The pleasantries over, Monday eyes the four crates. One of his eyebrows lift unnaturally high over his eye. “You realize I need to check what’s inside, right, mon ami?”
“Ah, come on, Monday. Not again.” I shrug. “I thought we had a deal.”
The dock is suddenly quiet. I look down and notice all the kids have spirited themselves away, leaving nothing but wrappers to tumble along the boards with the wind. Moe, resting his haunches on one of the crates, is watching our exchange with great interest.
Monday sniffs, hiking up his britches over his rotund belly. His brow crinkles.
“Ah, geez, don’t be this way, Monday.”
“You and I both know d’at Governor Lagrange is bucklin’ down on smugglin’ on d’is island, Joe.”
“But this ain’t about smuggling, and you know it. It’s about the Governor’s grudge against the Candyman—his own brother.” I spread my arms in a gesture of peace. “Why on Earth would you let the petty squabbles of powerful men like those ruin a perfectly lovely relationship between the two of us?”
This is pettiness to the extreme. Governor Lagrange has his hands in just about every illegal enterprise on the island, from drugs to gambling to prostitution. His brother, the Candyman, has only cut out a small little niche among the island’s vices: liquor, which the Governor has taxed almost to non-existence for legitimate tavern owners on the island.
Everyone knows there are only two things I smuggle…guns and booze. Monday knows exactly what I’ve shipped in from Cuba for the Candyman. This is nothing more than a shake down. A raising of hackles. Whose balls are bigger? And it’s starting to irk me to no end.
The large man grunts. “Governor Lagrange is my employer, mon ami. He puts food on da table for my family…”
“So have I, if you’ll recall…”
Monday gives me an apologetic nod, but he won’t let me finish. “…and he’s given us strict instructions to make life miserable for da Candymon more d’an anyone else on St. Noel.” The customs agent pauses, then looks around conspiratorially. “But between you and me, he’s gotten much worse ever since d’ose white men in suits showed up.”
I perk up at that. “Men in suits? The French?”
Monday shakes his head.
“Then, who are they?”
“Nobody knows. D’ey showed up t’ree days ago while you were in Cuba. Flew into port on an island jumper from Trinidad. They went straight to da Governor’s villa. Been stayin’ at Nessie’s free of charge ever since.”
That isn’t good news. St. Noel is small enough to avoid the casual tourism of most Caribbean islands. It isn’t that St. Noel couldn’t use the tourist business, or that it wouldn’t be one heck of a tourist destination. It’s just that the people here really enjoy their way of life, and tourism is discouraged because of it.
But strange men in suits—especially those in business with our governor—could only mean trouble for the people around here. For now, though, I don’t have time to worry about it. The Candyman’s festival is tomorrow evening at sundown, and I have a slew of things to do and people to see before then.
I need to take care of this customs inspection fast.
“Come on, Monday,” I say, giving him my biggest smile while pulling out a wad of American cash from my pocket and flipping through the bills. “For old time’s sake? Can’t you just let this go, just this once? Think about the Festivale de la Mort tomorrow.”
Monday looks from the money to the crates, scratching his patchy beard in thought. He opens his mouth to reply, just as the sound of children shouting echoes toward us from the other end of the pier. We turn to the sound, to see the kids that were here only a few minutes earlier are now running at full speed back in our direction. Behind them, waddling down the wooden planks, is the immense figure of Jacques ‘the Candyman’ Lagrange, and two of his beefy voodoo followers. I’ve never learned their names. Instead, I’ve just always called them ‘King’ and ‘Kong.’
“Ooooh, buddy,” I say, stuffing the cash back into my khakis and releasing a faux hiss of concern. “Should’ve been quicker on the take.”
All the newcomers are dressed in the white linen trousers and shirts of the region, although the Candyman is sporting his customary wide-brimmed straw hat, which shades his massive bald head and the fat rolls down the back of his neck. Lagrange is almost double the girth of Monday, though most of his fat acts to hide the thick ropes of muscle underneath, which could easily crush a man’s head with a squeeze of his thumb and forefinger. He’s scowling as he approaches the customs agent and the porter, and I can sense that the two men are now frozen with fear.
