Lucia pulled the Land Rover to a stop before a massive set of wrought iron gates surrounded by ten-foot-high whitewashed walls. She punched an intercom and gave our names, and the gates opened like the jaws of a whale. The house was some kind of colonial style, and reminded me of a southern plantation. It had an expansive yard of palms and oaks, and a circular driveway where we were met by a guy in a butler uniform whom I belatedly realized was indeed a butler. We got out and stretched the bones from our three-hour journey, and the butler let us know that Mr. Prestwich was waiting on us. The house was no less grand inside, lots of old wood that smelled musty and if not kept up constantly, seemed only months away from disrepair. We were led through the home to a rear patio that had been designed to make the most of the cooling breezes that came off the hill above.
An old man sat at a round wooden table. He wore a pink button-up shirt and matching tie, and a dark blue blazer. He had a head of thick hair as white as the proverbial snow, and deep blue eyes. He stood as we approached, a task that required considerable effort.
“Sir, Mr. Jones, and party,” said butler.
I raised my eyebrows to Danielle at the and party, but I liked it and resolved to use it again whenever appropriate.
“Bradford Prestwich,” said the old man with a smile, shaking my hand. I introduced Danielle and Lucia, and Prestwich kissed the back of each of their hands, and then offered us a seat at the table.
“I’m so glad dot you could drop by,” he said. I was surprised by his accent. It was the same as Cornelius Winston’s, the singsong patois overlaid by years of formal education. For whatever reason I had assumed the accent belonged to black Jamaicans, rather than it being a regional thing like most accents, but was proved wrong by this white man who looked like a English gent and sounded like Mrs. Swan.
“It’s our pleasure,” I said.
“So you know young Ron?”
I smiled at the thought of anyone referring to my silver-maned partner-in-crime as young.
“I do. We work together. He sends his regards. He mentioned you knew his father.”
“That I did. When he was chef de mission at the US embassy. Good man.”
I nodded. I didn’t know Ron’s dad, so I didn’t have much to add. The butler came back out with a tray of cookies and biscuits, or as the butler referred to them, biscuits and scones. He then pulled a carafe out and asked us if we would like coffee, to which we all said yes.
“So Ron tells me you are the IOC delegate for Jamaica,” I said, sipping the dark roast.
“Yes, suh. I am. It has been my life’s work to help put Jamaica’s fine sports men and women in the spotlight.”
“You certainly have quite the athletics culture,” said Danielle.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
He buttered part of a scone and took a bite, and it crumbled onto his shirt.
“So what is it I can help you young people with today?”
I put my coffee down. “Sir, I understand you are soon to retire from your position.”
He smiled an old man’s smile. “I have made no formal announcement, but I suppose it is already old news. I am not a young mon, and all the travel takes a toll.”
I thought of the first-class flights and the five-star hotels, but kept the thought to myself. “And I am sure there are a number of suitors to such a prestigious position.”
Prestwich nodded, his body movements slow and purposeful. “Of course. I am under no illusion that it is the pinnacle for a sports administrator in our country. What would be your point, young mon?”
It had been a good while since anyone had called me young man, so I smiled. “What would a potential candidate need, to be considered for such a job?”
Prestwich buttered some more scone and appeared to think the question through as he did. He bit into the scone, and again I watched crumbs fall.
“I suppose one would require a strong background in sports administration, an understanding of the complexities of the international sporting and political arenas.”
“And votes?” said Lucia. She was certainly keen to get straight to the point.
“Yes, and of course votes.”
“How would they get those votes?” I asked.
“Well, one develops a network, I suppose, over time. There are competing needs, competing sports. One would need to become conversant in the issues, and show solutions to the problems.”
“Like a politician?”
“Yes, I suppose. But perhaps a tad more endearing.” He grinned the way old men do, as much with the eyes as the mouth. He was right, he was endearing. He was also the product of another time, a different generation. I wasn’t convinced that endearing was the key ingredient anymore.
“What about results? Wins? Does that count?”
“Yes, of course. It shows that one can run an effective program that produces results. It’s not the be-all and end-all, but it is important, yes.”
“So who do you think is in line for the role after you?” I asked.
“I couldn’t comment on that—it wouldn’t be proper.”
“Smart money seems to be on Cornelius Winston.”
Prestwich put his scone down on his plate and tapped his papery lips with a cloth napkin.
“Mr. Winston has done a fine job with junior athletics, yes. It is quite a step to the IOC, however.”
“How so?”
“The Olympics is more than track and field, Mr. Jones. Granted, this is the most important part, in my opinion, but there are many, many sports. An IOC representative needs supports across a breadth of sports, not just track.”
“And how would he get that support?”
“Years of work, I would say.”
Lucia put her coffee down and leaned into the table. “Mr. Prestwich, suh, would it be fair to say that if one brought money into those other sports that this would trump other considerations that those sports had?”
