"Did Wilson know any of this?"
"Angus Wilson? I don't have any idea, but I doubt it. For all his grins and greetings, Jackson simply loathes you press people, so no one ever mentions them around him unless its absolutely necessary. He certainly wouldn't have told Wilson. Look, the whole thing—the whole company—is in a mess. Has been since Hanley took office and started legislating higher wages and raising luxury room taxes at the same time. Jackson is crazy with the pressure from the banks, and he's hard enough on me in the best of times...so when Ma...Joey offered me a chance to make some money on my own so I wouldn't have to keep working here, for Jackson, it sounded like a good idea."
Lucy paused. "I guess I can understand that, Jefferson. But that doesn't change the fact that you are an accessory to murder."
"Bloody hell I am, Lucy Ripken! I may have gotten into a mess with helping Ruskin set up this idiotic smuggling thing, but I don't know a thing thing about murder. Angus Wilson fell, damnit!"
"Fell? I thought he had a heart attack."
"He did. And then he fell into the hot tub."
"But he was sitting in the tub when Allie Margolis found him. I saw him too. How did he..."
"Why don't you ask Allie Margolis?"
"I would have if you hadn't sent her home." He didn't respond. "Look, Jefferson—I'm sorry this is the way it is for you. I'll do my best to keep your part in this foolish scam a secret. But you have to level with me. You can't tell me you didn't know what Joey was up to yesterday. Just what was your part in the deal, anyway, Jeff?"
He pushed the chair back and stood up. "I don't see why you need to know that, Lucy. It has nothing to do with Angus Wilson, or you. And no, I didn't ask Joey what he was doing yesterday, and he didn't tell me. Now he's dead, and so is the deal—thanks to you. So just leave me out of it!" He snapped, and stalked away.
Now what? Now where was that Harry Ipswich when she needed him? She went to the bar phone and called his room. No answer. She called the front desk and checked for messages. Nothing. She pulled a card out of her wallet and called her friend Jonah the cabby. He agreed to pick her up in half an hour. She went back to her room, grabed a camera, tried Harry again, tried Mickey, got no answer, then headed for the lobby. Whatever happened, she was on her own. She snagged a USA Today off a table, put her shades on, and sat in the lobby lounge for a surveillance. Five minutes later the phone rang at the reception counter. Lucy looked up. The clerk answered, then looked over at her and said, "Excuse me Ma'am...are you Lucy Ripken? There's a call for you from the gatehouse. You can take it over there." She nodded at a courtesy phone. Lucy walked over and picked it up.
"Yes?"
"Yah Lucy it's Jonah here. Like I said before the man won't let me in so..." Maria Verde dashed through the lobby in a purple dress and big sunglasses, jewels jangling. Lucy followed with her eyes as Maria hurriedly strolled out from under the porte cochere and jumped into a yellow jeep convertible in the parking lot. Lucy couldn't believe her luck. If that's what it was.
"That's OK Jonah, I'll be there in a moment. There's a red-haired lady coming through in a jeep. See which way she goes. We got to follow, OK?"
"No problem." Lucy hung up, lingering till Maria Verde had backed out and started down the driveway. Then she ran for it. Jonah was waiting in his cab.
"She went thataway," he said with a grin, pointing east away from Ocho Negros.
"Let's roll, mon," said Lucy, jumping in. "Don't lose her, but don't let her know we're following, OK Jonah?"
"You are talkin' to a professional driver, darlin'," he said, grinning into the mirror as they lit out, headed east towards Port Antonio.
Five minutes later they left the hotel zone. As they came round a turn out of a thicket and into the sun, Lucy caught sight of the yellow jeep across a small bay. "There she is!" she cried.
"You want to catch up now mon?" said Jonah.
"No, this is fine. Long as we keep her in sight. But where does this road go?"
"Along the coast all the way to de East End, by way of Port Antonio."
"What's between here and there?"
"Just what you see: beach on the left, cane fields then hills on the right. Up high in the hills be cockpit country."
"Cockpit country?"
"Yah mon. The Maroons be their own country up there. People say it Cockpit Country. Lotta ganja grow up there in the secret valleys and such. Maroons, rastas, all tribal shit goin' down, you see?"
"I guess. But what are Maroons?"
