Nights like this it's easy to picture God as Somerset Maugham sitting at the divine typewriter pounding out the words of my existence. Not one of his better plots though. No fallen women. No preachers who've lost their ways. Just me sitting alone in this bare-walled hotel room watching the tropical rain through plastic windows and listening to Radio Cook Islands anxious for the once-an-hour decades old American song to break up the onslaught of island ditties.
I've waited four days for the call, afraid to leave the room for even a minute. The source of the meat in the room service hamburgers is best left unquestioned but the whiskey is cheap and strong. Ten minutes past the seven PM news the call finally came. After the requisite pleasantries the voice on the other end said, "No deal" and hung up. There was no need to go out in the rain. No back alley bribe tonight. There will be no sneaker factory in Rarotonga. I'm afraid that after this screw up it's back to the cubicle in Des Moines for me. I headed for the bar in search of that tragic beauty that my imagination promised me.