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Authors: Paul Christopher
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to Nassau in the Bahamas leaving from Ronald Reagan in an hour. If we hurry we can just make it.”
The three-hour flight got them into Nassau’s Lynden Pindling airport just after midnight. They picked up a cab outside the main and only terminal and booked themselves into the old Royal Bahamian on West Bay Street. After renting a car for the next morning they all retired to their rooms and tried to sleep, slowly acclimating themselves to the hot, humid weather.
They met up at breakfast on one of the sea-view terraces. Biting into a freshly baked scone and sipping her excellent Jamaican coffee Peggy looked out over the turquoise ocean.
“I could get used to this,” she said, eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans. Lloyd, their white-jacketed waiter, appeared just as the first sterling silver pot was running out and replaced it with a fresh one. From somewhere farther into town there was the massive booming of an air horn. Peggy could have sworn the tune it was playing was the first four bars from “When You Wish upon a Star.”
“What the hell is that ?”
Holliday laughed.
“That, madam,” said Lloyd the waiter, “is the Disney Magic .”
“Which is?”
“A ship, madam. A rather large one,” replied Lloyd. “It warns us of its arrival by sounding its wretched horn that way. You can hear it on the other side of New Providence. Its passengers rarely come here.”
“I thought ships were always feminine,” said Holliday.
“There are exceptions, sir,” intoned Lloyd. He made a little shivering gesture. “The Disney Magic is most certainly one of them. They have their own private island where Captain Hook takes you on tours in full costume.”
“It sound awful,” said Peggy.
“It is well past awful, madam. ‘Appalling’ is a somewhat better word, I think.” Lloyd went off to find more scones.
“Where exactly is this place, Lyford Cay?” Peggy asked.
“The western tip of the island.”
“On the plane you said it was a gated community,” said Peggy. “We don’t even know which house is his, let alone how to get past security.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Holliday.
“In other words, you don’t have the faintest idea,” said Peggy.
“That about sums it up,” said Holliday.
Mary Breau Luxury Real Estate was located on the floor above the Bank of Nova Scotia at 404 West Bay Street, deep in the heart of Nassau, roughly equidistant from both the harbor and Government House. People often remarked that most of the banking in the Bahamas seemed to be divided between the three major Canadian banks: Nova Scotia, Royal and the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.
There was no mystery about this. During prohibition the majority of bootleggers and smugglers, including the legendary rum runner Bill McCoy, purchased much of their product from Canadian distilleries, ferried it from Nassau to Bimini and then across the narrow fifty-mile strait to Florida. At one point there was so much cash stored in the fortresslike Royal Bank just down the street that people began to worry about the structural integrity of the building.
Mary Breau herself ran a one-woman show, and hers was the only real estate ad in the local yellow pages that had the gall to say that she specialized in Lyford Cay houses. She was coal black, spoke with a faintly British accent, wore floral-print dresses and had enormous breasts that dominated her physical presence almost as much as her charming, broad smile.
“What can I do for you nice people?” Mary asked, looking at them, one to the other. Holliday could see that she didn’t know how Brennan fit into the structure of their relationship, but instead of being suspicious she was curious. A smart woman and a shrewd judge of character. They had to watch their step with this one.
“We’re looking for a place at Lyford Cay,” Holliday replied, after making the introductions.
“Rent or buy?” Mary asked crisply.
Holliday gave her the answer
The three-hour flight got them into Nassau’s Lynden Pindling airport just after midnight. They picked up a cab outside the main and only terminal and booked themselves into the old Royal Bahamian on West Bay Street. After renting a car for the next morning they all retired to their rooms and tried to sleep, slowly acclimating themselves to the hot, humid weather.
They met up at breakfast on one of the sea-view terraces. Biting into a freshly baked scone and sipping her excellent Jamaican coffee Peggy looked out over the turquoise ocean.
“I could get used to this,” she said, eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans. Lloyd, their white-jacketed waiter, appeared just as the first sterling silver pot was running out and replaced it with a fresh one. From somewhere farther into town there was the massive booming of an air horn. Peggy could have sworn the tune it was playing was the first four bars from “When You Wish upon a Star.”
“What the hell is that ?”
Holliday laughed.
“That, madam,” said Lloyd the waiter, “is the Disney Magic .”
“Which is?”
“A ship, madam. A rather large one,” replied Lloyd. “It warns us of its arrival by sounding its wretched horn that way. You can hear it on the other side of New Providence. Its passengers rarely come here.”
“I thought ships were always feminine,” said Holliday.
“There are exceptions, sir,” intoned Lloyd. He made a little shivering gesture. “The Disney Magic is most certainly one of them. They have their own private island where Captain Hook takes you on tours in full costume.”
“It sound awful,” said Peggy.
“It is well past awful, madam. ‘Appalling’ is a somewhat better word, I think.” Lloyd went off to find more scones.
“Where exactly is this place, Lyford Cay?” Peggy asked.
“The western tip of the island.”
“On the plane you said it was a gated community,” said Peggy. “We don’t even know which house is his, let alone how to get past security.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Holliday.
“In other words, you don’t have the faintest idea,” said Peggy.
“That about sums it up,” said Holliday.
Mary Breau Luxury Real Estate was located on the floor above the Bank of Nova Scotia at 404 West Bay Street, deep in the heart of Nassau, roughly equidistant from both the harbor and Government House. People often remarked that most of the banking in the Bahamas seemed to be divided between the three major Canadian banks: Nova Scotia, Royal and the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.
There was no mystery about this. During prohibition the majority of bootleggers and smugglers, including the legendary rum runner Bill McCoy, purchased much of their product from Canadian distilleries, ferried it from Nassau to Bimini and then across the narrow fifty-mile strait to Florida. At one point there was so much cash stored in the fortresslike Royal Bank just down the street that people began to worry about the structural integrity of the building.
Mary Breau herself ran a one-woman show, and hers was the only real estate ad in the local yellow pages that had the gall to say that she specialized in Lyford Cay houses. She was coal black, spoke with a faintly British accent, wore floral-print dresses and had enormous breasts that dominated her physical presence almost as much as her charming, broad smile.
“What can I do for you nice people?” Mary asked, looking at them, one to the other. Holliday could see that she didn’t know how Brennan fit into the structure of their relationship, but instead of being suspicious she was curious. A smart woman and a shrewd judge of character. They had to watch their step with this one.
“We’re looking for a place at Lyford Cay,” Holliday replied, after making the introductions.
“Rent or buy?” Mary asked crisply.
Holliday gave her the answer
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