The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  I boxed away the dark vessel and the dead killers, relishing the glorious swath of horizon-to-horizon stars, and refused dropping into contemplative mode. Soon enough I’d hit Miami and drop the sample off with the toxicologist. Slip into my own dark movements, off the radar. The Bahama leg of this gig was now over and done.

  My dearest friend from Delta days, Bo Dickerson, would say it rolls and tumbles. Life. Take it for what it is, even if it means along for the ride, a languid hand draped over the wheel, bearing life’s ocean rollers with aplomb. So I attempted a door slam on the blues, tried bolting the hatch closed against introspection. Tried adopting a Bo mindset and revel in the here and now. A good and fine place, cruising the Caribbean, black night, with wind and saltwater and isolation. And thoughts of two more dead bodies racked up, courtesy of Case Lee.

  A simple gig with a few minor wrinkles. Piece of cake, Case. No worries, other than someone now wanted me dead. Well, nothing new there.

  Chapter 5

  I dropped the tissue sample with the toxicologist in Miami and caught a Norfolk flight. Rented a car and disabled the vehicle’s GPS a mile from the rental car terminal—a lesson learned from my last engagement. Returned to my boat tied in Chesapeake. My home, the Ace of Spades.

  The Ace presented an image of what could be termed “well used.” I preferred a different perspective. She possessed a certain panache. A comforting home and a bit worn around the edges and steadfast. She got me from A to B, every time. A blue tarp stretched across the foredeck, shielding my throne from the elements. The throne—an old La-Z-Boy recliner patched with duct tape. Heirloom tomato plants lined a railing, accepting sun. The wheelhouse was small and cluttered and equipped with bullet-proof windows. As much as I appreciated the sleek fiberglass Caribbean cruiser, there was something about an old wooden boat. A feel, a sense, a soul.

  The Ace also held my armory. So I loaded the rental vehicle’s trunk with select weaponry. A change of plans, the Long Island flight canceled. An eight hour Hamptons drive waited. I would arrive well-armed—a luxury unavailable for air travelers. An overreaction, sure, maybe. But Nassau changed my immediate outlook on the here and now.

  The engagement’s mission hadn’t changed—provide my client a thorough investigation of two deaths. Two still-unrelated deaths. Bettencourt dead of natural causes as per the coroner—although the morgue assassination event pointed elsewhere. Someone wanted his tissue sample locked down. But the violence and killing and ugly undertow of Bettencourt’s death might be contained within the Bahamas. Or the Bahamas and NYC, where no doubt Elizabeth Bettencourt held a stable of high-priced lawyers locked and loaded. A messy combination of hurt feelings, anger, chosen lifestyle, and upcoming legal fights. A toxic combination that brought out the long knives. And an attempted whacking of me. So be it.

  But the chance Bettencourt’s demise stood boxed as an isolated event was thin gruel. This Global Resolutions job sought a relationship between Bettencourt and the Long Island death. So, yeah, decent odds these two expired rich dudes connected. Figure it out, report out, haul ass out. Get back to cruising the Intracoastal Waterway. The Ditch.

  The Ace of Spades and the Ditch afforded dual opportunities. A wandering lifestyle, sedate, solid. And it kept me a moving target. A big deal. I carried a million dollar bounty on my head. Courtesy of an unknown sponsor we’d mightily pissed off during our Delta days. A bounty that cost me my wife, Rae. A Damocles sword dangling over me and my family and my three former Delta blood brothers. Some of us handled the hanging reality better than others.

  But even with the attempted murder of yours truly, I took comfort knowing I worked a job without spies, global gamesmanship, or professional operators and hitters coming out of the freakin’ woodwork. Which drove my initial hesitancy at contacting Jules of the Clubhouse when I decided to take this job. It held no tingles of geopolitical intrigue, no scent of spooks. No CIA, no Russian FSB, no Chinese MSS, no MI6. Nope. A plain vanilla sleuthing gig. But with the ante upped, plans and actions changed. So I contacted Jules and asked for an immediate meeting. Her web stretched across the globe, and little escaped her watchful eye. Clubhouse information had saved my butt more than once.

