"And so up here on the north coast we see the hotels coming in, and we think the drug dealers and the posses come behind them. Sure enough they do. Already one smuggler ring happening, some people way close to Dexter Hanley. Then these boys in the tourist business try start up another one. We want to stop them, see? We want to keep our herb up here where it belong. We don't want the guns, and the televisions, and the fast cars running over our goats and our dogs like they do down in Kingston town."
"So we watching very careful like, and see what you people at the hotel be doing, think maybe you up to try smuggling some yourself. But then when you take the ganja out and throw it in the sea, we realize that not the case."
"How did you know what I was doing?"
"Our man at the Grand Strand. Your friend Desmond."
"Desmond is...is one of you?"
"Sacrificed his dreads for Jah. A painful moment for him...but then, all kinds of violent brothers be wearing dreads these days, so you never know who be what anymore. Besides, Desmond love the wind, eh, just like you. The hotel job is good for him. But you see, we try to get the gangs disputing with each other, so waste they energy with that, so my boy Jossie put you on to the other gang—he part of them but he really with us up here—so you learn from them how Joey Ruskin planning to send the pot back, and..."
"Wait...wait a minute. So Jossie the flute player works for you, but he's in the rival gang?"
"Not work, sister. He with us." He grinned. "We not a gang, but we country man pretty smart, you see?"
"I'm beginning to. So Jossie led me to one gang who tried to use me to break up the other gang and get their dope."
"Those two bad boys who hit on you and your DEA friend the other night—they work for Adrian Kensington. He work for Racky Barnes. Racky Barnes work for...I don't know. That's the other gang."
"How did you know about those guys that attacked us...and how did you know Harold was DEA?"
He just grinned. "Eyes of Jah, sister, eyes of Jah."
"So why bring me up here and tell me all this, Bernard?"
"Because Desmond ask me to. After he see you dump the ganja and know you not looking for to make money off the herb, he says to me that you need to be informed about these matters."
"I suppose it was Desmond who brought you this," she said, putting a hand on the brick.
"He dive for it soon as the Coast Guard go that day. Took him five minutes to find it."
"And now you can sell it and make your own money."
"No, we don't sell. We trade with our neighbors, we smoke, I and I keep to ourself. No money dealing."
"That's very nice...but what do you want from me, Bernard?"
"Tell you beware. You have done your job for us, like it or no, so we responsible for you. Some of the men that Joey Ruskin worked with here are very angry about their missing ganja. They have no idea we have taken it back. They think maybe you fake them out. Then the other boys angry at your friend for kicking they butt. You got everybody angry. You best get back to USA I and I believing."
"I'm going tomorrow."
"That is good. So now you know, and you can go. Be careful until you go, please. Jacob will take you back to the village." Without another word he showed her out the door of his hut.
During the ten minute, stoned, blindfolded car ride back down the mountain, Lucy bounced around in her head the players, and came up with some loose ends: the big boys. Jackson Hababi and Rackstraw Barnes. Was Hababi Junior protecting Hababi Senior? Not likely, with all that bad blood between them. On the other side, could the trail lead from Adrian Kensington to Rackstraw Barnes and from there right into the office of the PM? Jesus ,what had she stumbled onto? She longed for Harold, for a good sail, for a way down off the pot so as to de-intensify the anxiety that possessed her.
They removed her blindfold. The cab, the jeep, and the MG had left the village. She and Jacob went into the bar. She had a quick look around. Nothing to see. She bought a Red Stripe for the road. Jacob drove her back down the mountain, all the way to the hotel, and dropped her at the guardhouse by the gate. The cruise down the mountain, the beer, and the passage of time had brought her back to a near normal state of mind. She headed down the Grand Strand driveway ready for a post-ganja feeding frenzy, as it was lunch hour on La Terrazzo Grande.
She stopped for messages at the front desk. There was one, to call Harry in his room, urgent, immediately. She hurried to the house phone and rang him. "Lucy is that you?" he barked, halfway into the first ring. "God I was so worried about you...I..."
