Spirits of the Pirate House (5 page)

“Well, last fall I was contacted by this golf
resort near the town of St. George’s on the East End that is
revamping its clubhouse and dining facilities. The manager is a guy
originally from Bermuda who was one of my college buddies, and the
one who actually had suggested we do Spring Break there. We’ve
always kept in touch, so when this project came up he thought of
me, because he knew I could create something that in no way would
look out place.

“I took a quick trip over there in March to
get the lay of the land. Since then I’ve been working on the
design, and I’ll be meeting with the resort committee and Bermudian
officials during the kids’ two weeks to submit my presentation.
Hopefully, they’ll accept my ideas.”

“You know they will, Mr. J,” said
Bortnicker.

“Not to brag, but I’m pretty confident,” Tom
Sr. replied. “Anyway, to get back to the itinerary, they’re
figuring two or three days of diving on the wreck, and then a few
more investigating the estate house. In between, the kids will have
a little down time to hit the beach or whatever. And T.J. and his
cousin are even supposed to participate in a road race of some
sort.”

“It all sounds so marvelous,” gushed
Pippa.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,
Mom,” said Bortnicker with exasperation. “I mean,
really
.
What could possibly go wrong?”

Chapter Five

“
I told you I’d hit
.300,” said T.J., as he dropped his equipment bag on the kitchen’s
hardwood floor.

“Yeah, but only just,” said Bortnicker, who
had already cracked open the refrigerator in search of snacks. “You
no hit curveball so good.”

“Something to work on for next season. But
jeez, cut me some slack, Bortnicker. I hadn’t played in two
years!”

“No problemo, Big Mon. Overall, I’d say you
had a great season. I mean, when Coach Pisseri asked you to come
out for the team last winter, he was just looking for guys to round
out the bench. I think you were a pleasant surprise for him.”

Indeed, T.J. had even surprised himself. It
was true that he’d only been asked to try out for the Bridgefield
High JV because the small school’s talent pool was so limited, but
after an early season injury had shelved the team’s starting
centerfielder, T.J. found himself roaming the outfield with the
long, loping strides he’d cultivated during cross country season in
the fall. His arm was only fair but extremely accurate, and as the
team’s number two hitter, he had become adept at bunting or hitting
behind the runner to move his teammates into scoring position. And
although the JV season had ended with a rather mediocre 12-12
record, Coach Pisseri had taken him aside after today’s game and
told him that, with a little hard work—namely, playing American
Legion ball over the summer—he would have a good shot of starting
on the varsity team by his junior year. T.J. had thanked him but
reminded the coach that Cross Country was his first priority and
that he’d have to make those running workouts his main focus during
the summer. Pisseri, afraid to lose an athlete of his potential
from a talent-depleted program, had agreed to help him work
something out after the Fourth of July.

“Your dad left a note on the fridge,” said
Bortnicker, juggling a container of milk and two boxes of ice cream
that he’d snatched from the freezer. “He’ll be home for dinner.
He’s thinking we’ll hit Pizza Palace.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And he says a package came for you this
morning from The Adventure Channel. Go grab it while I whip up some
milkshakes. You got any chocolate sauce?”

“In the pantry,” T.J. said, opening the FedEx
envelope his father had left on the butcher block-topped kitchen
island. He removed a thick folder with
Junior Gonzo Ghost
Chasers Pilot
embossed on the black cover. Inside was a note
which he read aloud:

Dudes
,

Hope the end of the school year is going
well for you. In this folder is a lot of background history on
Bermuda and pirates who operated in that area. There isn’t much on
William Tarver—we’re going to have to visit the historical
society’s archives over there to get a better read on this guy.

But dig this—they’ve had to close down his
residence to the public because people are too scared to work
there! So the government’s losing tourist money, which is why they
called us. It’s common knowledge that after we visit a site their
visitor rate goes way up. Of course, it would help if we actually
find something!

So, read up on all this stuff before we go.
I’ve sent a copy to your cousin in PA. This is gonna be
awesome!

Catch you later,

Mike

“What do you think?” said T.J., reaching into
the cupboard for some parfait glasses.

“Way cool,” replied Bortnicker, scooping
chocolate chip mint and rocky road ice cream into the blender. He
added some milk and a squirt of chocolate sauce, popped on the top,
and hit the toggle switch. “Looks like we’ve got homework while we
study for our school finals.”

“I’m not really
that
worried about our
school tests,” said T.J., “except maybe math. But I want to go over
there prepared. We don’t want to embarrass ourselves or make Mike
look bad for volunteering us for this investigation. You know, last
year in Gettysburg we just kinda went with it as stuff happened,
but now it’s all going to be captured on film. I don’t want to look
like an idiot.”

