Tonton

by Billy Kring

  Dessaline thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Is he someone important?”

  “He was the captain of the Haitian freighter. He’s wanted for murder.”

  “As well he should be.” Rosalie returned and handed Dessaline a printout, then she left. He handed it to Andre. “I thought that might be what it was. I imported a number of handmade collectibles and primitive art during that period.” He pointed to several shelves holding crudely made, brightly colored figures, “Like these. The ones on the top shelf are over one hundred years old. Quite valuable.”

  Andre said, “Who do you sell such things to?”

  Marc Dessaline smiled. “Now you are prying into my business.”

  Hunter said, “No reason not to tell us.”

  He stood, still smiling, “I have a number of meetings today. You will have to leave now.”

  Andre stood. Hunter hesitated a long second before rising. Dessaline came around his desk, starting for the door, and as he did, Hunter’s gaze trailed to the corner of the room and she gave a start.

  A tall, light complexioned black man in a tan suit stood there, motionless as a statue, watching her. Hunter said, “Dang, you scared me.”

  He did not answer or acknowledge she said anything. Hunter looked at Dessaline and raised her eyebrows, “Was he in here the whole time?”

  “Yes. He is my assistant.”

  Hunter said to the man in the corner, “Next time make a little noise, save somebody from a heart attack.”

  Dessaline said, “He isn’t much for conversation.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  Dessaline said, “Ringo Bazin.”

  “Well, Ringo, you’ve got some skills, I’ll say that. I’ll bet you’re a good hunter.” She winked at him and followed Andre out the door and out of the building.

  Andre said, “What did you think? We did get a copy of the complete bill of lading, if nothing else.”

  “Yeah. There’s something about that guy, though.”

  “He’s a businessman, with no criminal record, and a supporter of the Haitian community. I checked him out. What’s bothering you?”

  “Dessalines’s holding something back. He’s not totally on the up and up.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Ringo Bazin is no assistant.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He’s carrying, had on a shoulder holster. Bazin works for Marc Dessaline, but it isn’t as a paper pusher.”

  Andre clicked the doors open on their sedan and got behind the wheel as Hunter slid into the passenger seat. He said, “We can do some deeper digging on them, and I still have a few friends at the Embassy in Haiti. It’s not exactly official, but…”

  Hunter grinned at him, “I’m liking you better every day, Andre.”

  ~*~

  Randall brought three green Dos Equis bottles to the table by the pool and shuffled one to each and said, “What’s your game plan tomorrow?”

  Hunter said, “I guess dig some more, talk to the FBI and ICE, see what Andre turns up.”

  John said, “We don’t have any jurisdiction, but if we can help you on something…”

  Hunter clicked her bottle to John’s and Randall’s, “I know, and thanks. Right now, it’s slow going. It usually is at first.”

  “Don’t we know it,” Randall said.

  Hunter noticed Randall was less talkative and asked, “You feeling all right?”

  He looked at John, then said to her, “My grandfather’s not doing well.”

  John said, “They have him in the hospital at Ruidoso. He wants Randall to come.”

  “You’re going, right?”

  “As soon as I get a few things arranged here.”

  “What’s wrong with him, did he have an accident?”

  “I’m not sure. My cousin, Jeffrey Chee, found him unconscious up near Whitetail.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On the Mescalero Reservation. It’s high up, about eight thousand feet, and where the Chiricahuas and Warm Springs Apaches lived when they first came to the Reservation from Fort Sill. Even used to be a small school there, but it’s mostly empty now.”

  “Any idea why he was there?”

  “Jeffrey said grandfather was near the old school, and when he came to, he asked where Dahteste was.”

  Hunter looked at John, who said, “Dahteste was a Warm Springs Apache from the old days. She was highly respected by both the Apache and the soldiers. She was a warrior, scout, interpreter, and mediator, and lived to be ninety-five. Randall’s grandfather was close to her. She was, with Lozen, considered something of a seer, too. ”

  Randall said, “Whatever’s going on with Grandfather out there on the rez, I need to be there.”

