Angels in Heaven

Republicans,
aluminum door salesmen, and animal psychologists. I did once see in his
apartment a copy of the maestro Capablanca’s slim treatise on chess opening
moves, but I figured that he’d just left it lying around to try to frighten me.
    About five miles long and a mile
wide, Benny informed us, the island did unfortunately not get its name because
it was crammed with tropical beauties with lustrous black hair and wearing
nothing above the waist but a hibiscus behind one ear; it got its name because
the Spaniard who first landed there circa 1500 spotted large statues of Mayan
goddesses on the coastal headlands. Now not even their ruins remain.
    The island was nice and laid back and
funky and cheap not so long ago, he said, as the playful evening breeze toyed
with my curls and the captain cut back the engine for our docking, but after
we’d landed and were strolling through the main business section toward the
Hotel Rocamar, where Benny usually stayed, it became apparent that the isla was moving upmarket and fast. The cobblestoned streets were lined with schlock
shops and souvenir shops and T-shirt emporiums and boutiques, and there was
even a pizzeria with a small veranda outside, where Doris and I gratefully and
thirstily plumped ourselves while Benny disappeared inside to have a word with
the management.
    What he wanted a word about was Big
Jeff. When, on the high seas, I’d voiced my fears about what we would do if Big
Jeff wasn’t on the island but still up north playing Ahab with the great white
cod, Benny’d told me not to worry. Big Jeff was almost certainly around because
the last time Benny’d seen him he’d just bought a half interest in the island’s
one pizzeria (in front of which me and Doris were sitting waiting for a garçon),
and he’d also bought a house down near Garrafón, in the southern part of the
island, where the coral reef and good scuba diving were. Anyway, Benny figured
we could track down Cap’n Dan without Big Jeff if we had to but that it might
take a while.
    Benny returned at the same time the
waitress showed up; after she’d shuffled off to get our refreshments, Benny
told us he had found out that Big Jeff (a) was on the island, (b) would be in
later that night, and that (c) we could probably catch him earlier during happy
hour downing a few at his customary table up at the Hotel Rocamar.
    The Rocamar turned out to be full,
although it was supposed to be off season, so we moseyed a couple of hundred
yards along to the Caribe and were soon installed in three spacious rooms on
the first floor overlooking the pool. And soon after that, as there was still
an hour of sun and it was still hot, although we were into late afternoon by
then, we installed ourselves on the small sandy beach in front of the hotel,
accompanied by an ample supply of beer from the snack bar, and watched the
rollers finish their long journey across the Caribbean Sea with a gentle
lapping over our outstretched limbs. Doris, I couldn’t help noticing, was
wearing a new beach ensemble (paid for by guess who), and a new sun hat that
had First Mate written on it.
    A blessedly tranquil half an hour
passed.
    I tried not to feel too guilty too
often about my being there by the briny and Billy being there in the brig—that
way lay madness. I was doing all I could as fast as I could do it, but still ...
    “The last time I was on a beach like
this I was with Evonne,” I offered finally, breaking the long silence. “The
waves were rolling in over our legs like they are now, and I gave her a big
smooch just like Burt Lancaster did to What’s-her-name in whatever that movie
was.”
    “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking
about even if I knew,” Doris said, rousing herself sufficiently to sprinkle a
handful of sand on my muscular torso.
    “ The Naked and the Dead, stupe,” I said. “By John Jones.”
    “ From Here to Eternity,” Benny
said from beside us without opening his eyes. “By James Jones.”
    “Yeah, right,” I said. “Anyway, it
was all about the last days in Hawaii before the Japs attacked on Sunday,
December 7, 1941.”
    “You probably remember it well,” she
said, flipping a broken seashell so it landed right on my you know what.
Luckily it only weighed a pound or two. I looked around for something damp and
nasty to tuck down inside her bikini bottoms, but there was nothing within
reach.
    After another long pause Doris said, “I like Evonne.”
    “Me too,” I said.
    “Me