"Yeah, me, I'm fine," she said. "Just going to lunch."
"Wait...I mean, I'll come with you. But come over here first, OK? I've got something to show you."
"Be there in five minutes."
En route, glancing over the terrace as she passed by, she saw Mike Nack and Jefferson Hababi having lunch together.
Harold opened the door before she had a chance to knock, and enveloped her in a hug which she instantly, instinctively, reciprocated. She held him, then found his lips with hers. The kiss quickly turned passionate. When at last they broke apart and looked at each other, they knew the fight had passed: the relationship was back on course. "God damn, Luce," he said, "Where have you been? You wouldn't believe what..."
"I've been up in Cockpit Country, mon, breaking the law with the Rastamen."
"Cockpit country? You went up there? What the...hey, listen, this thing is really getting out of hand. I was walking down the beach this morning...down towards the mansion, you know, and guess what I found wadded in the high tide sand?"
"What?"
"This." He held up an empty Grand Strand pillowcase. "What you sank the dope in."
She laughed. "Imagine that. Sorry, Harry, but I'm way ahead of you."
"Whaddaya mean?"
She gave him the lowdown on her trip, holding nothing back. Afterwards, he said, "Jesus, what a tangled tale. Well, I guess my revelation that Rackstraw Barnes owns the mansion doesn't mean much, does it?"
"The mansion down the bay? Barnes? Really?"
"Yeah. And I hear tell when Hababi started planning this hotel, Barnes threatened to bring him down. He wasn't too happy about tourists treading on his private sand."
"But where did he get the money to buy a pad like that?"
"Let's talk about it over lunch," Harry said. "I seem to recall, from my dope smoking days, that one gets a little hungry. I'll bet you're starved."
"You might say so, Harry," she said. "But you know what?" she added, suddenly, acutely, hungry for something else. "I think lunch can wait another half an hour. I've got this urge—this irresistible, undeniable urge—to..." she smiled, took him by the collar of his shirt, and led him back across the room..."take your clothes off, Mr. DEA Man."
When they finished an hour later the lunch hour had ended, so instead they slipped into bathing suits and out onto the beach with room service burgers and Red Stripes. They sat beneath an umbrella, ate, and watched the sea. "You know," said Lucy. "I could teach you to windsurf today. It's perfect out there." A light chop stirred the water outside Naked Island, where they could just make out an array of nudists.
"Forget it, Luce," Harry said. "Save it for another life. Let's just hang here, and figure out what the hell we're gonna do tonight."
"Tonight? What's so special about tonight?"
"We are out of here tomorrow, kid. Anyone gonna make a move tonight's the night."
She contemplated the possibility. "Yeah, I guess so. So what do we do?"
"How about I buy you dinner at the Pasta Piazza or whatever the hell they call it?"
"You're so generous."
"To a fault."
"Meanwhile, I do want to take a little sail. Then I’ll show you some cool stuff I shot today. You're gonna die when you see Maria, in her purple dress, frolicking among the marijuana trees."
"I can hardly wait," he said. She got up, killed her beer, and wandered down the beach past the prone bodies of Susie Adams and Louise
Rousseau and Dave Mullins, lying in a row on the sand, unconscious as they barbecued in the hot tropical sun.
"Hey Desmond," she said. He was washing down a kayak. "How ya doin'?"
"OK, Lucy. How you?" He gave her a look.
"Not too bad, mi amigo."
"That’s good," he said. " Took a little road trip, eh? Hey, I have something for you."
"What's that?"
"Just this." He handed her tape machine over with a smile. "I don't know what on it but your friend the cab driver say he thought you may be wantin' to hear it."
"Jeesh," she said. "You guys are amazing."
"Praise Jah," he whispered. "Now," he went on, his voice returning to normal. "You want to take one last sail, Luce? I think it going to pick up out there."
She looked out to sea. "Really? Yeah, why not? Can I stash this here?"
"I put it in my bag, give it to you after we sail." He stuck the tape recorder in his knapsack, and threw it in behind the counter in the hut. "Nobody go in there but me and Leroy, and Leroy sure I rip his lungs out I catch him in my stuff."