  They talked later into the night, until Hunter said, “I’m headed to the hotel. See you guys tomorrow.”

  Randall said, “I’m flying out early. But I’ll be back soon. Don’t you two eat all my mangos while I’m gone.”

  Hunter went to sleep as soon as she got in bed, but her dreams were visited by old nightmares.

  ~*~

  Andre was waiting for her at the office and had two cups of coffee on the table. He sipped his coffee and said, “I tapped into some friends last night.”

  “And?”

  “The shipping company on Dessaline’s copy, the one that ferried that stuff to Caribe? It folded a year ago.”

  “How nice for us.”

  It’s not all bad. The name Jean Claude came up. And the name of the ship: La Sirine.”

  “Does that mean, The Siren?”

  “Close enough, The Siren of the Seas. It is also a loa, a spirit.”

  “And the name came up?”

  “It did.” Andre grinned.

  Hunter sat straighter. “Hey, don’t hold me in suspense. I’m not known for my patience. I couldn’t even sit still in my elementary school classes.”

  “Jean Claude Villard. I ran him through every database we have, and through some others with help from friends.”

  “Its good to have friends.”

  Andre grinned, “Sure is. Jean Claude is, as far as anyone can tell, still in South Florida. So, somewhere in the middle of six million or so people. Piece of cake, I figure.”

  “Bingo.” Hunter said as she sipped coffee.

  Andre said, “He’s also believed to be a ringleader in a smuggling organization working out of the Caribbean, is a suspected murderer, strong-arm man, and drug supplier. But he has never been arrested for anything in this country. He’s known to hang out in Little Haiti, and lately, South Beach.”

  “You just whittled away about five point nine million people off our list.”

  “Hey, I’m a professional. When we finish our coffee, I figure we need to cruise around down there, do some observing and ask a few questions.”

  They drove down I-95 and turned east on 934 to enter the north part of Little Haiti. Andre had his I-pad open and checked the list of locations as he drove through the neighborhoods.

  Hunter said, “What’s your plan?”

  “I have a few places where Jean Claude has been seen recently, so I thought we could work our way south and check them as we go.”

  As Andre drove, people on the curb gave their car looks that varied from curious, to envious, to angry. Hunter asked, “Why are we getting bad looks? It’s not from everybody, but some of these people, especially the men, look like they’re ready to fight.”

  “A black man riding with a white woman, on their turf, some of them aren’t fond of the mix.”

  Hunter said, “So they’re mad at you, not me.”

  “I think they are mad at life in general. We just happen to be in their vision at the moment. Most Haitians are friendly, welcoming. But there’s always the other side of the coin.”

  “Same as everywhere.”

  Hunter’s phone rang and she didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. “Hello?”

  “Hunt
er! How are you? This is Jason Hale. We met at Lo-Deen’s.”

  “I remember.”

  “I was wondering if you’d want to go out tonight and get something to eat. I’ve got reservations at Joe’s Stone Crab, and thought you could go for some world famous seafood. I can pick you up, just say where and when.”

  Thanks, Jason, but not tonight.”

  “No problem. Maybe sometime in the future?”

  “I’d like that. Give me a call.”

  “I will. Talk to you later.”

  She hung up, and felt good about Jason’s call. He was good looking, and nice, plus he was a cop, so they could relate to things similarly. Yes, she would go out with Detective Hale.

  Andre said, “Was that Hale?”

  “It was.”

  “You could do worse.” He grinned, “Now that your love life is picking up, let’s get back to work.”

  Andre stopped at several locations and asked people about Jean Claude, but got nowhere. They continued south, and Hunter looked at pedestrians, hoping to see the black-eyed captain on the streets. Andre slowed as he cruised south on Northeast Second Avenue, and when they were in the fifty-five hundred block, he said, “Several reports of him being in this area, so keep your eyes open.”

  “You think we’re just going to see him down here, strolling along, don’t you? I bet you play the lottery a lot, too.” The hint of a grin showed on her face. Andre shook his head.

