me.” Tybee’s head was shaven; his stud earring sparkled.
“Where all you guests, anyway,” the fisherman said. “Havin’ a cocktail whilst you pick up they laundry?”
“I na kay wha’ you say. I done with fishin’,” Tybee said. “This job make more in a week dan you make in a month haulin’ dem stinkin’ pots.”
“At least me ain’ wukking fuh no white man.”
“Zat true? Who you sellin’ them fish to?”
“De white man my customer, fool, not my boss.”
“You got to go. Now.” Tybee grabbed the fisherman’s arm and pulled him off the chair.
“Tybee, something wrong?” a man called from the water sports pavilion.
Tybee glanced at Els. “I got it, Boss,” he called back, then said in a low voice, “Doan mess me up, man.”
Els stood up and walked over to them. “Tybee, would you be kind enough to bring sparkling water for me and my guest?”
Tybee hesitated.
“You heard me,” Els said.
Tybee looked from her to the fisherman, then started toward the drinks kiosk. The fisherman sat down again and called after him, “Hey, Mr. Clean, ask the lady if she want you picture in you pressy uniform. Or maybe you make a better souvenir when you was haulin’ them pots.”
Els sat on the chaise next to the fisherman’s.
“What you want with me, miss?” he asked.
“I want to know how living here is for you.”
“You mean outside the gates a’ this little paradise? You best ask a real local. I’m Anguillan. Been here only twenty-three years.”
“That’s local enough,” she said. “How is the economy, from your perspective? Is the government competent?”
Tybee arrived with a tray. He poured a Perrier and handed it to Els, then set the tray down on the table between the chaises. “Watch that mouth a’ yours, Uncle,” he said, and walked away.
Els handed her glass to the fisherman and poured the other for herself. “A relative?”
“Uncle and Auntie are terms of respect for you elders, but never coming from him,”