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and he was a welcome sight at the bars and restaurants around the island, especially now during the summer slow season. He had been at Marcel's bar many times before. Each time he had arrived alone but usually left with a woman he had met at the bar or on the beach. On most occasions, he had left Marcel a crisp American ten-dollar bill as a tip. The first time he came to the bar he had talked a lot with Marcel, asking him about his family and his life. He seemed genuinely interested, not like most of the tourists who treated him as if he was invisible. After that, every time he came in he would ask how his wife and children were doing and even remembered their names, Philippe and Louisa. Among the islanders, especially the hotel and restaurant workers, there had been much gossip about the man. He had rented an expensive villa on the mountain and had paid in advance in cash. He had then walked into car rental agency and leased the red Porsche, the only one of the island, for three months. Marcel's cousin, who worked at the customs office at the airport, said that Mr. York had entered the island with a British passport, but he certainly looked and sounded like an American. His cousin also told him that he left the island twice in the past two months traveling to the United States. The Paradise Lounge faced the resort’s pool area through a wide-open veranda. From the bar, through the line of palm trees that flanked the beach, you could see the crystal-clear postcard waters of the bay and further out the darker colors of the Caribbean. There was a small service bar set up by the pool and today it was getting the little business there was. “Bonjour Mr. York. Would you like a beer?” the bartender said placing a bottle on the bar. “Not now, Marcel, maybe later. What I would like is for you to do a little favor for me.” “Yes sir,” said Marcel, “anything you would like.”