“Thirsty?” Fire said. “Want a Guinness?”

Ian wiped his face on his white T-shirt.

“Yeah, man.”

“We have to get some from Buju then, because a dance keep last night and I know Mr. Bartley sell out.”

Fire turned off on the country lane that led to the town of Battery, passing beneath an arbor of tamarind and mango and crossing a Bailey bridge that spanned a little stream; there, naked children splashed in the easy current and women washed their clothes.

“They normally do the washing after church,” Fire explained. “But Mr. Bartley, who owns the bar, is also the pastor of the church. So whenever he has a hangover everybody knows that church gweh late.”

After passing the path to Snapper Bay, the road was straight for a hundred yards, then veered to the left, crawling along a sheer rock face before swishing around a triple bend and fluttering into the town.

Battery was built on an English fort on the lip of a low-rise cliff. It had one street, Battery Square, a narrow brick road around a rectangular park that used to be the parade ground. Around the park was a tall, stone fence.

The church and the school were on one side of the park. On the other side were ice-cream-colored clapboard houses, each with a garden and an overgrown hedge. Behind the houses was the common.

In front of a light blue house with yellow trim Fire pulled up and honked the horn. Soon Buju came down the walkway, a gangly man in a red mesh vest and a blue Knicks cap. He had a wide face with a flat chin and a nose like a lump of clay.

“You remember Ian,” Fire said to him.

“Yeah, man. How you mean?” Buju replied, booming Ian’s fist. “Yeah, man, him use to come by you modda when oonoo did likkle.” To Ian he said, “Respek, rude bwai. Long time, long time. Years without fears.”

“Y’have any stout?” Fire asked.

“Yeah, man. How much you want?”

“You drinking too, right?”

Buju nodded.

“Bring bout a dozen, then,” Fire said.

“Before I forget,” Buju said as he went inside, “Stereotone a-play down yah tonight, y’know. Oonoo must come, cause me hear a talk seh some big deejay suppose to come from Kingston. Plus me a-go run my usual chicken ting.”

“Buju make the wickedest jerk sauce,” Fire said to Ian as Buju disappeared inside. “We selling it to some hotels now. But we really trying to get it into supermarkets.”

“Who is we?”

“Me and him. Well, him, really. I’m just helping him out with a couple of things … some seed money and thing. Is a trying yute. When you see a yute like that, y’haffe help him out. Plus I’m his son’s godfather, so I haffe look out for him.”

“Oh,” Ian said, feeling jealous now. “That’s nice.”

Buju returned with a six-pack and they sat on the curb and talked about sports and politics. When the six-pack was done another one appeared and they began to joke about the absurdity of life in Jamaica. In a sense, Buju said, Ian was a hero, for he’d stood up for his rights. A man shouldn’t tek certain disrespek. Fire laughed with them, but he didn’t agree.