Settling into my new job
Two weeks into my new job at Butcher’s Bay on Great Guana Cay, I knew this job and my new life in Abaco weren’t exactly what I had hoped for. When I left Nassau to take this job, I did it for three reasons; I needed to make money to feed myself and I needed money to pay for my friend Sylvia’s legal fees. She was in prison for the murder of two men, and even if she shot them in self-defense, the jury would determine if they agreed. The court case would be held in another six months if she was lucky, but perhaps it wouldn’t be until another year.
The third reason was that I was looking for my long-lost twin sister. I saw a photo of her in a glossy magazine a few weeks ago. The photo was from Butcher’s Bay in Abaco, The Bahamas. She was photographed standing next to a famous movie star who owned a mansion there. She had been kidnapped when she was 4 years old, when my family, who as Norwegian, was on holiday in Spain.
There was yet another reason for me leaving Nassau and taking this job. I had a hard time admitting it, even to myself. I was torn between wanting to be with Mel and his son Toby, and leaving them alone because I didn’t deserve happiness. They were Canadian and their family owned The Grand Hotel I had stayed at in Nassau.
I was afraid I had nothing to offer, except grief and self hatred. Both were due to the accident where I had run over my two year old son Peter and killed him in the driveway of my husband’s and my house in Oslo, Norway. I have hated myself ever since, and that was almost 3 years ago. It had taken me one year to function after the death. My marriage went to hell. My husband should have watched our son, but was on the phone talking when Peter hid under my car, probably playing hide and seek. We blamed each other for the accident, but of course I blamed myself the most.
The grief had felt like a heavy coat I was wearing all the time. I still had paralyzing bouts of grief, but they were less frequent, and I didn’t fantasize about killing myself every day.
I finally had time for a breather at my new job and sat down in the only chair in my studio apartment above the garage. It was 6 pm, and I had been hard at work since 7 am. In one hour, I had a zoom meeting with my boss and the accountant Mandy, who was quickly becoming more of a friend than just a colleague to me.
Dennis Hills, my new boss, had forgotten to mention that my little studio apartment was also the construction site’s office. At the interview meeting for the job, it had sounded like I would have my own little studio. Not the case. People working on the project were wandering in and out of my home all day. The supervisor’s desk stood where my sofa should have been. The work supervisor Chuck, a grumpy guy from Florida, yelled into the phone more than he spoke.
More than half of my studio was his office space. A twin bed stood by the wall. Good thing I didn’t have many belongings, because the only storage was a dresser with three drawers. They reserved the closet for an archive. The work supervisor and any other person who came for a meeting at the building site used the only tiny bathroom in the corner. My bathroom.
The supervisor used the kitchen and the fridge as well. He stacked one shelf in the fridge with bottles of beer, but he wasn’t beyond tak- ing whatever he wanted of my food. What could I do? Beat him up?
There was no wall or divider for privacy. Yet, the thing that wor- ried me the most was that other people had the key to my studio. Several times I had woken up by the supervisor tramping up the stairs late at night or at ungodly hours in the morning to pick up some paper or work. Other times, he sent someone else to fetch things. The situation both annoyed and scared me. Some of these construction workers seemed pretty rough. Burly men with tattoos wife beater shirts and long beards. As if my boss had recruited them from a motorcycle club.
My job wasn’t particularly interesting, but my boss paid well. I simply needed to source products and compare prices from differ- ent suppliers. Sometimes I negotiated discounts. Finally, with the approval of my boss, I ordered the items in question. I arranged for transport of the goods from anywhere in the US to Florida, and then shipping over to Guana Cay with a freight boat.
I couldn’t earn this kind of money with any other job that didn’t involve prostitution or selling drugs. And, since it was a six-month engagement, I told myself I could do it. Even if my boss wasn’t the greatest boss and the job wasn’t that gratifying.
On the third day, I found a new hobby. I signed up to a people locker website in order to access my boss’ and my co-workers’ criminal records. I was a sleuth at heart, so I found this new hobby exhilarating. I had always wanted to be a detective, but hadn’t made it that far in the Norwegian police force. I was only a lowly police officer when I was kicked out, because I had used excessive force against a pedophile murderer. I had whacked him in the groin with my baton, and for that they fired me.
I spent a considerable amount of hours late at night pursuing my parallel career as a snoop, trying to figure out if my boss was up to something. This was after I discovered he had served two years in prison for tax evasion. Since I knew a leopard cannot change his spots, I found this information pretty intriguing. I was aware that this activity could prove dangerous for me if my boss figured out what I was doing and he actually had something to hide. It certainly was entertaining.
