Trixie blushes, dipping her head in a miniature curtsy, and offers him her hand. The Candyman brushes the hand away and draws her into a slightly less hearty, yet just as enthusiastic embrace.
“Joe, when you gonna make an honest woman out d’is songbird, mon? You better sweep her up fast, before da rest of da island gets da courage to do it.”
I laugh, raising an eyebrow at Trixie as I do so. “Trust me, pal. I’d run to the church right now, if she let me.”
Trixie giggles at us. “Oh, stop it you two. You’re embarrassing me.”
The three of us chat for a few minutes, watching the crowd enjoying the festivities all around us. I finish my glass of whiskey and sit it down on a nearby table. I’m just beginning to withdraw a cigar when the Candyman excuses himself from Trixie and pulls me aside.
“Don’t light up just yet, my friend.” His eyes seem to twinkle in the multicolored lantern light around us. “Angelique sent me out here to find you. She says it’s time to tell you your fortune.”
I look up into his big skull-painted face and roll my eye. “Come on, Jacques,” I say. “I mean no offense, but you know I don’t buy all your voodoo mum…” He glares down at me, a silent warning to choose my next words carefully. “…er, I mean, your voodoo beliefs. It’s just not my thing. You’re talking to a Baptist boy, born and raised.”
His death-head grin spreads with a raucous laugh that seems to shake the wooden walkway under our feet. “Don’t matter none if you believe or not, Joe. A meetin’ wit’ Angelique is a rare honor indeed. Whether your future is told you or not, Mama Lagrange wants to spend some time wit’ her favorite white boy on da island. You gonna disappoint her?”
I shake my head. “Of course not.” And I mean it. Although I’m not overly fond of all the superstitious nonsense the islanders around her believe, Angelique Lagrange is an angel in human flesh. While Nessie has taken on the role of doting grandmother since I came to St. Noel, Angelique is something of a loving and nurturing aunt. I adore her, and I feel guilty for neglecting her for as long as I have. The least I can do is play along with her delusions of psychic powers and spend some good quality time with her. “Okay, Jacques. Let’s go.”
I say goodbye to Trixie, being sure to set up a time and place for us to meet later tonight, and I follow the big man as we stroll past the revelers and move past his shop. A line of excited children forms out the door, waiting for old man Guillermo, the Candyman’s loyal store clerk, to hand out the new stock of treats to them for a penny a piece. I wave at Malik, waiting patiently near the back of the line. As he waits, he tosses a baseball up into the air, and catches it with his mitt. We pass the candy store, moving around the side of the building, toward the Candyman’s family bungalow in back. The lively sounds of more music and revelry can be heard from the cellar below the store. I know the Candyman’s private speakeasy is probably even more boisterous than the activities outdoors. I kind of regret not having time to go down and share in a few pints with a few of my friends, but Angelique needs to come first.
“Any idea what’s so important that she’s insisting on seeing me?” I ask as we round the corner of the store. His villa is directly behind it, richly decorated in the same lanterns that paint the rest of the town in a rainbow of light.
“Does she need a reason, boy? She loves you like a son.”
I nod, offering him a silent apology.
“But to answer your question, no. I’ve no idea what’s got her bonnet all twisted for you lately. Da moment she heard word you were pullin’ in to port, she sent me down to da pier to escort da cargo back.”
That bit of news sets me on edge. Like I said earlier, while the Candyman is the face and muscle of the operation, Angelique has always been the brains. If she was concerned about my Cuban run…
“How’d she take the news about Monday taking our crates?”
We’re now approaching the villa’s front door, and I notice both our voices have lowered to near whispers.
“She was upset, naturally.” He shakes his big bald head at me. “But don’t worry. She not mad at you. She genuinely worried about you, I t’ink. Besides, she told me to invite you to d’is ‘reading’ before d’at weasel Monday got his grubby mitts on our shipment. Don’t ’ave nothin’ to do wit’ it at all.”
