The Worst Best Man(20)

Frankie dug her fingers into Aiden’s arm. “That’s him.”

“Does he drive a white van with a red square sticker by the taillight?” Aiden asked.

The kid’s head bobbed. “Oh sure. He borrows it from his brother-in-law sometimes when he has a driving job.”

“Where can we find Papi?” Aiden asked.

“You want a taxi? Glass bottom boat ride?” the kid asked.

“No—”

He snapped his fingers. “I know. Swim with the turtles. Snorkeling, lunch, lots of rum punch.”

“No—”

“Ah, drugs then? I can get you better than Papi,” the kid promised.

“Excuse me?” Frankie blinked at him.

“Ganja, coke, X—”

A natural born salesman, Aiden decided.

“Christ kid,” Frankie groaned. “Look, we need to find Papi he knows where a friend of ours is.”

The kid clammed up.

Frankie looked like she was going to shake him like a ragdoll until he coughed up some answers. Aiden put his hand on her arm. “Let me handle this businessman to businessman.” He opened his wallet. “You look like an entrepreneur who recognizes a good opportunity.”

--------

“Are you even old enough to drive?” Frankie asked clutching the back of the passenger seat as the little van climbed a steep hill.

The boy—Antonio, their new personal tour guide—shrugged and laid on the horn as a car swerved into their path to avoid a pothole the size of a city block in Manhattan. “What’s really in an age?” he waxed philosophically. “Over there is where my grandfather grew up.” He said pointing into the dark. “And Rhianna, too.”

Aiden’s wallet was significantly lighter thanks to Antonio’s entrepreneurial nature.

“We don’t need the full island tour,” Aiden reminded him mildly. “We’re looking for Papi.”

“Papi’s got five, six rum shops he hits after a good night’s work.”

“Does Papi kidnap people often?” Frankie wanted to know.

Aiden laid his hand over her thigh and squeezed, telegraphing a message to shut the hell up.

“Papi’s like… what do you call them? A jack of all trades? He does whatever needs doing. Then he goes and celebrates.”

“At a rum shop,” Aiden filled in.

“Exactly. First one coming up.” He pointed at the shack on their left. It sat smack against the road with six generous inches of sidewalk between its occupants and the stampede of traffic. He yanked the parking brake and opened the door.

“You can’t just park in the middle of the road,” Frankie protested.

“Lady, this is Barbados. We park wherever.”

They piled out after him, and Aiden put a possessive arm around Frankie’s shoulders. Who knew what they were walking into or how friendly the welcome would be when word got out why they were looking for Papi. Antonio pushed open the door. Its hinges creaked in protest.

“Come on.”

It was surprisingly clean inside. The wood floor was neatly swept. The miniscule bar jutted out from the corner eating up most of the space in the twelve by twelve room. All five of the patrons stopped what they were doing to stare.

“Anyone seen Papi tonight?” Antonio asked.

They stared some more. The bartender spoke first. Aiden thought it was English, but the jumble of words and phrasing was beyond him. The kid answered in kind, and Frankie met Aiden’s gaze over Antonio’s head.

“Not here. Come on, let’s go,” Antonio said, grabbing Frankie’s hand and pulling her toward the door.

“What was that?” Frankie asked as Antonio towed her back to the van, Aiden behind her.

“What was what?”

“That language you were speaking.”

Antonio laughed and they climbed back in the van. “That’s Bajan slang. Everyone speaks it. Come on, let’s go. Birdspeed.”

“Birdspeed?” Frankie asked.

“Yeah, quick fast.” He nodded.

They barreled down the road at “birdspeed” before Aiden could ask the question. “Had anyone there seen Papi?”

Antonio shook his head, bouncing in his seat over a bump. “No. No Papi there tonight. We’re trying the next rum shop.”

“How many rum shops are there?” Frankie asked.

“About fifteen hundred,” Antonio answered without batting an eye.

They hit four of the fifteen hundred in half an hour. It was midnight now, and Aiden was beginning to wonder if the kid was taking them on a wild goose chase. Frankie was dejected beside him. She didn’t even fight it when he pulled her into his side.

At least not until the zombie-like moan erupted from behind them. Frankie shrieked and put up her hands like she was going to karate chop the zombie while Aiden tried to push her away from the danger.

It was a man, not a zombie, that slowly rose from the rear bench seat.

“You okay back there, Uncle?” Antonio called.

The man grumbled something incoherent. He raised a small bottle of rum to his mouth, gulped some down, and then collapsed back on the seat.

“That’s my Uncle Renshaw,” Antonio announced.

“What the hell’s wrong with Uncle Renshaw?” Frankie demanded, reluctant to lower her hands.