“’Course, it’s on me. Your payment was the story.” She smiled, trying to emotionally backtrack. “Boise, you know I’m your friend, right?”
“I’ll see you later, Dana.” I couldn’t help asking one more question. “Do I have a burning need to be liked?”
Dana smiled, held her drink up, “Yes. Did Leber tell you that?” She watched my face. “Yeah, he fancies himself an amateur profiler, but really he’s only good at lame observations about regular people like us. Serial killers go right over his head.”
Evelyn had accused me of being too nice during our relationship. I often wondered if that’s why she cheated, because I wasn’t dangerous enough.
I walked out to the waterfront and headed west. My head needed clearing. Part of me hoped a passing car would swerve and knock me into the water.
Chapter 33
Lindberg Bay lay southeast of Cyril E. King Airport. Since returning to St. Thomas, the small beach had called me back time and again. The ancient dock that seemed to weather every storm had the worn look of driftwood.
In my youth, I’d spent days lounging and playing here. The airport was sleepier then. The memories of relaxing afternoons fishing with Roger and Lucas gave me a sense of peace.
On the way, I’d picked up a spool of fishing line, a sinker, some small hooks, squid, and a bobber. Flies buzzed around the purple cephalopod carcass next to me as the line plunked into the turquoise water.
The sun beat down, baking my skin like a cookie. I wasn’t much of a sunscreen user, being partly African, I figured I was good. Stupid, I know. Everyone can get skin cancer. I fished a length of floss out of my pocket and threaded it between my teeth. A hunk of hamburger popped out and bobbed in the water above my bait.
On the beach, broad sea grape leaves waved in welcome or warning. A plane shuttled down the runway and roared into the sky. Further down, a couple wearing bathing suits exited The Beachcomber restaurant and grabbed two lounge chairs. They laughed about something.
Dana had no business in my business. Drinking was my business. I was good at it. I wasn’t good at much.
“Fuck her,” I muttered in the direction of the cheerful couple, who were now walking toward the lapping blue water hand in hand. “Screw Dana, and screw Irene.” Then I thought, Yarey on the other hand ... she’s not so bad ... yet.
A foul mood descended after these cases. One thing seemed to have an overarching effect on all relations: avarice. Gilroy wanted the distillery because, as Leber had informed me, he and Dominic Bacon had been lovers. In numerous love letters they’d found in a shoebox under Gilroy’s bed, Dominic had promised to leave Francine and give the distillery to Gilroy. He’d never made good on that promise.
Presumably, he had tried to use those love letters to convince Francine he should get the distillery, but how did he reason killing her would achieve that end? Stupid, Boise. He didn’t. I recalled the argument between Gilroy and Jermaine. She wasn’t supposed to die. Neither Jermaine nor Gilroy could control Jermaine’s bloodlust. He drowned her. He was only supposed to scare her. Hold her over the edge and let her blood drip into the water from the cut on her arm in the coroner’s report. Probably promised sharks would come. Instead of holding, he dropped her. She sank like a bullet.
Critical thinking became a casualty of avarice. I’d seen it before, bad judgment heaped on bad information. Garbage in, garbage out.
Instead of being grateful for what he was getting, a half-million dollars, or whatever it finally came out to be, the man wanted more. Believed he was owed more. Maybe he was. From Kendal’s notes, it appeared that half-a-mill was all Francine Bacon was willing to give to anyone involved. She wanted to be equitable without being taken advantage of. “An equitable bitch” was the term Kendal had written in the margin notes.
Francine was as tough as granite and her calculations on present value of work done appeared to provide minimum wage level reparations. That’s all she was willing to do. Furthermore, via Kendal’s notes, she argued, and on this front, Kendal had agreed, that Gilroy Antsy had personally been paid quite well, among the best salaries in the rum business, for his position over the past seven years. The sufferings of his ancestors were his in a sense, but not entirely. At least that’s what she appeared to believe.