"And you would, of course."
He grinned. "I and I a peaceful man, Lucy. But long as Leroy fear my fist, think I bad boy, he not cause no trouble."
The rest of Lucy's last day at the Grand Strand proceeded uneventfully; or rather, it was full of events, but they were of the kind one would expect on a Caribbean vacation. She sailed for an hour with Desmond, and no mention was made of anything beyond the wind. Then, after another beer, she and Harold played three sets of tennis against Mickey Wolf and the club pro. They got thrashed. After that they drank another beer with Mickey, during which time Harold's secret identity was not mentioned. Then they retired to Lucy's room to make love again, finishing the frolic in time for a sunset swim. This swim was followed by separation for showers, grooming, and dressing for dinner. Lucy felt simultaneously burned out and blissed out. She had gotten just enough sun; she had done some good windsurfing; she had her story. And she was, she thought, provisionally, in love. The "case" be damned! Let Harold handle it. It was his job, after all.
Before the tennis session they had listened to the tape which Jonah had made in the little bar up in the hills. The sound was muffled and staticky, but they could just decipher, among the patois jive of the locals and the rumbling wash of Jonah's beer arriving in an empty belly, the voices of Jefferson Hababi and Maria Verde in a controlled argument. The gist of it: Maria threatened him. Jefferson swore he didn't give her away, said he blamed Ruskin. Maria asked what that bitch wanted. Jeff said he didn't know, probably a cut of the dope money. Maria asked where was the dope, Jeff said he didn't know, she hadn't told him. Maria said he didn't know much did he. He said he guessed not, but. She said don't give me any of your excuses you half-baked rich punk, just get me what you said you would, by tonight.
When Lucy and Harold discovered the three sauce options available at the Pasta Piazza—they decided the chef had apparently smoked several spliffs before embarking on his Caribbean version of California cuisine, for how else could one explain fettucine Alfredo with ackee and papaya, or fusilli with clam/mango olive oil, or spinach spaghetti with lobster and guineps in garlic-infused white wine?—they decided to go Chinese instead, and headed out to the Grill under the pavilion on the pier. As darkness fell they held hands and strolled the promenade, caressed by the tropical air, basking in the afterglow of a day in love in the sun. For some reason—the pot, the sun, the beer—the whole murder and marijuana scenario had drifted out of focus in her mind. She had figured out a lot of stuff, but she had nowhere to go with it. Harold could use the information, but what good would it do her?
"That's why I gave up dope, Lucy," Harold said when she told him of her ambivalence. They were seated out on the pier, eating Chinese food by moonlight and candlelight. "You lose moral focus. Get lost in a relativistic swamp, know what I mean?"
"Not really, Harry," she said. "I mean, I smoked the dope this morning, for God's sake. Three hits on a spliff. It's been almost twelve hours. I'm way past the..."
"THC stays in your bloodstream for like days, Lucy."
"So what, you're telling me that THC in my bloodstream has corrupted my morals? This is getting rather obtuse, Harold. If not downright irritating. What the hell do you expect me to do?"
He laughed. "Sorry. You're probably better off uninvolved, anyway, Luce. This thing could get dangerous."
"Oh, an assault with a motorboat and a kidnapping aren't dangerous enough for you? Uninvolved? You're the cop, but I've done all the work this week. Don't patronize me, Harry."
"Hey, back off, doll. I know you've been on the case. And you've been incredible. But they know we're leaving, and there's a lot of money at stake here. They must figure we've got their dope stashed somewhere."
"Well, maybe, but I suspect this Bernard may have put out the word that the dope is back in his hands. And anyway, Mike Nack and Jefferson Hababi are not exactly heavyweights, Harry."
"No, but whoever possibly has his knife at Mike Nack's throat might be. Like those rude boys the other night. And don't underestimate Jeff Hababi. He talked too much and he knows it. He's a scared kid with a cruel father, and sometimes there's nothing...no one...more dangerous."
