Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Read online

CHAPTER THREE

  The Miracle Leaf of Antoine

  Through This Gate Enters and Departs the World's Most Astute Financial Investor.

  So the inscription stated on the gold leaf hand-carved signage positioned directly above the wrought iron entrance of the fenced-in Ocho Rios compound. The Bridgework estate teetered amid a small clearing of thick hillside growth off Milford Road, where the landscaping had been slashed wide enough to afford a commanding view of Mallards Bay some several hundred feet below. The view was best enjoyed while floating in the large multilayered pool, with its swim-to bar positioned between color infused waterfalls dominating the verdant backyard gardens.

  It was here I found myself after wrestling my way into my favorite orange swimsuit, often mistaken for an abandoned airport windsock, sipping an Appleton rum and soda concoction. "Thank you so much," I said to the young mermaid who crossed the vast watery depths utilizing a one-handed breaststroke, carrying my drink on a silver serving tray high above her head. "I appreciate your efforts and, I must add, I will be happy to doggy paddle over for a refill when necessary."

  "Not to worry, Baron von dek Horn," she replied with a smile that sparkled in the hot afternoon sun. "Mr. Bridgework said we're to consider you family."

  My left eyebrow involuntarily arced with askance at the suggestion I enter the dysfunctional clan. In reality, my life was quite capable of reaching its own troubled heights without escalating assistance from Wayland, Ethelene, Angel or Chip/Silly. Contemplating my present predicament, I waded slow-motion to the nearest scallop shell seat and, once my buttocks were comfortably positioned in the geometrically proportioned lounger and warm pool water circled my neck and shoulders, I commenced to enjoy the luscious scenery below.

  Slivers of white sails, filled by the abundant ocean breeze, scampered along the coastline, while farther out a caravan of cruise ships took turns arriving and departing from the popular tourist port. The distant din of busy thoroughfares could barely be discerned over the natural orchestration provided by the native fauna, including an active family of coneys fluttering among the crickets and frogs in the creeping beggarweed along the west side of the property. Aloft and gliding amid jackfruit trees, loggerhead kingbirds flew side by side with red-billed streamertails. I smiled at the beauty of it all. The paradisaic surroundings were certainly doing their part to remove what remained of the sharp and resounding sting inflicted on the morning aero trip. My euphoria was, regretfully, short-lived.

  "Von dek Horn, you prying middle aged bastard!"

  Summoning me out of a half-sleep, I was disinclined to answer such a troika of descriptive terms.

  "Baron!" The male voice called out again, this time the moniker was more to my liking. I placed his presence somewhere near the embossed archway leading to the living room entrance of the mansion and rotated my seat to face this point. In the shadows, behind a large potted palm tree, stood a figure.

  "Bridgework? Show yourself!" I sloshed about on the seat, easing my footing onto the tiled flooring below. "Come out here for a chat."

  At that instance a tar-and-featherless Chip/Silly moved forward through the doorway, attired in a sports jacket, a pair of khaki jungle shorts and penny loafers and armed with a badminton racket. He marched straight from the house, across the carefully clipped lawn and directly into the pool -- not bothering to use the steps, but rather jumping feet first into the water. I watched in silence as, without care one in the world, he continued his trajectory to the in-pool pub where he picked up a freshly mixed daiquiri and exited the water by lifting himself airborne via the lower diving board, disappearing onto the lawn beyond. All the while maintaining his grip on the racket. It was truly an impressive accomplishment which almost wrung a round of applause from my hands.

  "See? See what I mean?" Bridgework called out from his refuge.

  "He appeared focused," I offered cheerfully, "and it was no easy trick."

  "Bah!" Bridgework waved an arm of disgust through the branches of the flourishing palmetto. "Besides, he knew he had an audience. For the record, he's off to capture butterflies. How in the hell is a badminton racket going to help him do that?"

  "It would depend on the size of the butterfly, one supposes."

  "No, that's where you're wrong!" Bridgework uttered a long groan before collecting himself and changing the subject. "I know Sondheim sent you, not that you would dare admit it."

  "There, you are wrong, I'm afraid. In spite of your nebbish remark, I would most wholeheartedly admit it."

  "Nebbish? Who's being nebbish now?"

  I chuckled at Bridgework's echo and sought to restore a diplomatic tone to our conversation. "Should we say we jaunted off on the wrong foot then, what? Sondheim requested I visit you, this we both know. Otherwise, how would such a warm reception and considerate host have awaited me?" I angled my way across the pool in hope of gaining a better view of the man.

  "He said you'd bring counsel to me."

  "Of the many things I am, consulting would rank high on the list." I accidentally crossed into the deeper end of the pool and now battled the running tide of a nearby waterfall. "I thought I might help calm the waters of the Loo."

  "The Loo is running fine," Bridgework shot back. "Look at me. How could it be any finer?"

  "Part of my present immediate problem is I can't see you clearly," I replied, neglecting to mention that in the twisting and turning rush of water the orange windsock of a swimsuit had bound tight my lower extremities in the most delicate of ways, posing a larger discomfort for me than any Bridgework himself might be experiencing. "Too, I believe it would be reassuring to us both if we knew the Loo was free of any rapacious conduct that might adversely effect Joe and Josephine Piggybank."

  "Who?"

  "The average savers of the world, the poor sweats who know nothing but a hard day's work and the profuse challenge of placing a few coins in one's own coffers at nightfall."

  "I have very little in common with the Piggybanks of the world," Bridgework scoffed, "and less interest in their few coins."

  "Precisely where I believe exists the error, sir."

  "I don't have time for your altruistic philosophy, particularly when it arrives at my station in life. What's mine is mine. So what if ninety-nine percent of the world has less than I do. Someone is always at the top and that someone, for now, is me."

  I took measure of his fetid words, repulsed by Bridgework's natural state of self-centeredness. "Your position being a temporary one serves as a truism. Beyond that, your words sound like those of a spoiled rapscallion."

  "If you've traveled all this way to insult me, you could have spared yourself the trip. You're welcome to dinner here this evening and a night's rest, but you will be on your way out the gate tomorrow." He emerged from behind the thicket of sprouting palms startling me with his frowzy appearance. "Tell Sondheim your mission fizzled to a halt on day one."

  The prospect of failure so early on in the game did not seat itself well with me. For Sondheim, it would be intolerable. "Perhaps we might share the table together, then, and at the very least know one another better before I depart."

  "That might be possible," Bridgework replied tugging at the edge of his frayed T-shirt, his gaze redolent of a man's thoughts being processed faraway. "Someone will fetch you for seven p.m."

  "Sounds delightful. I'm ever appreciative."

  "The Loo is in its finest shape ever," he added faintly, withdrawing into the shadows of the porch. All fell silent. As I stood in the pool, making final adjustments to improve the comfort within my swimsuit, a rain of shuttlecocks descended upon the surface of the water. Every few seconds a new birdie cleared the straw roof of the poolside bar, plopping in and around me. The source of the red-nosed plastic objects was clearly the ostensive butterfly procurer, Chip/Silly.

  Even in a blazer, there is something familiar about Shumway. Familiar in a loutish way, that is. I checked my suspicions and, in full agreement with the grumblings of my stomach, looked forward
to the meal ahead.