He opens the front door and gestures for me to enter. I move into the large, bamboo-paneled foyer and remove my cap. My muscles have noticeably relaxed with Jacques’s reassurances. Besides, Angelique has nothing to worry about. I have every intention of getting that cargo back, and I’m already well on my way to forming a pretty good plan to do it, too.
I’ve taken a few steps into the home’s interior before I realize my companion is not beside me. I turn to see his big skeleton-painted face smiling at me in the doorway.
“Enjoy, my friend.”
“Wait. You’re not coming?”
He shakes his head. “No, no, no. D’ere’s too much fun to be had out here!” He laughs his big burly laugh. “Besides, da invitation was for you alone. It really is quite an honor, no?”
He winks at me before closing the big double doors to his house. If I was anyone else, I might be nervous about being left alone here like this. It has all the earmarks of a setup. But I’m not ‘anyone else.’ I’m Joe Thacker, and Jacques and Angelique are dear friends. The one thing I know about the way they do business is that friendship and loyalty are far more important to them than money. They could lose millions, but they’d never throw a friend to the wolves. That much, I know without doubt.
With that in mind, I clutch my captain’s hat under my arm, and move toward the back of the house, where I know Angelique waits.
6
When most Americans imagine the residences of voodoo priests, I suppose they picture black-painted rooms, blood-drenched floors, and grass dolls impaled with a number of pins designed to do unspeakable things to unsuspecting victims. Nothing, however, could be farther from the truth. At least, as far as the Lagrange estate is concerned.
The foyer is bright and cheery with pristine white walls and beautiful bamboo floors that cover the entire two-story structure. An odd assortment of statuary—ranging from island deities to Grecian urns—lines much of the walls, except in places covered by bookshelves, hunting trophies, and colorful oil paintings created by Angelique herself.
I step from the foyer into the den—a sunken affair with a plush velvet-covered couch that wraps around a mahogany coffee table in the center of the room. A crystal chandelier hangs above, illuminating everything with warm light.
I stop just short of the plush velvet couch and loveseat, and I look around. I’ve been here dozens of times. I’m fully aware of where Angelique holds court, and I could easily traverse the house to my destination. But the rules of the house must be maintained. Proper etiquette is essential.
I wait, clearing my throat as loudly as I can to announce my presence.
After a moment, when no one appears, I decide more drastic measures are necessary. “Um, hello? Anyone here?”
I hear the shuffle of feet and a muttered curse from somewhere in the house. The voice is feminine and very young, and I smile. The house maid hasn’t been advised of impending guests. I’m not expected by the servants, and now, I’ve caught them with their proverbial pants down.
The maid scurries into the den, wearing the traditional short black dress of her position. She adjusts her apron, as if she’s just gotten out of bed. She puts on her maid’s cap over a severe hair bun while muttering apologies for keeping me waiting. She’s a lovely caramel-skinned doll with deep brown eyes and a petite and lithe frame. Her eyes are large and doe-like, and she has full pouty lips. Her lipstick is smeared slightly on one side of her mouth, but it doesn’t detract at all from her beauty. Although I’ve never seen her before, I’m certain she turns a lot of heads in town whenever she’s off duty.
Heck, she’s the epitome of the Candyman’s ‘type.’ I have no doubt it was his idea to hire such a lovel
y creature for his rather infamous extramarital activities.
“I’m so very sorry,” she repeats. Her accent is more French than Caribbean, and I guess she’s spent time in France, rather than the islands. Perhaps studying abroad. But her complexion, not to mention her employers, tell me one thing for sure—she’s a native of St. Noel. The Candyman and his wife would never hire anyone for domestic duties they couldn’t trust, and they rarely ever trust anyone not born on the island.
I wave her apologies away and shake my head. “Nothing to be sorry about, Doll-face. Why would you expect guests when the real party is going on outside?”
