Chapter One
Road Town, Island of Tortola, British Virgin Islands
Sam Bartleby sat across his uncle Clive Bartleby on the sunny terrace offered by the ‘Martini Bianco’ Café off Wickhams Cay 1 near the Cruise Dock of Road Town in the British Virgin Island of Tortola. He gazed at the mid-rank executive exit package offered by Tambrera, the company he was just leaving. It wasn´t the one million dollars golden parachute he´d tried to negotiate a few years earlier. No one but those high ranking managers part of the Executive Committee or Board of Directors got that kind of exit arrangement.
“This is a disgrace, the severance they´re offering is paltry.” Clive Bartleby, a man in his late fifties, sipped his hot tea and spat a brief sentence. He usually spoke his mind curtly, never staying long on a single item in the agenda, even with family. His nephew had flown him from Louisiana after receiving the notice from Human Resources to pick up his things and leave within three months.
“It´s better than nothing, they´re offering the ‘Lady Moura’ for ten days.” Sam Bartleby watched his uncle point to the bulky, two deck, one hundred foot fishing boat owned by Tambrera, the rum manufacturing company from Puerto Rico, used by company executives to fish marlin or simply boat on a long weekend, as an additional corporate benefit. Bartleby didn´t like the 'Lady Moura' very much. It wasn´t precisely a yacht, and it wasn´t precisely old, but at five years of age, its hull never washed, it was giving some signs of age. It boasted all types of luxuries though, a jacuzzi, a small swimming pool, four large suites, and a fountain two feet tall. The fountain was filled with Tambrera rum instead of water, rum which fell into a large aquarium decorated with artificial corals and stones. The aquarium displayed a few bottles of Tambrera rum, submerged at the bottom, and its famous logo on them, the dirty grey ‘hiena rayada’, or striped hyena.
“After ten years of working for them, they could have offered a better exit package than three months of my yearly salary.”
Bartleby was thirty six, dynamic and handsome, with short brown hair highlighting his features and eyes sparkling with new ideas. He placed the papers of his exit from the company on the bar table, picking up his glass of Martini Bianco. The rum company was rejecting him after a marketing campaign for his new idea, Tambrera Marmora, had proven less popular than anticipated. The concoction included cognac brandy, maraschino, Tambrera rum, champagne, soda water, some sugar, lemon, and orgeat syrup. Bartleby had heard of the mix once from an old bartender serving drinks in the island of Isla Mona, west of Puerto Rico, and decided it was worth adding to the Tambrera line of drinks, which already included Tambrera Rambutan, Tambrera Lime, Tambrera Lulo, and Tambrera Piña Baby.
“My life is in a shambles,” said Sam, “I feel rejected.”
“You got soft living in Puerto Rico for so long, a Caribbean island can do that to you. Life is too easy over there.”
“My private life is in a shambles I mean,” said Sam, “no woman looks at someone unemployed, you know that. I worked ten years for nothing.”
“Use the 'Lady Moura' for a few days to think things over, as the company suggested,” said Clive.
“The company wants me out, and there are no women on the 'Lady Moura', there´s just crew, and the crew is just Glev.” Bartleby was referring to Glevan Ribalaigua, the bartender of the 'Lady Moura', a veteran of the Tambrera company, someone who had been working with the rum manufacturer for nearly two decades in various positions. Nearing the age of fifty, he now oversaw every aspect of the corporate fishing boat on behalf of the company. As a result of cost-cutting measures, from a crew of twelve, including the captain, mechanics and stewards, Tambrera had decided to leave only Ribalaigua in charge of the boat which was anchored most of the time now. Over the years, the bartender had learned enough to pilot the boat and fix the engines if needed.
“What you need is a job, don´t worry so much about women now,” said Clive, “but use the boat, it´s good for public relations, for your image, it´s as though you´re still with a company.”
“The boat´s all right, but I´m going to talk to Roy Dirmichaels, one of the few fishermen left here. After I bought some fish from him to cook on the boat, he said I could come over and talk to him if I ever needed a job or money.”
Sam Bartleby left the terrace for nearly an hour, walking to the area of the port where fishermen prepared their boats to make a living. Bartleby spoke briefly to him, hoping Dirmichaels would remember him. He did.
