Finished now with raising the canvas, he slid the picture from his pocket. That’s Betty, his uncle had said at the spring. Check the smile. See the lean-mouth flex. And prip the cheeks.

Fire looked at her face now as it began to drizzle. He leaned inside the cab. It was dark there, but this picture must not get wet. I-nelik had a point … sort of. Yeah … the cheekbones in a way. They were pointy like arms akimbo … or the handles of an urn … a terra-cotta urn … a terra-cotta urn with flowers … tulips, maybe … or sunflowers. Baby, I love you and miss you so much.

But where was Ian? Fuck. He had to find him. He put away the picture, strode into the bar, and ordered a hot Guinness. The barmaid reached beneath the counter for a bamboo coaster and gave him the drink in the bottle.

“Is awright,” she said. He felt eyes on his back. Circles of heat like spotlights. “Make Teego and Buju gweh. Ian nevah have a right. Those are not things that supposed to talk.”

He looked around the room as if he were a stranger—the scuffed wooden floor, the sheet metal tables, the plastic mats, the strings of 45s hanging from the rafters—then took a sip. What were these men thinking now? He knew. Pussy Sucker. Masturbator. Baggy Follower. Mother Wanter. Big Crier. All the things they were themselves but were all afraid to admit. Man a wall, they liked to say. Man fe stand firm. He poured, raised the glass, and pressed his lips into the foam, whose warmth and yield and soft brown color recalled the fat on her inner thigh. Baby, he thought, what are you doing? Do you miss me? Are you hurting too? But man a wall. Man fe stand firm. He downed the glass and ordered another stout. He was ready to look them in the eye.

Shaking hands as he passed each table, trading “wha’appens” firmly, he discreetly searched the room for Ian. At the jukebox, which was by the door, he punched some Desmond Dekker, twirling a trail of ska in his wake as he walked back to his drink. He sat with his back to the counter and faced the room, silencing the whispers.

“Where Mr. Bartley?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Ah don’t know, y’know. Im gone from eight o’clock. Ah ope im come back soon cau is soon eleven an me haffe lock up.”

Mr. Bartley was the only one he’d directly ask for Ian. As a pastor he understood these things.

“You know what time him coming back?”

“Hol on make ah try fine out.” She jangled through the beaded curtain. “Ah hear him went to carry Ian go Kingston.”

“Oh,” Fire said. His gullet collapsed. He couldn’t swallow. He dammed the stout behind his teeth.

He told her goodbye, nodded to the others, and went outside.

As he opened the door and entered the cab, the night soaked up the mist of rain. But soon the rain was hard again, egged on by a vicious breeze that made the streaking raindrops hiss like sputtering, sparking power lines. At the main road, he thought of what to do. Wait at the Lighthouse or go to town tonight? Shit, man, he should’ve asked where Mr. Bartley had taken Ian.