A valid question in all reparations discussions always raised hackles: where does the guilt stop? Sins of the father and all that crap.
It all seemed so obvious now, like I should have known it was Gilroy. The fact that the man received half-a-mill made me doubt his resolve. Problem was, I viewed his motives through my eyes, and probably the eyes of all the other people being compensated who had expressed gratitude when informed of the attempted generosity of the Bacons. Gilroy Antsy’s ambitions fueled self-righteous thoughts to action. At that point, all he needed was someone willing to carry out his plan.
Enter Jermaine LaGrange, a man who opted to finance his niece’s dreams by becoming an assassin. It turned out he was wanted for questioning in two other jurisdictions. He already possessed the skills, why not put them to profitable use. Gilroy really only wanted a credible threat. What he got was bloodthirsty action. It made no sense to off Francine, but renegotiations required brinkmanship and real brinkmanship required risk. Nothing more risky than bringing a psychotic killer along as your partner in crime.
I whispered Gilroy’s words again. “She wasn’t supposed to die.”
A couple of things still gnawed at me. Why was Isabelle LaGrange training on that timed targeting Jermaine made her do on the archery range? You are not timed in any pressing fashion in archery competition. This question nibbled at me like the little fish that swam around picking dead skin off your feet in shallow water. Dead skin. And Jermaine had mentioned Isabelle being unbeatable at “all of it” and doing special things.
On a completely different tangent, would Isabelle continue competitive archery without her maniacal uncle pushing her? She had a competition, The Virgin Islands Archery Championships, the finals scheduled for Saturday. They were outfitting the Emile Griffith Ballpark near the seaplane ramp since it had the best location, parking and capacity. I intended to be there.
The small-gauge fishing line tugged gently against my finger, yanking me out of my thoughts. I tugged back, careful not to pull the bait away before the fish was hooked. Tug-tug, tug-tug, then nothing. I pulled the line out. A naked hook.
“Nicely played, fishy friend.”
Staring into the crystal water, I searched in vain for the culprit. Can’t see well through water, even when it’s this clear. Three dark shapes circled above the silky sand. There was no way of knowing which one had taken the bait.
Shooing away a patch of relentless flies, I dropped the remainder carcass into the water, packed up and propped myself against the crook of a palm. My tilted hat blacked out the bright afternoon.
I STIRRED A FEW HOURS later in time to see the setting sun blast orange stains over the clouds near the horizon. A bunch of people had gathered in various locations on the beach, including a young girl and a man I hoped was her father. Then they kissed as he caressed her back. Not her father ... I hoped.
What I’d really been fuming about finally hit me. I needed to talk to Yarey about her father, and I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. Yarey had been subbing for Irene in my latest fantasies.
Upon leaving Dana, I’d turned off my cell, knowing she’d be relentless. I wasn’t wrong. Switching it on, I discovered eight missed calls. Five from Dana, and three from a local number that looked vaguely familiar.
It turned out to be the landline from the Bacon residence. The last call had only come in moments ago. The message was from Hillary.
“Boise, I need to speak to you. Please. I know you have no reason to help me, but I need your help. Just come to the house when you get this. I hope it’s not too late.”
For a change, she sounded sober.
HILLARY ANSWER
ED THE door when I arrived. Her dress leaned to one side, like it might melt off her body from the heat of her distress. The wrinkles that she covered with foundation poked through the caked make-up. There was no hiding her age today. Even stranger, she didn’t seem to care.
“Thank God! Where have you been?”
“Nice to see you, too, Hillary.”
She held a glass of white wine and took a gulp before pulling me inside. Her calling me was way out of character, but the wine gave me hope that some sense of normalcy remained. The sounds of angry voices boomed from the kitchen.
“What are you waiting for? Get in there before they kill each other.” She shoved me forward into the hallway outside the kitchen. Daryl and Herbie were in each other’s face.