"But look at this, Harry," she said, gesturing expansively at the moonlit sea stretching away before them. "Does this look dangerous to you?"
He took hold of both her hands. "You're right. It's too gorgeous a night to worry. Let's go back to my room, eh? I bet you could use another massage." He stood.
"Sounds...inspiring."
Dropping her hands, he said, "Listen, I gotta do one thing. I'll meet you back at my room in, say, fifteen minutes."
"What are you up to, Harry?"
He paused. "Checking on our boy Mike Nack."
"Nack? That weasel isn't going to do anything, Harry. Take my word for it. The one to watch out for around here is Maria Verde."
"I know. Prudence is on her case. But I just want to make sure little Mikey is behaving himself."
Harry took off. Lucy declined another glass of wine, which flowed endlessly, freely, in the Chinese restaurant as it did everywhere else at the hotel. She sat for a moment, watching the light on the water, composing the opening paragraph of her article, wondering what would happen between her and Harry back in New York. Putting that out of mind for the beckoning delights of a last night on the Caribbean, enveloped in the cocoon of waterfront hotel luxury, she rose and strolled off the restaurant pier and down the beach towards the guest room wing. A flashily dressed five piece band held forth on stage on the terrace, thumping out that primitive, relentless, and utterly engaging reggae beat. The dance floor was crowded with sunburned, exhausted, drunk, and happy revelers, swaying now in time to a reggae version of My Way.
Lucy slowed to watch the scene for a moment. Among the crowd she spotted Mickey in a red dress dancing with her tennis pro, and Dave Mullins with Louise Rousseau, an odd but unexpectedly well-matched pair bopping to the beat. Sandy Rollins loitered alone at the foot of the stage, eyes on the drummer. A gleefully tipsy Ames Cavendish danced a graceful Caribbean waltz with Henrietta Storey. In the warm night breeze, with music throbbing and alcohol flowing, the vacationeers and their chroniclers from the travel press partied on as they had all week. A storm had crashed through, a woman had gone mad, a smuggling operation had been exposed and blown, two people had died, and it all added up to a mere ripple of distraction in an unstoppable wave of pleasure-seeking. Lucy sighed, ever the windedrunk existentialist; she felt herself separate and alone, and she contemplated that universe of aloneness as she headed down the beach.
Strolling along with her feet in the sand washed by warm salty water, she looked ahead to life back in New York, and decided that she and Harold would work it out, one way or another. So he was a cop! Until this morning, she hadn't smoked a joint in five years. She hadn't done a line of coke in nearly as long. She didn't really hold with busting people for drugs, but it didn't
have to get between them. Drugs weren't part of her life, one way or another. Harold had his reasons for doing what he did, and she could respect them.
"You can stop right there," said a woman, speaking softly as she stepped out of the shadows in front of Lucy. Maria Verde, Lucy knew instantly. The faint light gleamed on the weapon she pointed towards Lucy. A gun.
"Maria," she said. "I wondered where you were this evening."
"Cut the chit chat, Ripken. You know what I want. Where is it?"
"Where is what?"
Verde stepped closer—close enough to jam the barrel of the pistol into Lucy's belly. "Hey, easy there, I just ate." Maria poked harder. "Ow!"
"You know what your problem is, Ripken? You're just too damned smart, aren't you? Think you got it all figured out, think you can just waltz in here and rip off the professionals. Well think otherwise, bitch." She poked her again, harder. "Where is the fucking ganja?"
"At the bottom of the deep blue sea, Maria," Lucy said.
Maria hesitated just an instant. "Bullshit. I know you dumped it, but your pal Ipswich picked it up."
"No, he picked up the empty sack. It washed up on the..."
"Shutup," she hissed. "Stop with your fucking jive. Where'd you...what'd you do, sell it to that fuck Kensington?"
"Kensington? Who's Kensington?" Maria hit her, sort of hard, on the side of the head with the gun. "Ow. Jesus, Maria, you're hurting me." The woman's malevolence was real, and beginning to frighten Lucy. The gun had a silencer, the music was loud, the rage in Maria's voice was loudest of all.
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 17
