***
Ethelene, flowing hair pinned under a straw bonnet, drove the old Jeep in and around Ocho Rios with the ferocious courage and deft touch of a metropolitan-trained cabby. Zipping along narrow streets inches from the small hovels lining either side, I clutched the base of the passenger seat and hoped she was not bent on a death wish of her own in the grotty neighborhoods of the island's working class citizens. When I thought we would be unable to get up any additional speed, Ethelene punched the accelerator with her high-heeled toe and threw her head back in laughter, sending us careening between the fruitstands and markets and thresholds and barrels scattered among the brightly painted domiciles. Hurtling down a one-way alley, I ducked my head toward the dashboard as we burst through a thick woven undergrowth of vines and branches, shooting out onto the coastal road of Route Four.
"Don't worry, Baron, this is my regular shortcut," Ethelene cried out over the roar of the whining engine. "A way for me to release anxiety."
I offered a reassuring grin, effectively masking the whiteness of my knuckles, and hunched forward in the padded seat like the family dog enjoying an open-air Sunday ride. After several minutes of admiring the rising moon along the shoreline and breathing deep the scent of the ocean, Ethelene cut the steering wheel hard to the left, downshifted and executed a tight turn into the Dunn's River Falls parking lot. Loose pebbles flew in all directions, sparking the glares and waves of several water- and rum-soaked tourists before Ethelene pointed the nose of the vehicle back towards town.
"Ever gone up the Falls?" she called out.
"Years ago, yes."
I joyfully recalled my first spring break trip made with the gang from university. Our entire curling team decided to have its hair braided in the traditional Jamaican dreadlock style. How we could not wait to push out of the hack with our newfound looks, confident we would steal girls from the varsity hockey team vacationing alongside us. [The latter group showed up to pass critique on our appearance as we were about to indulge in pizza with the three coeds who accepted our invitation. It ended badly for us curlers.]
"I scampered up the climb with some of my mates back in the day. Cold water!"
"I know another short cut, four wheeling up through the forest," she hollered back, "but not tonight. Not if we're going to get some dancing in!"
My sphincter constricted tightly at the mention of musical gamboling with Ethelene and frankly, in comparison, the off-road jungle-run held a certain appeal. "Fine. Another day, then," I replied in an unsteady voice.
Within minutes we rolled into a crowded, poorly illuminated dirt parking lot outside a sizeable circular straw hut. Vehicles of all makes and sizes were parked haphazardly in every direction, as though they would magically sort themselves out in a reasonable fashion as the night wore on. Ethelene brought the Jeep to a skidding halt in a cloud of dust and dirt. "This, my friend, is my favorite spot!"
Above the doorway, some thirty feet away, hung a narrow strip of a multicolor neon light flashing Badana Pagana Cabana, which I loosely translated to "Sheepskin Pagan Cabin". I thought about using the old knee injury from my curling days as an excuse to avoid the bump-and-grind with Ethelene, but -- as I followed her up the wooden steps into the bar's entrance, my eyes spellbound by the delightful swaying motion beneath her form-fitting dress -- I knew fate planned to override my imaginary joint pain. You might end up meeting your maker, old stone, but what a way to travel. Stepping inside the colorful, smoke-filled arena, we were greeted by Stephan, the bar manager.
"Lady Bridgework! It has been oh so too long!" He gave her a passing hug, flashing a smile of sincere friendliness. "Let me escort you to your table. Your man can follow us, yes?"
"Yes, I can follow." I ducked my head beneath the ribbons and banners hanging from the ceiling, dodging black, green and yellow balloons floating above the many centerpieces. Stephan seated us overlooking the dance floor, where at the opposite end, DJ Master Gator played a selection of scratchy, squeaky bass-throbbing numbers. Ethelene and I took our seats against the wide bamboo rails circling the entire bar area.
"You know," she said over the din of the music while inserting an unfiltered cigarette into an ivory holder carved with a flowery design, "he's trying to pin everything on me, right?"
"Who's trying to attach what to you?"
"Don't use Trotters in such a way to play stupid with me, Baron," she snapped, borrowing the table candle to serve as her lighter. "Wayland is making it appear I'm the one responsible for eliminating personnel vital to keeping the Loo running."
I feigned a distant interest and chose the role of skeptic. "Even poor old Jerzy Kracken? How could a lowly janitor figure in the mix of corporate skullduggery?"
"When you've finished your doltish moment, feel free to keep up with me."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bridgework. I was uncertain --"
"Well, don't be! If you're going to be of any help to me and my daughter, you'll have to be sure about what you see, what you're told and what you know. Wayland Bridgework is trying to frame me as a murderess. A serial killer dancer. Don't deny your knowledge of what's happened over the last year."
