Immortal Hate (Harry Bauer Book 5)

by Blake Banner

  The hum of noise was lower at Old Joe’s, but there were more voices contributing to it. There were people sitting on chairs at tables outside, drinking tall drinks, wine and beer. They sat all along a low wall that skirted the inn, overlooking a stretch of wasteland and a banana plantation, they sat on the low steps that rose to a kind of glassed-in conservatory in back and they even sat on the ground, with their backs against the walls, drinking beer from the bottle and talking. And that was just on the outside.

  Inside, the din was louder. The bar ran all along the left wall and there were asses on every stool and the three guys behind the bar were working hard and fast, filling glasses and mixing drinks. The saloon was large and spacious, with two big columns in the center supporting a ceiling of wooden rafters. The walls were painted a color that had no real identity. It was a lost shade, somewhere between lime and military sage. There seemed to be no good reason to paint the walls that color, except that it did a good job of disguising the ubiquitous tobacco stain that lay as a patina over the entire room.

  Paintings hung on every wall. Many of them were good, many were caricatures in oils, canvas-sized, caricatured scenes from the island, and of islanders. Some were landscapes and portraits. Many were abstracts. At the back there were two glass doors. One led to the kind of conservatory I’d seen earlier, which led to the terrace, the other gave on to a long dining room with an open fireplace at the end. It looked like about half the tables were occupied. Those that were had candles stuck in bottles on them, and I glimpsed an old fishing net hanging on one blue wall.

  I took all that in in a couple of blinks, while Helen maneuvered me with one hand toward the bar. Her other hand she raised to wave over the heads of the crowd, and I saw she was waving at a dark woman behind the bar, whom I guessed was in her late twenties. She had olive skin, jet-black hair and black eyes, and was real nice to look at. She moved easily in a neat body and was attractively unselfconscious. She caught Helen’s eye, gave me a quick frown and moved toward the end of the bar. We followed on an intercept course, pushing through the crowd, past the huge, old red Gaggia, till we came to the end of the bar, the entrance to the kitchen and the big doors into the dining room. There she was waiting for us and embraced Helen like she hadn’t seen her for a lifetime or two.

  They said the kind of things women say to each other in those situations and it emerged they hadn’t seen each other for almost a week! They reviewed how much things had changed in that time and even managed to talk briefly about plumbing. Then the girl, who was in fact Maria, suddenly looked at me, gave her head a slight sideways twitch and her hands a slight spread. It was a “Who the hell are you?” that managed not to be offensive and I wasn’t sure why.

  I offered a dead smile, because I think people should ask their questions with words, and said, “I’m with her, and I need a meal and a room. If I’m in the way I am happy to eat and sleep while you girls get reacquainted.”

  Helen gave me a look and Maria leaned on my arm, laughing. Obviously I had missed the joke.

  “I’m sorry! You know? Workin’ in a place like this you start to forget your manners.” She turned to Helen. “It must have looked like,” she repeated the gesture a couple of times, “like, ‘Who the hell are you?’, right? ‘Who the hell are you?’” I nodded. She went on, “But it was meant to be more like, ‘So who’s the new kid in town?’ Let’s have a look at you!’”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not sensitive unless you can get through my first eight layers of skin.”

  She laughed. “That’s a relief. I can’t stand a sensitive man.”

  “So, can you rent me a room where it’s quiet?”

  Helen winked laboriously and said, “Give him the pool room, you know the one I mean.”

  Maria looked surprised. “Really?”

  I was getting bored so I said, “Yeah, really. Whatever is special about it, I want it and I can pay. I just need it to be quiet. Also, I need some hot, half-raw meat and a bottle of wine, and then whisky. Preferably made by Celts. Do I need to sign a register?”

  She nodded. “Sure do.”

  “Can they bring it to the table? I have been traveling for a very long time and I am tired. I need a cold beer, too, and I’d like you both to join me.”

  Helen turned and gave me a kind of once-over. “You weren’t this bossy on the boat!”

  “I was pretending to bumble, remember?”

