“Yeah, that’s the tax-incentive plan for businesses that relocate to the USVI.”
“Legal?” Baker asks, because this sounds like something his father might have been involved in. Anyway, it would explain why the hedge fund was run down here instead of in, say, New York or Chicago.
Young Croc laughs. “Yes, legal. Lots of people do it. I moved my company here from Houston in the fall. I’m saving tons of cash.”
“From Houston?” Baker says. “Are you American?”
“Naturalized,” Young Croc says. “Originally from Perth.”
Perth is in…Australia? New Zealand? Baker should know but he hasn’t got a clue and he’s embarrassed to ask. “What’s the name of your company?”
“Huntley International?” he says, like maybe Baker has heard of it. “Real estate development.”
Baker is rendered temporarily speechless. The dude looks twenty-five. But that would explain the watch. It’s probably his father’s company. Or—he hears his ex-wife’s voice in his head asking him to think and act in a way that promotes gender equality—his mother’s company. “Baker Steele,” Baker says, offering his hand.
“Dunk,” the kid says and they firmly—aggressively?—shake. “Duncan Huntley. Nice to meet you, Baker. What do you do?”
Baker isn’t eager to admit that he’s a stay-at-home dad supported by his superstar-surgeon almost-ex-wife. He could say that he day-trades and has accepted a coaching job at the Gifft Hill School, but does that sound any more impressive? “Investments,” Baker says.
“Oh yeah? For whom?”
“I have my own shop,” Baker says. “Coincidentally, I’ve been thinking about getting into real estate myself.” By this, Baker means he’s considered getting his real estate license because he isn’t sure what else he can do that will make a sustainable living on St. John.
“Take my card,” Dunk says. “I’m always looking for investment partners.”
Baker accepts the card even though he knows he has severely misrepresented himself. Baker has money in the bank—both a healthy brokerage account and a fund that he day-trades with—but he immediately realizes that he’s not in a position to be anyone’s “investment partner” unless Dunk Huntley is looking for an investment of five hundred dollars.
Still, it can’t hurt to know people. DUNCAN HUNTLEY, CEO AND FOUNDER, HUNTLEY INTERNATIONAL LLC.
Founder? Baker thinks.
He’s distracted by the business of getting off the plane. He pulls down his carry-on and Floyd’s Toy Story knapsack, then he bends at the knees—protect the back—to pick Floyd up without waking him.
Baker gravitates toward Dunk while they’re standing at the baggage carousel waiting for their luggage. Baker is sweating despite the air-conditioning. Floyd is as hot as a glowing coal.
Dunk smiles. “Seeing you with him makes me miss my girl.”
“Your…” Baker isn’t sure if Dunk means his daughter or his girlfriend. He doesn’t seem like the paternal type.
“My girl, Olive. She’s a harlequin Great Dane.”
“Oh,” Baker says. “Your dog.”
“Yep,” Dunk says. “Olive stays here and I fly back and forth to Houston. She weighs a hundred and fifty pounds, so she’s too big to crate. I had to fly down private with her when we came initially.”j
“Right,” Baker says, nodding, although, honestly, every new sentence out of this guy’s mouth is crazier than the last. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem pretty young to be a CEO.”
“I’m twenty-eight,” Dunk says. “I look older without my hat.” He shrugs. “Losing my hair.”
“Still, that’s really young to have your own company. How’d you do it?”
“I went to Baylor, majored in business…I’ve always sort of had a nose for what’s hot. For my senior project, I developed a simple sex app. The user checked in every time she or he did the deed and joined a community of others who were reporting their sexual activity. People could add what positions they’d tried and a few other details.” He glances at Floyd. “And then there was a rating system, points they could accrue, status they could gain. I did it as a riff on the swipe-left culture but it took off. Especially among the marrieds. Like my sister, Andi. She lives in Bellaire—you know it?”
Yes, Baker knows it. Wealthy Houston.
“Everyone in her neighborhood was on my app. She claims they were all lying about how much action they were getting.”
“Well,” Baker says. “Yeah.” If Baker was ever on a sex app, he would have no choice but to lie. He and Anna got it on approximately twice a year.
“I sold the app for fifteen million and I got into the weed business in Colorado, making artisanal edibles.”
“Ah,” Baker says. “Now you’re talking.”
“We made gummies, lollipops, high-quality chocolate bars in nine flavors, cookie dough…we even had pot pasta sauce.”
Pot pasta sauce? Who thinks of this stuff? “I can see where that would be popular,” Baker says.
“As more states legalized marijuana, the business grew and I sold that company last year for ten times what I’d made with the app.”
A hundred and fifty million? Baker thinks. Surely this is hyperbole.
“So I’ve given up the sex and the drugs,” Dunk says. “And now I’m into the rock and roll.” He points to his T-shirt. “Wasps of Good Fortune is my band.”
“Oh yeah?” Baker says. “What do you do?”
“I sing,” Dunk says. “I have kind of a Colin Hay sound, you know, early-period Men at Work?”
Baker blinks. He’d thought there was only one period of Men at Work, the “Land Down Under” period.
He’s saved from commenting when the alarm sounds and the conveyor belt starts rolling. “Hey, do you guys want to ride over to St. John with me?” Dunk asks. “I have my driver coming, then we’ll hop on my boat.”
“Aw, man, that’s kind of you, but we have so much stuff, it’s just not practical. I’m going to need one of those big taxis all to myself.”
“Just come with me,” Dunk says. “It’ll be way easier. My boat has plenty of room.”
“Okay…” Baker says. “If you’re sure.”
Dunk helps Baker get all the luggage out to the curb, and seconds later, a forest-green G-wagon pulls up. It’s unclear to Baker whether the G-wagon belongs to Dunk or a service he hires, but no matter—it’s cool and comfortable, and Baker is finally able to set Floyd down. The driver delivers them to the dock at Havensight, where they climb aboard a sixty-five-foot Sea Ray Sundancer called the Olive Branch.
“Wow,” Baker says. The boat is brand-new and beautifully outfitted; the salon is all leather and gleaming wood. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers, a bowl of tropical fruit. Dunk opens the fridge; one side is lined with bottles of Veuve Clicquot, the other with beer. Dunk grabs two Heinekens, hands one to Baker, and says, “Let’s go sit in the cockpit. Charlie will have us to Cruz Bay in fifteen minutes.”