Our conversation paused as a waiter brought two house specials to the table. Mrs. Bridgework is known only too well here, for certain. I sipped the drink, guessing that it contained a combination of rum and possibly tea, but definitely a good deal more of the former. "I didn't mean to insult your intellect, Mrs. Bridgework --"
"Ethelene, please call me Ethelene," she said, exhaling a long stream of smoke.
"Ethelene. I simply can't violate any perception of neutrality. The fact that you danced with four men and those four men passed away --"
"Makes me a murderess, yes?"
"No. And, technically, defining your interaction with Jerzy as a 'dance' would be farfetched, even by the most lackadaisical of jurists."
"It was actually the intro to Hootchy Kootchy Diamond Broochie. Quite a popular number in the twenties. I was surprised Mr. Kracken knew of it." She kept scanning the open-air room as we spoke. "Regardless, all fingers point at me on this one, Baron."
"What would motivate you to get Kracken?"
A look of irony overtook the elegant features of her face. "Who do you think was responsible for shredding Wayland's private correspondence? And corporate papers? And handwritten notes from meetings? Telephone messages? Printed e mails? Desktop calendar doodles? Wayland himself decided he'd better get Kracken!"
"And so he did," I murmured, working a bit more on my drink before plunging off the deep end of the pier. "Tell me, Ethelene, why would Wayland want to delete the Daskines, both Senior, Junior and Junior, Senior, Al Ziemer and Mr. Kracken? Presuming he did it, of course."
"The Loo was in the midst of corporate downsizing."
"A rather draconian method, wouldn't you agree?"
"The company lost tens of millions of dollars in a short amount of time," she laughed softly and tapped the cigarette ashes into the fluid wax of the candle. "Lost it wasn't. Certain people knew where the money went, and it wasn't the small change that ten or fifteen million dollars here or there amounted to. It was hundreds of millions of dollars and it went beyond just the Loo's assets."
"Into the accounts of insurance companies, international banks, individual investors?"
She nodded her head. "It was a digital sleight of hand, a global cyber pickpocket completing his work before the mark even knew he had be victimized."
I emitted a loud sigh. This was Ethelene's side of the story, her take of events. Since the forecast did not call for Bridgework himself to open up to me, I was finding her interpretation of the situation more than interesting and it was time to sharpen my game. "How many people know about this?"
"Baron!" she laughed heartily. "Please. You're natural ability to affect naivety is really quite attractive. It is also becoming very annoying!" Her voice lowered and she puffed a cloud of smoke into my face with each word. "Why do you think one financial institution after anoth
er keeps collapsing? Do you imagine why certain countries cannot reinvigorate their economies?"
I rubbed my chin and batted my fingers, trying to look thoughtful while clearing the air between us. I had no clue how to answer her questions. "I could hazard a theory or two, one supposes."
"Wayland now controls portions of the world's major currencies. What was once on paper, safe in his investment firm and bank, he's made disappear. When one group tries to bolster another, he receives a cut of the transaction. Governments rely on the Loo to dictate the terms of loans, set the credit rating of nations in question, and gauge the liquidity and solvency of businesses around the globe." She shook her head and exhaled, making like a fog machine running on full at a Halloween party. "I used to ask him how much was too much. He'd say that all of it wasn't ever going to be enough."
"Where the Daskines, Ziemer and Kracken blocked his way."
"Oh, yes, they did. And it sent a clear message to others, while making me look like a death dealing, foot stomping floozy."
"Why you?"
"I'm in his way, as well. And, I'm a great diversion for Interpol, the FBI and Scotland Yard to focus on while Wayland's at play." The glint in her eye was sincere and there existed a genuineness in her tone, but my mental jury was still deliberating the degree of her truthfulness. "It'd be perfect for him if I were made the scapegoat of the Loo's mess. He'd turn the keys over to some poor sap and retire into a vacuum of invisibility."
"A simple solution would be for you to leave him, divvy up the accumulated wealth and call it good," I said, tossing the obvious stone into the solution pond. "Wash your hands of the entire matter, and Bridgework, once and for all."
"I wish I could, Baron. Truly I do."
I waited her out for an additional explanation and, when none was forthcoming, finished my drink and took her forearm in my hand. "It's quite simple, Ethelene. You just walk away. Return to your family in Montreal, gather up the strings to your life and begin making new music."
"You know more than you let on."
"Sometimes I keep the cards I'm dealt inside my vest so no one sees them. Not even me." I smiled at her reassuringly. "They may someday be put into play."
"I appreciate that strategy, Baron. I do the same. Except my cards are tucked in my bra cup," she said, standing up rapidly and reversing the grip onto my arm so I rose with her. "I remain with Wayland for reasons of no concern to you." She pulled me closer into her. "Then again, maybe they are. You'll learn of them someday, if you do your job correctly. For now, let's dance!"
