Page 2 of Tropical Vice
A dog lifted its head from beneath a bench, a brindled creature with pale eyes and a chunk missing from one ear. It stared, then yawned. Another, smaller and white, lounged on its back in a patch of shade, one paw twitching as it dreamed. Two more dozed near the foundation, and one, dark brown, heavy-shouldered, stood sentinel by the door, tail low, head cocked in mute appraisal.
Blake stepped forward slowly.
“Friendly?” he asked aloud.
From behind the counter came a voice, dry as dust. “Sometimes. Depends on the heat.”
Blake glanced up. The man behind the counter was barefoot with dark hair pulled into a loose bun, his face half-obscured by a low shelf and a drying rack full of tin cups. He moved with a quiet economy, slicing something green onto a wooden board. His tank top was frayed at the shoulders, and his skin shone faintly where the sunlight reached in.
The brown dog padded closer. Blake crouched.
“This one has opinions.”
“That’s Geng,” the voice replied. “Pretends to like strangers. Then bites them.”
“I’ll consider myself warned,” Blake said, lowering his hand. Geng sniffed, sneezed, then turned and trotted away.
The man emerged more fully now, brushing coriander from his hands with a stained towel. He was lean, narrow-hipped, with strong forearms and a tired sort of stillness about him. His hair was knotted loosely, and a silver bangle flashed at his wrist.
“You want something?”
Blake straightened. “I heard the lassi was good.”
“It is.”
A pause. The man didn’t elaborate.
Blake waited. When nothing more came, he nodded once and moved to a nearby table. The dogs watched but didn’t follow. The heat pressed at his temples. Somewhere inland, a rooster crowed.
He sat.
The man vanished into the back without further comment. A radio clicked on, too softly to follow the words, and something metallic clanged.
Blake adjusted the angle of his chair. He’d worn his second-best linen shirt, no watch, a pair of sandals with scuffs he usually polished out. On the table, he placed the tablet facedown. He didn’t open it.
He didn’t need the pitch deck yet. First, he had to know if this place had what Leon called “narrative texture.” The kind that wealthy clients liked to feel they’d discovered themselves. No signage, no social media. Just a beach, a shack, and a sense of exclusivity disguised as accident. He had an eye for that kind of thing.
But this place didn’t feel quite like the others.
The man returned with a metal tumbler beaded with condensation. No straw, no garnish. Just pale gold lassi, thick enough to eat with a spoon.
“Thanks,” Blake said.
The man nodded once, then leaned on the counter.
The silence held.
Blake sipped. The drink was extraordinary. Bright and rich, the mango fully ripe but not overdone, the yoghurt smooth and just sour enough to make his tongue ache. No sugar bomb. No attempt to impress. Just... right.
Blake smiled before he meant to. “I’m Blake.”
“Kit.”
They didn’t shake hands. Another dog approached, mottled grey and white, with an old limp and a tongue that hung always to one side.
Kit nodded toward it. “That’s Dusty. He came with the building.”
“And the others?”
