by dannal
“Yes?” Max asked, intrigued.
“Do you know who those men were that you killed on that rented catamaran?” Travere asked.
“I figured they were part of Ti Flow,” Max said, taking a long draw on the very expensive and exquisite Dominican cigar. “I helped rescue Josue out of his life as part of a violent Haitian gang about six years ago, right after my family was killed. It was all an accident, of course. I was drunk as hell, on a self-destructive bender, and I stumbled upon these guys about to execute Josue right in the middle of Lemon Street in Little Haiti. Now that I think of it, it might have been that first guy I dropped—Momo—who was about to execute Josue when I intervened.”
“Momo was about to take over the leadership of the ultra-violent Miami gang,” Travere explained. “After speaking with some colleagues in the Miami-Dade Police Department, we believe he was coming to Martinique to finish the job he began six years ago, to execute Josue Remy. By killing Momo and these others, Max, you may have single-handedly disbanded Ti Flow. A power void has been created, sure. And someone will move in to fill it, but for now, your actions may have potentially saved lives and reduced at least some measure of crime in that community.”
“That’s a rather gray way of looking at things,” Max said. ”You’re the head of the Gendarmerie here. Things are supposed to be black and white.”
“Are they?” Travere asked. “Were they black and white when you took out that rapist on that beach near Château Dubuc?”
Max looked at the floor and started laughing.
“What is so funny, Max?” Travere asked.
“Sometimes all you have to do to make the world believe you are dangerous, is nothing,” Max said. “You see an opportunity to do that, you’d be a fool not to take it.”
Colonel Travere nodded. “I can see that, but how do you mean. Specifically.”
“Just because I never confirmed or denied the rumors about that bastard, folks believe what they want to believe. I killed him. I dumped his body. Truth is, if you looked hard enough, I suppose you’d find him eventually. Probably set up shop, casting his nets somewhere else, like Guadeloupe or Dominica. Possibly messing with the young ladies there, but hopefully not.”
“But you ran him off of the island, Max,” Travere said. “And my hat’s off to you for that.”
The colonel pulled a second Opus X out of his cigar sleeve. “The aroma of yours has tempted me too much, I’m afraid.” The Gendarmerie colonel clipped off the end of his cigar and roasted the tip until he could draw smoke through it.
“Everest Walsh and all of his thugs are dead, Max,” Travere continued, his eyes wandering over his notes on the legal pad. “Walsh was moving an insane amount of product between Bogota, the Keys, the Bahamas, and a bunch of other locales in the West Indies. Rather brazen in his approach, he was. I mean, his boat was called the Snowy Lady, for pity’s sake.
“Because of your actions, his yacht has become a major crime scene. It has produced enough evidence for us to seize his entire cigar plantation and investigate any business he might have been associated with. Once again, Max, your actions will have an unintended, but positive, effect on the world. You’ve interrupted a large supplier of coke to the states. There will be crack addicts who can’t get rocks because of you. There will almost certainly be folks who will not overdose and die because of you. Maybe you have only saved one. Maybe you’ve unknowingly saved a thousand,” Travere said with a coy smile. “We’ll never know, will we?”
“So what now?” Max asked. He didn’t much care what happened to him now that everyone he cared about was no longer around.
“You will no longer be allowed to produce illicit, unregulated rum on Martinique,” Travere said. “All of your distillery equipment will be seized and sold at auction.”
Max nodded.
“A very quiet and poorly-attended auction,” Travere said with a wink.
Max frowned. He wasn’t sure what was happening.
“I never really cared about the rum, Edgar,” Max said. “Just getting even with de Losa.”
“But there was passion that you put into that product, Max,” Travere said. “Fleur de Lis rum would not be possible without a deep fervor inside the man making it. It is truly special.”
“Like I told de Losa,” Max told the colonel. “My secret ingredient was far from love—it was revenge.”
