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unheard of back then.
    “You see, what made Bermuda so great then,
and even now to an extent, is that it’s not like some of these
other islands you go to where they tell you that you shouldn’t
venture outside the resort area for fear of drugs or violence. But
if you keep up on world news, you’ll see that every once and awhile
there’s some Bermuda crime—usually between gangs of locals—that the
government tries to play down. Because tourism is everything in Bermuda, and that’s why I’m being brought into this golf club
project. The people who go there are prepared to spend the big
bucks, and what’s being offered has to be of the highest
standard.”
    The waitress set the smoking pie onto a
pedestal in the middle of their table with a quick “Watch it, it’s
hot!” and was off to take another order. The mozzarella was still
bubbling over the bed of mussels, clams, and shrimp that gave the
Seafood Supreme its distinct flavor.
    “So, what I‘m saying,” said Tom Sr., gently
pulling apart the slices and distributing them to the drooling
teens’ plates, “is that while I want you to enjoy the friendliness
of the Bermudian people and all the island has to offer, you still
can’t let your guard down completely. And you’ve got to keep an eye
on LouAnne. She’s an attractive girl with a mind of her own. If
anything happened to her, we’d all have to answer to Uncle Mike,
and that wouldn’t be pretty.”
    The boys nodded as they chewed. Mike Darcy,
who was now a park ranger at the Gettysburg National Battlefield
Park, had been an all Big-10 linebacker at Michigan State in his
younger days where he had come to be known as “Maddog Mike” and was
still fearsome.
    They made short work of the pie, stopping
only to order a second pitcher of Coke. As he settled the bill, Tom
Sr. asked, “So, are you guys too full for ice cream?”
    “I think not,” said Bortnicker
confidently.
    “Aw, Dad, you just want a good reason to show
off your baby,” quipped T.J.
    Tom Sr. couldn’t help but smile. A trip to
the local Dairy Queen on Post Road was the perfect occasion to
drive his 1993 Jaguar XJS Coupe through town. The car, which T.J.
jokingly called “The Midlife Crisis Mobile,” had been picked up by
Tom Sr. fairly cheaply and lovingly restored to concourse-level
condition. Its oyster metallic paint gleamed in the twilight as
Bortnicker wedged himself into the ridiculously cramped back seat
while T.J. flicked on the surround sound stereo Tom Sr. had
installed. The three bachelors cruised around, in no particular
hurry to reach the DQ, and took in the sights of their quaint
little town.
    “How are we going to get around in Bermuda?”
asked Bortnicker, trying to maneuver into a position where his leg
wouldn’t fall asleep.
    “That might present a problem,” said Tom Sr.
“Because the island’s population is so large, and the roads are
only two-lane, each family on the island is only allowed one car.”
He chuckled. “What’s funny is, when Jaguar was marketing this very
car, they shipped an XJS to Bermuda to shoot the photos for the
sales brochure. But you won’t see and Jags there—just compacts or
minivan taxis. And the price of gas there? Astronomical,
because—”
    “They have to import everything!” called
Bortnicker from the back seat.
    “Exactly. So, most families have a moped or
two to go with the car, or they take public buses. But the moped
thing’s another problem. See, tourists can rent them anywhere on
the island, but you have to have a driver’s license, which means
you guys are out of luck. But even though only adults can rent
them, there are accidents galore because in Bermuda, you drive on
the left side of the road, which throws Americans off. Then, there
are rain showers that come out of nowhere and make the pavement
slick, and let’s not forget the idiots who have too many beers and
think they’re Evel Knievel.”
    “So what you’re saying,” said T.J. glumly,
“is that