Irene’s eyebrows shot up. “Like me?”
Alex still had her hands in the dishwater but had forgotten the glass she held. “Yes, I guess. Like you.”
“But you didn’t like it,” Irene pressed.
“Ditz had a dog and I’m allergic to animal hair.”
“A dog? What fuckin’ dog?” All diplomacy was now lost to Irene.
“It was Scirocco’s dog,” Alex sharply defended herself. “Ditz was looking after Scirocco’s dog. Training it.”
Irene’s voice came up an octave. “Training it? Training it to do what, Alex. Do tricks?”
With a cry of anguish, Alex turned from the sink. She flicked water from her hands onto the cork flooring and then, covering her face, she slammed into the john and locked the door.
“Alex– Alex,” Irene tried. But the woman was sobbing so hard, Irene doubted if Alex could hear.
Once on the ground and with the Bikini-Bus tucked away on the apron of the runway, Bev slipped out of the co-pilot’s seat and reached for her vinyl coat. “See you at the resort,” she called and Irene watched her herd the other girls toward the exit. Alex limped along with them but kept her eyes focused forward.
“She knows I found out about Brutus,” Irene spoke out loud to the empty cockpit.
Irene stood and slipped her vinyl coat about her shoulders. The air conditioning had been shut down and she could feel the heat from the tropical sun seeping into the plane’s fuselage. She moved along the center aisle and stood by the open door where she could feel the tickle of breeze on her legs.
Mr. Silvers arrived moments later. A big man with, appropriately enough, a shock of silver hair, uncoiled himself from the backseat of a Rolls Royce. In deference to the heat, he was beautifully dressed in a dark suit and red tie; as were the two other younger men who slipped from the limo’s front.
For a man in his sixties, Mr. Silvers had a youthful stride and he bounded up the boarding-steps without drawing a breath.
“Captain Ross?” he held out a hand, “name is Silvers. Do you have my case?”
Irene took his hand. It was surprisingly cool and dry. “Yes. It’s stowed forward. If you’ll follow me.”
The men knew the way and when Irene opened the cabin door, Silvers moved by and crouched to study the case. “Perfect,” he muttered to himself.
Standing again, he pulled a single key from his jacket pocket and held it up, presenting it to Irene. He made a great show of inserting the key into one of the locks and giving it a twist. There was the solid movement of tumblers and the lock popped. “Satisfied?” he asked, re-locking the case.
“Yes,” Irene said, turning away. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Irene made her way back along the aisle and down the boarding-steps carrying her flight-bag. Her instructions from Scirocco were to present her passport to the immigration officials, find a cab and join the others at the Grand Hilton Cayman located on Seven Mile Beach.
Irene was striding across the airport lounge, pulling her flight-case along, when she heard the voice:
“Miss! Oh Miss!” The summons came from behind and she turned to meet flirtation in the dark eyes of a stranger. Irene’s heart did a little skip.
“You’re the pilot,” the man called out. “I mean our pilot.”
“You flew over with us?” Irene asked.
“Yes. And I’m so happy to meet you. I mean I saw you on the plane and was waiting here, for Avis to bring a car, and you walked by.” The man was starting to gush.
Irene gave him her post-flight PR smile. “And why aren’t you at the resort with the others, sir?”
“Oh hell, forgive me.” He produced a business card with practiced flourish. “Name’s Namath. Like the football player.”
Irene glanced down at the card he had slipped into her palm: Jack Namath, Vacation Properties. The card stock felt cheap and the printing was unimpressive; something he had run off himself on his computer. Irene turned on her heel. “I see…” was her minimal response.
He scrambled around to cut off her escape. “Only I’m Jack. Jack Namath.” He stuck out a hand.
“Irene Ross. I’m pleased, Mr. Namath.” Irene studied him a moment. He looked nice. Was tall enough for her and dressed well in casual slacks and a sports shirt. “And the resort?”
“Actually here on a scouting mission. I’m in real estate,” he said, in case she hadn’t read the card, “and specialize in luxury vacation properties. I’ve been working with the Cracker-Jax Business Manager and I’ll be representing the Casino in the States, selling condos at first, and hopefully villas in the near future.”
“So you’re one of us, then?” Irene smiled.
“Well kinda, Irene. Okay if I call you Irene? Anyway I thought I’d take the flight over and scope out Grand Cayman. Hence the car.”
“I see.”
“You never know where you’ll find an opportunity. Sort of like running into you.”
The guy was clearly on the make but not in a pushy way and Irene found herself warming to his looks, his candor, and his exuberance. “So I’ll see you later, on the return flight to Miami.” Irene tossed him a bone. “Now please, excuse me Mr. Namath; I have to find a cab.”
