SF. Pt. 15. Pink flamingos, swivel guns and batshit.

‘Fuck it! I’ve had enough of this crap! You can’t trust the government, the media is all lies and the bankers are all crooks. There’s muslims with nukular bombs, flu epidemics and a goddam liberal man in the Whitehouse! They control everything I tell you Dick! The world has gone to hell! We’re not free anymore.’

Oh shite…it’s Oscar again. I think he’s getting senile. He’s convinced he’s being spied on. ‘Relax,’ I tell him, ‘it’s all good. And don’t get started on black helicopters. That’s a completely different plotline…long since abandoned. You’re in the wrong bloody novel mate.’

‘You mean the one about the two old alcoholics who find buried pirate treasure on a Caribbean island only to get ripped off by a gang of Jamaican performance artists. There is a thrilling chase through the Caribbean on a luxury yacht with an all-female crew culminating in a dramatic sea battle off the coast of Barbados?’

‘No not that one. I’m talking about the one where the cast of a reality show run out of funding on a desert island and resort to cannibalism.’ I’m trying to calm him down with idle chit-chat but you know how Yanks are. Now he wants to mount some army surplus Quad-50s around the island to shoot down spooks and paparazzi.

The writing is getting a bit out of hand lately. So is the language. It’s always the bloody same when I’m around Oscar. He does love to push the envelope. I’ll admit he’s helped me out of a few tight spots but he’s got me into new ones soon after. It’s like he’s always on the edge of exploding. No big trouble yet but I know it’s coming.

My fault really. I was sailing from Cuba with no particular destination in mind, just enjoying the favourable breezes. Everybody was well and happy. Buggered if we didn’t get blown over to the Virgin Islands. All right I thought, this is as good as anything, maybe I’ll tie up in Soper’s Hole for a while, get my bilge pumped out. The girls can go into Tortola for a bit of shopping. Passing Jost Van Dyke I did think about stopping off at Foxy’s but saw a lot of bareboats and decided I couldn’t handle the ribaldry. Then I remembered Oscar my good old mate from the porn days in LA. So off we went to his private island.

First thing I noticed about the island was a kind of lagoon with a wooden walkway across it ending in a jetty. Next thing I noticed was Oscar standing on the jetty in his birthday suit. He was excited to see us I could tell. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he says giving Ning and Nong a good flash of his coat of arms. Plonker rampant on a field of greying pubic hair. The girls put their hands up to their mouths in Thai girl embarrassment. You’d think it was the first time they’d seen one. Nyum just ignored it.

As we walked along the boardwalk Oscar pointed out his flamingos. There were 5 of them and tell the truth they looked a bit scruffy. Feathers missing here and there and they weren’t really pink either. More sort of orangey brown.
‘Phoenicopterus ruber. ’ says Oscar in italics.
‘Only five?’
‘Ah,’ says Oscar, ‘this is just a start. I’ve only had them a few weeks. Now the trick is to get them breeding. I’m doing something about the colour too. Diet is important. I need to get them some shrimp.’
‘Good idea Oscar,’ says I, ‘would that be any particular kind of shrimp you’re using?’
‘Brine shrimp Dick. I’m getting it flown in from Venezuela. You aren’t taking the piss are you?’
‘Course not. What’s special about the Venezuelan shrimp?’
‘Carotene Dick. And canthaxanthin. In the wild they normally get it from crustaceans and algae but if you want your flamingos a real bright pink get the shrimp.’
‘I’ll remember that Oscar.’

There is a narrow zigzag road up to his house and Oscar has laid on some golf carts for guests. Very nice views everywhere you look. The house reminds me a bit of his Malibu place, but more open and airy. There’s even two tarts waiting outside where we park the golf carts.
‘Come in, come in,’ says Oscar, ‘oh, let me introduce my two assistants. Fantasia and Fabiani,. They are from Brazil Dick.’
Well I could see that. Typical, sleak, wavy black-hair, with blonde streaks, chocolate skinned Copacabana numbers flashing their teeth and wearing bits of coloured string. Up the ‘Help Disco’ end of Avenida Atlantica was my guess. Could be Ipanema I suppose at a pinch.
‘Leblon.’ Says Oscar.
‘Close.’
‘They are a bit shy with strangers,’ Oscar explains, ‘that’s why they got dressed up.’
‘Are they good with flamingos Oscar?’ I ask.
‘Oh very good indeed Dick. Glad you asked,’ says Oscar scratching his wicked old tool, ‘Fantasia has a degree in ornithology and Fabiani is a leading authority on brine shrimp. If there’s anything you need to know just ask them.’

Oscar seems to be doing all right. Nice house. Attractive pool decorations. Plenty of booze. He gets some locals over from Tortola to do the cleaning and cooking and that. It’s all very pleasant really and my guest bungalow is lovely. Wish mum could have seen it.