Daryl shouted, “You bastard! It’s the least you owe to me and mine. The least. It’s the same arrangement I had with Francine.”
“I do not owe you or that woman anything,” Herbie spat back. “Besides, my mother was a fool to pay so much for what? A babysitter? You know it wasn’t about a real job.”
“Herbie!”
“Her name is Gertrude and by all that’s holy you owe her more than you could ever pay, but I’m giving you a number ... ”
“HERBIE!”
Both men turned, their faces burned red with seething anger.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Herbie demanded.
“I called him,” Hillary said. “We need a third party for this negotiation.”
“We are not negotiating with this man,” Herbie said, moving toward Hillary while pointing back at Daryl.
“Hey there, Boise,” Daryl said pleasantly.
I nodded at him. “Daryl. Herbie. I’m not sure why I’m here, but if I can help ... ”
“You can’t,” Herbie said while staring at Hillary. “What the fuck, Hill? How clear do I have to be? No more outsiders. We already have this fool making waves and now you want to spread our business to this one? What’s to stop him from blackmailing us too?”
“Blackmail?” I asked. “Whoa, what is happening here? I want no part of any illegal activity.”
“See, Hill? He wants no part. This here involves this man.” He again pointed at Daryl. “Blackmailing us. Blackmailing Francine. This one ... ” He jabbed a finger in my direction. I was getting sick and tired of all the pointing. “This one, he doesn’t even know the truth about Harold the day our mother died.”
“What truth?” I asked.
“Herbie, shut up,” Hillary shouted.
“Harold was not with us when Mama was killed. We lied.”
This hit me between the eyes like cold water, but I had no time to shake it off. I wasn’t sure it mattered. They had lied, but I already knew who the killers were and Harold wasn’t involved, was he?
“How many times I gotta tell you? I worked for your mother,” Daryl said menacingly.
“He’s a degenerate gambler who’s on the run from someone you don’t want to owe money to. So, goodbye, Boise. And it wasn’t nice knowing you. Shouldn’t you go interview Harold and do your fucking job?”
Daryl grinned. “You see how they is, Boise? They look down on us. They always looked down, even when my Gertrude was helping him with his problem. Now, we want help. It ain’t blackmail. It’s what we’re owed.”
“Is that right? You are owed. If anyone is owed, it’s Gertrude. Does she even know about this?”
At this, Daryl paused. “Naw, she don’t know.”
“You see. She doesn’t even know. And, if I know her, she doesn’t want any part of this. She wants to stay out of the Bacon family forever. Right? In fact, she probably told you to steer clear. Where’d you say you were going when you left to come down here?”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“What was that?” Herbie demanded.
“Nothing. I didn’t tell her nothing. But that doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’m the one askin’. I need it.”
“I knew it.” Herbie said with I-told-you-so glee.
Hillary had finished her wine and was getting more out of the fridge. “You see why I needed you here, Boise?”
“I’m still not clear.”
“I’ll crystallize it for you, Detective,” Herbie said, sarcastically. “This man knows something and to keep quiet, he wants us to give him money so he can pay off another gambling debt he’s incurred. Our mother was paying him and now that she’s dead, he wants us to keep paying. Understand?”
“Is it important that this information remain private?” I asked.
Hillary swung around with a bottle in hand. “Oh yes, very important.”
“Hill, what’s to stop him from doing it again? He’s got a problem. He kept our mother paying for the rest of her life. He’ll do the same to us.”
She stood next to the open refrigerator. “Do you think Junior will ever forgive us?” she asked, panting like a gazelle fleeing a lion.
“Forgive what?” Those two words cascaded through the room as all four of us turned in unison. Junior had asked them.
“I thought you were gone for the night?”
“Papa, don’t change the subject. What won’t I forgive?”
“This is not your concern,” Herbie uttered impatiently. “Leave now.”
Junior didn’t move. The boy and the father stood, one in hall-darkness and one in kitchen-light. After a moment, Junior stepped out of the hall and into the kitchen, joining the rest of us.
