Volcano by Patricia Rice Page B

changed some, but he couldn’t very well hide his size or color. The population here was predominantly black, so he looked like a tourist. But he walked streets most tourists didn’t take.
    Turning down a narrow alley, he encountered suspicious glares from the assortment of men and boys lounging against street corners and sitting on stoops. If it weren’t for the hot Caribbean sun blazing down on them, he’d think he was in a Chicago slum. The pounding beat of a steel drum from one of the bars quickly dispelled that notion.
    Charlie understood the insults muttered in patois but he ignored them. One advantage of his size was that most people didn’t confront him physically. The disadvantage was that he didn’t consider it fair play to grab the pip-squeaks by their shirt collars and wring them out. Picking on someone his own size was difficult when everyone was smaller.
    Finding the house he sought, Charlie didn’t bother knocking on the front door leading into a half-empty general dry-goods store. Stepping over the rusted hulk of a bicycle, he wended his way through a littered side alley and around the back.
    The stench of rotting fish assaulted him from one side; the delicious odors of a spicy island gumbo wafted toward him from the other. Hoping he hadn’t completely lost touch with his contacts here, Charlie stuck his head over the sagging half of a rear door and hollered, “Jacques!”
    A small, curly-headed toddler with wide eyes appeared first, taking in his alien presence and scampering away. Then with a low muttering stream of indistinguishable invectives, a tall shadow advanced out of the dim interior. Hair braided in a multitude of thick dreadlocks, the bony silhouette loped into view.
    â€œCaptain! You come back!” he said in the lilting accents of the island. “Come in! Come in!”
    His graying beard tapering to a point, his black skin stretched taut over his thin frame, Jacques appeared more apparition than human. But the strength of his hug was real enough. Charlie caught Jacques’s skinny biceps in a tight squeeze and practically lifted his friend off the ground.
    â€œYou haven’t changed any,” he said dryly. “I’d rather wrestle an alligator.”
    Jacques emitted a high, thin cackle. “Life make me strong. Sit, sit. Antoinette will give you gumbo. You have had no gumbo until you have Antoinette’s.”
    â€œGone and got yourself married since I saw you last, have you?” Charlie took the seat offered at the rickety kitchen table and winked at the toddler peeking at him from behind a beaded curtain. He knew better than to get down to business as soon as he arrived. The chances of accomplishing anything before dusk were slim. Somehow, he would have to get word to his impatient lady. Releasing any fantasy of returning to that double bed and his irate companion, Charlie concentrated on the conversation.
    They discussed local happenings over an enormous bowl of seafood accompanied by the local beer. Good thing he hadn’t filled up earlier. By meal’s end, Charlie bounced the toddler on his knee and had a better idea of island politics as they’d developed since he’d left. Jacques might parade his religious beliefs in public, petition the government to save the rain forests, and lead tourists on nature hikes like an aging hippie, but he had a shrewd understanding of what went on behind the scenes. He knew everything and everyone on this end of the island. And it was here that Raul had disappeared.
    The sun lowered toward the sea as they took their drinks out on the back step and spoke quietly while Antoinette and the toddler slipped into the interior.
    â€œSo, what brings you back, my friend?” Jacques asked. “I hear you do big things in the States. You made friends with your papa, no?”
    Charlie shrugged. “I never had any argument with Dad. It was just difficult visiting him over that