Chapter 4: "I don't know where I'm a'gonna go when the volcano blow."

Chapter 4

"I don't know where I'm a'gonna go when the volcano blow."

Billy Ray got about as far as the motel parking lot before the dude in the Hawaiian shirt he was chasing dove into the back seat of a car that had slowed down for him, gunned the engine and took off down the street.  It halted about 500 yards away, the guy lowered the back window, tossed the envelope out onto the street, and then took off out of sight.

Cursing and sweating, Billy Ray trotted up to where the envelope lay on the street, reached down and picked it up.  What the hell?  Opening the envelope and scanning the contents, Billy Ray didn't think that anything was missing, but that just made even less sense.  Why would someone lie his way into his house, steal a bunch of papers and then throw them away minutes later?  Clearly, this situation called for more points of view.  Billy Ray headed for his favorite home-away-from-home, White Man's Paradise Bar and Grille, James "Jimmy" Buffett, proprietor.

"Hey Billy Ray," Jules the bouncer greeted him, Jules' friendly creole-French accent sounding odd coming from such a huge man.

"Well hey, Jules!  I haven't seen you in a while.  Where you been at?"

"Concert tour security for Jimmy's last trip.  Went all over the country --even up to the U.S. and Canada.  Those crazy Canadian girls, mon dieu!" answered Jules, laughing and shaking his head from side to side.

"Oh yeah, I remember hearing about that tour.  Didn't it turn into a benefit for Montserrat?"

"Ah, oui. Those poor people.  Where you gonna go when the volcano blow, eh?"

"You should write that down, my friend --the boss could make a hit song out of it."  Both men laughed at the little joke.  "Speaking of el jefe Jimmy, where might he be?"

"At the bar, trying out a new bar-femme with the brain trust.  Go on back, he'd like to see you."

Jimmy's "Brain Trust" turned out to be him, his daughter, Julie, the bartender who was 'retiring' to get married, and Carlos, the Dominican busboy who had worked at White Man's Paradise ever since he swam ashore, after his escape raft from Baby-Doc's Dominican Republic broke up at the south end of the Key.  All of them were tasting the round of boat-drinks that the new prospective bartender, Sandee, had just made.

"This is a great banana-boat daiquiri," Jimmy said.  "Kinda makes me wanna sing, 'Day-o, Day-ay-ay-o! Daylight come and we wanna go home!"  Everybody laughed, and a couple of "Day-o's" floated up to the palm-thatched ceiling.  

"Wow, this Long Island Ice Tea Ferry is so fucking potent!" Savannah Jane fake-slurred.  "You're gonna go broke if this drink catches on, Dad.  Maybe you should charge a premium for this one," she laughed.  
Carlos looked a bit misty-eyed when he said, "Aye Julia, this Coconut Cuban Breeze reminds me of my favorite bar in Mariel, Cuba, the same place mi padre met senor Hemingway in the 1920's."

"Well," Julie said, "I think mine sucked!"  Cries of 'What?' and 'Aw Julie!' erupted from the Brain Trust.  "Okay, okay, the drink was good.  But she didn't flirt with ANY of us, not even you, Jimmy.  Babe, if you don't dish-out a little wink-with-the-drink, you're gonna starve.  And just LOOK at her!  No cleavage, no form-fitting T-shirt, just a stupid polo with for-fuck's-sake CHINO SHORTS??? You think this is some Richmond hotel bar, uh, Sandee?"

"All right, all right!" said Jimmy above the commotion Julie's rant provoked, "So she gets some fashion-tips from Julie, and she shadows you for a couple of nights so she gets the flirt-thing going on.  I mean, what Julie, you think anybody can replace you right out of the gate?"  Nods all around from the Brain Trust, and the boss made it official with a hearty, "Welcome aboard, Sandee!  Hope ya like serving rum to pretend pirates!"

It was then that Savannah Jane noticed Billy Ray standing there, smiling at the whole audition process.  "Hey Billy Ray," she called, "haven't seen you in a while.  Why're you buying a drink here when you've got the best free bar in the world?"

"Hey Savannah," Billy Ray called back.  "No drinks for me today.  Was just wondering if I could catch a word with your dad for a minute."

"For you, Billy Ray, you can have two," Jimmy laughed.  "You want to talk frente-a-frente, or can the Brain Trust stick around?"

"You know, I'd like them to stay if that's ok," Billy Ray said.  He then told them of everything that had happened, starting with his father's death and ending with the chase of the Hawaiian-shirted man.  There was a long pause, then Carlos spoke.

"In my country, Baby Doc's secret police would do things like this.  They were not so subtle, but they would break down doors, search papers, search houses, workshops, all looking for information.  What information do you have, Senor Ray?"

"Nothing.  The only thing they stole was the mailer-envelope, and they threw that out without taking anything."

