Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

“What’s the cross on the side of that peak for?” Truck’s voice was an octave higher than normal.

The wing tips bobbed from side to side—full flaps—power down to stall speed, and we swooped low just over the road—

A Mini Moke honked its horn ten feet below us.

We glided across the long grass hill that led to the scant runway. It wasn’t much over 2,000 feet—2,100 if memory served—so stopping the Beast was going to be quite a challenge. Focused on the beach ahead, which was getting closer by the second, I did everything possible to slow her down. Finally, we skid to a stop—the smell of burnt rubber flashing through the cabin—just before the tarmac blended into the windswept sand on St. Jean beach.

Palm trees that fringed the beach swayed languidly. A pair of topless beauties strolling along the waterline, smiled and waved to us.

I smiled back. I never thought I’d be here again.

Thank you, Lou Atlas.

An approaching Winair Commuter broke my reverie. I added power, taxied back up to the head of the runway, waited for him to land, then crossed over to the private aviation ramp area. We powered down, killed the batteries, and battened down the hatches. When Truck popped the hatch, a Customs officer took us and our bags back to the terminal, where we got our passports stamped, paid for a week of tie-down, rented a Jeep, and set off toward St. Jean.

“Where we staying?” Truck said.

“It’s high season. Lou Atlas had to pull some strings to get us into a little hotel in Lorient.”

“This place has a China town?”

“Lorient’s named after a French town in Brittany where the French East India Company was based. It was the embarkation point for trade with China and India. When the company fell apart in the late 1760’s, people scattered and some came here to trade with buccaneers and pirates.”

“Figures.”

The narrow yet well-maintained two-way road was clogged with cars. Motorcycles sped past idle traffic on the wrong side of the road and dodged between slow-moving cars. No sense of island time here. The population, largely French transplants, maintained a Côte d’Azur pace and treated the island like a living painting by Gauguin, with each space carefully planned and nearly every home or building colorfully and thoughtfully trimmed, just like their inhabitants. We followed the road through St. Jean, which had occasional discrete entrances to secluded boutique resorts, and scattered gourmet wine and food stores—just as I remembered it.

We drove up the hill along the asphalt strip that clung to the coast, where the view of St. Jean and the airport was breathtaking below. The road cut down through carved stone bluffs and descended into the postcard-perfect village of Lorient. Mature landscaping blended with chic restaurants amidst a small, tasteful shopping center.

A quick left turn onto a quiet narrow road took us past a small shopping center and on to the hotel La Banane. Just past the hotel was a high chain link fence.

“See that down there?” I said.

Truck looked over and shrugged.

“Jimmy Buffett’s hotel, l’Autour du Rocher, used to be up on that hill.”

The owner of La Banane, a young Parisian transplant, delicately steered my rusty French to his fluent English. His eyebrows arched when I produced Lou Atlas’s Black Visa card.

“Ah, oui, Monsieur Atlas phoned me. I am Jean and I will help you arrange anything you need. I have a suite ready for you.”

Truck smiled and raised his eyebrows as he glanced around the small but well-appointed open-air lobby, restaurant bar, patio and pool area that comprised La Banane. No sunbathers around the pool at this hour, but jazz, cigarette smoke, and laughter wafted from the bar.

Jean led us to a comfortable suite at the end of the serpentine path. Once settled, I pulled out the list of names Lou Atlas had given me and tried to decide where to start. All we had to do was check each box and Lou should be satisfied.

Back in St. Jean, we parked the Jeep and hoofed it toward the water down a sandy alley covered by palm trees and bougainvillea between luxurious resorts that led to the flour-soft beach. Purple lights shone from the bar at La Plage and more colored lights twinkled from homes and hotels along the bay. I suddenly felt the miles of the day pressing down on me. But a warm breeze blew my hair back, and the sound of the surf and smell of salt air massaged my senses. Truck spun in a slow circle, soaking up the view, the well-dressed early diners and willowy waitresses.

The bartender smiled at us from the small beach bar. I sat on one of the white plastic stools and ordered a Rhum JM on the rocks. Truck asked for a Carib beer. While the bartender produced our drinks, we simply absorbed the beauty of the surroundings. As he put the drinks on the painted wood counter I leaned forward.

“Pardon me,” I said. “Last time I was here I met another American. His name’s Jerry Atlas.” The bartender dropped his eyes. “Any idea where I can find him?”

“Again? Jerry’s been gone, maybe a month.”

Again? How many people had asked about Jerry?

“Gone from the island?”

“Gone from the world.” He took a drag from the cigarette that sat smoldering in an ashtray in the corner of the bar.

“He died?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

I sighed and took a drink of rum.

“Too bad. Last time he offered to take me Scuba diving. Said he’d pay for the whole thing.”

The bartender smiled. “That was Jerry. Always buying drinks for strangers, and taking them boating, diving, to dinner—”

“Nice guy, huh?”

“Nah, a lonely drunk.” He paused. “And sales have really dropped since he vanished.”

“Damn,” I said, “guess I blew that. Never went out diving with him. What kind of boat did he have?”

The bartender laughed. “Jerry rented everything.”

Truck and I ordered sandwiches.

“My buddy and I want to do some diving tomorrow. You know where Jerry chartered his boats?”

“Master Ski Pilou on Gustavia Harbor. Ask