Sandman of Caye Caulker

By John J Blenkush

Blindsided by his mother's deathbed confession that his father is still alive, thirty-four-year-old defense lawyer Wardel Hawkins, Jr. (Hawk) risks everything to prove Sandman—responsible for three deaths thirty years prior—deserves clemency and forgiveness.

When Hawk steps off the water taxi onto Caye Caulker and lies to Chapie Nels, the island's unofficial ambassador, as to his identity, the shifting sands of a coerced alliance cracks open a Pandora's box that contains clues as to the enigmatic life of ex-sheriff Wardel Hawkins, Snr. (Sandman). Sandman has spent decades harvesting sea-sand, living an ascetic life, paying penance for the death of his daughter, his partner, and his role in the murder of convict Clive Swenger.  The last thing Sandman wants is to dredge up the tragedy that destroyed his family and future and face prosecution for his frontier brand of justice. Until he learns he has a granddaughter who can fill the hole in his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John J Blenkush
• Release date: May 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224332915

John J Blenkush

John J Blenkush is the author of the critically acclaimed thrillers REDDITION and STACY’S STORY, (Kirkus) SANDMAN OF CAYE CAULKER and the epic SOLSTICE SERIES.  A varied professional career in aeronautics, engineering, construction, and IT security requiring extensive travel has instilled in John a wide-angle view of the world and its diverse inhabitants, stirred his imagination, and jump-started his foray into penning stories.  Besides writing, John loves the great outdoors, running marathons, and recreational mountain climbing.  He lives with his wife, Nancy, in Northern California.

Book preview

DEDICATION

Inspired by Sandman of Caye Caulker

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Cover photo by Crystal Jessup

Trouble

The moment he steps off the water-taxi, Chapie Nels knows this man to be trouble. Tourists don’t come to Caye Caulker with their white shirt tucked in. Jacket, tie, and satchel clutched in one hand, photograph in the other. No suitcase. Creased trousers. Shiny shoes. All raging against the body. Hanging limp in the dowsing heat and salt-water air. Like the spoils from an abandoned washing machine.

The man is tall. Lanky. Thirtyish something. Rearing his head above the others. His shadeless eyes dart about. While glancing at the photograph, his feet clop heavy on the boardwalk. He trails the vacationers, stutter stepping behind the stout lady with the sun-umbrella and bulging shorts. Looking. Searching. For what? Or who?

Chapie glances up and down the beach, the one he’s known most of his life. Where low-slung, orange, yellow, and red painted adobe structures, roofed with thatch, stand as an invite to the tourists, offering anticipated escape from the suffocating heat. So the pearls think, as there are more electric fans than air conditioners. A luxury the bus-sized generator, which is the sole source of electricity to the island, will not tolerate.

Chapie scours the boardwalk searching for the...wife? Lover? Family? Because this man, someone of prestige, had been delayed. Perhaps he met the consulate on the mainland? Or brokered a deal to buy land? Or flew on the redeye straight out of the Big Apple?

All the pearls—the white-bodies— stream onto the island. None stand in wait. None rush to meet the man. None are familiar to Chapie. For if they had come on a water-taxi, Chapie would know. He remembers faces. Documents them. After all, he’s made it his job to log who’s visiting his island.

Chapie’s greeted, memorized, and cataloged visitors to Caye Caulker going on thirty years. Much like Elizabeth Hawley, the Chronicler of the Himalayas, who meticulously kept track of Mount Everest expeditions and summits, Chapie became obsessed with tracking Caye Caulker’s visitors and their expeditions. Monitoring the whereabouts and what-abouts of thousands of tourists. Advising the business owners of the fickle trends. Pinching every penny possible from the target’s pocket. Giving them what they want, need, and demand. And for this, Chapie Nels was named Caye Caulker’s unofficial ambassador. Earning kickbacks from the business owners. Barely making a living wage. But surviving as best as he could.