"They a tribe come from runaway slaves long ago. Keep to theirself up there."
"Why they called Maroons?"
"Don't know mon. Always been they name."
They came onto a straightaway along a stretch of narrow roadside beach. Local people walked horses, donkeys, cows along the edge of the road. People paused to watch Jonah's flashy cab go past. "No hotels around here, eh?"
"No chance. Dexter not allow any development here. Too far from the airport anyway."
"Good point."
"Hey look Lucy, she be turnin'. Headin' for the hills." Two hundred yards ahead, Maria cranked a right. A half-a-minute later Jonah slowed at the intersection, and turned after her. They could see a plume of dust rising from her tires up ahead, where the road began its climb out of the level coastal fields, into the jungle-clad hills.
Jonah kept it slow, dodging potholes as they trailed the yellow jeep along the dirt and gravel road into the foothills of the Blue Mountains. The road soon steepened, and grew narrower and darker as they entered the jungle. "What's up here?" Lucy said, whispering in the eerie rain forest light. Aside from the sound of Jonah's cab, and the faint whine of Maria Verde's four wheel drive jeep grinding uphill in the distance, only the cries of parrots and other jungle birds broke the silence.
"Not much," Jonah said. "Little village now and then. Mostly farmers back in here. Won't see them from the road though. Not with the herb growing." They came onto a flat, sunlit stretch of road, and passed a dozen or so shabby cinderblock houses with tin roofs and dark open doorways framed in banana branches. TV antennas, a neon beer sign in a window, and a truck lacking front wheels located the hamlet more or less in the 21st century. A scrawny mongrel ran out of a pink house and barked at them. Two small children peeked from an empty window. The road turned shadowy again as they plunged back into the jungle. They went on, drawn by the sound of Maria Verde's jeep.
And then the sound stopped. Jonah eased to a halt and turned off the engine. They quietly opened the doors and climbed out. Jungle rose up on one side, dropped down on the other. "Let's go up a little further," Lucy said softly. "Around that corner." They got in the car and edged around the bend. Jonah jerked to a stop. A hundred yards ahead, just before the next turn, the yellow jeep was parked at the side of the road. Maria Verde was nowhere in sight.
"What you want to do, Lucy?" Jonah whispered. "She's gone into the..."
"I want to follow her. Maybe you should go back to the village and wait for..."
"No way, Lucy. You can't go into the bush up here alone. I put the cab in there"—he pointed at a thicket—"And I will accompany you on your hike."
"Thanks, Jonah, but..."
"No buts, Lucy. Woman alone in this jungle is not safe woman, understand me now?"
"What about her?" Lucy nodded towards the jeep as they jumped back in the cab and Jonah eased it off the road and into the trees.
"Don't know about her, Lucy. She must know what she doin' up here, don't you think? She know exactly where she goin', eh?"
"Looks that way, Jonah." They ran down the road to the jeep, had a look around, and found the path leading into the jungle. Lucy took a snapshot of the jeep, complete with license plate, and then they headed up the trail.
Jonah led the way. They walked in silence, halting frequently to listen ahead. They heard nothing but birds and flowing water as they crept softly through the green vale. The light brightened, indicating a clearing ahead. A few seconds later Jonah threw an arm up
to halt her, and silently pulled her off the trail into the ferns. "Up there," he whispered. "The lady, and two rastas. Be careful now." They crept up a few yards, and Lucy had a look.
Maria stood at the edge of a clearing, talking with two shirtless, dreadlocked rastamen, both of whom carried machetes. They were too far off to hear, but the subject under discussion was clear since Maria had her bag open, and handed them American money. In spite of the money, or maybe because of the amount, the rastas did not look happy as they counted it. The clearing contained rows of ten to fifteen foot tall ganja plants sparkling in the light, the unique leaf configuration unmistakable. A blind man would have recognized them as easily as Lucy did, however: after all, the odor of ripe cannabis was so powerful even thirty yards away she could feel a high coming on. At least a hundred plants occupied the clearing, and every single one stood tall, bushy, vigorously healthy. An herbal wonderland.
The sun threw light on the green-golden pot plants. Lucy seized the perfect photo opportunity. After the money changed hands, Maria wandered among the plants for a moment, admiring them. Then she turned her attention back to the rastamen. With scarcely controlled lust she gazed upon their knotty, muscular physiques, shirtless, gleaming like ebony in the sun.