I feel bad for them both. Kind of. But not really. Monday knows the deal. He’s been around long enough to know you don’t nickel-and-dime the Candyman, even if he is feeling pressure coming down from the governor’s villa. Besides that, the mook has been a general pain in my side for years.
The children beam from ear to ear as they continue to chew and suck on the candy I’ve brought them. They playfully encircle us while providing space for the Candyman to enter our ranks. King and Kong stand back, their powerful arms crossed over equally powerful chests.
Ignoring Monday and the porter, the fat man looks at me for a moment, then smiles with a slight nod of his head. “Cap’n. You had a pleasant trip, I presume?”
I return the nod. The Candyman doesn’t intimidate me like many others on the island. I know his secret. Though he’s physically large, with a slag of a face, he’s basically a quick-witted chap with a deep love for children and a contagious laugh when they’re around. He’s basically the voodoo version of Father Christmas, if you really want to know the truth. He’s also not the one really in charge of his illegal operations. That privilege belongs to his wife, Angelique. Besides, he and I go farther back than anyone on this island. We’re friends…of sorts…through common enterprises.
“It was pretty uneventful.” I nod over at Monday with a roll of my eye. “Until now.”
“So da childr’n ’ave told me.” The fat man removes his hat, wiping a stream of sweat from his brow, before replacing it once more on his hairless head. He then looks over at Monday while stroking the bone and feather necklace around his meaty neck. “Mr. Renot, is d’ere a problem wit’ my merchandise I should know about?”
Monday begins stammering, looking back and forth between me and the Candyman. His eyes are watering. I can almost hear his drying tongue begin to scrape against the roof of his mouth, as he tries to come up with some excuse for interfering in the voodoo priest’s business.
“Monsieur Lagrange…” No one but his dearest friends are allowed to call him ‘Candyman.’ At least, to his face. “I… It’s your brother… I mean…”
The Candyman’s scowl deepens. He looks down at the kids, gives them a wink, then nods in the direction of the shore. Without comment, they scamper away from the scene, knowing full well how unwise it is to argue with the man when it comes to his business. As if sensing the coming danger, Moe leaps from the crate to my neck. He huddles close, with his eyes fixed on the action. I scratch him behind the ears and wait to see how this is going to play out.
“Lamont Kingston.”
Ah, so that’s the porter’s last name… For the life of me, I couldn’t remember it. The skinny dock worker steps toward the Candyman, his eyes downcast. He won’t look at the immense man, mainly because of his beliefs.
“Open one of d’em crates,” the Candyman says, raising an eyebrow at me in a silent question. I nod back at him with a smile. When Lamont doesn’t move, the Candyman gestures toward the crate. “Go on, now. I give you my permission. I know you’re just doin’ what yer told, and you mean no malice toward me.”
I’m not entirely sure of that. I’ve seen the weasel pocket his share of plenty of payoffs that I’ve made to Monday in the past. But I say nothing.
Lamont seems to go limp momentarily, then he exhales in relief as he walks over to the first crate and uses the crowbar he’s be
en white-knuckling since the Candyman’s arrival. He pries the nails up from the lid. A minute later, the lid pops off and everyone goes silent.
“Go ahead, Mr. Kingston,” the Candyman urges. “Take a look inside.”
Warily, the porter glances at his boss, then pulls out the heaps of straw filler inside the crate, until the contents are revealed for all to see. Bags upon bags pack the space, filled with every kind of candy imaginable to man. Four glass jars containing peppermint sticks, gumdrops, hard fruit-flavored candies, and an assortment of many others—all wrapped in shiny wrappers—seem to illuminate the inside of the crate like a cask of pirate gold. Monday, incredulous, steps forward and fumbles through the treasure with a dumb stare plastered on his face.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters, flipping over the candy containers one by one.