I felt as out of place as an oboist auditioning for a reggae band. Part of me wanted to go, to let them work whatever this was out, but the other part, the part that had once witnessed a police beating with equal parts disgust and fascination, wanted to be right here.
“Boy ho boy, you just like ordering everyone about, don’t ya?” Daryl said, his twang rising alongside his outrage.
“Who are you?” Junior said.
“Never mind who he is,” Herbie said. “I told you to leave. The adults have to work some things out.”
Hillary emitted a sound, like a bird choking. She slumped to the floor, leaning against the cold bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Crazily, I thought about what a waste of energy keeping the door open like that was.
“He’s Daryl Evans,” Hillary said.
Junior blinked rapidly. “Evans?” He turned to Herbie. “Isn’t that my mama’s last name? Gertrude Evans. The one who left you?” He turned to Daryl. “Are you related to me?”
Hillary piped up again, but this time her whining had been replaced by what can only be described in retrospect as years of repressed pain and silence, voiced in a single sentence.
“No, he’s not related to you because that woman is not your mother.”
Junior’s face remained impassive. “What are you talking about, Aunt Hill?”
“Shut your mouth, Hillary. I’m warning you. Shut your mouth!” Herbie headed toward his sister. Daryl and I stepped in front of him.
“How dare you!” Herbie yelled at both of us, but he stopped. He was not imposing despite his height.
Hillary sniffled once, then rose to her feet. She put her glass of wine on a shelf in the refrigerator and shut the door.
“Hillary! Stop!”
Daryl shoved Herbie into a chair and we stood over him while Hillary walked over to Junior.
“I’ve wanted to tell you this forever. I’ve wanted to be true to you.” She now held Junior’s shoulders.
“You can’t take this back, woman. Once you let this out.”
Daryl leaned over the thin, distinguished man, put his hands around Herbie’s neck and whispered, “Stop talking or so help me God, I’ll stop ya. Just gimme a reason, little man.”
Herbie’s adam’s apple bobbed once and fell still on top of Daryl’s thumb. Daryl released him and said, “Now tell it to him straight, Hillary.”
“He’s gotten to be your father, but you’ve been told by all of us for years
that Gertrude was your mother and she abandoned both of you. That’s a lie. She agreed to it at first, but couldn’t live with it, so she left. And she was right to leave. It’s unendurable to live with a lie this large. I believe it’s killing me, or I’m killing me because I can’t live with it anymore either. If leaving would make it go away, I’d do it. But that won’t work. Only one thing can make this pain stop. I have to tell you.” She looked down as if scanning her soul for the right words. Finally, she just said it. “I’m your mother.”
Herbie put his face in his hands and shook his head back and forth. “That’s not true. Junior, don’t listen to her. She’s lying to you.”
A tension left Junior’s face then. A lifelong yearning banked away into the abyss as he took in what we all knew to be truth once voiced. The truth that his parents had been right here all along and somehow, deep down, we’d all participated in the lie, because the truth was too stunning, too real.
Chapter 34
The next morning Daryl Evans and I cruised to the airport. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Daryl said. “Herbie’s right, I owe some people money, and they ain’t the most patient folks this side of the Mississippi. I thought the Francine gravy-train would go on and on. Then, she disappeared.”
“Was it all a lie?”
He licked his lips and spit into a bush. “You mean was I really working for Francine and keeping an eye on Junior? That was true. She’d said since she was paying me, to make it look real, I should actually work for her so nobody asked no questions.”
“Francine trusted you even though you were squeezing her?”
“Trust might be a bit strong, but Francine had the dough. That broad was tough. I’d call her a realist. She blamed herself for what her kids done, for how they felt about each other. Turns out she was even more scared of the truth about them than them.”
We loitered under the awning outside the terminal. Taxis dropped off travellers and sped away.
Sweet Paradise Page 24