Years ago, Chapie would assist visitors with their baggage. Run errands for them. Keep them posted on current events. Guide them to the establishments who paid him top fees. Some called it extortion. He labeled it ‘service rendered’. For tips. And a better living wage. But he’s not spry anymore. Age and arthritis plagues his every move.

And so, Chapie loiters under the palm trees, a fixture amongst the groves. Feeding the iguanas. Journal and pen in hand. Blending into the shade, for his skin is burnt dirt brown. Casting a watchful eye. Scratching notes, to be catalogued later. A copy given to any business owner who is willing to feed, clothe, and house him.

A family of four. Two breadwinners. Loaded with money. Teenage children. Will certainly want to scuba dive. Visit the Blue Hole on a private tour. Eat hearty. Purchase expensive souvenirs. Young honeymoon couple. Strapped for cash. Credit cards exceeded. Will want to visit The Split. Drink, eat, and swim. Maybe tour the island. On foot. If they ever leave their room. (And Chapie guesses they will because the husband’s roving eyes say so.) Stout lady? Here from the cruise ship. World traveler. Knows a deal when she sees it. Nitpicks everything else.

And the list goes on.

Caye Caulker’s salvation from the stifling heat arrives on the afternoon breeze, with an occasional gust thrown in as clouds swell on the horizon. As the stranger rounds the corner leading to the adobe motels, a puff rips the photograph from his hand and chases the Polaroid to Chapie’s feet. The dust-dog pins it between Chapie’s toes. He scans the image and logs the features. A man, twenty-something going on thirty. Pudgily handsome. Crew cut. Piercing eyes. Stout nose and chin. High cheeks. A contrived smile on his face. A face one would not forget. For he’s cursed with contrasting eyes, one blue, one brown. Making eye contact challenging.

Thank-you, the stranger says, reaching down and grabbing the photograph from its perch. You know him? The man shoves the picture into Chapie’s line of sight. He taps his thumb nail on the picture. He’s got heterochromia. Different colored eyes. Hard to miss.

Chapie locks eyes. Studies the man’s face. Pegs him in his thirties. Wonders as to his mission.

The stranger stares back. A standoff. Until a passerby breaks the silence. Bonjou majistra.

So you’re an official, the stranger says. You would know. He leans in. Squares the photograph. Seen him?

Chapie nods to the islander. Don’t mind him. Calls me mayor on Mondays, treasurer on Tuesdays, iguana whisperer on Wednesdays. You get the picture. Name’s Chapie Nels.

No, the stranger says, flashing the photo. That’s not—

"My...name. Chapie Nels. What’s yours?"

Oh. Sorry. He thrusts out a hand. Hesitates. Looks beyond Chapie. Stalls. Then boomerangs. Barry Wellington.

Chapie lowers his hand. Without shaking. You a marshal?

No. Course not.

Chapie points to the picture. What’s he to you?

Barry stalls. Spits it out. A lifeline.

Bit ominous.

Barry settles back on his heels. Bad choice of words.

Then why’re you looking for him?

Barry freezes. He stares at the picture. Giving pause.

Which spawns an adverse gut-reaction in Chapie. You don’t want to say?

Does it matter?

Chapie’s gut tightens. Tell you what. You go get settled. He jabs a thumb left. There’s a bar and grill down a-ways. Called Wishing-Willys. I’ll meet you there. Introduce you to a few of the locals. You can show your snap around. See if anyone recognizes him.

How about now? Pay you to take me there.

Sub umbra floreo.

Excuse me?

I flourish in the shade. Chapie nods his head to where a trio of tourists are taking pictures of a tiled graphic. Did you tap the sign?

Barry shakes his head. Not here on holiday. Here to locate this man and leave. It’s important. Time sensitive.

All life is.

Barry eyes Chapie. Sees he won’t give him the time of day unless he taps the sign. He backtracks to where the tourists have gathered. Peers over the lady with the umbrella.