“Would you like to check da others as well, Mr. Renot?” the Candyman asks, a playful smile spreading across his voluminous face.
Monday steps away, shaking his head. “No, no. I’ve seen enough.” He throws me a murderous glare. He knows what’s happening here. It’s the oldest smuggling trick in the book—hide the real stash in a false bottom of the crate. But the customs man is smart enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. The Candyman is giving him a way out, and Monday’s smart enough to take it.
“My apologies, Mr. Lagrange,” Monday says, offering a slight bow of the head. “I am very sorry to inconvenience you, but you know… I must do my duty and ensure contraband doesn’t find its way onto our beautiful island. Your brother wouldn’t like that. You understand.”
The Candyman laughs at that and slaps the customs agent on the shoulder playfully. “D’at’s because my little brother lacks imagination and vision, Mr. Renot.” He slaps Monday’s shoulders again for good measure. “And he doesn’t appreciate loyalty in his employees.” He narrows his eyes at Monday. “Unlike me. D’at is, if you’re ever looking for a new, more prosperous job.”
“That will be quite enough of that,” a voice calls out behind us.
We turn to see the tall skeletal form of Governor Lagrange, dressed in his crisply pressed military uniform and cap, marching down the pier’s planks with the island’s only three police officers right behind him. The officers are all armed with rifles, which are now resting on their right shoulders. They approach boldly, eyeing each of us with contempt, before stopping only a foot or so away from the Candyman.
“By decree of my office, dear brother,” the Governor says. His voice is as smooth as Tennessee molasses; it’s the exact opposite of the Candyman’s booming gravelly one. “I’ve ordered Mr. Renot to confiscate the cargo brought here by this…” He sneers at me, then waves in my general direction with limp-wristed disinterest. “…person.”
The Governor glances back at the officers, which includes Chief Fidel Armad, a man who probably despises me—and all white folk, really—more than anyone else on the island. “See to it that Mr. Renot and his porter are unmolested as they transport these crates back to the Customs Office.”
The Chief, giving me a murderous smile, nods. The three coppers then remove their rifles from their shoulders, and take aim at each of us. The porter, Lamont Kingston, gulps and waits for instructions from his boss. Monday, obviously just as nervous, nods and waves the young man along. The crates are then lifted on top of one another on the dolly cart and wheeled away from us with a full police escort.
The Governor, who is looking his brother up and down with an upturned nose, chuckles as they leave.
“D’at wasn’t necessary, Anton,” the Candyman says. His voice comes out like a grizzly’s growl. “We could ’ave worked somet’ing out, if you ’ad just talked wit’ me.”
“Our days of talking are over, dear brother. I’m officially placing you and your little bootlegging operation on notice.” The Governor glances at me with a sniff. “As well as your own particular side business, American.”
With that said, the scarecrow of a man turns and stomps off the pier, leaving me with the Candyman and his two disciples.
“Well, that could have gone better,” I say, lifting my captain’s cap and giving my scalp a scratch. Moe is trembling against my neck, obviously detecting the tension in the air.
The Candyman sniffs, but says nothing. He turns to his men and waves them ahead of us, as we stroll toward the island’s only town, Port Lucine.
2
“Before I forget, are you plannin’ to come to da festival tomorrow night?” Candyman asks, as if the ordeal with his brother and our cargo hasn’t just happened. We’re strolling down the dusty thoroughfare toward town. It’s easily a mile walk, and I’m rather surprised the fat man didn’t drive his Bentley to the dock when he came to confront Monday. “Angelique says she’s been missin’ you. You ’aven’t come to see her in months.”
I decide to take my cue from the voodoo priest and forget everything, too. It’s better to just take our lumps and enjoy the late afternoon stroll. I take a pull from my cigar and exhale away from him, as I gaze up at the purple-orange horizon above the mango trees. The sun will be setting in the next hour or so, and the temperature is already dropping to a comfortable seventy-odd degrees. “Yeah, tell her I’m sorry about that. I’ve been meaning to come by… You know how much I love her…”
“Her apple pie moonshine?” He chuckles. His laugh is so deep, I can almost feel it vibrating through me. “Just like yer mom used to make back home, no?”
