Spirits of the Pirate House by Paul Ferrante Read Free Book Online Page B

have
one that fit.
    T.J. had managed to doze on the flight for a
little while, but he was abruptly awakened by Bortnicker punching
his shoulder and pointing out the window next to his seat.
    “Look at the water!” Bortnicker marveled.
“It’s turquoise, just like the commercials!”
    T.J. nodded, remembering his long ago
childhood visit where he was constantly struck by the greenish-blue
shallows and pastel-colored houses that lined the shores.
    They walked across the hot tarmac to the
terminal, adjusting their watches to Bermuda time, which was an
hour ahead of the States. Though the place was a bit nondescript
and a heckuva lot smaller than the cavernous US facilities T.J. was
used to, he did vaguely remember the huge portrait of Queen
Elizabeth and the imposing mounted sailfish that adorned its
walls.
    Of course, Bortnicker had to make their
customs check more interesting. When the very proper inspector was
stamping his passport and asked, “Are you here on business or
pleasure?” Bortnicker was quick to answer with the former, which
caused the official to look up. “And what business might that be,
young man?”
    “Well, actually,” he sniffed, speaking loudly
enough for those—especially the young ladies—in their vicinity to
hear, “my friend and I are here to film a television show for The
Adventure Channel.”
    “Oh really?” answered the inspector, playing
along. “Quite the celebrities, you are?”
    “Well, not yet,” Bortnicker shot back. “But
stay tuned.”
    “Oh, I’ll make sure to, Mr. Bootnacker.”
    “It’s Bortnicker ,” he replied suavely,
retrieving his passport while T.J. rolled his eyes in
embarrassment.
    They picked up their belongings at the
luggage carousel and piled them on a cart, heading for the lobby.
No sooner had they entered the reception area when they spied Mike
Weinstein, in his trademark black cargo shorts and tight, logoed,
black Gonzo Ghost Chasers tee shirt, signing autographs for
teenaged American tourists with one hand while holding aloft a
placard reading JACKSON with the other.
    “Dudes, you made it!” he yelled, extricating
himself from the throng. “Welcome to Bermuda!” He introduced
himself to Tom Sr. with a handshake then gave each of the boys a
“bro-hug”. “How was the flight?”
    “No problems,” said T.J. “We made it in a
little over two hours.”
    “Awesome. Let’s get your stuff out to the
minivan.”
    They lugged the cart out the glass doors to
the line of taxis idling at the ready for the wave of arriving
tourists. “That would be ours,” he said, pointing to a jet black
minivan with large stick-on Gonzo Ghost Chasers decals
applied to the side doors. A wiry black man sporting a pink golf
shirt, Bermuda shorts, and high blue socks stood nearby, waving
them over. With his salt-and-pepper hair and gleaming smile, he
resembled a younger Morgan Freeman. “Nigel Chapford,” he said,
extending his hand in friendship,” but please call me Chappy.”
    “Tom Jackson,” said T.J.’s father, shaking
his hand, “and these are the supposed TV stars, my son T.J. and
Bortnicker.”
    “My pleasure, boys,” he said with a mannered
nod. “Welcome to our beautiful island.”
    “Chappy will be our driver during our stay,”
said Weinstein. “He’s lived here all his life and knows the island
inside and out.”
    “Including the best places to eat?” asked
Bortnicker.
    Chappy laughed out loud. “Of course! But not
just the most popular tourist establishments. There are some
hole-in-the-wall eateries that are quite good.” The men helped load
their luggage into the back of the minivan, and they were off.
    The minivan made its way out of the congested
terminal lot, crossed a two-lane causeway that spanned Castle
Harbor, and headed south. Before long they passed the famous
Swizzle Inn, which even at this mid-morning hour was teeming with
patrons lounging on its wraparound porches, their moped scooters
parked below.
    “What’s a Swizzle?”