Hot Ice

his arms felt like rubber and his palms burned. Not when young Jacques was still bopping with the beat, looking as though he could row until midnight without slackening pace.
    “It’ll be dark soon,” was all he said.
    “Okay.” Jacques’s lean, limber muscles rippled as he stroked. “We’ll find an A-Number-One campsite.” He turned his shy smile on Whitney. “You should rest,” he told her. “Long day on the water.”
    Mumbling under his breath, Doug rowed toward shore.
    Jacques wouldn’t allow her to carry a pack. Hefting hers and his sack, he entrusted her with his stereo. Single file, they walked into the forest where the light was rose-colored, touched with mauve. Birds they couldn’t see sang to the darkening sky. Leaves shimmered green, damp with the moisture that was always present. Now and then Jacques would stop and hack at vines and bamboo with a small sickle. The scent was rich: vegetation, water, flowers—flowers that climbed through vines and burst through bush. She’d never seen so many colors in one place, nor had she expected to. Insects hovered, humming and whining in the twilight. On a frantic rustle of leaves a heron rose out of the bush and glided toward the canal. The forest was hot, wet, and close and had all the tastes of the exotic.
    They set up camp to the tunes of Springsteen’s Born in the USA.
    By the time they had a fire started and coffee heating, Doug found something to be cheerful about. Out of Jacques’s sack came a few small containers of spice, two lemons, and the rest of the carefully wrapped fish. With them, he found two packs of Marlboros. At the moment, they meant nothing compared with the other loot.
    “At last.” He held a container that smelled something like sweet basil up to his nose. “A meal with style.” He might have been sitting on the ground, surrounded by thick vines and insects just beginning to bite, but he liked the challenge. He’d eaten with the best of them, in the kitchens and under chandeliers. Tonight would be no different. Breaking out the cooking utensils, he prepared to enjoy himself.
    “Doug’s quite the gourmand,” Whitney told Jacques. “I’m afraid we’ve had to make do with what’s been available so far. It hasn’t been easy for him.” Then she sniffed the air. Mouth watering, she turned to see him sautéing the fish over the fire. “Douglas.” His name came out on a sultry breath. “I think I’m in love.”
    “Yeah.” Eyes intense, hands firm, he gave the fish an expert flick. “That’s what they all say, sugar.”
    That night the three of them slept deeply, replete with rich food, plum wine, and rock and roll.
    When the dark sedan pulled into the small seaside town an hour past dawn, it drew quite a crowd. In charge, impatient, and out of sorts, Remo stepped out and brushed through a huddle of children. Having the instinct of the young and the vulnerable, they made way for him. With a jerk of his head, he signaled the two other men to follow.
    They didn’t deliberately try to look out of place. If they’d come into town on mules, dressed in lambas, they’d still have looked like hoods. The way they’d lived, the way they intended to live—badly—oozed through their pores.
    The townspeople, though inherently wary of strangers, were also inherently hospitable. Still, no one approached the three men. The island term for taboo was fady. Remo and company, though trim in their crisp summer suits and glossy Italian shoes, were definitely fady.
    Remo spotted the inn, and signaling his men to circle the sides of the building, approached the front.
    The woman of the inn had on a fresh apron. Breakfast smells came from the rear though only two tables were occupied. She looked at Remo, sized him up, and decided she had no vacancies.
    “Looking for some people,” he told her, though he didn’t expect anyone on that godforsaken island to speak English. He simply pulled out the glossies of Doug and Whitney and waved them under her nose.
    Not by a flicker did she show any recognition. Perhaps they’d left abruptly, but there’d been twenty dollars American money on the dresser. Their smiles hadn’t reminded her of a lizard. She shook her head.
    Remo peeled a ten-dollar bill from the wad he carried. The woman simply shrugged and handed him back the photos. Her grandson had spent an hour the evening before playing with his new pig. She preferred his smell to Remo’s cologne.
    “Look, Grandma, we know they got