Nosy or not, I couldn't stop myself from asking, "So, whose were they?"
The guy looked annoyed by the question. "Don't know, don't care." And then, at my questioning look, he grudgingly added, "They were spilled on the deck."
"Oh." I was still trying to picture it. "So…the bird was aiming for the chips, not you?" Iguessit made sense. The way it sounded, the guy had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And we all knew whatthatfelt like.
No wonder he was cranky.Heck, I'd be cranky, too – especially before coffee.
The tourist gave a loud scoff, and his tone grew sarcastic. "Oh suuuuure. Blame it on the chips." He gave me a knowing look. "I'm telling ya, the bird was out to get him." He chortled as he hitched a thumb toward his opponent. "You see his sunglasses?"
At the mention of sunglasses, Mister Wall Street's mouth tightened, as if biting back a curse.
I gave him a quick scan but saw no glasses of any kind – not on his obnoxiously handsome face nor anywhere else. I looked back to the tourist and replied, "Uh, no?"
"Exactly!" he said. "Because the bird knocked 'em off – right into the water. They looked expensive, too." He laughed. "Am I right?"
I wasn't quite sure who he was asking – me or his fellow bag-holder.
When the silence stretched out too long to be comfortable, I filled the void by murmuring, "Probably." And itdidmake sense. If the guy's clothing was expensive, he would hardly skimp on sunglasses.
Wall Street pinched the bridge of his nose. "Forget the glasses." He turned to the tourist and practically growled, "Now let go of my bag."
The tourist blinked. "You really think it's yours?"
"Iknowit's mine."
The tourist looked perplexed for half a beat and then slapped his own forehead. "Wait, I know the problem," he said with a laugh. "It's your glasses."
But Wall Street wasn't laughing. In a clipped voice, he said, "What?"
"Your glasses," the tourist repeated. "Maybe you don't see too good without 'em. What were they? Prescription or something?" He gave his opponent the squinty-eye. "Becausemyeyes are twenty-twenty, and I'm tellin' you flat-out, this bag's all mine." He offered up a smug smile. "Sorry, pal."
Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the air. The tourist reached into the front pocket of his baggy shorts and pulled out a bright blue cell phone. He consulted the screen and said, "Hang on. I gotta take this."
He tapped the screen and started talking. "Hey babe, you're not gonna believe this, but some four-eyed fudgie is trying to steal my bag."
I almost snorted.Fudgie.The term was all-too-familiar. It was what some locals called tourists who went hog-wild for the island's world-famous fudge. But this was the first time I'd heard the term from an actual tourist.
And he wasn't even done. Into his phone, he said, "I mean, he's not wearing glasses now, but hewas. And trust me when I tell ya, the guy's blind as a bat without 'em."
Once again, my gaze shifted to Wall Street. He pressed his fingers to his temples like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this dock. Under his breath, he muttered, "Damn Macallan."
Macallan?
Who the heck was that? The tourist?
Not likely.It's not like the guys had been calling each other by name.No.It had to be somebody else.But who?
His broker? His butler?I tried to think.Surely, he hadn't named the bird?
"Yeah," the tourist continued. "And I'm like five seconds away from calling the cops." But then he paused. "Oh?" He frowned. "No shit? Right there in the room?" He turned away, and his voice grew hushed. "You sure it's mine? I packed that gizmo you like, so you'd better make sure."
Slowly, my gaze drifted back to Wall Street. Our gazes locked and held – even as the tourist mumbled into his phone, "Uh, yeah. I'll be there in five minutes." He gave a nervous chuckle. "I mean, it's not like I'll be lugging a bag or anything."
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
Mister Wall Street didn't.His face remained stony, even as the tourist released his grip on the bag and mumbled to no one in particular, "Sorry for the mix-up." And with that, he bolted past me, heading toward the main strip.
I didn't even turn to look. My eyes were still glued to the stranger who had yet to crack a smile. His gaze shifted to the street behind me, and he gave a slow shake of his head. More to himself than to me, he said, "What a tool."