“I don’t think your fair cousin would allow
that to occur,” quipped Bortnicker, pouring the silky mixture into
their glasses. “Tell me how it tastes.”

T.J. took a gulp, creating an instant ice
cream mustache. “Excellent, as always.”

“Some Oreos would go great with this.”

T.J. rummaged around in the pantry. “We’re
out. How about Chips Ahoy?”

“Just as good. Give me half the folder and
let’s start reading.”

Chapter Six

As was usually the
case, Pizza Palace was hopping this Saturday night. It wasn’t the
fanciest eatery in Fairfield, but the food was hearty and the
portions were large, the only requirements necessary for the boys.
They slid into a red leatherette booth across the table from Mr.
Jackson and eyed the people at the other tables, most of whom were
families with squirming children.

“So, what’ll it be tonight, guys?” said Tom
Sr., opening the surprisingly voluminous menu.

“We were feeling like pizza,” said
Bortnicker. “The Seafood Supreme, in honor of Bermuda and all.”

“You want a salad with that?”

“Salad?” said T.J. with mock horror, “who
needs salad?”

“Yeah,” agreed Bortnicker, “it’s not like my
mom’s here or something.”

“Okay, okay,” said Tom Sr., raising his hands
in surrender. “I was just trying. And a pitcher of Coke to go with
that?”

“Sounds good,” said Bortnicker, “and could I
get a wedge of lemon in mine?”

“Done.”

A harried waitress came over, and Mr. Jackson
put in the order for their large pie, well done. “And could you
bring some breadsticks while we wait?” he added. “These two are
about to start eating the napkins.”

“No problem, sir.” She smiled, hurrying
off.

“Okay, guys,” said Tom Sr., “so tell me the
basic info you learned in that big old packet they sent you. Let me
see if there’s any stuff I didn’t know already.”

“Well,” said Bortnicker, snatching a sesame
breadstick the second the waitress put the basket on their table,
“we only really got through the part about Bermuda itself. There’s
still all the pirate history to go over.”

“Fair enough. T.J.?”

“For starters, Dad, Bermuda’s not an island,
really. It’s a group of like 120 smaller pieces of land covering 20
or so square miles, and it’s kind of shaped like a fishhook.”

“Yup, it sure is,” said the elder Jackson,
fondly remembering Bermuda’s distinctive shape as seen from the air
on his many visits.

“What’s cool,” said Bortnicker, “is that what
Bermuda really is, is the exposed tip of an extinct volcano with a
layer of limestone over it. That’s what kinda creates the pink sand
on its beaches that everyone raves about.”

“And it really is pink,” said Tom Sr.,
munching a breadstick. “Wait till you see it. People come just to
see the sand!”

“Besides the beaches,” said T.J., pouring
himself some soda, “it has a pretty fair climate because of where
it’s located, 500 or so miles east of North Carolina, in the Gulf
Stream. When we get there it should be in the low 80s.”

“Heavenly,” sighed Bortnicker.

“The temperature?” asked T.J.

“No, that eggplant parmigiana platter the
next table over. Check it out.”

“Could you focus, please? Anyway, Dad, what
the write-up didn’t explain is why the place is so expensive, like
you’re always saying. What’s up with that?”

“Well, after World War II the population of
the place really started growing. Now it’s well over double what it
was. So, the government’s put the brakes on people establishing
residences there—”

“It’s British, right?” asked Bortnicker.

“Oh, yeah, though white Anglo Saxons are in
the minority. They’re a lot more proper than we are here, though
that’s seemed to break down a little in my most recent visits. Time
was, you couldn’t walk around Hamilton, that’s the capital, wearing
a tank top or skimpy shorts. You’d get looks or even maybe a
comment. But now, with cruise ships crowding in and flights around
the clock, the place is flooded with tourists in the warmer months,
and a lot of them—especially us Americans, I’m afraid—think they’re
just at the Jersey Shore or something and don’t respect Bermudian
culture. You kids are going to make sure you behave, TV show or
no.

“Anyway, by the 80s, when your mom and I went
on our honeymoon, Bermuda had ceased to export
anything—
”

“Even Bermuda onions?” questioned
Bortnicker.

“Even Bermuda onions. What little produce
that comes out of their small farms is bought up by the locals and
the restaurants. Now, everything is shipped into Bermuda, a lot of
it from the States. That’s why you’ll pay four bucks for a bag of
chips, or why this seafood pie they just took out of the oven would
run you double or triple what we’re paying at good old Pizza
Palace.

“What’s a shame is that, getting back to the
80s, Bermuda had something like 99% employment. Everybody had a
job, so everybody was relatively happy. And most of those jobs,
even today, revolve around the tourist trade. But that fell off in
the 90s, and today you might even see some beggars around Hamilton
or St. George’s, which was 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—”