  He parked in front of Churchill’s Pub. “Let’s check it out.” They entered the pub and saw few people. Andre led the way to the bar where the bartender was using a white cloth to wipe away water stains. Andre said, “Has Jean Claude been around?”

  “There are several Jean Claudes who come here.”

  Hunter said, “The one with the eyes.” She pointed the index and middle finger of her hand in a V, toward her eyes.

  The bartender said, “Are you police?”

  Andre showed his badge. “Have you seen him recently?”

  “I understand he has developed a taste for the music and women on South Beach.”

  “Any particular places?”

  “I would think the ones with the most money and the prettiest women.”

  Andre slid his business card across to the bartender, “If you see him, call me, day or night.”

  The bartender didn’t acknowledge what Andre said, but he slipped the card into his shirt pocket.

  When they returned to the car, Hunter yelped when she sat down because the seats were hot from the sun. She rolled her rear from one cheek to the other as Andre started the engine and turned the A/C to high. He grinned at her, “Mine too.”

  As he backed out, Hunter said, “So, South Beach now?”

  “Sure, we might get lucky.”

  Chapter 2

  Ocean Drive had the usual slow moving traffic cruising up and down the pavement, but the street wasn’t crowded.

  Ariel Baimby saw a gap in traffic and crossed the road, moving in stops and starts between the cars going in opposite directions on the two-way road. “Rihanna! Rihanna!” A college age white man in a red mustang convertible waved and yelled at her, so excited to see a celebrity. He fumbled with something on the dash and suddenly Rihanna’s hit song, “Umbrella” played. He turned it up and pointed at her as the sound blasted from his car.

  Ariel danced to the music as she walked, working her hips and shoulders to show off her body as she lip-synched and continued across traffic. She stopped before she was too far away from him and said, “Play the old songs, lover, and buy my new album!” She blew him a kiss and made it through the cars to the sidewalk. Ariel stepped under the shaded awnings of The Cardozo Hotel and walked to the table where Pansy Brown sat drinking a mojito.

  Pansy signaled the server for two mojitos as Ariel sat down. Pansy said, “So they still callin’ you Rihanna. Girl you look just like her, the eyes, the hair, the body. You need to work that more.”

  “How are things, Pansy? I’ve had troublin’ thoughts about you, girl.”

  Pansy said, “Hoo-wee, I’ve been doin’ the work, I tell you.” She put her hand on top of Ariel’s, “Now, can you be doin’ a reading for me? I’m full of vexation and troubles.”

  Ariel waited for the server to place the drinks, then took a sip of her mojito and said, “Give me your hands.” Pansy placed her hands, palm down in Ariel’s. Using her thumbs, Ariel rubbed the backs of them, making slow, soft circles on the woman’s dark skin. Ariel kept her eyes closed as she said, “Denson has another woman.”

  “I knew it.” Pansy said, the hurt evident in her voice.

  Ariel continued, “That woman’s full of badness. She might drive Denson away.” Ariel opened her eyes, “If she does, do you want him to come back to you, or are you through with that Haiti man?” She didn’t tell her friend that Denson was not a good man, involved in petty crimes and other things. That knowledge she kept to herself.

  Pansy released Ariel’s hands, wiped her eyes and took a sip from her mojito. “Bring him back to me. I love him, even though he’s no good.”

  Ariel said, “He’ll cheat on you again.”

  “Can you make him faithful?”

  Ariel sighed, looked at her friend and said, “I can try.”

  Pansy looked hopeful, “Thank you.” They sipped mojitos and watched people for another fifteen minutes, and then Pansy said, “Time for me to go. I have dishes to do, and washin’ before I start me night shift.” She slipped Ariel a rolled-up tube of twenties into her palm.

  Ariel nodded her head at the front doors of the Cardozo, “The hotel’s lucky to have someone good as you.”

  “Sure, nobody can change bed sheets or empty trash baskets like Pansy Brown.”

  She touched Pansy’s arm. “You are more than a good worker, you are a good person, with a beautiful soul.”

  Pansy hugged her, “Be careful. I’ll see you soon.”