I sheepishly followed her onto the dance floor, bolstering myself with the knowledge I was not a Loo employee and thereby disqualified for expiring while shuffling with Ethelene. As a reggae number blared through the speakers, she stepped right into the Jersey Turnpike Breakdown Lane and was astonished when I matched her step-for-step, anticipating her air-drumming and elbow-snapping gyrations.
"Say, you're pretty good for an oldie," she laughed, ducking her head into the extended pecking motif at the tune's conclusion.
I took her hand and spun her around, sweeping us into the Americanized version of Traipsin' the Bomb Crater as the next round of music ramped up. "Tell me about April Après," I inquired, aiming to gather if the young soubrette served as motive for Ethelene's blind adherence to Bridgework, warts and all.
"Wayland's mistress du jour," Ethelene responded casually, sans contempt in her voice, "though she's shown an unexpected staying power."
"How long?"
"Over a year now. I thought he'd become bored with her sock hop schtick, but I've underestimated his obsession with that era since we first attended Grease."
So, April Après was in the Loo before the untimely deaths began.
I took Ethelene's waist in my right arm and began the jerking, swaying motion as though we were about to teeter into a make-believe cavity to our left. Guiding her carefully around the outer perimeter of the crowded floor, we bobbed and weaved in counterclockwise fashion, raising our movements to a frenzy amid the heat of so many grinding bodies. Opposite the entrance, I spotted a man looking entirely foppish as though he had attired himself in a carnival house of mirrors. "Look! It's Shumway!"
Ethelene adjusted her rhythm and lifted her gaze. "So it is."
It was one of those defining moments when the seldom-seen other shoe dropped directly on my nodding head. A woman followed directly behind the vexing son-in-law -- she being the very beauty on the Slipstream Green flight, the goddess destined to be my companion in the first row, the stunning African-American wearing the colorful ribbons throughout her hair when boarding the plane. What are the odds of this, right? So compelling was her grace that I could not remove my eyes from her. "Why in the world with him?" I asked rhetorically.
"Marriage."
"What?"
"That's Angel."
I turned so sharply as to almost drag Ethelene and myself into the middle of a ganga rage held at the nearest table. "Hey, mon! Keep it straight and able, Charlie!" "Hold your woman, mon, balance your life." Several hands drenched in sweet scented smoke pushed us back onto the scuffled flooring.
"One more, Baron, before we sit down! Come on, you must know this one!"
She barreled into the Plank Me, Plank You enchufla followed by the obligatory do-si-do and I, being still alive and on my two feet -- in addition to having witnessed this number several times while chaperoning dances at Faithful Hill Regional High School -- opted to give it a go while contemplating the union of Angel and Chip/Silly. Ethelene executed a perfect rond with her left toe before yanking me by the lapels and bringing us face-to-face. "What's the matter, Baron? You've grown distant and thoughtful."
Stammering in an attempt to cover my shock at Angel and Chip/Silly, I nodded my head in concurrence.
"Troubled that Angel's black, while Wayland and I are white?"
"A factor I hadn't considered. Yet."
"She's adopted, Baron. I'm hoping you're more adept in discovering other facts less apparent." Ethelene pushed me away and revived the enchulfa again, followed by both of us nailing a flawless do-si-do. "You'd do well to keep a watchful eye on Shumway. He's not a fan of yours."
"Really? I'm sincerely sorry to learn of that."
"His employer has the reputation for being unscrupulous at times."
"Bridgework? The Loo?"
"Heavens, no, Baron," Ethelene lost her step in the midst of her laughter, "the government. He's supposedly some sort of super secret Federale, except a domestic one."
"Illegal immigration in reverse? Perhaps you shouldn't say that so loud here."
"Why not?" Ethelene stopped dancing and took my hand, leading me back through the crowd. "He's not a big fan of me, either."
I rehearsed my line along the way to our table, glad for the dry run earlier in the evening.
"Angel!" Ethelene called out to her daughter sitting next to Chip/Silly. Four fresh drinks anchored each seat. "This is Baron von dek Horn, our visitor from the States."
"Ah," I said cordially, taking the young woman's hand and applying a brief kiss to it while tapping one heel to the rough wood below, "it is my pleasure to greet you, Miss Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway. Or may I call you Angel?"
"Angel is fine, thank you." Her voice struck me as having the quality of fine crystal, light and gleaming upon entering my ears. "How was your flight?"
"It was," I said, for a fleeting moment feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy, "a culturally enlightening experience."
"How about the Yankees this year?" Chip/Silly asked the table in general. "Anyone seen the bowl of nuts that's supposed to be here?"
"Angel and I are going to refresh ourselves," Ethelene said to me, offering a hand to the younger woman, "while you and this one visit. Or talk to yourself, whichever holds greater appeal." They quickly disappeared into the rapidly growing crowd.