“It’s about as close as I’ve ever tasted. Yeah.”
“By da way, she’ll be tellin’ fortunes tomorrow,” he adds, as if to entice me.
He knows I’m not a believer in his voodoo stuff, and fortune telling is not one of the myriad things I admire about his wife. It’s weird that he would even bring that up. I’m pondering that, as we continue to walk down the beaten path, when I suddenly become aware of the sound of the steel drums of calypso music wafting down the lane from Port Lucine. Nessie’s saloon sounds more lively than usual this afternoon.
I smile at the thought. The sweet rhythmic beat of the drums and the melodic diction of the local singers is one of the many things I love about living in the Caribbean. But Nessie’s is even more important to me for another reason. It’s also where Trixie Faye sings most evenings. The Hungarian songbird has roped the hearts of almost every red-blooded male on the island. Mine, more than anyone else’s. And I don’t mind telling anyone who asks, either.
“So?”
The Candyman’s question rips me from my thoughts.
“Huh?” Not sure what he’s asking.
“Will you come tomorrow night?” He repeats. “Me’d love to ’ave you. But Angelique even more so.” He pauses, eyeing me up and down. “If me were a jealous person, you’d be in real trouble.”
I chuckle alongside him as we pass through Port Lucine’s old wooden gates. They’re the only reminder of the large stone wall that once wrapped around the town—and its slave market—to protect itself from the occasional native uprising back when the island was still in its infancy.
“Sure, I’ll be there. Lookin’ forward to seeing that beautiful missus of yours.” I wink at him. “And maybe a shot or two of her apple pie?”
The big man guffaws, shaking his head. “Of course. Of course. I’ll be sure to tell her to prepare some for you.”
“I’m assuming she won’t be too upset about Monday confiscating our score?” I have to ask. It’s been a burning question in my gut since leaving the Dream.
He shakes his head. “Not at you, she won’t. Never at you.” A low growl grumbles up from his gut. “It’s Mr. Renot what should be worried, when she hears. I would not want to be ’im when she next contacts da loa.”
The loa. The spirit gods of voodoo. Just as Jacques is a high priest of the voodoo congregation on the island, Angelique is the mamba…the high priestess. From all accounts, her magic is supposed to be plenty powerful, if you believe that sort of thing.
He stops just as we reach the entrance of
Nessie’s Saloon and Inn. “Now, I’m assuming d’at d’is is where you get off. I hear a very lovely lady be in there, pining for a handsome sea captain to come home. Don’t wanna keep her waitin’ no longer.” He pulls out a wad of cash and stuffs it down my shirt pocket. Payment for the cargo I’ve just brought him.
“Wait, no. I can’t accept this.” I retrieve the money and try to hand it back to him.
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t deliver the goods. I don’t deliver, I don’t get paid. That’s the way it works.”
“Seems to me, you did deliver da goods, as you say. It was sittin’ on St. Noel for a sum total of ten minutes maybe. Not your fault my brother is a backstabbing snake.” He pokes me in the chest with an index finger the size of a potato. “No, you keep it. You earned it fair and square, my friend.”
I know better than to argue. It would insult him. Besides, his mind is already made up. I smile a silent thanks. In response, he merely gestures toward the saloon’s entrance. “I see you tomorrow, my friend.”
Without waiting for a response, he turns toward his candy shop and begins waddling his way there, leaving me in the street and feeling anxious about seeing my girl. Actually, ‘my girl’ is a bit of a misnomer. You might as well call the ocean, ‘my sea,’ or the mountain, ‘my hill.’ Trixie is no one’s girl. She’s an untamed elemental in her own right. A wild steed that no man could master. I’m just lucky enough to be liked by her more than any other man in these parts. She tolerates me. Even, I suppose, misses me when I’m away. And that alone is enough to get my heart pumping like mad just thinking about it.
Killypso Island Page 2