  Jules replied to my message—encrypted, deep web—with her usual tight manner. Drop by. Now. After Nassau, it was important venturing forth with someone on my side. Someone minding the informational store. Just in case. She rarely disappointed.

  So a quick trip to Spookville lay in store. A world and collective mindset filled with gamed scenarios, lies, and shadow. The incongruence of a Clubhouse visit for a supposed gumshoe gig wasn’t lost on me. Jules didn’t simply wade in clandestine waters, she lived in them. Deep down.

  Before the Clubhouse visit, I set up the next day’s Long Island agenda. Geoffrey Whitmore was seventy-three when he drowned in his Hamptons pool. The widow, Melinda Whitmore, was now parked at their estate. She also owned a NYC place—not far from Mrs. Bettencourt’s digs—and an AVI getaway. The American Virgin Islands. She hadn’t raised suspicious hackles at the Jack Tilly, Providence Insurance Company line. I worked through both a housekeeper and personal secretary to chat with her.

  “What may I do for you, Mr. Tilly?” Mrs. Whitmore asked.

  “Just a few simple questions, ma’am. I assure you there’s nothing wrong with the policy, everything is in good stead. We’re required to make a few enquiries. A few loose ends. It’s company protocol.”

  “Fine. I have a moment now. But only a moment.”

  A high-end accent, taught and affectated. Filled with style, class, and a humanizing lilt. I liked it.

  “Actually, I’ll be in your neck of the woods tomorrow.” Your neck of the woods. Simple, homey, nice. Non-threatening. “May I drop by? Nothing beats face-to-face. At least in the insurance business. It won’t take long, and my apologies for the inconvenience.”

  “A moment, Mr. Tilly.” She cradled the phone against her body, the call to her secretary muffled. “Sally, what’s my schedule tomorrow?”

  An indiscernible response from Sally. Then back to me.

  “Mr. Tilly? Between one and two in the afternoon. Let’s remove those loose ends.” It came with a soft touch of humor. A nice lady.

  I signed off with an innocuous “Thanks for your time, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” A routine visit required of the insurance business. It would salve any suspicions she might possess and prevent a call to her law firm or a quick internet search for Mr. Jack Tilly or the Providence Insurance Company. I’d arrive the next day, we’d chat, and I’d leave. Melinda Whitmore saw it as routine. No big deal.

  I parked and headed toward the Filipino dry cleaners below the Clubhouse. A rough part of Chesapeake and the usual scenario. Door handle bell rang, emotionless eyes stared, the Glock placed on the counter and covered with someone’s dropped-off dress shirt. Through a side door, up squeaky wooden stairs, and two knocks on a steel door. A metallic lock mechanism clanged. Remote controlled, it announced the Clubhouse was open for business.

  She squinted down the sawed-off shotgun’s twin barrels, elbows on the desk, her one eye bright and capturing.

  “He arises as the phoenix, new and improved and bristling with vigor. Empty your pockets and turn for me, dear.”

  I did. Her fingertips displayed a sealant sheen, preventing the spread of fingerprints. Her eyepatch band still lost among the short unruly crop of self-barbered hair. But an unexpected addition threw me. The fly-away ends of her coif were dyed. This was new. And unlike the popular colors of blue or pink or red often applied to spiked tips, she’d chosen white. Sheet white, bright, suspended above indeterminate-age gray. It lent a halo-like affect, or a medusa presentation—both applicable dependent upon her mood and moment.

  “He presents before me a reformed man, a staid businessperson,” she said, cheek pressed against the shotgun’s wooden stock. “A quick question, dear. And not as an opening salvo to breach closed doors, mind you.”

  I completed my pirouette. One hand
held a money clip of Benjamins. The Clubhouse was, above all, a place of business as the old abacus resting on her wooden desk indicated.

  “Shoot. Figuratively speaking.”

  She chuckled and asked, “How shall your new life stance mollify your wild side?”

  “No wild side left, Jules. New Guinea took it out of me.”

  She gestured with her shotgun toward two uncomfortable old wooden chairs. I sat. The shotgun returned to her desktop near the embedded KA-BAR knife. The knife was a permanent fixture. Desktop décor.