“No, I don´t know of any jobs for you,” said Dirmichaels. “In my opinion, you should just use the boat and look for a job elsewhere.” Bartleby was somewhat disappointed by the answer. He turned around and walked away from the fisherman, tapping the pocket of his ‘Superdry’ bermuda shorts bulking with the maintenance check list and the company papers and the boat permit allowing the use of the 'Lady Moura'. After noting that there were no job prospects for him in the British Virgin Islands, he was reaching a conclusion of large proportions, in order to stay in the area without a new job, one he´d never considered before having been dumped as he had been. Over the years, he had made a lot of connections as a result of his tenure at Tambrera, some more honest than others, and now was the time to use them. He made a few phone calls and smiled when the answers he got pointed him in a new direction. He came back to the Martini Bianco terrace, where Clive was paying the waiter with a crisp twenty dollar bill.
“You can´t fish, you´ve never fished. What did the guy tell you, what are you going to do?” Bartleby sat down and looked straight at his uncle, whose eyes glistened with the same shrewd look as his own.
“I´m going to be a Sugar Daddy.”
“You don´t have any money to be a Sugar Daddy,” said Clive, “you can be a Sugar Daddy only if you have money.”
“I have my severance money, and I have a boat, I just need a Sugar Baby. With a Sugar Baby at my side, my life is already going better.” Sam Bartleby explained his idea to the uncle, who breathed deeply after a few minutes of moving the Hornimans tea bag in circles inside his cup.
“Somewhat risky, it´s new territory, don´t like it very much, you´ve never done anything like that.”
“I´ve never had a Sugar Baby for something like this.”
“You can say that but you forget that you can´t have or own a Sugar Baby, the woman has to agree to be one, and the one you´re considering has to be willing to do what you say. That´s not easy, in my view. Does that mean you´re not considering marriage anymore?”
“No, it just means a Sugar Baby is what I´m looking for right now, at this point in my life.”
Another Sugar Baby, thought Clive. Clive lifted his eyes and noticed two good looking girls walking by them, one with auburn hair tucked in a ponytail, and another with long brown hair and platforms which made her walk somewhat awkwardly. They were pulling one large canvass each which looked like an unevenly folded parachute.
“Need some help with the parachute?” he asked.
Clarity Nice and her friend Flower Parkwood turned their heads towards the two men sitting a few feet away. They'd been thrown off a plane like bread to the birds, from the Owens & Owell Air Fashion Jet, used by Colorado heiress Montana Sterley. According to Montana, there were several reasons for that ousting. First, Clarity interfered with Montana's new role as Cuban precious metals agent working for the Cuban government; and also, the Malibu teleoperator got in Montana's way of a possible relationship with the Cuban precious metals agent she had replaced, a man known as Cubandor. After holding their round hole parachutes for twenty minutes, Clarity and Flower had landed on a beach in the island of Tortola, one of the British Virgin Islands. Flower landed hers on a palm tree, and a fisherman had helped her move down to the sand, while Clarity explained to Flower that going down a palm tree was less dangerous than parachuting.
Clarity missed Cubandor, the man who had flown her to Cuba and had introduced her to the political implications of owning a private cigar plantation in Cuba, where most assets were ow
ned by the government. She knew Cubandor´s ex-assistant Mista Jack lived in the British Virgin Islands. Even though she disliked the dwarf, she kind of hoped to meet a familiar face, for she didn´t know anyone in the British Virgin Islands. She threw a glance at Sam Bartleby and his uncle. Flower moved towards them, sensing a friendly hand.
“Sure, my friend Flower and I did some parachuting today, it´s such a lovely day, we brought our own gear, wouldn´t mind a drink either,” said Clarity. She looked at the Martini Bianco white sunshade with eagerness, looking for protection from the sun, wiping sweat off her forehead. Sam Bartleby looked at the girl with brown hair, Flower, who was eyeing him overtly. His good looks were having an effect on her. With a single look at her, he knew then that he had met his Sugar Baby, the woman who would help him find something better than a job, an amount of money comparable to the golden parachute that his company had denied him: One million dollars.