Read Fallen Honor: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 7) for Free Online

gruffly. “See you coming and going from time to time. Ya oughta keep a close eye on that boat.”
    “I will,” I replied.
    Without another word, Wood got up and walked out the back door with his beer, heading toward the dock. Looking out the window again, I watched as a small center-console came idling up the canal and I recognized the two men on board. One was a guy about my age, Mac Travis, who lived on one of the canals off Boot Key Harbor. Mac had been Wood’s diver for the better part of twenty years and was now a commercial lobsterman. His sidekick and crewman was easily recognizable even from a distance. Taller than me, with a set of polished teeth that probably glowed in the dark, Alan Trufante was known to be close by whenever there was trouble, usually right in the middle of it. Wood met Mac’s boat at the dock and stepped down into it. Mac turned in the canal and they headed back out the way they came.
    “He’s right, ya know,” Rusty said, polishing a beer mug. “A sharp-looking boat like that could disappear in a heartbeat.”
    “What’s on the menu for lunch?” I asked, turning back to my old friend.
    “Leftover janga soup from last night and fish,” Rusty replied. “Or a burger,” he added with a grin.
    What Rufus called janga were the crawfish that Carl and I raised in our aquaculture garden. The waste from the crawfish and catfish tanks nourished the plants, which in turn kept the water clean and filtered. Janga are a distant Caribbean cousin to the crawfish, and according to Rufus, the hill people in Jamaica consider them to have an aphrodisiac quality.
    “Janga soup for me,” Carl said with a grin.
    Getting up from my stool, I said, “Think I’ll go out and have a word with Rufus.”
    Out on the deck, I strode over to the kitchen door. Charlie was inside, helping Rufus serve customers. That was just her way. If something looked like it needed doing, she just pitched in and did it. Her kids were out in the backyard, running and playing with Pescador.
    “You got a minute, Rufus?” I called into the kitchen.
    The old Jamaican man turned and smiled. “Sure ting, mon.” He came to the door and we sat down at an empty table nearby. “Ah see dat you been taking bettah care of yourself,” he said.
    “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Think you can give me some ideas about eating? What to stay away from?”
    “Ya, mon, I can do bettah dan dat. I and I wrote a cooking book. Yuh wanna copy?”
    I told him I’d love to borrow it and he left, trotting across the yard to his little shack, as Charlie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray. The smell of Carl’s soup reminded me how hungry I was.
    A moment later Rufus returned with a thin, professionally published paperback cookbook and handed it to me. I don’t know why, but I was expecting a handwritten notebook. The old Jamaican never ceased to amaze me. On the cover was a picture of him, shirtless and standing on one foot in knee-deep cobalt-blue water, the setting sun highlighting the white chest hair and beard against his ebony skin. His back was arched, arms raised over his head, grasping his other foot in a vertical split. I’d seen him go through his sunset routine a few times.
    “Dis book have some of my favorite recipes, Cap’n. Not tings I and I make here at di restaurant. But tings Rufus make fuh his own self.” He grinned broadly. “Tings dat keep di old feeling young.”
    Looking at the guy, his eyes still sparkled with life and though he was small, I knew he was in excellent shape, having watched his evening routine. He’d stretch for a few minutes then go through a series of slow-motion karate-style moves, flexing every muscle.
    “When you said a book, I assumed a notebook,” I said. “This is really cool and I promise I’ll get it back to you after I try a few.”
    He laughed. “Yuh keep dat, mon. I and I have many. Dere comes a time in a man’s life when he must also use di cosmic forces in di battle