Black Horizon Read Free Page A

from the Cuban government under a production-sharing agreement with Cuba’s state-owned oil company, Cubapetróleo, or ‘Cupet,’ as it is called.”
    “Well, ain’t that just fine and dandy,” said the Texan. He was on the opposite leg of the tiki hut’s four-sided bar, but his voice carried clear across the bartender’s work area to where Jack and Andie were seated.
    “Why don’t you shoosh him ?” Jack whispered.
    “He’s not married to me,” said Andie. “He’s married to Miss Teenage U.S.A. over there.”
    Andie turned her attention back to CNN, but Jack noticed another couple approaching the tiki hut from the beach. The man’s skin radiated the atomic glow of too much sun on the first day of vacation, but it was the woman who seemed angry. She split the pair of empty barstools beside Jack and slapped a rolled-up beach towel on the bar top.
    “Excuse me,” she said in a tone so sharp that the bartender dropped his pineapple. “Does your manager know about this?”
    He gathered the fruit off the floor and went to her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Know about what?”
    She unrolled the beach towel. Inside was a black blob that, from Jack’s angle, looked like a lump of wet coal.
    “This ,” she said as she pushed the towel toward the bartender. “It’s a tar ball. I found it on your beach.”
    The Texan walked over and took a look. “That’s a tar ball, all right.”
    “See, I told you,” she said to her sunburned mate.
    “Marsha, I never said it wasn’t a tar ball.”
    Marsha ignored him, turning her glare back to the bartender. “I want to see your manager.”
    “Right away, ma’am.” The bartender went to the phone, no argument.
    Jack and Andie exchanged glances, each wondering if the other wanted to hang around for the imminent bloodbath. The Texan dove right in.
    “You know, ma’am, it’s not unusual to find tar balls on Florida beaches. They fall off barges, ships, what have you, all the time.”
    “This didn’t fall off a ship. Have you been watching the news?”
    “Sure have,” said the Texan. “But that Cuban spill just happened last night. Sixty-five miles from Key West means ninety-five miles from here. We wouldn’t be getting tar balls already.”
    “Oh, really?” she said. “And who are you, some kind of tar ball expert?”
    “Buddy Davis,” he said with a tip of his baseball cap. “Worked in the oil industry for thirty-seven years. If you call countin’ your money ‘work,’” he added with a wink.
    “No disrespect, Buddy,” said Marsha. “This is my honeymoon, and it took us ten months to save up the fifty-percent deposit on a suite here. I am not staying if there’s an oil slick on the way.”
    The point registered with Jack, even if Marsha’s attitude left something to be desired. Andie, too, had been listening. “I feel the same way, Jack.”
    “Y’all on your honeymoon, too?” asked the Texan.
    Andie was scheduled to start a new undercover assignment in two weeks, so Jack knew well enough to keep his mouth shut and let her respond in a way that was sure to shut down the personal questions from a total stranger.
    “No, I work for an escort service,” Andie said as she pressed herself against Jack, winking at the Texan, “if you call a week in paradise with a stud like this ‘work.’”
    Miss Teenage U.S.A. looked up from her iPhone. “Like, that’s so random! I work for a service, too! Who are you with?”
    “Babes R Us.”
    “Hmm. Don’t know them.”
    “We really need to get out of this place,” Marsha said to her husband.
    The bartender returned with the resort manager, a smiling and cheerful man whose accent Jack pegged as Jamaican. The oil spill was obviously a resort-wide concern, so he addressed all three couples at the tiki bar as a group.
    “I want to assure each and every one of our guests that—”
    “Blah, blah, blah,” said Marsha. “There’s an oil slick on its way, my husband and I are checking out of this resort