Swashbuckling Shorts

Sequel Sneak Peek

Alexander stepped off the dinghy with wobbly steps. The boat tipped precariously at the weight imbalance, threatening to drop him in the drink. Righting himself and snapping the lapels of his coat straight to appear unruffled, he turned to the stoic faces of his guides.

As promised, he tossed them the handful of coins the bearded gentlemen sitting in the prow. Gentleman was a bit of a stretch, but they'd taken him this far without trouble, so he was feeling magnanimous.

After counting the coins, the man jerked his whiskered chin in the direction directly behind Alexander.

"You'll be wantin' the old tavern with a black roof named Byrne's," he explained. "Ask for the man ye want there. And God be with ye."

Before Alex could ask why he'd need the Almighty's hand in this endeavour, the men were already shoving off, the little dinghy bobbing on the waves on its way back to the ship anchored in the bay.

He adjusted his coat again and smoothed his hair, taking the idle moment to gather his courage. The community hobbled together by driftwood and tar on the miniscule spit of a key was named Santa Franco. The island itself didn't have a name unless it borrowed one from its sole speck of civilization.

Alexander made his way to the cluster of buildings set back from the beach, sheltered at the base of the cliffs that curved around the shores in a crescent. The full moon beach was littered with tents and shanty shelters, the homes of local peddlers and villagers. Folks here lived on the fringes—they stared with open suspicion as he passed, and they gave him a wide berth.

Keeping his head down, Alex focused on maintain a casual posture and drawing as little attention as possible. There were only four structures that could qualify as actual buildings, and the largest was indeed the tavern with the black roof.

Far above his head, the sign creaked obnoxiously, mocking him. He read and reread the words, fading now, painted on the weathered wood. He had to be certain. By now, he had a sneaking thought that someone had played a trick on him.

Alex had never been to such a place in his life. When he'd first been given direction here he'd nearly changed his mind. But this was too important. He would just have to swallow his unease at being in this disreputable place.

The hinges squealed again in the slight breeze, grating on his ears. The sign swung back and forth, as if waving jauntily down at him. He squinted at the faded letters, trying to read them differently.

"Excuse me." He directed his voice at a beggar sitting slumped against the neighbouring building. The man raised wary eyes. "What is the name of this place?" He asked politely. He didn't lean closer than necessary.

The beggar shot him a look that plain as day told Alex the man thought him daft. He flung one dirty hand up towards the sign.

"S'called Byrne's," the beggar grunted, shaking his head in disbelief.

Damn, he thought. He had the right place. His eyes traveled over the tavern again. It had seen better days, but it held its shape. His hopes of finding the person he sought dwindled even more.

The beggar had gone back to his business, so he adjusted his hat with nervous hands and stepped under the sign, grasping the door handle. It protested worse than the sign when he turned it.

Grimacing, he entered the dim room, getting his bearings. There were three occupants in the entire establishment. Two men sat together at a table over a pair of pints in quiet discussion. The third was the barman: a silver-haired fellow with a patch over his left eye.

Approaching the counter, he nearly stepped on a very large cat that was snoozing under the bartop. With a yowl and a hiss, the cat darted through his legs and under a nearby table. The cat watched him with angry green eyes, its tail twitching.