I also looked up other guys involved with the construction project. Those who were US citizens, at least. The Mexican workers I couldn’t do anything about. No record for them.
The supervisor Chuck Morris had served time for battering an employee. He also had several charges for domestic violence. Some members of the crew had been serving time for organized car theft. The captain of my boss’ 5 million dollar Merrit 72 ft Custom Sports fishing yacht had served 3 years for smuggling of drugs.
It was a colorful bunch my boss had assembled, for sure. I knew that in order to get a work permit in The Bahamas; you need a clean police record. It was astonishing how my boss had arranged that for himself and the crew.
One positive thing about this job was Mandy, the accountant. She was in her mid 30s. Sporty, determined, and not easily bullied. She had survived in her job for over a year. She showed me around on Guana Cay and taught me how to make the most of Butcher’s Bay.
At 8 pm, I was finally done with the zoom meeting with my boss and Mandy. It was time to get some fresh air. Mandy and my boss were off the island, hence the zoom meeting. Some evenings I would take the golf cart to the settlement to see something different, but I didn’t feel like it this evening. I had to be back in bed in a couple of hours, so I decided to stay inside of Butcher’s Bay.
A ten-minute walk took me to the marina area. Golf carts zoomed past me as fast as they could go. No-one respected the speed limits here, so I kept to the grassy side of the road.
I walked past ‘Marlin’, a bar reserved for members, homeowners and their guests. On the far side of the marina was ‘The Puffer Bar,’ and I headed there. This bar was for crew and staff. That meant worker bees like me. I went there two or three times a week if I wanted to see people outside of work.
This evening I sat down at a table in the farthest corner from the bar. People hung around the bar as usual. There was a TV blaring with a replay of a football match. The bar area had no walls on three sides to catch any breeze. If the breeze was too much, roll-down shut- ters protected the guests. More than a dozen sizable fishing yachts were docked at the marina.
My boss’ fishing yacht was inaccurately named ‘Got away.’ I smiled when I thought of it, thinking of my boss’ two-year stint in prison.
I spotted all three crew members standing by the bar, wearing long-sleeved shirts with the logo of the boat on the back. I didn’t particularly want to speak with anyone, just do some people-watching. A few of the patrons were crew from yachts. People not wearing a logo were usually caretakers or personal assistants.
I turned my gaze toward the water and sipped at my glass of sparkling wine. I closed my eyes and inhaled the fresh air and the scent of seaweed in the water below the deck.
I was wondering what my Canadian friend Mel and his son Toby was doing this evening. I could have been with them now. Perhaps Mel and I could have had a wonderful relationship for a few days, maybe weeks? I already liked his son Toby. We had something in common, him and I. We had both caused someone’s death by accident. A heavy burden for me, but an unfathomable burden for him. He had watched his 1 year old sister drown in a pool while the par- ents were sitting right there, with their backs to the pool. Toby, only 4 years old, had been too paralyzed with fear to notify them until it was too late. His mother left Toby with his father when they got divorced. She could still see him whenever she wanted. Toby also had Stewart, a young man and private teacher who acted like his companion and babysitter outside of school.
I would have enjoyed having both Toby and Mel in my life, but I couldn’t. I just knew in my heart that a relationship with Mel would end in a disaster. He would realize that I wasn’t the person he thought I was, and then he would let me go. I would be devastated, and so would Toby. Better to prevent all that unhappiness by not giving in to the urge of wanting a relationship.
I didn’t deserve happiness, anyway. Also, I was more or less responsible for yet another person’s death, so I was as good as a murderer. There was no way around it. I had wanted revenge over the Russian Maxim I had met at the Casino at Atlantis. He had drugged and raped me, and if had not caused his death, I had at least contributed to it. But in my heart I had totally wanted to kill him in revenge. This murderous side of me was another reason I didn’t deserve happiness. I felt I had the right to defend myself. And if the law couldn’t help me, I would help myself.
Then my thoughts drifted to my friend Sylvia. I hoped she was doing OK in prison. Her Majesty’s Prison in Nassau was a terrible place for anyone. At least Sylvia had grit and stamina, and if anyone had the skills needed to survive, it was her. The attorney had estimated she would get at least three years. That was a long time behind bars. Also, if the court case went poorly, or if she killed someone in prison in self-defense, she could easily spend more time inside.
I was going to visit her in two weeks. I dreaded finding out how bad things really were in there, but I would enjoy seeing her again.
I had spoken with Traction, a local fisherman who had become Sylvia’s boyfriend and my friend, on the phone. He had saved Sylvia’s and my life numerous times. When Sylvia was kidnapped and held hostage on a yacht, Traction had offered to come with me in his little boat to try and rescue Sylvia. We had followed the yacht and slept out under the sky several nights. In the end we managed to free Sylvia. She saved my life again, by shooting another Russian guy who was about to shoot me.