  “You returned a legend, Odysseus. Polished bright. The web exalted your accomplishments.”

  She didn’t mean the internet web. She referenced the Jules web, sticky filaments spread across the globe with collected information on the outcome of my last contract.

  “And I must add,” she continued, opening a drawer and producing a long thin cigar. “My admiration for your efforts knows no bounds. Quite the little jungle fandango.”

  “Ugly, pointless business.”

  A wry smile was her sole response as the sealed tip of the cigar twirled against the KA-BAR knife. The Cirque de Soleil poster still occupied one steel wall, the lone item considered true decoration. My statement, which I regretted, stood inappropriate in The Clubhouse. Depending on a person’s perspective, Jules often dealt with ugly, pointless business. Maybe it was the hair. It rattled me seeing her with any stylistic affectation. White tips. Bright white. Mercy.

  “I understand you and your friends suffered several injuries. And carry the ache of a lost opportunity.”

  She fired a kitchen match along the arm of her chair and leaned back, assessing her client. Cigar smoke wafted around her head. The lost opportunity referenced a brief chance to identify the bounty’s funding source. Jules cracked open the door for my spook-filled elaboration on the subject. I declined.

  “I’m avoiding that world from now on. Hence the staid businessperson.”

  “Hmm. When might I meet your compatriots? They represent exceedingly handy individuals by anyone’s estimation.”

  Catch and Bo, who’d accompanied me in New Guinea. A Clubhouse opportunity, new clients, fresh meat for the clandestine grinder. But Catch couldn’t stand spooks of any stripe. And Bo—well, Bo wasn’t a draw-inside-the-lines individual. By any stretch of the imagination.

  “Don’t think that’s happening, Jules. Like your hair.”

  She inspected the cigar’s smoldering end. “Apparently the change was quite disturbing for my downstairs tenants. One of the elderly Filipinos crossed herself upon viewing my new look. I wasn’t aware it would have an ecumenical affect.”

  “Still figuring if it lends style or statement.”

  “Both. A style reflecting connectivity with current cultural mores. The statement is, well, open to interpretation.”

  I smiled. Not at her claim, but at the whole package. Jules of the Clubhouse. “A simple and honest broker of information,” she often described herself. Buying and selling information, with an emphasis on the government clandestine variety. But she also kept a finger well-dipped in the industrial espionage pie. And for this reason, she might provide me value.

  “I’ve received a new contract offer.”

  “A gentle sidestep. Less vigorous than a tango. A waltz perhaps.”

  “What?”

  “You bypass an opportunity.” She puffed again, blew smoke toward the ceiling, and scratched beneath her chin. “An opportunity to edify this poor creature regarding the final events of your last engagement. A pity.” She used her non-cigar hand and felt the tips of her white spikes, ensuring, I supposed, they were still there. “Allow me a moment to recover from the hurt.”

  One eyebrow raised, she cast a tight smile. Her second attempt at pulling more information from the New Guinea job remained on the table. I held a monetary credit with the Clubhouse—more actionable information delivered from past jobs than consumed. It wouldn’t hurt padding my side of the ledger.

  “Okay. I’ll share. But only if it’s worth something to you, Jules. Don’t want your time wasted.”

  She scowled, my statement a broadside reference to payment for the download. The old wooden abacus was lifted, shaken, and the black balls re-aligned across the top railings. I did a brain dump and filled her with details. Jules listened and absorbed the highlights and lowlifes, the treachery and ugliness. Five black abacus balls slid down their respective rails during the discussion.

  “I shall use an expression beyond trite, but most applicable,” she said. “You are lucky to be alive.”

  “And now a sedate sleuthing career. Case Lee, private investigator. Stolen art, misplaced yachts, dog rescue.”

  “Which shall last for the shortest of periods. You are not of that ilk, Poirot.”

  “Am now.”

  “Then why are you here, dear? Other than to place me deeper in your economic debt.”

  She eased open the selling side of the store, the Clubhouse ledger’s debit side waiting entries.

  “Thought you might have information regarding the demise of two high net worth individuals.”

  “I sit with bated breath.” Her eye squinted with focus, the chair’s arm supported her elbow, chin nestled in an upright palm. Smoke drifted from the cigar in her other hand.