Lucy shot a few pics, then she and Jonah hightailed it out of there and beat it back to the car. Hidden in the bushes in the cab, they peered through the branches, waiting. Soon Maria emerged, alone, smoking a huge spliff. She threw it down, still burning, climbed in the jeep, turned it around, and headed right at them. They dropped onto their respective seats as she passed, and so couldn't tell if she saw them or not. Either way, she didn't stop. Jonah gave it a minute, then pulled out of the bush, whipped around, and headed down the mountain.
Two minutes later they arrived back at the edge of the little village. Jonah stopped. Ahead they saw the yellow jeep parked behind the dead truck in front of the building with the neon beer sign in the window. A vintage MG convertible was parked beyond the truck. Lucy knew that car, for she had seen it in the parking lot at the Grand Strand Hotel, and elsewhere: the pride and joy of Jefferson Hababi. "What now, Lucy?"
"I don't know, but I'd sure like to know what they're talkin' about in there. Damn."
"Hey, that lady don't know me, I go listen, no problem. It's just a little bar, I just a local man. But who she meetin'? Who drive that fancy set of wheels?"
"Jefferson Hababi. His Daddy runs the hotel. He's just a kid. You been here before?"
"One or two time, darlin'. I get around, see." He grinned, and opened the door.
"Wait!" Lucy said. She pulled her tape recorder out of her bag, pushed the red record button, and handed it to him. "It's running. You don't have to touch a thing. There's probably twenty minutes of tape on this side. I have no idea if it'll pick anything up, sitting in your pocket, but let's give it a try."
He put it in his shirt pocket. "No problem, Lucy. I just check it out long enough to have a Striper, then come back. They come out first you just duck OK?"
Lucy sat for five minutes in the back seat of the taxicab, sweating in the stifling heat, watching the door of the bar. A woman stepped out of a house across the road, stared at Lucy while she shook out a rug, then went back in. Two chickens scratched their way along the roadside. Lucy decided to get some fresh air, try to calm herself down. She opened the car door and was abruptly grabbed by two men, so quickly she had no chance to struggle. One covered her mouth and eyes, the other grabbed her arms. They were strong and firm, but gentle enough that she knew they meant not to hurt her. At least not for the moment.
They quickly marched her a few yards and eased her into the back seat of a car, then tied her hands loosely in her lap. The doors closed, the motor started, and the man right next to her said, "I am going to take my hand off your eyes and then put a blindfold on you. I want you to close your eyes until I have the blindfold in place. I won't hurt you. I will use both of my hands so please do not cry out." Lucy did as she was told. As scared as she was, there was something calm and reassuring about the way these—kidnappers?— handled her. She felt threatened, of course, but they were taking care to scare her as little as possible, and to hurt her not at all. Once the blindfold was in place, the man said, "OK, sister, you can..."
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Where are you taking me?" Lucy cried out, but not loudly.
"You will see in a few moments, Miss Ripken," the man at her side said mildly. "Just remain calm please. My name is Jacob. Lucien is driving. We are taking you to see a friend, and it is important that you do not know the way."
After ten minutes of bumping and winding uphill, they came to a halt. Lucy's hands were untied and her eyes uncovered.
She was in the backseat of a sixties Chevy. A bearded rasta with sunbleached waist-long dreads sat on her left; another, with shorter, darker dreads, sat behind the wheel. They had parked at the side of a potholed dirt road, in a setting of pastoral poverty: a couple of painted cinderblock houses, scattered dead cars and trucks, dogs, chickens, children running about. Mango, papaya, and banana trees grew everywhere. A woman in a bright yellow dress tended a fire over which a big black pot had been suspended between three sticks. Encircling everything, the jungle. The soft-spoken Jacob said, "I'm very sorry about the manner in which we accomplish this, Lucy Ripken, but we have to surprise you or you never come."
She shrugged, rubbing her wrists, shaking blood into her hands. "I guess. So why am I here?"
He opened the door. "Bernard wants to talk to you."
"Bernard?" she said, following him out of the car.
"Yah mon. He de elder," said Jacob. "Right this way."
