Free Thai Horse by William Diehl Page B

barbecue at the Rib Shack or seafood at Mallory’s before returning to their ship for the night. By the next morning they were gone.
    As Sloan stood looking over the minuscule hamlet, his smile broadened. This is it? he thought . This is what he calls home.
    He would be casual and cautious in asking questions. He walked down to the city pier, where the locals were crabbing and fishing or taking in the sun, watching the shrimp boats come and go and the big brown pelicans dive-bombing for lunch.
    Roland Smith, who regarded himself as the unofficial mayor of the island, appeared at the pier each morning dressed in sports jacket and tie with a fresh flower in his lapel to do his rounds. He petted dogs, babbled over babies, fl irted with all females over sixteen, and slowly worked his way up to a niche of a restaurant called the Bowrider to have breakfast and trade gossip with the locals. He was never without a s m ile and spent his days simply being pleasant. He had co m e to the island ten years ago on vacation with his wife, who had dropped dead on the beach of a heart attack. Smith, a window dresser for a New York department store, had sent a letter to his boss announcing his retirement and never left.
    Sloan watched Roland stroll the pier and its nearby park, smiling and chatting. Sloan. knew a talker when he saw one. He wandered to the edge of the park and sat on a bench until Smith ambled by.
    ‘Morning,’ Smith said with a smile. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
    ‘Perfect,’ said Sloan, matching the smile.
    ‘I do love this island,’ Smith said, which was his standard greeting to tourists.
    ‘It’s beautiful,’ Sloan agreed.
    ‘You vacationing here?’ Smith asked innocently.
    ‘Well, kind of. Actually I’m loo king for an old friend of mine. We were army buddies. But I lost his address and I can’t find him in the phone book.’
    ‘Maybe he moved,’ offered the putative mayor.
    ‘Perhaps you know him. Chris Hatcher? I just thought I’d surprise him.’
    ‘Maybe he doesn’t like surprises,’ Smith said pleasantly, his grin fading only slightly. h e nodded, and strolled away.
    Sloan wandered in and out of the shops, striking up conversations in his easy, smiling way, finally getting around to the big question. Nobody said, ‘I don’t know him’ or ‘I never heard of him’; they simply generalized the question into oblivion with answers like ‘Lots of folks on this old island’ or ‘Where did you say you were from?’
    Typical small town, thought Sloan, everybody on the island was as closemouthed as they were pleasant. But Sloan was gifted with infinite patience. Hatcher was on this island somewhere. Somebody on. this island had to know Hatcher, it was just a matter of time before somebody owned up.
    Sloan went into Birdie’s. It was a pleasant, unintrusive restaurant, which smelled of fresh vegetables and seafood, its fare listed on a large blackboard on the wall. He found a table next to a group of men who looked as if they belonged.
    When he had first come to the island, Hatcher had chosen to become a recluse, avoiding people and living a solitary life on his boat. His only friend was Cirillo. But gradually he became close to these people. They were nonjudgmental, warm, and simply supportive of one another. Like Hatcher, they had escaped to the island, leaving behind bad memories or shattered careers or the abuses of Establishment phonies.
    All the men at the adjoining table were Hatcher’s friends. One was an enormous Santa Claus of a man with white hair and a thick white beard wham the others called Bear. Then there was a slender, quiet man, his gray-white beard tickling his chest, who was reading a paperback novel as he ate, and another gentle-faced man who was jotting lines of poetry in a tattered notebook. Sloan listened to their choppy conversation, hoping for clues. He got none, although it was obvious they were islanders. The reader’s name was Bob Hill. He had been a thoroughbred