Dave (Everybody called him Shark Boy), and Big Jesse, carefully watched their step on the way down the steep path to Lovango’s boat dock while they planned tomorrow’s dig, but Jesse had not forgotten about Rooster Barrack—he insisted that Barrack belonged to him. Dave changed the subject by asking Jesse if he wanted him to take the helm on the way home? They were in a dark phase of the moon, a riptide was running and his Dad, and him, were probably, the only white people in the islands who could safely navigate the reefs at night. Jesse nodded yes, so Dave took the helm while Jesse stowed the GPR. Dave flipped on the main and lit up the dashboard, started the motors, turned on the main computer, dialed in the GPS in case of an emergency they would know their exact coordinates and finally nodded to Jesse to off the dock lines–they were under way. Dave cautiously navigated thru the reefs into deep water and gently brought the boat up on plane.

“What I’d like to know,” said Jesse, “is where the monk and the girls got the money to pay for all that stuff and by the way Dave, how come you took the girls side on the Barrack issue?

My Dad says, “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn,” remarked Dave, “When I saw an evil look pass over Delilah’s face, I thought perhaps discretion should be the better part of valor, especially after she picked up that long bladed knife.”

“She wouldn’t dare stab me,” Jesse said, confidently, but the tone in his voice spoke something quite different.

“Well,” insisted Dave, “It looked to me like she was going to stab you in the back.”

“That’s what friends like you are for Dave,” declared Jesse, “Us men should stick together and watch each other’s back.”

“But who’s watching the watcher’s back,” quipped Dave. “And by the way Jesse; is there more to the Delilah story than I know about?” asked Dave. “How long have you really known her?”

“What’s to know?” remarked Jesse. “When she was new at the chicken ranch, I paid big bucks for something special, but, I never got it because she refused to surrender and so the three fingered, or rather the two fingered cook beat her, but I never laid a hand on her.”

“Did she do what you wanted after the beating,” asked Dave?

“No,” said Jesse. “And the cook never refunded my money either!”

Suddenly, Dave turned hard to port and went full throttle while executing an emergency, but smooth evasive maneuver.

“What’s the matter?” screamed Jesse, as he struggled to regain his seat?
“Shark!” said Dave, “it’s the megalodon again, did you see the size of that dorsal and tail fin?”

“What fins,” asked Jesse, “I didn’t see any fins because my feet were where my eyes should’ve been.”

“It was closing fast on our portside,” said Dave, “It tried to center punch us, but I showed him the stern instead.”

“Circle back!” yelled Jesse. “Maybe we can get another look at it.”

“No way,” replied Dave, “By now he’s below the surface again and trust me, it would be a big mistake to be around there when he resurfaces.” Dave stayed hard on the throttle and before Jesse could protest further they were already approaching the “Flying Circus.” Dave returned the motors to ‘idle mode’ and they slowly eased in behind the Circus.

“Ahoy, Pop,” said Dave as he tied off Jesse’s boat to one of the Circus’ stern cleats and turned off the main switch. There were two other dinghies there too, one belonged to his Dad’s girlfriend but he didn’t recognize the other one. Two topless female figures soon appeared from below deck and Dave could hardly conceal his excitement while he calmly asked where his Dad was? When his Dad came topside he told him about the megalodon, but it nevertheless remained an unconfirmed sighting without Jesse’s verification.

After the captain listened quietly, he changed the subject, became dead serious and it was clear that something was on.

“Boss Penny needs a favor tonight,” said the captain. “Of course, you know her waiter died, but after the undertaker found two sets of identification on him, he called in the F.B.I.–they fingerprinted the corpse and put his prints in their data base and discovered he was a fugitive from justice. The agents in Washington D.C. ordered the agent here to, ‘By the justice above,’ take the corpse into custody. The agent returned to the morgue and cuffed the stiff with one wrist in the back, between his legs to the other wrist in front and his naked butt, high in the air…

Boss Penny heard about it from the morgue’s cleaning lady and she went nuts, especially because he was one of her longtime employees (waiter). Even though she admitted to shooting him in the butt with her sling shot when he didn’t move fast enough and at times, punishing him beyond what was legal, she unconditionally loved him because ‘he’ was the best ‘waitress’ she ever had.
Penny asked us to kidnap the corpse tonight and bury him at sea—she said he always wanted to be buried there–it was the man’s last request–he wanted to be buried in the old Briny.”

“Not a chance,” said Jesse, I’m not going to risk the ire of the F.B.I. over a stolen stiff—let them bury him!”

“The favor,” insisted the captain, “isn’t for the dead waiter, it’s for Boss Penny, she’s a ‘person of respect’ around here and she didn’t say that we should do it, she just asked us to arrange it.”

