Sharks - Matt Rogers (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📗

There were nearly a dozen small plates of food between the man and his wife, riddled with the remnants of shellfish, lobster, crab, tropical fruits, potatoes and rice. Between them they’d shared two espressos and four rum-based cocktails in tiki jars, lending them a pleasant buzz for the rest of the afternoon they’d spend basking in the sun. Teddy didn’t imagine they’d be ordering anything else.

The man said, ‘You can take this.’

He pinched two fingers together, dove into his Armani wallet, and came out with a crisp fifty-pound note.

Teddy kept his hands behind his back. ‘To go towards the bill?’

‘I’ll put the bill on my card,’ the guy said. ‘This is your tip.’

Teddy stiffened.

Shot a nervous glance at the hut’s corner table, where an Italian man sat watching.

The guy said, ‘Don’t worry about him. What is he — your boss? Take it.’

Teddy said, ‘Sir, it’s too much.’

‘I appreciate the hospitality. You showed an attention to detail that’s hard to come by these days. Lord knows I don’t see enough of it back home. Can’t hire an honest hard-working millennial to save my life. And I’m in a good mood. I’m on holiday.’

Silence.

The guy said, ‘Right, darling?’

His wife nodded passively. Like she’d already endured thousands of similar tirades on the state of the world’s collective work ethic.

Teddy said, ‘If you’d like me to get the owner for you…’

The guy jerked a subtle thumb at the man in the corner. ‘He’s not the owner?’

‘No.’

The guy shook the bill between two fingers. ’This isn’t for the owner. This is for you.’

Teddy shrugged. The guy wasn’t backing down. Continuing to refuse would only exacerbate the scene. He took the cash. ‘Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.’

‘Not a worry,’ the guy said. ‘Where do I fix up the bill?’

‘Just up at the counter here…’

The guy paid, and he and his wife toddled out on tipsy legs riddled with varicose veins. Another hour passed — Teddy cleaned their table, took the empty dishes to the back, and attended to the other patrons’ every need. The whole time he felt the note burning a hole in his back pocket.

Indecision rippled through him.

He knew what he was supposed to do, but there was something emasculating about it. He’d earned this money through dutiful devotion to his job. And now…

There was a lull as the last members of the early afternoon rush departed. Late lunch was over, and another customer was unlikely until a handful trickled in for an early dinner. That was the trick to the hut’s success. There was never a constant stream of guests, but those who came often spent lavishly. Teddy did all he could to facilitate the generosity. The diners seemed to appreciate it.

Teddy kept his focus on adjusting the chairs. He tucked two into a table in the centre of the hut, and pretended to ignore his surroundings. The chef was squared away in the back, and the bartender had found someplace else to be.

The Italian in the corner was the only one left.

The man shot to his feet and crossed the room, pulling up a foot from Teddy. Teddy didn’t look up. He took out his cloth and his spray bottle and set to work scrubbing the surface.

The Italian said, ‘You got something for me?’

‘Come on, Vince,’ Teddy said, refusing to make eye contact. ‘Please. You know I have until the end of the—’

Vince slapped him across the cheek, hard enough to blind him. Teddy let out a little cry as he stumbled, dropping the cloth and the spray bottle. With blurry vision he reached down for them, intent on finishing his job, interfering circumstances be damned. Vince grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the table, knocking it over, spilling the chairs back.

Ruining everything.

Teddy screwed up his face as he came to rest in the pile of furniture. A whimper escaped his lips, and he scolded himself for it. He didn’t like to show weakness, but, God, he was scared…

Vince rolled him over, ignoring his protests, and shoved a hand into his back pocket. He came out with the note.

‘These British pounds?’ Vince scoffed.

‘Yes,’ Teddy mumbled into the floor.

Another scoff. ‘I’m counting it as half. So that’s twenty-five Bahamian dollars taken off the vig.’

Bahamian dollars were pegged to the U.S. dollar. Teddy spluttered, ‘It’s pounds. It’s closer to seventy dollars.’

‘That’s not my problem,’ Vince said. ‘Should have given it to me as soon as you got it.’

‘Why are you here, Vince?’ Teddy said, his voice meek. ‘I have until the end of the week.’

‘We keep giving you more time,’ Vince said. ‘So now I follow you around until you pay. But I have enough for today. I’ll see you tomorrow, Teddy.’

He walked out, but he went the long way around, taking a loop across the hut’s floorspace. On the way he overturned four tables and kicked five chairs across the room. Then he stepped down to the sand and set off along the beach. He didn’t look back.

There was no one around to hear Teddy’s sobs.

The chef and the bartender were nowhere to be found, busying themselves with tasks out back. The owner wasn’t here, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he was. He would have found something that needed doing out back, too.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Teddy worked his way tentatively to his feet. His hip ached, and he thought maybe he’d pulled a hamstring. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, but he wiped them away before they could run down his face. He didn’t have time to cry.

He started straightening the room, lifting tables back into place, righting chairs. Each heave hurt his back, and his hamstring groaned in protest. He couldn’t take bumps and bruises anymore. He was getting old, getting frail. But the pain was nothing in comparison to the humiliation.

The third table wobbled and fell when he tried to lift it, and for some reason that set him off.

He cried the rest of the