  Ariel left the Cardozo and strolled down Ocean Drive. She didn’t feel the need to tell Pansy she watched Denson and his new woman yesterday, arguing in loud voices. The woman, a young model type, slapped Denson hard enough to rock his head. Ariel heard the tall Haitian say, “I’ve had enough of you.” He walked away, leaving the still-angry woman yelling at his back. When Denson drove away, the woman began crying. Ariel remembered thinking, Drama Queen.

  Today was a beautiful day, and Ariel had new money and youth, so she enjoyed her walk. Five minutes later, she heard the sounds of broken tail lights and saw a Mercedes lurch to a stop and as it was rear-ended right in front of Larios on the Beach, Emilio and Gloria Estefan’s trendy place with the Cuban themed restaurant. The crash was minor; a fender bender at most because no one sped on Ocean Drive, but the two men sitting in the black Mercedes did not look happy.

  Ariel’s attention was suddenly drawn to someone sitting at a table under the awning at Larios. He was a stocky, dark–skinned black man wearing wraparound shades, and was in the deepest shade, watching the street with interest. Her skin prickled, then a noise at the vehicles drew Ariel’s attention.

  A very tall black man with skin the color of creamed coffee seemed to flow out of the driver’s side. He opened the back door, and a distinguished looking black man in a three-piece suit stepped into the sunlight. Ariel thought he was in his sixties, but fit looking, and the suit was expensive. She had an eye for fine clothing. It meant well paying customers.

  The older man looked over the crowd at Larios as the tall driver walked to the car behind them. An angry-faced Hispanic man climbed out of the driver’s side, and he shook his fist at the approaching black man.

  Ariel edged closer and listened as the belligerent Cuban craned his neck to look up at Ringo Bazin. He blamed the black men for the collision, saying, “No one puts on their brakes like that, just stopping in the street like you goin’ to park there. You blacks need to learn how to drive. You come over from the islands and think all you have to do is buy a car and get behind the wheel!”

  Ringo stood very still
as the man ranted. Cars worked around them until the road was clear except for the two vehicles. Dessaline said, without looking at the Cuban, “You can still drive your car.”

  “What? Yes.”

  Ringo handed the man five one hundred dollar bills.

  Dessaline turned to look at the Cuban and said, “Go.”

  The Cuban took the money, then thinking he had an easy mark said, “There’s a thousand dollars worth of damage to it.”

  Ringo stepped within an inch of the man. The man was not small, but Bazin was at least six inches taller. Dessaline said, “Now.”

  The Cuban wavered, then muttered, “Damn Haitians,” and got in his car, pulling around the Mercedes and narrowly missing Andre and Hunter coming from the opposite direction on Ocean Drive.

  Hunter said, “There’s our two new besties.”

  Andre snorted, “You have a gift for sarcasm, I ever tell you that?”

  Hunter gave him a grin, “Let’s say hi.” They pulled into a parking space in front of Larios and watched as Ringo got in the Mercedes and parked it on the opposite side of the street. Dessaline stood in the center of Ocean Drive until Ringo joined him, then they walked to the two Agents waiting on the sidewalk.

  Dessaline said, “Agent Kincaid, Agent Benton. A pleasure to see you on this fine day.”

  Hunter said, “What happened? That car took off like a scared rabbit.”

  Marc said, “We had a minor accident and worked it out between us. The man was late for an appointment, I believe.”

  Dessaline noticed Hunter scanning the crowd of people under the awning, her eyes at first going over the man in sunglasses to the rest of the patrons, but she returned to him, and the man had not noticed because he was flirting with two women at the next table.

  Marc said to Ringo, “Call our insurance man about this,” he pointed at the Mercedes. Bazin pulled out his phone and dialed. He said, “Meet us at the office, please.” His voice was low and ominous. Hunter’s neck hairs prickled and she glanced at Bazin. She thought that if James Earl Jones had a raw throat, this is what he would sound like. She turned her head to watch the man at Larios.

  He answered his phone, then placed money on the table and went inside the building rather than coming out on the street. She glanced at Bazin as he put the phone in his pocket. “Who did you just call?”