“No,” Travere said. “It was much more than that. There are thoughts and feelings that you put into your work without even knowing you were doing it. The care in separating the hearts and heads, and mixing them back together. The careful aging process. Even the fact that you cut the sugarcane yourself, by hand, Max, shows how deeply you cared about the process. What did the fleur de lis mean to you, Max?”
Max was quiet for about thirty seconds. He fought against the lump that had formed in his throat before he spoke. “My wife had a tattoo of a fleur de lis on her wrist. She thought they were beautiful; it was her favorite symbol.”
“That isn’t just revenge, Max,” Travere said with a warm smile. “You honored her with every batch of rum that you made.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever make rum again,” Max said.
“A shame to hear,” Travere said. “I have been thinking about starting my own legitimate rhum agricole operation on my family land. But I would need a master distiller to help me. Someone who has a lot of experience making rhum agricole, very good rhum agricole, and understands every aspect of the business.”
“Are you offering me a job?” Max asked, dumbfounded.
“Not today,” Travere said, his lips curled into a furtive grin. “But ask me again tomorrow. Maybe.”
It suddenly became clear to Max why the Colonel would stick his neck out for him, to cut such a ridiculous plea deal with the prosecutor. “It’s because you want me to work for you that you dealt on my behalf, isn’t it? I suppose if I don’t take the job, the deal goes away.”
“It’s not like that, Max. The plea that I worked for you isn’t about a job. If you don’t want to work with me, I respect that. The plea is about something more.”
“What?” Max asked.
“I suppose it is about the hope that I have for you,” Travere said. ”You are a good man, Maxwell. And I believe under the right conditions you will thrive, and become a great man.”
Max looked down at the table. He was stone-faced. He knew he was being offered much more than he deserved. It was a powerful display of mercy.
Max extended his hand across the table to Colonel Travere. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”
“It is my pleasure, Max,” Travere said, shaking Max’s hand. “Now, my friend, you are free to go.” The colonel stood up and opened the door to the interview room. Travere slapped Max on the back as he stepped through the door.
A lot of eyes watched Max as he walked through the office, past desks occupied by gendarmes on the phone, or looking up from the reports they were typing at their computers, or otherwise just standing in the room, staring at the rum runner who had killed the men who had murdered his family, and those that had tortured and killed his best friend.
At the far end of the room near the corner, sitting at a desk next to a very muscular, dark-skinned corporal, was Isobel Greer. Max hadn’t been ready for it, and as their eyes met, he felt as if someone had just plunged an ice pick into his heart. Tears streamed down the diminishing sunburn of Isobel’s cheeks as Max walked toward the door.
Max felt the colonel’s fingers grasp onto his neck in a comforting rub. “Right this way, Max,” he said, knowing it would be best to separate Max from Isobel Greer as quickly as possible.
Max stepped through the front door, and was nearly knocked down by the bright, late morning sun that seared down on him. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust enough that he could see, and when they finally did, Max spotted the unmistakable form of Vivienne Monet standing in front of the building, as if she had been waiting for him.
“Hello, Max,”
Vivienne said, giving him a hug as he stepped out of the building. She reached her hand into a white shopping bag. “I saw this and I thought of you.”
Max squinted his eyes and saw that she held a brand new Columbia Bahama shirt. “Thanks, Viv, but I don’t wear pink shirts,” he said.
“It’s called Bright Peach,” Vivienne said, stuffing the shirt back in the bag and handing it to Max. “It’s about time you added a splash of color to your life. Don’t you think?”
“I like black,” Max said unapologetically.
“You need not mourn forever, my friend,” Vivienne said, flashing her million-dollar smile. It had a way of winning a man over. “Besides, you’re not Johnny Cash.”
“How do you know about Johnny Cash?” Max asked.
Vivienne looked at Max as if he had just run over her pet Chihuahua. “I’m from Martinique, Max, not Uranus.”
Max laughed. So much of life was out of his hands; he certainly wouldn’t have chosen so much pain for himself. But there were little bits of joy to be found here and there, if he just opened his eyes to see them.
