Page 27 of The Worst Best Man
“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.
“He got a big fare. Six tourists. Americans. They needed a ride up north. Big money.”
“Looks like he celebrated a little hard,” Aiden commented.