"Hmm," said Julie, "is there something else they could be looking for?  I mean, do you have a lot of money or something else somebody could want?"

"I got a nice bottle of St. Kitts rum back at the bar-partment," said Billy Ray, "but other than that, its just my little monthly payment from Daddy's trust, and that just about keeps me afloat out here."

"Well Billy Ray," said Jimmy, "we'll keep an eye on you and a bunch of ears to the wind.  I'll put something out on the coconut telegraph too, and see what comes back.  Don't worry- we'll figure this thing out for you.  Hey, you sure you don't want a boat-drink?  Let's have a contest: Julie vs. Sandee!  What do you say, Brain Trust?"

"Dad, it's way too early for boat drinks!" Savannah Jane chided, but Julie was already pouring.

"I think I'll pass," Billy Ray laughed.  He said his goodbyes and ambled out the door, giving Jules a good-natured wave on the way out.  So, no closer to the answer, Billy Ray made his way home.  What, just what, was going on?  Who was the mysterious stranger in the Hawaiian shirt? And what did his dead father have to do with any of this?

Chapter 1: “Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, But I know it’s my own damn fault.”

Hi, and thank you for reading my new story, White Man's Paradise.  Don;t worry about the title --it's not racist, neo-Nazi hate speech.  It IS, however, a counter-factual piece of historical fiction, set in a world where the Union did not win the Civil War (it was a tie, negotiated by France and Britain).  Starting out on Key West, Florida, the story follows William Raymond Caldwell Calhoun (y'all call him Billy Ray --everybody does!) and his friend, Jimmy Buffett (yes, THAT Jimmy Buffett) as he learns some surprising things about his family history and, incidentally, some surprising things about a 150 year-old conspiracy that could end up with him sleeping with the fishes off of Dead Rebel Ledge.  Y'all have a good read, y'hear?

White Man’s Paradise

Chapter 1

“Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame,

 But I know it’s my own damn fault.”

     William Raymond Caldwell Calhoun squinted through bloodshot eyes at his 1970’s era clock radio, trying to correctly determine the shape and meaning of its analog display function.  Big hand on the 12, little hand on the 9.  Too damn early to get up on Key West, Florida; way too damn early to get up on Key West, Florida, after spending all night and a good part of the morning trading tequila shots and swapping spit with an entire college girl’s field-hockey team from St. Paul on spring break.  Tell a Yankee chick you’re Jimmy Buffet and a feller can just about do as he pleases.  Not that William Raymond (y’all can call me Billy Ray) could exactly remember whom he did what with for how long last night.  A more pressing concern was the 500 pound anvil-shaped headache that was threatening to crack his world in half at any moment.

     Eight oranges in the juicer, a raw egg, some honey and three aspirins later, Billy Ray regarded his domain through slightly scratched, very dark Ray Ban sunglasses: a 1-room shack (but a big room, he reminded himself) with 3 alcoves containing a double-sized platform waterbed, a pine clothes chest and wicker nightstand; a kitchenette and ½ size fridge filled with Durango beer, limes and margarita mix –there might be a couple of cans of something indestructible in the cupboard; a toilet, sink and mirror surrounded by a circle of hanging beads for privacy. 

     And then there was the bar. It occupied the entire center of the shack and was an honest-to-god bamboo Tiki bar from some defunct Chinese restaurant on the mainland.  Billy Ray had his friend, Jimmy, help him float it out to Key West on Jimmy’s boat, the Jolly Mon, just after Billy had bought the shack from the previous owner, a derelict castaway veteran of the Nicaraguan War.  He and Jimmy lovingly restored it, mounting a 100-gallon fish tank into the bottle rack dead center and cleaning the accumulated grime off of the bamboo until it gleamed like a freshly cut stand.  6 rattan covered bar stools were the shack’s only furniture besides the waterbed.  The bar also had a color t.v. attached to a satellite dish, an 8-speaker stereo, a c.b. radio mounted upside down on the ceiling next to the glass rack, a working dishwasher, blender, trash compactor, and a Hawaiian hula-dancer lamp with a shade made from local palm fronds.  Stolen street signs adorned the walls of the shack.  Screen covered picture windows provided ventilation and screened views of palm trees, ocean, his neighbor’s dumpster and a motel that had clearly seen better days.

     Legend has it that Jimmy wrote his huge hit-single, White Man’s Paradise, sitting at this very bar, a legend invented by Jimmy himself, because it was way more romantic than where he actually wrote it: an office cubicle in Nashville on his lunch-break from the commercial real estate firm he worked at right out of college.  However, it is true that more than a couple of his tunes were first tried out on Billy Ray and his select group of ‘Westies that would drop by with a bottle or two and a bag of burgers now and then.  Jimmy called them his “focus-group,” and would always stop in when he was between tours.