Traction told me Sylvia had called him once from prison. It seemed she was adjusting as well as one could expect. I couldn’t help worrying about her. A lot could happen in prison and even if you were one tough cookie, like Sylvia, other prisoners could gang up on you and beat you down.
“Do you mind if I join you for a drink?”
I turned and looked at the intruder of my peace. He was a tall guy with light brown hair, braided close to his head. He smiled, as if we were old friends. He had at least five bracelets made of string around his wrist and a ring in each ear. He wore a light blue t-shirt with the logo ‘Mermaids Wanted’ on. I pegged him as crew on a boat.
“Actually, I do.”
I deliberately put a grim expression on my face to scare him off. He placed a glass of sparkling wine in front of me and took a swig of a beer bottle. I shook my head. No way would I take a drink from a stranger again, after I was drugged and raped at Atlantis.
I turned away from him and looked over the railing at the water.
“You can’t imagine how much it cost me to come over here and beg to sit at your table. And now every man at this bar is grinning at me with glee, watching you refuse me to sit down.”
I looked at him and snorted. “Tough luck. Maybe another time.” I scrutinized the yachts in the marina while waiting for him to leave. He didn’t.
I looked at him sourly. “You still here?”
“What if I can bring something else to the table? Besides the wine, I mean?”
I sighed heavily. “OK, then. Have a seat for two minutes.” “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” He smiled triumphantly at the other men at the bar, who had watched his progress with interest. “Yes. Enough with the small talk.”
“You don’t waste time, do you?”
“My time is precious. No time for bullshit.”
He laughed. “I take it they didn’t send you to charm school when you were young, did they?”
“Yes, they did. I was kicked out the first day.” I smiled as if I had hemorrhoids bothering me.
“Let’s start from the beginning, like civilized people. My name is Tom Butler. I work for the Inland Revenue Service.”
I scrunched up my face. Then I thought better of it and relaxed. “Good for you. Good thing I don’t owe any taxes to the US.”
“I think you can help me.”
“Really? How?” My tone was sour sweet.
“You work for Dennis Hills. I’m trying to recover money for the
Treasury. I’m hoping you might be able and willing to help me.” “And risk my life for being a snitch? I would be shark bait before
I even found anything I could report back to you.”
“Great! So you’ll think about it?”
I scoffed. “You misunderstand. I don’t desire to become shark
food. So, no, thanks. Besides, I think my boss’ dealings are good. He’s not a criminal. You’ve got the wrong man in your sight.” This should earn me a bonus if I was right, and this guy reported back to my boss. Perhaps I was paranoid, but I had noticed several surveillance cameras everywhere in my studio and on the building site.
“What if I can offer a reward?”
“Will I be able to use it in the next dimension? Because that’s where I’ll be after he kills me.”
“You’re being very dramatic. Nobody’s going to kill you. $20,000.” “What?”
“All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open and report
back to me about what you see. If we find proof enough for a charge that will stick, you get your $20,000.”
I wasn’t interested in neither the job, nor the money. Even if he wasn’t working for my boss. It wasn’t my circus, and I wanted noth- ing to do with it. I was busy enough minding my own business.
I looked at him. “Why are you wearing a shirt with a logo for ‘Mermaids Wanted’? That’s the boat over there.” I pointed to the sleek fishing yacht.
“I have signed up to be a bosun, so I can work under cover. Your boss isn’t the only one I’m monitoring in this development. There are other people who are flaunting more money than they have told the IRS about.”
I smiled at that. There were a lot of wealthy Americans all over The Bahamas. Not only in Butcher’s Bay.
“So what does a bosun do?”
“I’m in charge of the deckhands and supervise deck operations. I drive the tender as well. I grew up in the Florida Keys, so I know how to handle a boat.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Tom, I have thought long and hard about your offer. I wish I wanted to help you, but I don’t. Besides, you don’t need my help. My boss is clean. Otherwise I wouldn’t work for him.” That was putting it on a bit thickly, but why not?
Tom stood up to leave with a sigh. “Fine. I have to respect that. I will not be a sore loser. I hope I’ll see you around.”
He grabbed the untouched glass of wine and turned away from me.
“Thanks for the drink, Tom!”
He ambled over to the bar. I deliberately kept an eye on him without being obvious about it. Five minutes later, the captain of ‘Got Away’ slid an envelope to him.
A little while later, Tom left. I saw him walking along the dock, passing several beautiful and expensive yachts, before he stepped onto the gangway of the yacht ‘Mermaids Wanted’.