  Maria stopped a waiter and snapped instructions at him in Spanish about table five. Then turned to me.

  “Alberto is preparing table five for you. I’m gonna talk to the chef now. I got a nice strip of sirloin I can make for you, just some thick salt, and burn hell out of the outside over charcoal, nice and juicy inside, tender as a mother’s kiss. Or I got a nice leg of lamb we just butchered this morning…”

  “Let’s go with the steak. You choose the wine, but open it now, and I’m going to need that beer before yesterday.”

  Maria gave Helen a wink which obviously meant something to them, and moved into the kitchen, and Helen and I went into the dining room where Alberto was finishing up our table.

  Helen sat and Alberto hovered. I leaned on the back of my chair and said to her, “So is it going to be something sophisticated like a Bradford Martini, shaken not stirred, something surprisingly rugged like beer straight from the bottle, or unexpectedly Caribbean, like rum and Coke?”

  She was watching Alberto throughout and only turned to look at me when I had finished. “Right first time. We’ll start with a martini dry, then see where it all ends up.”

  Alberto gave a little bow and I sat as he hurried away.

  “So, are you going to tell me what this is all about? Or do I have to sit here and pretend to be a male troglodyte all night?”

  She gave a small laugh. “I’m pretty good at reading people, David, and though I would say you are more complex than most cave dwellers, I am not sure how hard you would have to pretend.”

  “You managed to insult me and avoid answering my question all at the same time, while never losing sight of Maria. Who says multitasking women are a myth?”

  She shrugged with her eyebrows and I sighed elaborately.

  “You are going to ritually feed me to a giant, aquatic snake that lives in the big lagoon. No? You and Maria are both descended from an ancient, European family and every seven years you must sacrifice a virile young man to the seventh full moon of the year, and that is next week.”

  “Day after tomorrow in fact.”

  “Not that then. There are two feuding families who control the island and you think I look sufficiently like Clint Eastwood to step in and kill off both sides, to leave the island free.”

  A rictus but not a smile. I gave a nod. “OK, Detective, close enough. I’ll stop pushing, and enjoy my meal.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, David, it is not ‘all about’ anything. People who live in places like this can become a bit eccentric sometimes, but just because we’re welcoming and friendly, and I introduce you to my friend, it doesn’t mean there is anything ‘going on.’”

  She made it sound like some kind of vanity or narcissism on my part, then narrowed her eyes. “What regiment did you say you were with?”

  “I said I was in the Royal Marines.”

  “How long?”

  “Eight years, and you did it again.” She arched an eyebrow but didn’t ask. I told her anyway. “You evaded the question while pretending to answer it, then went on the offensive with a question of your own.”

  “Is that the kind of stuff they teach you in the Marines?”

  “No, you learn that kind of stuff when you study for the Bar.”

  She gave a small, upward nod, leaning back in her chair and looking down at her thumbs. “Let me ask you something. Do you fancy my friend Maria?”

  So many alarm bells went off all at the same time, for half a second I was paralyzed. All I could do was smile at the cute English phrasing and say, “Fancy?”

  She eyed me from
under her brow. “You know, like, with a capital ‘F.’”

  “You mean am I attracted to her sexually?”

  “Good Lord!” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course that’s what I mean.”

  I laughed. Alberto appeared with our drinks and I watched him deliver them and leave before I said, “Wow, I am right back in high school. I just got off the boat. I’ve spoken to her long enough to order meat and wine.” I shrugged. “She’s cute.” I paused to smile and take a swig. “So far, you’re more interesting.”

  “Oh, please, don’t.” She shifted forward in her chair to put her elbows on the table, and then, with a frown, “Really?”

  “Hell, Helen, I didn’t even know you this morning. This conversation is about five hours and three gallons of booze premature.”

  “Yeah…” She made circles on the tabletop with her drink. “You live in a place like this, your nearest remotely civilized neighbors are bloody Barbados a hundred miles one way, and Trinidad and bloody Tobago a hundred and fifty miles the other. You are surrounded by a desert of ocean, and all you’ve got is this pervasive, deeply deceptive holiday atmosphere: a steady, creeping slackening of inhibitions, an insidious feeling that you should just let go, let it happen, nothing is that important…”

  “That could get pretty intoxicating.”