The mosaic is embedded in concrete. Purple chips of tile frame the message. Caye Caulker, bannered by pink chips of tile, runs lengthwise across the diamond shaped artwork. A replica of a sandy beach, sun, palm trees, a hammock, and footprints in the sand, adorn the upper quadrant. Two fish—yellow tangs— ‘swim’ below the banner. Embedded are the words go slow.

Barry taps the sign with his toe, making it a point to ensure Chapie’s watching. He kick-steps back to Chapie, scuffing his leather, Derby dress shoes with white sand. Look, I’ve come all the way from the States. Tracked this man here. You can’t help me, maybe you can tell me who can.

"If he’s on this island I would know. And I can tell you, that man—Chapie jabs his pen at the photograph— is not on this island."

Barry grips the photograph. You’re mistaken. He’s here! Take another look. This is an old picture. From thirty years ago. He’d be around your age.

"Son, I’ve lived on this island most of my life. My grandpappy started the tourist trade back in the sixties. I know people. I remember faces. If he came here thirty years ago and he was still that man, I’d know him."

Barry looks. Searching. Scanning the beach. Someone here must have seen him. He came here. To Caye Caulker. That I know.

Chapie tilts his head. Ask him.

Who?

Captain Reyes. Born and raised here. Runs a tour boat out to the barrier reef. Not much escapes his eye. Anybody know, he would.

Barry’s greeted by a hunched-over, sea-weathered man. He hands him the photograph. You seen him?

Captain Reyes peeks out from under his Mariner’s cap and studies the photo. He glances at Chapie. Intuits a shake of the head. Hands the photo back to Barry. Can’t say as I have. When he come?

Would’ve been in the nineties.

Nineties! Thirty years ago?

Yes.

Gotta tell ya, sir, many as the fish in the ocean have come and gone since then. Can’t say as I know of any who put down roots. If you haven’t noticed, ain’t roses living here. Reyes sweeps his hand. White sands look pretty. But don’t let them fool ya. They’ll grind the wretched down quick as coral. More leave than come.

Barry stares into the blinding white of sand, sun, and sea. He doesn’t want to be here. Never wanted to come. But what choice did he have? He nods to the two men. Then, can you point me to the Koko King Hotel?

Chapie raises his eyebrows. That where you’re staying?

Barry nods. Yes. Why?

Cause it’s on the other side of the Split. You swimming? Or need a ride?

Barry slips the photo into his satchel. Shrugs. I’ll manage.

Best you should look to each step, less you stir up no-see-ums, Chapie says in a parting shot as he watches Barry shrink into the landscape, his form shimmering in the heat waves.

Reyes moves to Chapie’s side. "Who is that?"

Says his name is Barry Wellington.

Reyes stiffens. Adjusts his sun-withered hat. Ain’t that the name of the guy who drowned in the Split?

Chapie leans forward in his wicker chair. Stares at Barry’s mirage as the apparition fades in and out. Yes, Chapie says as he writes down the name and pens notes in his journal. Barry Wellington. Imposter? Trouble?

The Split

Barry Wellington stands at the edge of the narrow waterway known as the Split. To his right he sees a crude L-shaped wooden dock, loaded down with sunbathers, party-goers, and gawkers. A rock berm runs from the end of the dock back to the bulge in the shoreline, effectively creating an encircled pond. Four plank tables sit within the pool, providing patrons with a watery and cooling escape from the withering heat. A couple, scantily clothed, lay sprawled out on two co-joined tables. The man, despite his dreadlocks, looks too old to be the girl’s boyfriend. The girl’s taunt, tanned skin simmers under the blaze of the sun. As the well-endowed girl rolls over, revealing nothing but a thong and a quarter-cup bra, Wardel averts his eyes and looks left.