“I think Mad Jack McCall should be the “go to” man for this mission. He’s broke flatter than soup on a vest, and he’s hated the FBI ever since somebody told him J. Edgar Hoover was a blackmailing, cross-dresser who expected race track owners to fix races for him, so him and his buddy Clyde could win a 2 dollar bet?

“Those allegations are nothing but dastardly rumors,” said Jesse. “J. Edger was the greatest crime fighter of his era. ‘Little people’ always try to make themselves feel good by saying something rotten about a great man like him.
“Tell me Jesse,” did your ears ring?”

“What do you mean did my ears ring,” asked Jesse?”

Grinning, the captain asked, “Did your ears ring when they popped out of J. Edgar’s butt cheeks!”

“That’s disgusting and demented,” said Jesse and he went on to say, “Mad Jack’s screwed up every deal he’s touched since the feds confiscated his airplane.”

“That’s the real reason he hates the F.B.I. and although Jack might’ve once been a great bomber and transport pilot, he couldn’t tow a toy boat across a farm pond without it sinking,” Jesse rambled on and on…

“That old louse covered coot, screws up everything and you expect me to let him come near my boat,” laughed Jesse.

“Well,” said the captain, “I’ve already asked him and he said, “No problem, all that he needed for this job was a body bag and a fast boat.”

“Was he drunk or sober when you asked him,” snorted Jesse.

“I suggested,” that he might need a large plywood plank to slide the body off of,” the captain calmly said. “And the best place to bury him would be northwest of here in the channel that runs between Lovango and Congo Islands–it’s only a 15 minute trip if we borrow your boat. 15 minutes should allow Jack enough time to bag up the stiff and get him zipped and ready to slide over the side into the ‘old briny’—Jack can pull it off, in his day he was the best. What could go wrong?”

“Yea,” said Jesse, “That’s what everybody says about Jack, but he’s an over-the-hill, 3 time loser. “That agent’s house overlooks the harbor,” droned Jesse. “If he sees Jack loading a body bag onto my boat in the middle of the night, he’ll call the Coast Guard and the chase will be on. I’m in the middle of an important dig right now, I’m bone tired and sweating like a slave boy at a spelling bee. Furthermore, I’m not getting involved in anything like that,” growled Jesse.

“You don’t have to get involved,” insisted the captain, “but Penny needs your boat tonight and besides a chase won’t happen, but if it does–your boat is the only one that’s faster than the Coast Guard’s chase boat. If I get caught, I’d rather it be because of bum luck, or a mistake rather than a slow boat.

“Tonight’s the night,” said the captain. “One of Penny’s big breasted waitresses is going to attract the deputy guarding the stiff by putting her heels behind her ears and then jumping up and running down the beach—she’ll keep running until–she finally catches him. Mad Jack and another customer have borrowed a key to un-cuff the waiter’s hands and they’ll leave the handcuffs behind, so the fed’s can’t whine about us stealing them. Jack and his buddy will load him into Penny’s golf cart, drive him down the hill to the dock; load him onto your boat and we’re off and running. Since the bar uses that golf cart to haul over-served customers around, if anybody sees them they’ll think that Penny’s Bar is taking home a drunk. After we take the body from the cart to the dock and load him on the boat we can make a high-speed trip to between Congo and Lovango, deep six the stiff and have your boat back before sun-up.”

“The only way I’ll agree to such a plan,” Jesse reluctantly said, “is if Dave takes responsibility for my boat and keeps Jack away from the controls—anything he touches turns to crap and with him, no good turn ever goes unpunished.”

“Well,” said the captain, “I know loaning us your boat is asking alot, but I won’t let Dave be involved, he’s not going to be an outlaw, he’s going to attend a top ten college and graduate in the top ten percent of his class. Aren’t you Dave?”
“Yes, Pop. But, this mission is a cake walk. I could be out there and back before the Coast Guard even launched their chase boat.”

“Definitely, No!” said the captain. “I know you could do it, but I don’t want you involved in anything illegal. I’ll run the helm myself on this one and it probably won’t be the first time I’ve been on the F.B.I.’s ‘person of further interest’ list.”

To be continued…

John Stark

The author of the "Tales from the Caribbean" fictional column. He attended school at Waynedale Elementary, Maplewood, Elmhurst HS in the Waynedale area. John had 25 years of professional writing experience when he passed away in 2012.

> Read Full Biography
> More Articles Written By This Writer

Latest posts by John Stark (see all)



John Stark

The author of the "Tales from the Caribbean" fictional column. He attended school at Waynedale Elementary, Maplewood, Elmhurst HS in the Waynedale area. John had 25 years of professional writing experience when he passed away in 2012. > Read Full Biography > More Articles Written By This Writer