  She nodded without looking at me. “That is the word, intoxicating. But not happy, liberating intoxication. It’s a dangerous feeling, like, just beyond all the coconuts and pineapples, and the beach parties, if things go wrong—” She paused to look at me, her eyes flicked over my face like she was searching for something there. “You know what I mean, when things go wrong? Somebody goes too far, a situation gets out of hand, people get too excited, too drunk, too high, and what do you do? Call the cops?”

  I swigged my beer and was suddenly aware of the close humidity of the air. “That’s what you’d expect,” I said.

  “Only the local police chief is already there, at your beach party, and maybe he’s the one trying to force another guy’s head into the fire. Or it’s his pal raping the girl in the sand dunes.” She paused again, still watching my face, trying to read my reaction. Her voice dropped in pitch. “Or it’s three of them, holding the guy in the middle of the bar, with everybody watching, and somebody moves a table so it won’t get damaged. Everybody is standing in a chorus. Nobody is cheering. Everybody is shocked, in horror, but you can see in their eyes the fascination, knowing they are about to go beyond any place they have ever been before. And the guy is wriggling, wrenching with his arms, but his legs have gone to jelly and he is pissing himself. He’s crying, pleading like a child, he just wants to go home. Things have got out of hand. Gone too far. And he’s begging for them to just go back to normal again. But there are no grown-ups there. They are all on permanent holiday.

  “Two cops are holding his arms, and the third has a gun. Everybody is waiting, to see if it will really happen. For that interminable moment, the man with the boots and the moustache, and the gun, rules the world. He holds reality in his hand. Then there is a loud, hard, flat smack. And the weird thing is that the man who gets shot doesn’t stop sobbing, he doesn’t falter. His crying gets louder and sadder for a moment, but he goes on crying. He doesn’t stop. But slowly, his crying turns to whimpers, and then silence.” She paused again, looking at her drink, and added, “Everybody knew him, they all knew his name, some even liked him, but somebody hurries to get a bucket and a mop.”

  We were quiet for a while. I knew what she was telling me, and she knew I understood. There was no appropriate answer, not right then. After a moment I smiled at her.

  “All of that is behind the coconuts and the pineapples, huh?”

  “That and more.”

  “I know what you’re telling me, Helen, but I am not sure yet why you are telling me.”

  “Well, that’s because you haven’t stopped lying yet. But we’ll get to the truth in due course, don’t worry about that. We’ll get to the truth soon enough.”

  Five

  Helen had some kind of fish dish. Maria brought it for her, and another for herself. Alberto brought me a long section of sirloin that looked as good as she had promised it would. It smelled good too, and had chunks of singed garlic in a thick sauce. Another waiter brought a bottle of Argentine red and when he set down the glasses I counted four of them. I glanced at Maria and saw that she had seen me count them.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “He’s a friend of mine, a partner in the business. He likes to meet new people who come to the island.”

  “Is he invisible?”

  She laughed more out of politeness than amusement. “He’s just sayin’ hi to some friends, then he’ll come and join us.”

  I cut into the meat. It was like cutting butter. Just the right amount of blood oozed out onto the plate. I cut the slice a little smaller and folded it into my mouth. It was superb. I chewed, picked up my glass and smiled at Maria.

  “Has he got a name?”

  “Of course. He is Gonzalo.”

  I glanced at Helen. She was concentrating hard on her fish. I nodded, swallowed and sipped the wine. “You got Spanish Caribbean, you got French Caribbean and you got British Caribbean, and then you got Latin American which is a whole different ball game on its own. Spanish Caribbean names are real unusual, not really Spanish at all, like Aneudi, or Elietzer, Nivaldo or Jayluis. So our new friend is probably not Spanish Caribbean. I don’ think he’s from the Island, because Gonzalo is definitely not British. Gonzalo is South American, for sure. So I am going to go with him being from, not Venezuela, either Panama or Colombia. Flip a coin…” I flipped an imaginary coin, caught it and slapped it on the back of my hand. I pretended to look and raised my eyebrows. “Heads says it’s Colombia.”