A rainbow-colored boat, moored by the shoreline, bellows smoke from its port. Barry spots the source of the fume, a barbecue. The boat resembles more of a guppy billboard than a seaworthy vessel. Signage such as, One Love Caye Caulker, Food Not Bombs, Local Food Ceviche cook Rice & Beans, Old School Services, Mek Food No Guns, The Love Boat, and of course, Go slow are crudely hand-painted onto the hull. Palm fronds hang from a makeshift overhang. A sleeping bag hangs limp on a clothesline. Reggae music filters out from bird-shit encrusted speakers. Barry dismisses the eyesore as a way to get across the Split.

Some people say the Split was gouged out by Hurricane Hattie in 1961, the same hurricane that devastated Belize City. Others say villagers dug a channel and the ocean currents continued to widen the ditch ever since. Neither version matters to Barry. His only concern is getting across the Split. Without drowning. Like they claim Wellington had.

You lost, man?

Barry turns to find the derelict who had been entwined with Miss Thong leering over his shoulder. He thinks it an odd question, given the island’s size. Not lost. Barry raises the hand clutching the satchel and levels a finger. How do you get across?

We swim. The derelict swats the dreadlocks from his face and chuckles. You overdressed for swimming. Them duds? Sink you like a rock. Like the man fish-baiting last month.

You knew him?

Me? No. Some tells he was a security guard over at San Pedro. But found him here. In the Split. Face down. Dressed for the working, man.

Barry, eyebrows raised, faces Dreadlocks. Fully clothed? Doesn’t sound like a swimmer.

O’course, man. That’s what I said. Dreadlocks glances over his shoulder. Scans three-sixty. Leans into Barry. And whispers. Word is, he didn’t drown.

Nothing in the San Pedro Sun about him being clothed.

Dreadlocks sputters. Coughs. Grab my word, man. He swimmin’, I king of the isle.

You certain?

Dreadlocks steps back. Hey man, you the law?

Barry pulls out his wallet. Extracts a business card. A lawyer. Hands the card to Dreadlocks.

Dreadlocks shoves it back. Don’t mean shit.

Give me a dollar.

What?

Don’t worry. I’ll give it back.

Dreadlocks fumbles with the Velveteen pouch hanging from a string around his neck. Don’t got a dollar. He extracts a twenty-five cent Elizabeth II coin and lays it in the palm of Barry’s hand. What’d you need it for?

Barry displays the quarter. This is payment from you, the client, to me, the lawyer. We now have attorney client privilege. You can tell me anything, and no one will be able to force me to divulge what you’ve said.

Do I get my Betty back?

Sure. Barry points across the Split. As payment for getting me across.

Gonna take more than a Betty.

Think we can come to an agreement. Now, how do you know the man who drowned was clothed?

What’s my cut?

Free legal advice.

Dreadlocks looks puzzled.

Barry smiles. Never keep anything from your lawyer. Or you’ll break privilege.

Okay, man. I had a friend. He saw him, Dreadlocks points, "over there. Out by that rock. Took his picture. I saw it. He was dressed in uniform. A white shirt, the kind with tabs and buttons on the shoulders. And a black baseball hat. Said, security. Dreadlocks pauses. And...there was blood in the water. From the mouth and nose."

Barry leans back. Eyes Dreadlocks. "You said, had. Had a friend."

He’s gone, man. Disappeared. On the islands people crocodile. Vanish.

Barry digs through his satchel. Holds up the photo. You have a good eye for detail. Ever seen this guy?

Dreadlocks examines the photo. Attempts to hand it back. Ain’t seen him.

Have another look. See, he’s got heterochromia. Two different colored eyes. And he’d be in his sixties now.

Ain’t something I’d forget. Marble eyes. But here on the cay, Dreadlocks waves a hand, pearls don sunglasses twenty-four, seven.

Barry looks afar. Staring. At nothing. Grasping for anything else that could jog Dreadlock’s memory. He sees Miss Thong frolicking in the water. With another boy. Think your girlfriend would know?

Dreadlocks sputters. Shiny? Nah. She’s hot, but dizzy.