"Got you a drink, old man." Chip/Silly shoved the glass of house mix across the table to me. "Here's to the past."
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"And to our future," I added, hoisting the cocktail.
"You went broke pretending to be a yachtsman, is that correct?"
"No, actually." I was amazed at the degree of awkwardness Chip/Silly brought upon me in the opening moment of our tête-à-tête. The cowering steps taken with Lady Bridgework during Plank Me, Plank You paled in comparison to the discomfort I now felt. "I'm more into vintage automobiles and such."
"What a gratuitous bastard."
"Come again?"
"Have you noticed how candle wax melts here in Jamaica?"
"I haven't invested time in that study, no."
"I've developed a rash running from my left ankle up to my testicles and down to my right toes, then back again."
"Dear me."
"How's your drink?"
I selected the moment to sample a slug of the liquid in question. "Moving."
"Whatdya think of my wife?"
I chose not to answer the question and, instead, used my old stage trick of taking an additional tug upon the drink in hand when forgetting my line.
"Trotters was coed, wasn't it?"
"It was and is." Here was a ball thrown in unexpectedly from left field. It was not so much the question, but the shift of tone in his voice. Chip/Silly was perhaps not so random as he portrayed himself to be. Defying my thought just as it ended, the young man abruptly stood up and hopped up and down while rotating in a circle. He finished mid-turn, taking his seat as though casually sitting down for Sunday morning breakfast.
"Where'd they get off to, anyway?"
"The 'loo," I replied and, with it, hitting every sensitive nerve in his body. His synapses are firing just fine.
"The Loo," he sneered, "how I can't stand what goes on in there. Terrible business."
"Is that right?" I rested my chin in the cup of my right hand, preparing to engage in an in-depth mental game of chess with my opposite number.
"Monkey business. A business for monkeys." He grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl being set down by our waitress.
"Would your assessment include its founder and CEO, Wayland Bridgework?"
"What do you think? Why should I tell you?" Chip/Silly was openly defiant, his features reminiscent of the photo taken years ago upon his extraction from the tar pits. "He's the biggest baboon of them all."
"If you promulgate this belief so openly, why bother to stick around?"
"I'm his sales and customer service contact for my company. I have no choice but to be onsite with him."
"Let me surmise," I said slowly, opting to go for a three-pointer early in the game. "The permanent life bubble."
"Technically, it's called Eternus Spiritus." He lofted three successive peanuts into the air, catching the first in his mouth as the other two struck him in the corner of the left eye. "Ouch! Salt stings! You're one to lay out your best hand first, eh Baron?"
"I play the cards I'm dealt when the dealer is done dispensing them. There's no reason to leave an ace up my sleeve." I displayed a honcho boldness that Chip/Silly would feel compelled to match and thereby freely offer up more information. "So, your company -- the conceptual think tank -- developed Eternus Spiritus and you're arranging for old Baboon Bridgework's purchase of it."
"Are you always this dull when connecting the dots?" He flung a peanut out onto the dance floor and watched silently as it was crushed by the plethora of grinding feet. "The only item my company develops is unimaginable concepts. Such theoretical research requires our assembling elite expertise. And a monster amount of financing."
"As well as racing against time."
"That's the grand motivator for us all, isn't it." Chip/Silly erupted with laughter. "What's the average mean annual rainfall in Jamaica?"
I ignored his meteorological inquiry and pressed forward. "Do we hear Angel's biological clock ticking, too?"
"It rains here almost every night. Some sort of oceanic effect, most probably."
"My understanding is that Bridgework expects delivery of a successor sooner than later."
The music picked up to a pulsating beat, sending Chip/Silly's fingers into the air signaling for another round of drinks. "No one should hold their breath on such issues."
"Not even Angel?"
"Angel's secretly given birth control," he smirked. "She doesn't even know it."
"You've been slipping her a prescription without her knowledge?" I was aghast and beyond being able to conceal it. "Yet you dare tell me."
"Why not? Where are you going with it?"
"To Angel herself," I replied indignantly. "If true, you are totally repulsive."
"Keep your shirt on, Baron. This isn't a topless bar, you know. Besides, she'd never believe it coming from you."
"I wouldn't --"
"Look!" Chip/Silly pointed toward the overcrowded parking lot behind me.
I twisted about to see a group of partiers passing what appeared to be a glowing log to one another. "They're just enjoying an extra large blunt in the shadows."
"Sometimes," his voice lowered to an animalistic threatening tone, "it's best for certain people to remain in the dark." He shoved my drink over to me and offered a toast. "Here's to a better future for those who are wise enough to make it there."
I accepted his words and, as I placed my empty glass back on the table, Ethelene and Angel reappeared to join us. The moment turned out to be the last clear memory I held of socializing at Badana Pagana Cabana that night.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 8