“Money is not everything, young lady.”
“Of course not. But if I were running for your post, and I could, say, offer money to those sports to improve their facilities or visibility?”
Lucia’s line of questioning sparked me, so I jumped in. “Take tennis, for example,” I said. “Not the highest-profile sport in Jamaica. But if I could bring in money to build new indoor courts that could be used in the height of summer, day and night, might that encourage the tennis folks to support a certain IOC candidate?”
“Alright, I’ll play. Yes, it might engender such support. But it is not so easy as you think. Money does not grow on trees, and promises without validation win over no one. Even Mr. Winston cannot make money appear from nowhere.”
Lucia’s phone buzzed, and she excused herself from the table and wandered down the patio with the handset to her ear. We took the interruption to drink some coffee. I followed my host’s lead and I tried a scone, which was lighter than a southern biscuit, buttery and delicious.
“Mr. Prestwich, are you familiar with Desmond Richmond?”
“The bobsled Olympian?”
I nodded. The man knew his athletes. “Yes.”
“I haven’t heard much in years. He moved to the United States, did he not?”
“He did. But he’s involved in athletics now, in Montego Bay.”
“That’s news to me, young mon.”
“Is he in the picture to take on your role?”
“I don’t see it. He might one day. Certainly as an Olympian, he has the profile. But I am not familiar with any of his administrative work. He would need a higher profile in sports administration to realistically take on this role.”
I nodded as Lucia came striding back to the table. She dropped into her seat. “Mr. Prestwich, I wonder if you could help me with something. Is there a sporting event going on in the next few days in United States?”
“Young lady, I don’t mean to sound facetious, but there are sporting events every day in the United States. Even on Christmas.”
“Yes, of course. I’m
sorry, I meant an event that might be of interest to you?”
“To me? No, I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”
“Mr. Winston just flew out to the United States. I wondered why he would be doing that.”
Prestwich shook his old head. “I have no idea. There’s nothing going on in the United . . .” He didn’t finish his thought, or at least he kept it to himself and stared up at the mountain above us. The morning sun had burned off the cloud and the green was contrasted with the bright blue sky.
“What is it, suh?” said Lucia.
“Well, it’s probably nothing. But Mr. Jones talking about tennis gave me a thought. There is no significant event right now in America, but there might be.”
“What do you mean?” Lucia frowned and edged forward on her seat, like she could feel her wheels biting the dirt and getting some traction.
“The Americans are bidding for the next athletics world championships.”
“Do you vote on that, Mr. Prestwich?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, son. I don’t. That’s the International Association of Athletic Federations, the IAAF. I don’t sit on that association.”
“Who does?”
Prestwich looked at me, and his eyes danced as if his brain was processing information like a supercomputer.
“The seat is vacant.”
“Vacant?” Lucia almost spat the words out. “How is it vacant?”
“The past chair of Jamaican Athletics took a job in Europe that prevented him from undertaking his duties here at home.”
“Could a person hold both that position and yours at the IOC?”
“I see no reason why not.”
“Could Winston really be making a play for both roles?” asked Danielle.
Prestwich glanced at Danielle but didn’t answer her question. He turned to me. “Why did you bring up the tennis association?”
“I met the president of Tennis Jamaica at Winston’s fundraiser at Rose Hall. He was at our table, but he didn’t say much, other than he had driven all the way from Kingston. It made me think why he would do that.”
Prestwich rubbed his chin with a hand that looked polished to a shine. “I told you money doesn’t grow on trees, and I’m right. It does not. But if Mr. Winston has contacts in the US, then maybe . . . You see we try to make sure that the best locations host events, and that there is a spread across the world. Not everything in Europe or the Americas, for example. But in some quarters, there is more to it. Some folks partake in a little quid pro quo. In return for a vote on, say, the awarding of a world championship or an Olympics, one might offer development grants.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Development grants are what they say on the jar. Grants from rich associations to poorer associations to help build their sporting infrastructure.”
“Like the US helping Jamaica build new tennis courts?”
“Perhaps, but unlikely. See, for such grants to be kosher, they must be from one sporting association to the same sport in another country. So USTA could help Tennis Jamaica, but the US athletics association could not. That would not pass muster.”
“And Winston doesn’t even have the authority to make such a deal,” said Danielle. “He doesn’t have the IAAF job yet.”
We sat in silence, drinking coffee and mulling over the scenarios, but not coming up with anything concrete. I noticed Prestwich was starting to flag, his eyes growing droopy. His butler came out and told us that it was time for Prestwich’s morning calls, which I took as code for nap time, and I wondered if the old guy was in failing health, or whether his engine was just running low from too many years on the planet. We made our excuses and thanked him for his time, and he invited us for coffee any time we found ourselves in Kingston.
