Daylight was fast approaching and Dave, (everybody called him Shark Boy), was pacing back and forth in the cabin of the Flying Circus listening for the sound of Big Jessie’s powerboat, when his cell phone rang—it was his Dad. A cold shiver passed over him because he knew something must have gone wrong.

“What happened Pop,” asked Dave?

“I’m alright,” reassured his dad, “but there was an accident. Mad Jack and his partner needed some medical assistance so I took them to Tortola’s hospital. The British don’t have an extradition treaty with the United States and it’s safer for Jack there than here.”

“What happened Pop?” asked Dave.

“Hang up the cell phone and switch to the boat’s secure low power channel. It’s marked with a red dot,” instructed his Dad.

A moment later the radio crackled to life and his Dad continued his story:

Everything was going as planned, Jack and his partner loaded the corpse into the golf cart. Jack put the pedal to the metal and started down the hill to the boat dock, but nobody told him the brakes didn’t work and he quickly accelerated beyond its safe operating speed. Jack and his partner desperately tried to slow it down by dragging their feet and he said smoke was coming off their sneakers. Jack pulled hard on the emergency brake, but the handle came off in his hand. The cart bounced and hopped before it hit a whoop-de-do at the bottom of the hill, went airborne, and slammed into a large boulder—it launched its occupants like ballistic missiles. They landed on the dock and rolled into crumpled heaps against the side of the ticket booth on the ferry dock. The stiff, however, went through the ticket booth’s window and set off the burglar alarm. I dragged Jack and his unconscious partner onto the boat, removed the corpse from the window and loaded him in the boat. We made our escape, but not before every dog on the waterfront was barking. Jack and his partner regained consciousness just before we reached the gap between Lovango and Congo islands and from there it went as planned. The mission was accomplished, but Boss Penny’s golf cart looked like a crushed beer can.

“Gee Pop, I’m supposed to pick Jesse up at 0500 and when he sees me coming in your dinghy instead of his boat he’s going to be hot.”

“Son, sometimes a man has to take the bull by the tail and look the situation squarely in the eye. At least we got the job done without anybody getting busted. Jack and his partner are badly bruised, but the hospital is releasing them today and we can meet you and Jesse on Lovango and switch boats. Over and Out.”

Dave sat in stunned silence while his mind grappled with the thought of what might happen when the F.B.I. guy discovered the corpse, he had taken into custody had gone missing. But one war at a time, first he must deal with Jesse.
Dave throttled back his Dad’s dinghy and approached the public dock where he saw a gaggle of police and the F.B.I. agent circling the crumpled remains of Boss Penny’s golf cart. Jesse was standing on the public dock with his Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR) and other gear while looking as innocent as possible under the circumstances.

Under his breath Jesse quietly asked Dave, “Where’s my boat?”
“Not to worry,” whispered Dave, “Let’s get loaded and underway and I’ll explain it. Jesse kept a stiff upper lip as they loaded the gear, but he was plenty ticked off.

When they were safely away from the police investigators Dave repeated the sordid tale to Jesse: Dad said, “Somebody forgot to tell Jack the golf cart’s brakes didn’t work and after he started down the hill it accelerated out of control and they crashed at the bottom of the hill.”

“I knew it,” snarled Jesse. “Mad Jack could mess up a crow bar with one hand tied behind him and his drunken partner is worse.”

“Well,” said Dave, “Dad saved the mission and managed to get them out of there. Jack and his partner are recovering at Tortola and after the hospital releases them, Dad is going to meet us on Lovango and switch your boat for his dinghy.”

“If this debacle isn’t bad enough,” harped Jesse, “Darlene left me last night and said she’s going home to mama. Among other things, she accused Jini of putting a dead squid under her front porch, and the smell made her sick, do you know anything about that?”

“My mom wouldn’t do a thing like that,” protested Dave, “but the voodoo women might. Maybe Darlene unknowingly insulted one of them. But I’m sure my mom didn’t have anything to do with it.”

To be continued.

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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