Page 11 of Tropical Vice
He lay still a moment longer, listening to the fan above creak its way through another revolution. Morning slid between the slats of the shutters in pale strokes. When he sat up, the air was already warming. He stepped out onto the veranda barefoot, the stone cool beneath him.
The call connected at once.
“Morning, mate,” Leon said, voice bright as always, too smooth to be casual. “Caught that clip you posted, curry bowl, shaggy mutt. Clean shot. You’ve still got the eye.”
Blake leaned forward, forearms on the railing. Below, the sea hung quiet between rocks, silvered at the edges.
Leon kept going. “I ran the name, Sai Fa, yeah? Dogs, shutters, ocean in the back. It’s got teeth.”
Blake’s brow drew tight. “No.”
“Easy.” Leon gave a short laugh. “We’re lining up a local series, embedded, artisan, all that noise. Get the angles right and it practically writes itself. And you’ve already got access.”
Blake looked toward the trees swaying down the slope, where the roof of the café caught the light. “Kit wouldn’t go for it.”
“You’ll convince him.”
There was a pause. Then Leon added, quieter now, “End of week, mate. If you can’t do it yourself, we’re sending a final scout Tuesday. I need specs, sample deck, two dozen assets minimum.”
The line clicked off.
He stood still after the call ended, the phone cooling in his hand. The light shifted. Far below, one of the dogs barked twice, sharp and distant. He did not move.
Later, entering the café, he kept his voice soft. “Sorry I’m late.”
Kit looked up briefly from the counter. “You’re usually not.”
“I overslept.”
Kit nodded once, turning back to the ladle in his hand. His sleeves were pushed up; the air smelled of broth and turmeric. Blake washed his hands and took up the board. The onions bit through his nose as he cut.
They ate lunch in the courtyard. The dogs ambled over and collapsed in their usual spots. One leaned against Blake’s shin and exhaled. Kit held his bowl in one hand, the other occupied by a spoon.
“You extending your stay?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Blake said. “I haven’t decided.”
Kit stirred the rice around. The sunlight grazed his cheekbone. “Must be a nice kind of freedom. To choose.”
Blake didn’t answer. He watched a crow hop along the edge of the table and lift off again.
He said instead, “If you ever needed help, supplies, costs, I’d cover it.”
Kit looked at him, eyes narrowed. “I’m not running a project.”
“I didn’t mean it like...”
Kit rose and took the bowls inside.
The café was quiet again by late afternoon. Blake went away to the market to buy ingredients they were running low on. While he was gone, a woman came in with her husband, their British accents cutting through the space as they marveled at the interior. When they reached the counter, the woman grinned.
“It’s just so authentic,” she said. “Our fixer said this place is about to blow up, early-stage word-of-mouth, right? Like a hidden gem. That must be so exciting for you.”
Kit wiped the same tray twice. He didn’t answer. The bell over the door chimed when they left.
He walked out to the step, tray still in hand, and sat. The air had turned syrupy with heat. He stared out across the stones, where the tide pulled slowly toward the reef. Blake’s voice came back to him, about lemons, about names and opening times, always phrased like a man trying to memorize.
That night last week returned with it, the way Blake had stood behind the curtain with damp curls and a shirt that fit badly. The way he had said nothing, only looked, as if waiting to be told something.