Barry secures the photo in the satchel. Pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. Give you twenty and your Betty to get me across.

Dreadlocks rockets out a hand. Deal. Give me one. Be right back. Looks over his shoulder and yells, Lose the shoes!

Barry watches from afar as Dreadlocks and another man, wearing red shorts, speak. Cordially at first, which escalates into shouting and with Dreadlocks knocking Red Shorts to the ground. Dreadlocks shakes a fist at the prone man before snatching up the paddle board. As Dreadlocks passes Barry, he smiles. Got it. He drops the paddle board in the water.

Barry pauses. You didn’t steal it, did you? Because if you did, as your lawyer, I’d have to caution against theft.

Dreadlocks sneers. Red Shorts owes me.

He’s not looking too happy.

He’ll mellow.

Barry nods to the paddle board. Where do you want me?

One foot here. Other one there. Wide stance, man.

How about if I sit?

Man, then cross your legs. Fire log, man. Better balance. But you’ll get your duds wet.

Can’t have that. Barry steps on the board, testing his balance, bracing for a fall, which doesn’t come. Feels good.

I got cha. Dreadlocks strokes to the front of the board, wraps the tow string around his ankle, and swims.

The smell of smoke, fried fish, and roasted chicken permeates the air. Reggae music overrides the sound of sloshing from Dreadlock’s kicking and the board slapping the minimal surge. Barry relaxes, as much as he can, given his neurosis of open deep water.

Having been born in Arcata, California, Dreadlock’s passenger was accustomed to open waters. In his early years, under his mother’s watchful eyes, he spent countless hours down by the bay, building sandcastles on the beaches and chasing sea gulls. But the first time he stepped foot on a boat and rode out pass Tuluwat Island to the open sea, he caved. Cold sweat poured out of his body. He clung to his mother’s legs like a starfish to a rock. Despite the coaxing from his mother, Nesta, there was no letting go. The fishing trip ended with him heaving the remains of his stomach overboard and the captain, fearing the youngster was going to die, turning the boat around. The other passengers, having shelled out money and time to catch fish, were furious.

But it isn’t what’s above water that scares Barry; it’s what lurks below. Later in life, he would be diagnosed with Thalassophobia, a specific phobia involving a persistent and intense fear of deep bodies of water.

As they cross the Split, Barry looks to the bottom. There’s no darkness. No shadows. Nothing lurking. No sharks or Loch Ness monsters. No dragons with mouth-breathing fire. No unknowns, the greatest stimulus for fear. Just Dreadlocks, kicking hard, straining against the ocean current to prevent keel and pull his load.

When a group of Frigatebirds arrive in anticipation of stealing fish from the seafarer, Barry’s attention is drawn to the sky. He stares in fascination at the warmongers. Back home he’d chase seagulls, always a finger grab away from catching one. Nicknamed man o’ war birds, the Frigatebirds’ acrobatic maneuvers leave no chance for capture, jetting pass Barry and each other like fighter jets on target.

It’s not until Barry’s been upended and is thrashing for his life he realizes his greatest fear, the unknown, has swept up from the bottom of the sea and dumped him. Paralysis sets in and Barry, powerless, sinks.

Dreadlocks, diving, chases Barry to the bottom, only to be shorted by the paddle board leash. In lost precious seconds, Dreadlocks struggles to free his ankle. After pulling Barry to the surface, Dreadlocks cinches his arm around his chest, and strokes for shore. It’s only when Dreadlocks has Barry on the beach does he realize his client isn’t breathing.

Dreadlocks looks to the opposite shore in time to see Jimmy slink out of the water. The bulge in the red shorts is unmistakable. Jimmy quickly dons a muscle shirt, which drapes down over his shorts. The crowd, yearning for a break in the monotony of basking in the sun, sea, and shore, line the beach, laughing and high fiving the thrill of the chase and the christening of the stiff-necked newcomer.

