Free Gone Bamboo by Anthony Bourdain Page A

crates. Meathead ran ahead, nails clicking against the wood, to pursue a plate of discarded ribs.
    Henry found them a spot by the edge of the dock where people tied up their dinghies, and they sat down, legs dangling over the edge.
    A goofy-looking Brit in an overlarge T-shirt came over from behind the bar with a bottle of iced Absolut, a bottle of cranberry juice, and some plastic cups. He put them down next to Henry.
    "Henry! How you doin'? Frances. Good to see you. Cheers." Henry gave him four dollars.
    "That how they serve everybody?" asked Cheryl. "Or just you?"
    "It's usually self-service. You know, pour your own. James is just being nice bringing it over," answered Henry, mixing drinks. Finished with his ribs, Meathead came over and dropped his head on Frances's lap. She petted him with one hand and drank with the other.
    "A lot of people here think Henry's some big drug dealer 'cause they never see him work," said Frances, shaking her head and smiling.
    "Doesn't that cause problems?" asked Tommy.
    "Nah . . . Smuggling is an honorable profession down here. They've been doing it for centuries. An ex-dope smuggler is much more acceptable than somebody in real estate, so let them think what they want. If I deny it, they all smile and wink anyway, so what the fuck."
    Henry saw Tommy happily moving his foot to "I Wanna Be Your Dog" and smiled covertly at Frances, who just stuck her tongue out at him. The kids were coming along.

10
     
    W ith one hand, Tommy expertly cracked four eggs into a copper mixing bowl. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and bright sunlight was already streaming through the overhead skylight into the well-appointed kitchen. Rick and Burt, coming off their guard shifts, waved to Tommy as they passed through on the way to the back bedroom. They would sleep much of the day, rising around three in the afternoon for some free time before resuming duty at nine. Woody and Robbie, fresh from their morning jog, fifty laps in the pool, and an outdoor shower, moved about in the breakfast area to the rear of the kitchen, interspersing hurried mouthfuls of bran flakes with the serious business of cleaning and loading their automatic weapons.
    The kitchen smelled of cloves and gun oil. Tommy sprinkled ground nutmeg into the copper bowl, added some cinnamon, a shot of Cointreau, and a few ounces of heavy cream, then whipped the mixture together with a balloon whisk. He unwrapped a loaf of panettone from the bread box and with a sharp, carbon steel knife sliced off three thick hunks from one end. Rick, the youngest of the six marshals living on the grounds, wandered into the room, doing neck rolls, a boogie board under one arm.
    "Whatchya makin', man?" he inquired good-naturedly, watching as Tommy heated up a saute pan on the eight-burner Garland range.
    "French toast," said Tommy. "You goin' to the beach?"
    "Roger that," said Rick. "Got the whole day for R and R. Gonna go check out that Guana Bay. They say in the guidebook they got surf there."
    "You stand up on that thing like a surfboard or what?"
    "Negative," said Rick. "You lay on it. Ride it like you're body-surfing."
    "Yeah?" said Tommy. "Well, have fun." He dropped the slices of batter-soaked panettone into the hot pan. "You get something to eat? I got some bacon, eggs around . . . I can scramble some, you want."
    "Nah," said Rick. "I had some cereal. Thanks anyway, man."
    "Disgusting," muttered Tommy.
    Charlie Wagons sat at a small, round table near the pool. There was a tall glass pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice and a silver espresso pot already there. When Charlie heard the screen door slam shut, he put down his demitasse and looked up from his newspaper. "Tommy, sweetheart. Whaddya got for me today?" he said.
    "French toast," said Tommy, resting a corner of the tray on the table and starting to transfer the plate and condiments to Charlie's place setting.
    "I got it, I got it," said Charlie, grabbing the plate from him. "Jeez, I'm not helpless.