  “Joseph Wilkins Bettencourt. Of Fifth Avenue and the Bahamas. He died in the latter. The paperwork says natural causes. The two guys sent to whack me in Nassau would indicate otherwise.”

  “May I surmise you have ventured forth without first engaging my services?”

  “A cut-and-dried job, Jules. Two dead rich guys. And all I’m looking for is background. And possible connectivity.”

  “I can hardly hear you, dear. The shock of bypassing our protocol roars in my ears.”

  She stared at the Cirque du Soleil poster, an affectated expression of hurt troweled thick.

  “A simple contract. Hardly up to your standards,” I said.

  “Simple? When will you learn the one big item?”

  “Big item?”

  She wafted a hand, dismissive. “But here you are. Seeking succor and nourishment from this hurt creature. After venturing off without so much as a fare-thee-well.”

  “Attempted murder of yours truly adds a layer of intrigue. A small, thin layer.”

  “Perhaps it is time I head to pasture.”

  “Jules.”

  “A valued client and dear man no longer requires my services.”

  “Jules. Can we get back to Bettencourt?”

  “Care to share the events in Nassau?”

  “When I return from Long Island. Then I can provide big picture.”

  “Fair enough, I suppose.”

  “Bettencourt?”

  She adopted a business-like attitude, the hurt act’s point taken. “Old money. But old money does dabble in the wrong ponds with regularity. Go on.”

  “Geoffrey Whitmore. Long Island, New York City, American Virgin Islands. He died on Long Island.”

  “Industrialist. Shipping, oil, real estate. High net worth, indeed.”

  “Anything more definitive, Jules? Something actionable?”

  “You ask me to acquire backstory and connectivity between these two gentlemen?”

  She smiled and raised the abacus parallel with the desktop.

  “Yeah. That would be great.”

  Tilted vertical, my five-abacus-ball credit disappeared up the rails. Transaction sealed. I didn’t mind. Sprinkling the Global Resolutions report with her insight would help pave the way for future and perhaps more sedate private investigator contracts. All good.

  “Done and done. Do provide me a few days,” she said.

  “I’m heading to Long Island. I’ll check back after that visit.”

  “A solid timeline. I look forward to our next convocation. Now, are you healing well? From your last little foray?”

  “Aches and pains. The usual.”

  A hidden button was pushed and the metallic click of the door lock so
unded.

  “Perhaps this current engagement is a good thing, double-oh-seven. A pause before your next deep dive.”

  I stood and turned toward the door. “Deep dives are off the menu.”

  “For today. Meanwhile, tip your fedora to the downstairs ladies. And do endeavor, for once, to accept the big item.”

  “Okay, fill me in.”

  “A jaundiced eye cast toward your world. Regardless of the endeavor.”

  “Don’t know how that would help, Jules.”

  “Much greater than mere help. It’s life enabling. For nothing is ever as it seems, dear.”

  She puffed the cigar and tilted her head. We locked eyes, I sighed, and she smiled.

  “Now depart. Eyes in the back of your head, Mr. Lee. The big item requires it.”

  Chapter 6

  Six long road hours with the intent of finishing the Hamptons trip the next day. I hugged the coast until Wilmington, Delaware then joined crowded interstate traffic. Nothing relaxing about that leg of the trip. Past Philly, into New York City, and onto Long Island. I parked it at a hotel two hours from the Hamptons. A call from my Miami toxicologist arrived as I left the hotel room’s shower.

  “Hey, I’ve got your results,” he said. The carbonated snap of a beer can opening came over the line. “You do run with a strange crowd. No doubt about it.”

  “How strange?”

  “Well, first the good news, if you can call it that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your guy was poisoned. So there’s that working for you. If you’re looking for skullduggery.”

  “The guy died in his sleep. At least according to a witness.”

  “I believe it. Yes, indeed.”

  So Bettencourt was poisoned. Less than a surprise given the Nassau goon squad greeting.

  “Not following you,” I said.

  “A small injection of this stuff would put him away in seconds. No fuss, no muss.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Tetrodotoxin.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s derived from either the blue-ringed octopus or puffer fish.”