He is still prone to bursts of impotent rage though as I had just discovered. He’s bonkers basically. Best I can do is get him settled by the pool with a bottle of Mountgay. He quiets down a bit. Then I get the girls to give me a good wash and brush-up and wander into the dining room for a late breakfast served by a charming young lady from St. Lucia named Audrey.

I’m just mopping up a bit of bacon fat and egg yolk when Oscar staggers in. He seems much calmer.
‘Have a look at this Dick.’ He says and takes me off into a sort of study and shuts the door. Then he gets a roll of tracing paper out of a wall safe and spreads it out on a big mahogany table. It looks like some kind of rubbing. ‘OK.’ says Oscar, ‘here’s the map.’
Then he starts to tell me how he was wandering around the island when he spots a sort of cave in a hillside.
‘I crawl in,’ says Oscar, ‘and it turns out to be a bat-cave.’
‘Was Robin in there by any chance?’ I ask.
‘No Dick, he wasn’t. But thanks anyway for the smart-ass comment. Just a few bats hanging around. Noctilio leporinus according to Fabiani who knows a thing or two about bats. Incidentally Dick do you know where the name ‘bat’ comes from?’
‘Yes. Want me to tell you?’
‘Sure.’
‘It comes from Old Norse ‘ledhrblaka,’ which means ‘leather flapper.’ It became ‘bakka’ somehow and then ‘bat’ in English.’
‘Right. So I had a look around inside the cave and I noticed a few squiggly lines on the wall.’
‘Then you went home for some tracing paper...’
‘Copied the map...’
‘And here we are!’ There are no diptera on Dick Headley.
We study the map together in silence for a while. To be honest it doesn’t look like much. A splodge that could be an island I suppose, a line that could be a track and a small X off in one corner that could be a bit of bat shit for all I know.

But Oscar’s excited. He went looking for the actual place he says and found a flat rock that didn’t look natural. It was too heavy for him to lift on his own.
‘I’d like to keep this just between the two of us if possible Dick. There’s going to be some digging to do. I could get some guys over from Tortola but it would be all over the Caribbean in 5 minutes. What do you think?’

We move out to the terrace with our Mountgay bottles. First thing I see is an old cannon mounted on the wall and pointing out to sea. I hadn’t noticed it last night. Swivel gun, says Oscar, 3-pounder, Spanish, found it in the lagoon. Then I get a whiff of frangipani, ‘dama de noche’ as the Spanish call it. The smell takes my mind back to Manila when things were hopping in Ermita. I’d walk down Del Pilar every evening on the way to work and pick a blossom or two to hold under my nose. I might tell you about those days sometime. One thing at a time.

It’s a beautiful view out across the lagoon towards the East dotted with small islands one of which belongs to Richard Branson. Oscar picked a nice spot I must say. The hillside is bright green, the ocean is blue and there’s a splash of pink from the group of flamingos.

‘See,’ says Oscar,’ they’re looking better already.’
‘Must be the shrimp,’ I say, ‘seems to suit them. What’s it all about Oscar?’
‘What?’
‘This treasure business. You don’t need more money surely.’
Oscar thinks for a while, scratches his horrible hairy belly. ‘Greed Dick. And the fact that I’m bored stiff. I need a bit of excitement in my life.’
‘Why not load up the cannon? We could take pot-shots at the flamingos.’
Oscar laughs. He knows me. ‘Thought about it a few times Dick. Ever eaten it?’
‘Course I have. Had some this morning.’
‘No, I mean flamingo.’
Course you do Oscar. I know that. Me and Oscar have known each other for a long time. This is how we go on when we get together. It’s like talking to yourself.

So then Oscar asks me about the main story line. ‘So what’s the book about then?’
‘Don’t bloody ask mate,’ I say. ‘It will give you a headache.’
But he persists. I give him a brief run down on what’s been happening with Simon and Arthur and the trip to India. Hawkwind, Burroughs, swinging London…
‘Sounds quite interesting. Have you thought about publishing it?’
‘Don’t be daft. Who would publish it?’
‘Oh, I know people in New York,’ says Oscar. ‘Of course it would need some work. You don’t have a coherent plot and the characters need fleshing out. Keep the chapters short that’s my advice…and there has to be a lot of sex in it. Should be able to move a few units. I had no idea you were a writer Dick.’
‘I’m not. That’s the trouble. I’m just the narrator. I get in a real mess with the dialogue sometimes. Especially when I’m pissed.’
‘I’ll get another bottle.’ Says Oscar getting up, then as an afterthought, ‘Swap you a Brazilian for two Thais?’ He really is an awful person. No respect for the fiction process.