I shook my head, remembering that Sanderson had told me how two-thirds of the island was a Marine target range. A strange place to build a luxury resort, unless you wanted to fill it with retired Marines for cannon fodder.
It was after ten when we finally started for the other side of the island. It was only four miles wide, a good drive through tall fields of sugar cane and along narrow roads lined with flamboyan trees. Finally we came over a rise and looked down on the Caribbean. The minute I saw it I felt that here was the place I’d been looking for. We drove across another cane field and then through a grove of palms. Martin parked the bus, and we walked out to look at the beach.
My first feeling was a wild desire to drive a stake in the sand and claim the place for myself. The beach was white as salt, and cut off from the world by a ring of steep hills that faced the sea. We were on the edge of a large bay and the water was that clear, turquoise color that you get with a white sand bottom. I had never seen such a place. I wanted to take off all my clothes and never wear them again.
Then I heard Zimburger’s voice, an ugly chattering that brought me back to reality. I had not come here to admire this place, but to write a thing that would sell it. Zimburger called me over and pointed up at a hill where he planned to put the hotel. Then he pointed to other hills where the houses would be. This went on for almost an hour — walking up and down the beach, staring at swamps that would blossom into shopping centers, lonely green hills that would soon be laced with sewer pipes, a clean white beach where cabana lots were already cleared and staked off. I took notes until I could stand no more of it, then I went back to the bus and found Martin drinking a beer.
Progress marches on, I muttered, plunging my hand into the cooler.
He smiled. Yeah, this is gonna be some place.
I opened the beer and swilled it down, then reached for another. We talked for a while, and Martin told me he’d first come to Vieques as a Marine. He knew a good thing when he saw one, he said, so instead of staying for twenty, as he’d planned, he got out after ten and came back to Vieques to set up a bar. Now, in addition to The Kingfish, he owned a laundry, five houses in Isabel Segunda, the only newspaper concession, and he was setting up a car rental agency to handle Zimburger’s influx. On top of everything else, he was general overseer for Zimburger’s property, which put him in on the ground floor. He smiled and sipped his beer. You might say this place has been good to me. If I’d stayed in the States I’d be just another ex-jarhead.
Where you from? I asked.
Norfolk, he said. But I’m not too homesick. San Juan’s as far as I’ve been from this place in six years. He paused, looking around at the little green island that had been so good to him. Yeah, I grew up in Norfolk, but I don’t remember it much — seems too long ago.
We had another beer, then Zimburger and Robbis and Lazard came back from the beach. Lazard was sweating and Robbis looked very impatient
Zimburger gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder. Well, he said with a grin, you ready to write that article? Didn’t I tell you this site was a beaut?
Sure, I said. I’m all set.
He shook his head with mock disappointment Ah, you writers — never a good word for anything. He laughed nervously. Goddamn writers — no telling what they’ll do.
All the way back to town Zimburger talked incessantly about his plans for Vieques. Finally Martin broke in to say that we were all going to eat lunch at his club — he’d sent the boys out for some fresh lobster.
You mean langosta, said Zimburger.