     Billy Ray shuffled around the bar and grabbed his beach towel from the back of the bar-stool where he had left it to dry.  He then walked out the front and only door, stripped naked, waved at the elderly hotel guest at across the yard who didn't think this was proper behavior for one’s own doorway, and stepped into the outdoor shower stall.  The water came from a rainwater collector mounted on the roof, with hot water coming from a solar-powered tank, also on the roof.  After a nice long shower, Billy Ray wrapped the towel around his middle so as to avoid repeated offense, stretched and wandered back inside his shack, wondering whatever possessed him to set an alarm for 9 in the a. of m., and hoping it wasn't something important he had forgotten.

     Now dressed in Key West local attire of sport fishing advertising tee-shirt, cargo shorts, old boat shoes with no socks and a Florida State baseball cap, Billy Ray made his way back to the bar, just about tripping over the reason for the 9 a.m. alarm before he actually saw it.  Or rather, saw him: a slightly pudgy man dressed in a tan suit, whose open briefcase was up on the bar.  The man was fishing around for something in there.  He stood up and greeted Billy Ray, who just now had remembered that his guest was his father’s estate attorney.  “Let’s get this over with,” Billy Ray sighed.

     “Thank you, Mr. Calhoun, and once again, I am so sorry for your loss.”

     “Not much of a loss, Mr…”

     “Howe, Mr. Calhoun.”

     “You can just call me Billy Ray, Mr. Howe.  Everyone does.  Except for my old man.  He never called me much at all, which was fine for both of us.”

     “Yes, well your father did leave you a small legacy: $75,000 worth in mature government bonds, as well as some family papers.  He was devoted to researching the life of your ancestor, John C. Calhoun.”

     “Yeah, old J.C.C. meant more to my father than I did,” replied Billy Ray.  “I guess that famous dead relatives are a whole lot less disappointing than living, breathing relatives who don’t –what was it he used to say? –who don’t realize their true potential, that was it.”

     “Every father loves his son, Mr. Calhoun,” said Attorney Howe.

     “Call me Billy Ray.  Mr. Calhoun died a couple of months back in Charlestown, South Carolina.  So, what do we have to do this morning, because I told a friend I’d help him out with a charter group of Jap businessmen who wanted to haul a blue marlin back to Tokyo with them.”

     “Just sign this account authorization, Mr. Calhoun.  This creates the bank account into which your inheritance will be deposited.  And sign here, saying that I explained that to you.  And sign over here on this paper, stating that you are next of kin to the deceased and that all taxes, debts and duties have been paid by the estate executor, who is me.  Sign here, which is a statement of my accounting, showing that the taxes, debts, etc., have been paid.  And finally, sign here.  This acknowledges your receipt of the decedent’s family papers, as stipulated by article IV, section 7, paragraph 19, clause 3 of your father’s will.  Oops, sign this line here, too.  This says I have presented you with this true copy of he will.  Do you have any questions I can answer?”

     “Nope, you’ve been very straightforward, Mr. Howe.  Thanks a lot.  You need directions out of here?” asked Billy Ray.

     “No thank you, Mr. Calhoun.  It is a small island with only one road off.”

     “That’s right, Mr. Howe.  You’re at the last stop sign in the continental Confederate States of America.  Go the wrong way and you’ll have a few sharks to keep you company on your swim to Cuba,” said Billy Ray with a wink.

     “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Calhoun.  And once again, I am so sorry about your loss.”

    

     “And once again, Mr. Howe, it ain’t that much of a loss.  That, and just call me Billy Ray –everyone does.”

     “Certainly Mr… certainly, Billy Ray,” said the attorney, shaking Billy Rays hand in parting.  He eased himself into some kind of expensive Kraut land-yacht that was backed into Billy Ray’s front yard (there was no driveway –Billy Ray thought having a driveway when he didn't own a car was just too flashy), turned left at the motel and right onto the causeway.

     Billy Ray watched him go, noting that the flags in front of the motel were twisting this way and that, as if the breeze couldn't make up its mind which direction to blow.  This could cause a problem later out on the water, as it was the beginning of tropical storm season.  There is nothing worse than a boatload of Jap landlubbers puking over the rail in the middle of a dirty squall, he thought to himself.  Better check the marine report at the bait dock before picking up the party. 

     After checking to make sure he had his rigging knife and wallet on him, Billy Ray grabbed a tube of zinc oxide from under the bar, leaving the legal papers on the bar for a later look.  As he walked up the street towards the municipal marina, the breeze finally decided to blow out of the southeast, making the motel flags (Jolly Roger, Florida and the Stars ‘n Bars, respectively) snap on their poles.  Maybe today would be ok for fishing.  Hell, a bad day of fishing beats a good day at work, thought Billy Ray with a half-smile.