The Crimes of Jordan Wise

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AS ON MOST DAYS, I sit at my usual place in Jocko's Cafe, in front of the open-air window facing Long Bay.

Jocko's isn't much. Just your standard back-island roadside bar and grill, mostly frequented by locals black and white and a few slumming tourists; on the southeastern tip of St. John, the smallest of the U.S. Virgins. The road that loops around from Coral Bay ends fifty yards from Jocko's dirt parking lot. End of the line.

The building is two-storied, made of pink stucco, flanked by palmettos and elephant ears; bar and food service downstairs, Jocko's quarters upstairs. Pocked plaster walls hung with nautical paintings, none of them very good. Dozens of color snapshots of customers with and without Jocko. Old, mismatched furniture. A couple of ceiling fans, a bleached steer head mounted above the bar, a dartboard, and a blackboard with the daily menu chalked on it. Today's specials are every day's specials—conch chowder and callaloo, a pair of West Indian dishes.

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