She smiles, obvious relief washing over her lovely face. “You are Captain Joe, oui?”
I nod.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you.” She offers a polite curtesy. “The Gentleman and Lady Lagrange talk about you all ze time. As do many people on ze island.”
“If they say good things about me, just go ahead and believe the opposite,” I say, offering her my most charming smile. “If you hear bad things about me… Well, that you can probably believe.”
She laughs at that, adjusts her maid’s cap again, and then stares expectantly at me.
“Oh,” I say, realizing she has no idea why I’m here. For the life of me, I don’t understand why Jacques didn’t announce my presence. Then again, the Candyman’s been pretty excited about the festival for weeks. His desire to return to the party wasn’t a ruse. “Sorry. I believe Mrs. Angelique is expecting me in the parlor. She’s invited me to have my fortune told.”
The maid’s eyes widen in awe. To anyone else on the island, such an invitation is the equivalent of a sit-down with the Pope, an honor of the highest caliber. She soon realizes she’s staring at me with admiration, and she blushes. “Excuse me while I go to my mistress and announce your arrival.” She gestures toward the other side of the room to a small bar. “Please, make yourself a drink, if you like. I know they wouldn’t mind.”
I offer a nod of thanks and watch her shapely legs saunter out of the room. Then I make my way over to the bar. I don’t want to ruin my appetite for some of Angelique’s apple pie, but a small glass of spiced rum never hurt anyone. I search the bottles, pick my favorite label, and pour myself a finger or two of the golden nectar. I down it in one gulp; just in time for the maid to return to the den.
“Madam Lagrange is ready for you now, Captain.”
“Thank you, Miss…?”
“Clarise. Just call me Clarise.”
I set the glass down at the bar and follow her back to through the hallway she’s just come from, until we reach a set of French double doors. A set of red velvet curtains block the view from inside the room beyond. Clarise taps on the door twice, then opens it, and gestures for me to enter.
“Thanks, Darlin’,” I say, and I stroll inside. I hear the door shut gently behind me. The ample form of Angelique is sitting in a chair behind a table on the other side of the room. Her eyes are bright, and her smile says she’s genuinely pleased to see me. “That’s some maid you’ve got there.” I shoot my thumb behind me. “Easy on the eyes.”
Angelique laughs. “Clarise is new. Just started two weeks ago, while you were away.” She gets up from behind the table and strolls over toward me. For such a robust woman, she moves with the grace and ease of a runway model. “And I thought she might catch your eye.” Without further chit-chat, she embraces me in a way that would make her husband seem like a ninety pound weakling, then plants two soft kisses on both my cheeks. I feel her hand brush my bottom as she moves back.
I might have misrepresented my relationship with Angelique earlier. The voodoo mamba is twenty years my senior and easily twice as heavy as me. And while I tell everyone she’s like my dear old auntie, she’s had her eyes on me for years to be her next little play thing. Always trying to play footsies with me when her husband’s not around. It’s a game we’ve come to play, and I can deal with it easily enough because I’ve grown to truly like the woman she is, when she’s not trying to make time with me.
“It’s good to see you, Joe. You don’t come see me enough, boy… Always gallivantin’ ’round in yer silly boat and wit’ d’at skinny blonde floozy.”
Oh, yeah. I also forgot to mention that Angelique is not a fan of Trixie Faye in the slightest. I’ve learned to ignore her rants about the Hungarian songstress, out the love and respect I’ve developed for the mamba.
“Ah, come, Angelique. Don’t start that again.”
“Never you mind about her right now.” She waves for me to take a seat at the table. “Right now is my time, not hers. Right now, I got you all to myself.”
The smile on her face is outright lascivious.
I walk to the other side of the table and pull the chair out for her. She graciously accepts and sits down, then waits for me to take my seat on the opposite side. Once comfortable, Angelique tugs at a red velvet rope attached to the servant’s bell. A moment later, there’s another double tap on the door, and Clarise enters the room again, carrying a silver tray with two crystal glasses and a decanter of a brown liquid. A handful of cinnamon sticks are floating in it. The maid sets the tray down on a cart and wheels it next to the table, before silently departing again.