She followed him around the back of a house. They passed a well-tended vegetable garden in a clearing, went through a thicket, and then Jacob opened a gate and they stepped onto a path that led into the bush. Two minutes later, they came upon another clearing, occupied by a forest of pot plants, with a wooden shack on one side. They approached the shack. "Hallo Bernard," Jacob called out.
A wooden door swung open. An older rastaman stuck his head out in a cloud of pungent ganja smoke. With his grey beard and dreads, he looked like an Afro-Jamaican version of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, whom Lucy had followed briefly once upon a time. He grinned at Lucy. "Lucy Ripken. I and I so glad you could make it, sister," he said. He took a hit on a huge spliff he was holding, and offered it to her.
"Like I had a choice," she answered, declining the joint with a shake of her head. Jacob took the spliff from Bernard, and puffed on it.
"Have some herb sister," he said. "Bernard wants to talk to you. Good to get some herb in your head. Besides, so much smoke in he shack you get high anyway." He grinned. Shrugging, she took the spliff from Jacob, had a puff, and coughed.
Bernard laughed. "Come in, come in, Lucy," he said. "Sound like you out of practice."
"It's been a while," she gasped, coughing as she handed him the giant joint and stepped into the darkness. Sunlight filtered through cracks. A table, a couple chairs, a bed, a few implements, Haile Selassie on the wall in full dress uniform, Jah, Ras, the Lion of Judah. The pot hit her as her eyes adjusted to the smoky dim light. The first thing the high brought was an intensified awareness of the man living here. Bernard's psychic as well as physical scent, his essence, infused into the walls and floors and air. He was ganja-light, peaceful, radiant, and it all came through him from that image on the wall. She briefly studied the little emperor, long ago typecast by those in the western know as a corrupt despot, not the messiah the rastafarians considered him to be.
"So Lucy, you must be wanting to know why you are here," said Bernard. "Why don't you sit down. I and I tell." He handed her the spliff and waved at a wooden chair. She took a puff and sat. The floor was dirt, worn hard as tile from years of living.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact," she said, handing back the spliff. She felt very, very high. This was a good sign. The last few times she'd smoked dope her most compelling urge had been to run and hide
, review and hate her entire life, take a valium and pray for sleep. But now she felt...luminous...in the dark little wood hut. Bernard's eyes glowed. He took another hit, then put out the spliff in a bowl on the table between them.
"You want some tea or water?"
"Water. Water sounds wonderful," she said. "Cool, clear water." He poured her a glass from an earthen pitcher, and she drank. "Now then, Bernard. What's with the hijinks on the highway? There I was, peacefully minding my own business, spying on some people from the back seat of a taxi cab, when suddenly I find myself waylaid, bound and gagged, dragged like a hostage into the bush."
"Jacob did not hurt you I hope?" Bernard said.
"Well, no, but..."
"The people you were spying on—the woman Maria Verde, and the young hotelman Hababi—you know what they are doing?"
"Well, yes, sort of, but..."
"Let me tell you a story, Lucy," he said. "But first, I and I want to show you something." He stood up, walked through a doorway into the other room of the shack, and reappeared a moment later. He held up a foil-wrapped brick. Ganja. From the sea, where she'd thrown it.
"Jesus," she gasped. "Where did you...how did you..."
"In a moment." He put the brick on the table between them and sat down. "Now for my story. Here in these northern hills we have been smoking the herb for many years, like many brothers and sisters all over Jamaica, you see? Now down in the south near the city, for twenty years the brothers have been making a lot of money smuggling, selling ganja to the Americans, taking much of the herb off the island and turning it into a commodity. It is of very great value up there, I understand. But the Americans do not understand how it is to be used. They do not understand the spiritual values, see, because they do not understand how the herb brings I and I closer to Jah." He smiled at the portrait on the wall. "I know, a little dead African emperor man...but it is the idea that matters. There is no idea in the head of the boy in Brooklyn who sells the ganja on the street, except the idea of money. And all that drug money has been very bad for Jamaica. We are poor, but in these hills we are rich in the things that count to us. We do not eat flesh. We can grow what we need to eat, the weather treats us well, and we have no need for televisions, and fancy cars, and all the other American things. But tell that to the boys down in Kingston town, and they laugh in your face and call you country man, spirit man, like it some kind of insult. That no insult. I and I been a country man and a spirit man all my life."
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 16