  Maria’s polite amusement had faded and was looking decidedly strained. Helen was frowning hard at her fish. Maria gave a small shrug.

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself when he joins us?” Then she added, as though it was somehow relevant, “The wine is his invitation.”

  “I plan to. Being nosey is an essential part of being a writer, I think.”

  Helen said, through a mouthful of fish, “I already told you, being nosey in the Caribbean can be a very dangerous policy.”

  Maria pretended not to hear her. She frowned at me instead. “David?”

  “David,” I agreed, and asked, “Would it be dangerous to be nosey about Gonzalo?”

  She gave a brief sigh. Her face had gone rigid and she stared at Helen a moment. Helen ignored her. So she turned back to me.

  “It would be very bad manners, as you are my guest…”

  “Are you an item?” I asked, piercing another piece of steak.

  Her cheeks flushed red. “How is that any of your business?”

  I laughed. “I told you! I’m a nosey writer. Everything is interesting to me. Don’t be offended. I just find your small, enclosed community here kind of entrancing, and I am curious about the relationships and the dynamics. I imagine Gonzalo is one of the links that keep you connected to the outside world. Am I right?”

  Helen shook her head and sipped her wine. “You’re not wrong.”

  Maria ignored her again. “I don’t know what you are driving at, David, Mr. Friedman, or what your real purpose here is, but let me advise you that, like any small community, we have our secrets and our private business, but we are honest hardworking people. If you start prying around, causing trouble, you can hurt a lot of innocent people, and you can be hurt by some not-so-innocent people.” She gave her head a brief, irritated shake. “I don’t know if you are a typical, arrogant American who thinks he can go where he like and do what he like and Uncle Sam always gonna be there to take care of him, or if you are some asshole journalist who thinks maybe there is some kind of story here. Either way, you are wrong. There is no story, and Uncle Sam cannot help you here.”

  “That,” I wagged a finger at her, “is a contradiction in terms.” I heard H
elen chuckle and not for the first time, wondered what her game was. But I didn’t get a chance to ask because both she and Helen looked over to the dining-room door and I followed their gaze.

  A guy had stepped in and was talking to Alberto as he took slow thoughtful steps with small, shiny feet, and explained something complex about food by rolling his index fingers around each other, first one way and then the other. Alberto gave a little bow and the guy I guessed was Gonzalo slapped him on the shoulder, one of the guys, one of the people, and moved toward our table. He wore one of those Italian suits that women find attractive. They are not cut but draped, and they are worn by the kind of men who use moisturizer after they shave, to keep their skin soft. When you looked at him, the one word you couldn’t help muttering to yourself was “groomed.” He was groomed.

  He bent over Maria and kissed her on the cheek, muttering something that sounded intimate in her ear. She nodded once and he smiled at Helena. “Helena, cariño, every time I see you, you look the same.”

  “I was going to say the same thing about you.”

  He ignored her and turned to me expectantly. I gave him the kind of smile that says, “Not today, but maybe tomorrow,” and Helen said, “This is David Friedman, from New York. He’s come here to write a novel.”

  He pointed at me and snapped his fingers. “You come to the right place, buddy. You know that? So many fockin’ people come to this island to write their novel, I figure the island’s godda have something, right, babe?”

  The last was not directed at me but at Maria, as he sat next to her and slipped his arm easily across the back of her chair. The gesture was clearly possessive, but the expression on her face said it wasn’t welcome. I had seen that expression before, a few times, on women who were about to get raped or beaten up. I laughed and shrugged and said, “Well, that’s my excuse for spending a few months in the Caribbean, thinking about life and death and other existential conundra. What’s yours?”

  He stared at me with quick, wide, intense eyes. His jaws started moving, like he was chewing imaginary gum. “What?”