Max knew he did not have the same feelings toward Vivenne Monet as those that had just started to develop between him and Isobel Greer. But he loved Vivienne’s joviality in spite of the tough work she did. It was an inspiration. And, like Edgar Travere, she had shown him so much kindness that he didn’t deserve. Max knew he wanted the would-be model, turned cop, turned private investigator in his corner.
“Come on, Maxwell Craig,” Vivienne said, throwing her arm around his neck. Her cork wedge heels made her a good three inches taller than his six feet. “I’ll take you to see the lady who grills the tastiest poulet boucané in Fort de France, maybe in all of Martinique.”
Max recalled eating the smoky island specialty of buccaneer chicken a couple of times before. But today, he couldn’t help but think it would taste even better because of the company he would keep.
“By the way, Max,” Vivienne said, unable to contain a sort of giddiness, “I have the bag you left on Walsh’s yacht in the trunk of my car. It is safe and sound, and complete.”
Vivienne had secured Max’s money. Now that he was free, he would have something he could use to start over on what would come next, whatever that might be.
“Wait, Maxwell!” a voice shouted from the front door of the Gendarmerie building. Max wasn’t sure if he should run, or maybe just put up his hands. “Hold up. Max!”
Colonel Travere trotted toward him, placing his white and black kepi on his head. The very French-looking military hats always suggested to Max a cartoon character of some sort. Travere rushed up to meet Max and Vivienne.
“I just wanted to offer to take you out for lunch, Maxwell,” Colonel Travere said with a likeable half-smile. “I’d like to talk to you a bit more about my future plans for my family land near Sainte-Marie; if you are not previously engaged, that is.”
“I was just going to take Max to Madame Sabine’s shack for a bite,” Vivienne said. “Would you join us?”
“Oooh,” Colonel Travere said, wiping his mouth as if it were covered in drool. “The poulet boucané here has spoiled me against my wife’s cooking. Don’t tell her! If it is all right with Maxwell, I would love to join the two of you. But I don’t want to intrude.”
Max just nodded. He wasn’t sure how he had come to such a place in such a short period of time. The memory of his murdered family lingered in his mind, even now. And the sting of having lost his best friend burned inside of him, even more freshly. But his enemies were now all dead, gone from this earth. It left him with a mixed sort of satisfaction: he was glad that justice had finally met them, but their passing also left him hollow and empty, as if getting revenge against them had cost him a piece of his soul.
But the most unexpected result of recent days, to Max, was that despite his solitary nature, despite that stiff arm he always put forward to keep people away, he now had some unlikely friends. And he felt something inside him he hadn’t felt in a great many years. Somehow, some way, Maxwell Craig’s anger had changed into something. It felt like some semblance of hope just flickering inside him.
Maybe Vivienne was right. Maybe his life still mattered and could be useful, and honorable, and could make some difference that he had lived and lived well.
THE END
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Also By Dannal:
The White Liar (Coming Soon) - A prequel novel to The Rum Runner
The Trying Tales of Chumbles & Grim series:
Great for younger readers and lovers of Sherlock Holmes
The Foreboding First (Get Free)
The Sinister Second
The Thankless Third
The Rum Runner
First Edition
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Text Copyright © 2016 by Dannal J. Newman
All rights are reserved by the author. No part of this ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by: Sue Kenney
Illustrations by: Mad Scientist
Cover Photographs © Shutterstock
Cover Design by: Books Covered
Growing up in sunny south Florida, Dannal fished, snorkeled, and dodged jellyfish washed up on the beach. His frequent exploration of Florida’s A1A Scenic & Historic Coastal Byway on his bike without permission resulted in numerous groundings. Dannal eventually moved out west, settling in southern Oregon, where he currently resides with his wife and two kids.
In addition to the Maxwell Craig series of thrillers, Dannal is also the author of a quirky series of short reads for younger readers, called The Trying Tales of Chumbles & Grim.