Gurgling from Barry regains Dreadlocks’ attention. He places a hand on Barry’s chest and pumps the water out. You okay, man?

What the fuck happened?

You been baptized, man. By Redshorts.

Barry spits sand and water. Told you. Theft’s not a good idea.

He’s just having fun.

Wait a minute. Barry clenches his hands. Where’s my satchel! Wobbling to his feet, Barry bolts for the water.

Dreadlocks chest blocks Wardel. Wait. Stay here. See if I can find it.

Barry, shaking but relieved, crumbles to his knees. He watches as Dreadlocks swims into the current and dives. Over and over, Dreadlocks surfaces and dives, surfaces and dives. He swims for shore. Crashes on the beach. Chest heaving.

Can’t...find...it.

Barry hangs his head. "Goddammit. I can’t lose it! Important documents. Pictures. Please. You gotta help me find it!"

Sorry man. It’s not there. See the drift? Dreadlocks nods.

Barry watches as a group of pelicans, riding a debris pile of sticks, weeds, and waterborne seaweed, sail by. He stumbles to his feet. He follows in the direction of flow, measuring the speed of the water as it carries the pelican raft towards open ocean. He kicks over piles of seaweed, pokes through entwined garbage, and lingers in despair. Hours pass, unchecked, slipping by. Until the sun dips low on the horizon.

Dusk spurs a chill in Barry, sparking a resurgence to life and clarity. He returns to the spot where Dreadlocks had pulled him from the sea. His savior is long gone. Mingling, he imagines, with the alcohol and drug induced partygoers across the Split. As the sun sets, fires burn bright across the way. Bobbo Youth’s—a local Reggae singer—Love a di Answer, booms across the waterway.

Barry gazes at the lights of the hotels behind him. All his money, his wallet, his purpose for coming to this wretched island, is in the satchel. Now gone. Along with his shoes. Washed away with the pelican raft. Far out into the sea. It would have been better if Dreadlocks hadn’t pulled him from the depths. Let him lie at the bottom of the ocean and drown. As Wellington had done. His life flashing before him.

And yet it hadn’t been his life flashing before his eyes. Instead, he’d seen his five-year-old daughter, Angelilly’s, and his estranged wife, Sharen’s, faces stream by. A reminder of the supreme sacrifice he would make should he falter in his mission.

Barry collapses in the sand. Allows the Reggae music, cool breeze, and flickering starlight to wash over him. Defeated, he closes his eyes and prays for a merciful end.

Wishing-Willys

Wishing-Willys sits on a side street, buried deep within the rows of tourist shops. First appearance leaves one wondering how the weather-worn thatch hut manages to remain erect. Tilting walls and a sagging roof add to its island charm. Lizards, part of the fabric of the building, hunt and wrestle with their prey, including the oversized flies, which are often mistaken for the eyes of an iguana. Frequently, an inebriated soul will reach into the thatch in attempt to snatch the imagined iguana, only to grab air, to the delight of the crowd.

In the side yard carpeted with white sand, the smell of roasted pig overwhelms the senses, drawing one close to stare at the rudimentary barbecue and the gutted swine rotating on the spit. Rebar stabbed into the sand supports the weight, while galvanized pipe—battered from its plumbing system by a hurricane—skewers the pig from rump to mouth. In the dark of the night and a few drinks under, gawkers easily mistake this arrangement for a pig run amok. An iron steering wheel, cannibalized from a tractor, is welded to the galvanized skewer. Patrons take turns sitting on the stool and rotating the hog while guarding the meat from stray dogs and the grape-sized flies.

Captain Reyes, sea-legs not considered, is a slow walker. Yet Chapie trails him at every step, the soles of his secondhand flip-flops sliding over the packed-sand road as though grating against eighty-grit sandpaper. Chapie attempts to slow Reyes down by revisiting their earlier conversation.

So you said Barry made it across the Split?

Reyes nods his head. Far as I know. Howler didn’t hang around. He saw Dreadlocks towing him across the Split on a paddle board.

