A Matter of Time by David Manuel

evening—he preferred his own company and was working on his fourth “Dark ’n Stormy.”
     Made with Bermuda’s Black Seal rum, it was the drink of choice among local sea-faring types, when they weren’t knocking back
     Heinekens.
    He cast an eye around the place. With the exception of the six guys over by the fireplace, it was quiet. They were the crew
     of the big schooner that had come in earlier that afternoon,
Laventura
, out of Newport. All in white, rightdown to their Topsiders, they seemed like decent sorts. No Rolexes, though. Gentleman sailors.
    Except one. Even with four drinks in him Colin possessed a sailor’s eye—that could pick up the slightest hint in wind or weather
     that might presage a sea change. One of the six was older than the rest. And didn’t seem really comfortable in their company.
    Grateful for the momentary distraction from what had brought him here to drink alone, he observed the man. He did not move
     with the graceful ease of the others. And he forced himself to smile, when the others were laughing. The thought crossed Colin’s
     mind that he was not really a sailor at all. Studying him now, he noted the hardness around his eyes.
    All at once the man looked up, caught Colin eye-balling him, and gave him a malevolent stare that made Colin’s blood run cold.
     He was definitely not a character one would want to encounter on a dark night! That reminded him that his glass needed refilling,
     and he signaled Mike for another Dark ’n Stormy.
    Normally on Saturday night the White Horse would be rocking. But the
Norwegian Majesty
had just sailed from the terminal on Ordnance Island and taken with her most of the tourists who’d been wandering the town.
     The White Horse regulars were not sad to see her go. Her departure signaled the approaching end of the cruise ship season.
     In two more weeks, they could come in here and count on getting a table and not having to wait half an hour for their food.
    The other reason for the quiet was that tonight was the beginning of Race Week. Over in Hamilton, the match-race regatta known
     as the Gold Cup was about to get underway. Tonight there was a posh reception at the BacardiBuilding in honor of all the skippers who had just arrived, and every nautical type who could wangle an invitation was there.
    Colin had two invitations, actually. But he was in no mood to party. On the bar in front of him was a legal document of several
     pages. He started to scan the top page, then stopped; reading it again wasn’t going to change what it said.
    Well, if he had to be miserable, it might as well be here. Sailors, captains, mates, boatyard workers, sail-makers, pilots—all
     regarded the White Horse as their place. The only reason to go anywhere else would be for a little privacy or to impress a
     potential client, in which case they might go up the wharf to the more upscale Carriage House, or to San Giorgio’s, whose
     Italian cuisine was superb and not too pricey.
    Mounted above the tavern’s fireplace was the rear end of a wrecked police boat. The ceiling over the bar was festooned with
     buoys and old sailing caps, and the walls were covered with photos and graffiti that meant a great deal to regulars, and nothing
     at all to visitors. The former were remarkably tolerant of the latter, however, knowing how much the island’s economy depended
     on their cash.
    They were especially so, if the visitors happened to be young and female and reasonably pulchritudinous. Indeed, local mariners
     were not averse to investing a fair amount of time and Heinekens, convincing them of their seafaring charm. Occasionally it
     actually paid off—just often enough to keep the ball in play.
    Colin never had to buy more than one round for visitors of that persuasion. His flashing dark eyes and dazzling smile qualified
     him as what women considered“cute.” Men never knew exactly what constituted “cute,” but women always did—and Colin was its definition.
    He