“Sure.” He hesitated a beat. “But hey, why? I’ve gotta car coming. Let me drive you to the Hilton. I’ve got plenty of time.”
“Mr. Namath…” Irene chided him. “Good girls don’t get into cars with strangers.”
“I’m not strange,” he countered with a short laugh. “Well just a little maybe, but in a good way. You’ll see. And like you said, I’m practically an employee of the Casino. C’mon. You drove me nine hundred miles this morning. Let me return the favor in some small way and drive you the two miles to the Hilton.”
As if on cue, a man in uniform stepped up and placed car keys into Namath’s outstretched palm.
“C’mon,” he repeated with a shy smile.
Irene felt strangely vulnerable, getting into a car with a man she didn’t know wearing only her heels and a swimsuit. But he appeared harmless enough and the Hilton was only ten minutes away. She settled comfortably in the passenger seat and rolled down the window in case she had to scream, or worse, make a fast exit.
“So you’re really going to sell condos for the Casino?” Irene asked, taking the opportunity of studying him in profile.
Namath wheeled away from the curb. “Yeah. That part of the deal’s all set up. And hopefully the villas next year. That’s where the money is. You’ll be seeing me around quite a bit in the coming months.”
“You know Scirocco?”
“Naw. Seen him from time-to-time but he’s got better things to do than bother with a salesman from Fort Lauderdale. I work with the Business Development Department.”
“Sounds like fun, selling properties in the Caribbean.”
“Well I grew up in Buffalo. And always hated the winter. Even as a kid.” At the airport exit he depressed the signal light and gave Irene a start when he pulled into the wrong lane. Then she saw the big sign: Drive on the LEFT
It was a throwback to the island’s British heritage.
“I come from Atlanta. It’s always way too friggin’ hot,” Irene said.
“You eat yet?” Namath had her in the car and was pushing the advantage.
“You really are a salesman,” Irene scoffed playfully, enjoying his game. “Nothing since last night. Why.”
“Well I hear the Hilton puts on a pretty nice luncheon buffet. Maybe I’ll go in with you and grab a plate. That’s if you haven’t any objections.”
“None at all. But I have to change and I’ll need a few minutes to freshen up. Your schedule stretch that far?”
“For a pretty lady pilot dressed in a swimsuit, you’d be amazed at how flexible I can be.”
Scirocco had arranged for a room where the girls could shower and change. Irene washed in the bathroom sink, redid her makeup and pulled a sexy sundress from her flight-case. It exposed a fair amount of skin and was yellow; a color that showed off her new tan to advantage.
And Scirocco had been right about the food. Out by the swimming pool, Irene and Jack Namath decorated their plates with crispy conch fritters. Irene had a light salad on the side while Jack opted for a scoop of dirty rice. They found a table on the terrace overlooking the sailboats bobbing in the listless sea and Jack ordered a goblet of white wine. Irene, mindful of regulations, had soda water with a twist of lime.
“You not married,” Irene asked with an eye on his left hand.
“Well once. But I was way too young; barely out of school. We struggled for a couple of years but I was building a client base and not spending enough time with her. It was predictable that she find someone older and more stable. Thankfully we never had children. You?”
“Nope. Never. Always too selfish with my time, I guess.” Irene moved her fork around her salad. “There was always a larger airplane to fly. I thought I had everything a woman could ever want. But you turn around one day and realize how little you really do have.”
Namath contemplated her answer for a moment. “What do you mean larger airplane?”
“I flew a United Airways DC-10 for eleven years,” she said without touting self-importance.
He whistled low. “Isn’t the Bikini-Bus a bit of a step down?”
“Sure, I guess.” Irene felt her appetite failing. “But the uniforms are more comfortable.”
Namath didn’t laugh. “Hey, what are you going to do for the rest of the day? Staying here on the beach with the body beautiful?”
Irene glanced around at the bikini clad girls, already coupling up with the surfer boys. Everyone drinking and eating and planning their moves. “Yeah. I guess,” she said, though the thought had no appeal. She wondered if she might find a book.
“Look. Why don’t you tag along with me this afternoon? I’ve got the car and intend to drive clear around the island. I need to get a general feel for the place, take some photos and make notes. We can catch an early dinner somewhere and I promise to have you back at the airport in plenty of time to do whatever you pilots do before takeoff. What’dya say?”
Irene took in the beach scene again and decided she would rather poke needles into her eyeballs than spend another minute alone. “You know, I would love that.” She beamed across the table and surprised herself: To punctuate her decision, she reached and boldly placed a hand across his wrist. For the first time, she realized that his eyes were liquid brown. And that he embarrassed easily.