Under the Carib Sun: An Adel Destin Crime Novel

PART 1: Chapters 22 - 28

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La Mandala sat on the back hill of Gustavia, on that very steep street that left the town toward Lurin, an open-air bar and restaurant that offered dazzling views of the entire harbor from its terrace.

“So do people just roll back down the hill when they’re finished up here?” asked Adel as they walked in, out of breath after the hundred-and-fifty feet climb. “Jesus Christ, man. I feel like I’m gonna puke my burger.”

Seb chuckled and went to take a seat at the bar.

“Hello, Seb,” said the bartender, a blond effeminate man.

“Hey, what’s up, Sylvain?”

Sylvain looked at Adel, smiled.

“And who might you be?”

Adel shook hands with him and introduced himself and Sylvain winked at him.

They’d had a quick dinner at the Select earlier, followed by a couple rounds of ti-punches at l’Oubli. Then they’d traveled the length of the harbor to climb halfway up that vertiginous street for ‘more civilized surroundings’ as Seb had put it. Right after buying some blow from Fat Nick.

“What are you gentlemen drinking?”

Seb ordered while Adel took a look around. The place was beautifully done, a cross between a beach house and a tree house, with a vaguely Thai, Buddhist feel. It had beige canvas stretched over the terrace on dark wooden beams, bamboo armchairs and plush cushion-adorned couches and banquettes. Tropical plants and several small ponds of water with rocks and lilies inside of them were disseminated throughout the airy space.

Like l’Escale, La Mandala’s dining room turned into a lounge once its kitchen closed, with a DJ spinning records as well. That part of the restaurant was very crowded, including groups of people standing up, but, oddly, it wasn’t too bad in the bar area. Adel glanced at the faces of the customers around him and farther out on the terrace. A striking dark-haired girl sat on an oversized sofa between two other model-type blondes and she made eye-contact with him. Adel turned his attention back to the counter and his drink.

“Unattractive people aren’t allowed on this island, are they?” he asked, only half-joking.

“Well, that wouldn’t be legal,” said Seb, deadpan. “So what we do is, we just hunt them down afterward, usually at night. Kill them, chop ’em up into little pieces. Feed them to the lobsters.”

Adel laughed in spite of himself, went to light a cigarette. “No, wait,” he said, “there’s one over there... Oh, holy shit—that’s Gérard Depardieu!”

Seb didn’t bother to look. “Nah.”

“No, man—look! It’s him!”

Seb shook his head, still not looking.

“No, it’s not.”

“Dude, I’m telling you—”

“It’s Popeye.”

Adel frowned at him. Seb was staring at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, smiling. He turned to Adel.

“Popeye’s the guy you call when shit backs up into your yard.”

“Come again?”

“He services septic tanks on the island. He’s the only one on St.-Barts. Man’s a fucking millionaire, not that you’d be able to tell by looking at him.” Seb took a sip of his Heineken. “Does look like him, though, huh?”