Coup in Paradise. Each installment will be numbered so the reader can identify where they are in the story.
Episode 4
Trace flew from San Antonio to Los Angeles and then to Honolulu. He stayed there a night before catching a flight to Fiji. The airport in Fiji was near Nadi, on the other side of the island from the capital, Suva.
Suva played a prominent part during Adam’s time in the South Seas. He considered it his home port. It was where he docked most when he needed cargo or a charter. It was there that he had friends and contacts. Trace asked Adam for names and places, but Adam told him not to waste time following his footsteps; make your own. He brushed Trace’s request aside, saying all those folks from those days have moved on, died, or just sooner forgotten those times.
At the airport in Nadi, he boarded a bus to Suva. The bus reminded him of buses he’d seen in pictures of San Antonia from the 50s. Even though all the windows were open, it still did not blow away a musky odor, familiar yet not sure from where. The seats had long lost any semblance of comfortability, and all the metal railings’ paint had been worn away. The trip lasted five hours. The bus seemed nearly half full the entire trip. No one paid him any mind, and Trace did likewise. In spite of its crudeness, he was determined to make the ride aesthetically enjoyable.
‘I’ve never seen so much green,’ Trace thought, staring out the window. The road to Suva wound through slopes plastered with deep green topical foliage and suddenly darted alongside a stretch of the sea matched only by the sky. ‘If I ever meet a girl with eyes that shade of blue, I’ll ask her to marry me on the spot. Every day I’d look at those eyes, and it would remind me of this.’
At the bus depot in Suva, he picked up a newspaper and looked for a room to rent. The first two he looked at were more than what he wanted. He only wanted a place to lay his head. He envisioned himself being gone for a few days to a couple of weeks and just wanted a place he knew he could come home to.
The third place he called, there was no answer. It was nearly a mile from the harbor. He had a good feeling about the prospects of renting the room advertised. The description seemed perfect. He hired a cab and went to the address on Fulaga Street. He told the driver to wait.
Trace walked up a steep driveway to a small house. It was draped with plants and surrounded by an array of flowers.
Trace knocked on the door. A thin old man with snow white hair came to the door.
“Good day, sir,” he said with an English accent. “Can I help you?”
“Perhaps,” Trace said. “I saw in the local paper you have a room for rent; is it still available?”
“It is,” the man said, “but before wasting our time looking at it, I’ll quote the price. It’s two hundred dollars a month, and I need your first month and last month now.”
“That’s a bit more than the others,” Trace said. “But I’ll take a look at it.”
“Sure,” the man said and stepped outside the house. “The entrance is around to the side. You will have your own entrance. I don’t have any curfews. I’m a little hard of hearing and sleep sound, so if you wake me, you’ll be asked to keep it down, and the next time you’ll be asked to leave.”
“I know my manners, sir,” Trace said.
The man opened the door to the room. It had a hot plate, a small refrigerator, a bed, a chair, and a nightstand between the bed and the chair.
“It isn’t much.”
Trace interrupted the man, “But it’s a place to lay my head. Sorry to interrupt.
“That’s okay,” the man said. “I was about to say the same thing.”
“Can we negotiate a price?” Trace said.
“I hardly think you are in a negotiating position,” the man said. “I noticed your cab drive left your bags at the end of my drive and took off.”
“What!” Trace said.
“Well,” the man said. “To be honest, while you were looking at all my flowers. I waved him on.”
Trace squinted in disbelief. “You did what?”
“Now before you go giving me a good pelt, remember I’m old, odd, and observant. I had a good look at you and sized you up. You didn’t turn away from the price. You were polite with an honest man’s look and handshake. So the price is one hundred and twenty-five, and I do insist on the first and last month in advance.”
“Where I come from, a pelt flick of the finger,” Trace said. “We call them haymakers. What you did here was just toss out the line and see what I’d nibble on. Nothing wrong with sizing a man up before you enter into some sort of agreement. And besides, I told the driver if I go around to see the room or go inside, leave my bags and drive away.”
“Uncommon savvy, young man.”
“My name is Adam Troy. They call it Trace. My granddad’s name is Adam, and so is my dad’s. We had a Mexican housekeeper who called me Trace; that’s Tres or three in Spanish. I’m the third Adam.”
“I’m Cooper Caswell; they call me Coop, the obvious.”
Trace retrieved his bags from the end of the driveway and unpacked. He immediately wrote Adam and Buck, giving them the address on Fulaga Street. For the next two days, he walked around Suva. It was more modern than described by Adam. It was now a bustling port city rather than the city about to relinquish the past. Thirty years can do a lot to a city and island; desirable to the wealthy and those desiring wealth.
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