“I believe you were promised some of my apple pie, no?” Angelique is beaming, no doubt at the boyish delight I must have scrawled all across my face. Although I learned the science of moonshining from my grandfather back home, I’ve never quite perfected the art of flavoring it to taste like real apple pie. My mother had become the queen of it, back home in Eubank. Angelique is very serious competition for her crown.
The mamba reaches over and picks up the decanter while I place a glass in front of each of us, being careful to avoid knocking over the crystal ball that acts as a center-piece on the table. For a few minutes, the two of us don’t say a word. We simply lean back in our chairs and enjoy the confectionary liquor with great delight. We down the first glass, and then quickly move on to the second and third. My throat is burning, while my tastebuds dance a merry jig in my mouth. But before we risk becoming too inebriated, Angelique’s face grows stern. She places the near empty decanter back on the tray and waits for me to finish the last of my glass before she removes it from my reach.
I look at her. Her soft round face has suddenly become hard. Her eyes narrow, and there’s a slight wrinkle in her brow I’ve never seen before. Someone who doesn’t know her like I do might think she’s furious. I know better. The look she’s giving me now has little to do with anger and everything to do with worry.
“Joe, we have a problem,” she says without preamble. She reaches over and pulls the servant’s bell again. “And it’s putting us all in danger.”
Well, she certainly has my attention now. If I was feeling any ill effect from the alcohol, it’s completely evaporated from my system now.
I’m just about to ask her to explain, when the doors behind me open without the customary knock this time. I turn around, expecting to see Clarise again, but my jaw drops when my old pal Morris Grant struts into the parlor while buttoning up the most horrendously brilliant floral print shirt I’ve ever had the misfortune to be blinded by. It’s bright red with yellow flowers all over it.
First thing that goes through my head when I see Morris is: that little son of a gun is the one who was playing pattycakes with the maid when I first arrived. The second thought that then begins to supersede everything else is…
“Morris? What the heck are you doing here?”
I stand up from the table, glancing from Angelique to my old war buddy. To my knowledge, Morris has never been on St. Noel. There’s no way he should know Angelique Lagrange, much less know her well enough to be bebopping the hired help.
The mamba is now standing as well. She gestures over toward Morris. “Joe, may I present to you ‘the problem’ I was just mentioning.”
I look over at my friend, who’s giving me an awkward, sheepish smile. “Told you we’d talk soon, JoeJoe,” he
says, moving over to the table and taking a third seat. Angelique and I take our original places at the table, but I keep looking between them both, waiting for an explanation. I don’t have to wait long.
“Joe, dear, I’m about to tell you somet’ing not even Jacques knows about me,” Angelique begins. “I work for Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage.”
“You’re a French spy?” My voice is louder than anyone in the room would prefer, but the news is a shock. The idea that Angelique Lagrange—voodoo priestess and lifelong resident of St. Noel, is a spy for the SDECE is beyond my wildest imaginings.
“And I work for the CIA,” Morris adds. “After my service in Naval Intelligence, it was the next logical step for me after the war. Told everyone I was going home to work for my dad, but I took a wrong turn to Langley instead.”
I lean back in my chair and let out a deep breath. Morris with the CIA makes a certain kind of sense. I know that back in the Navy, he spent some time with the boys from OSS—the precursor to our current spook agency. He made a lot of contacts in the intelligence community while stationed in the Philippines.
I look over at Angelique and shake my head. I’m just having a really hard time wrapping my head around that one.
“Joe, I’m sorry,” she says, offering me an understanding nod. “We don’t ’ave time to explain it all to you, at da moment. Like I said, d’ere’s trouble a’brewin’ on da island, and we need your help.”
Killypso Island Page 5