Every time Reyes says, Howler or Dreadlocks Chapie scowls. It’s hard enough to keep track of the island’s populace without the addition of nicknames. Chapie, as with all, had documented the arrival of the two derelicts who were panhandling. Not a cent in their pocket. Wrote them off. Especially Howler, who wore fishhooks through his pierced ears and wore a cord around his neck embedded with a shark’s tooth. As though he were Captain Jack Sparrow himself.

Yet Howler had made good, signing on with Captain Reyes as his shipmate, relieving Reyes of all the rudimentary grunt work. Which the Captain took advantage of while doling out pittance in compensation. It’s the way of the islands, so it’s been said. You do what’s necessary to survive. Howler didn’t seem to mind, preferring to hide out as a bottom feeder rather than compete with the masses.

So, Chapie says, then why didn’t he show up at the Koko King?

Reyes stops. Turns and faces Chapie. Just cause Ms. Singalong didn’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there.

Why you gotta do that? Give everyone nicknames!

"Comes with seafaring. Ever heard of Blackbeard? Captain Cook? Calico Jack? Bells Nels?"

Yeah, funny. Got no bells. Ms. Singly says she would know if he arrived. She checked the register.

And yet dead man didn’t have a reservation. Come to think of it, Reyes says as he turns and heads in a direct line to Wishing Willys, didn’t Barry Wellington drown?

Not the Barry Wellington we know. Dead men don’t stink of day-old sweat and cologne. Nor do they carry satchels.

Nor do they lie and say they’re somebody they’re not.

Which brings us back to square one. What’s he want with Sandman?

Good question. You should ask him. Captain Reyes steps to the side.

In looking, Chapie sees the hunched over figure of the person he knows as Barry, sliding one socked foot in front of the other. Barry’s head hangs, faceless in the shadows, yet there’s no mistaking the suit-stilted stranger. A stray dog breaks away from stalking the rotisserie hog to check out the dead-man-walking. And bolts away once it gets a whiff of the reek.

The three meet in front of Wishing Willys. As light casts shadows, Chapie sees a serrated bump on Barry’s forehead. What the hell happened to you? Chapie asks.

Barry stares pass the two, dazed and confused.

Chapie lightly taps Barry’s temple. Where’d you get the shiner?

Barry, stumbling, pokes the bruise. Winces. Don’t know, he says as he crashes to the ground on his knees. I lost them all! My family. Mom. Sharen. Angelilly. Riding out to sea with the pelicans. What’ve I done!

Chapie shakes his head. You should have thought of that before you decided to go gallivanting around the world chasing ghosts. Family comes first. Chapie nods to Captain Reyes. Grab his arm."

With groans and huffs, Chapie and Reyes pull Barry to his feet. They shoulder his arms and walk him into the courtyard of Wishing Willys, sidestepping the pig pit. A patron sitting in the shadows, operating the wheel of the spit, offers. Hey, he can have my seat.

It makes sense to Chapie. Unlike the flimsy Walmart plastic chairs scattered around the courtyard, the spit chair, having been built out of wood and concrete, is solid as if it had been hewed out of stone. As the Pig Picker—which the driver of the spit has come to be known—vacates the seat, Chapie and Reyes drop Barry into it.

Chapie lifts Barry’s hand and places it on the wheel. Hang onto this. He pokes Reyes and motions him to follow. We’ll be back. Stay put.

Reyes follows Chapie to the bar. Man’s gone lunatic. Thinks his family’s lost to sea.

You’d be tilted too you got head bumped. Oh, I forgot. You already are.

That’s not from any old thump. Although, I’ve had my fair share. It’s from spending too many years at sea. Sea legs is what it’s called. You’d remember, you ever got back on the water.

The usual? Chapie hears the bartender ask.

Yep. Two Belikins. Chapie lays a Belize ten-dollar bill on the bar. And one lizard juice.

"Clear