By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 4: Travelers Are Often Moody
I rose early and hit the breakfast room, a cream-and-gilt confection where the morning light shone softly on the cut flowers at my table, and slappies bowed and asked permission to butter my muffin. After observing them all at my leisure I decided that the hottest one was a smiling young black with “Omar” on his shirt and shorts and one of those silver necklaces—which all of them seemed to be wearing — glinting from behind his collar, a nice adornment for a shapely neck. When I was ready to leave I snapped my fingers in his direction, and in seconds he was at my table, bowing.
“I want a tour of the island,” I said. And I want you to give it to me! But I didn’t say that. I knew they wouldn’t let a hotel servant out for that purpose, or pretense. Although maybe, if I offered enough money . . . . But no–I remembered Roger’s advice. “And I want it now,” I said.
“Yess sirr,” he answered, in the island intonation. “If you will please to relax here a moment, sir, I will convey your wishes sir.”