Lucia guided the Land Rover out of the gate and followed the signs toward Spanish Town. We drove in silence, but Lucia kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “What are you thinking?” she finally said to me. I noted Danielle suppress a giggle at the query. It wasn’t my favorite question. It was, as often as not, a trap. In this case I figured it wasn’t, but I still didn’t know how to answer it.
“Nothing coherent,” I said. “I can’t make sense of it.”
Danielle half turned in the front passenger seat to face both me and Lucia. “Let’s recap. What we know is that Winston holds an important but relatively low-level role as chair of the school athletics. From the Rose Hall party we know he’s connected, to the constabulary, other sports associations and basically anyone important in MoBay and beyond. We can connect him to the thugs that attacked Markus and also the ones that ran us off the road,” she said, looking at me. “And we know he’s gone to the US.” She looked at Lucia. “We do know that, right?”
Lucia nodded. “Yes, we know that. I have a friend who works in customs at Sangster Airport. She was the one that called me earlier. She said Winston just left on a flight to the US.”
“To where? Do you know?” I asked.
Lucia glanced in the rear vision mirror. “Miami.”
“Interesting,” said Danielle. “All right, that’s what we know. Now, what we assume. We assume Winston wants this IOC job to be vacated by Mr. Prestwich, and we can add to that the vacant position with the IAAF.”
“Could be one or the other, or both,” I said.
“Right. He might go for the one-two punch, athletics then Olympics, but then he might just try for the brass ring. We also assume that he wants any other pretenders to the throne gotten out of the way. This includes Richmond, and his athletes—namely Markus.”
“But how do those dots connect?” said Lucia.
“That’s what we are paid to figure out,” said Danielle.
“Well, let’s do that,” said Lucia.
We spent the next three hours playing it out. We came up with a thousand possibles, but nothing firmer than a bunch of unconnected events. As we got just outside MoBay, Lucia drew a line under the conversation.
“Okay, I think we need to look ahead now. What’s the next step?”
“For us? We leave tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll take Markus to UM so he can visit, try to do that without Desmond Richmond getting wind of it, and see if we can figure out why Winston has gone to the US. Did your friend say whether he was going on from there?”
“No, just Miami. No ongoing ticket.”
“But he could have had a domestic ticket she wouldn’t know about?”
“He could, yes. But that seems unnecessary, don’t you think?”
“I do, but I don’t understand going to Miami. As a hub to somewhere else perhaps, but there’s nothing for him there.”
“Bad assumption,” said Danielle. “You don’t know what’s there.”
“True, but US athletics are where? New York City, maybe?”
Danielle tapped away at her phone and turned to me. “USA Track and Field is based in Indianapolis.”
“Okay, I wouldn’t have guessed that in a thousand years. But it’s not Miami.”
“Maybe Miami is not where, but who?” Danielle scrunched her forehead, which was still as smooth as a putting green.
“Or what,” added Lucia.
That got me thinking. I sat back in my seat, dialed my phone, and waited for the officious voice at the other end.
“Prestwich residence.”
“This is Miami Jones. Is Mr. Prestwich up? I mean busy?”
“One moment, suh.”
A short wait and Prestwich came on the line.
“What can I do for you, young man? Did you forget your baseball cap?” I heard the mirth in his voice, like he’d just laid a real zinger on me. I smiled.
“No, sir. I just had a quick follow-up question. You said that the US was bidding for the athletic world championships.”
“Yes, although that’s not what they really want.”
“What do they really want?”
“Why, the Olympics, my boy. A well-run World Champs is the perfect basis for an Ol
ympic bid.”
“So the US Olympic committee supports the Athletic World champs bid.”
“One hundred percent.”
“So tell me, where? Where are they proposing to have these world championships and Olympics?”
“My boy, I thought we covered that. I thought that was the point of Corporal Tellis’s questions. That city would be Miami.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
MARKUS WAS TAKING the day off school. He didn’t have training that morning, so Danielle and I packed our bags, grabbed a quick coffee and met Garfield at the front of house. He was in a ubiquitous minivan driven by a thin guy with a red, yellow and black Rasta hat the size of a wasps’ nest. We tossed our bags in the back and drove to the Swans’. Markus was in the kitchen with a small duffel.
“Shoes?” I said. He held up a ratty-looking pair of worn-out Nikes. The new ones were staying in Jamaica.
“Ready?” I asked.
He looked serious, perhaps nervous. I didn’t blame him for that. He was about to get on a plane to another country with people he hardly knew, who were offering a dream almost too good to be true. If it were me, I’d be waiting for the catch. But Markus grabbed his bag, kissed his mother and walked out the door. Mrs. Swan gave me her best school-ma’am look, firm and serious.
“You look afta me boy,” she said.
I nodded, and Danielle gave her a hug that she seemed to need. We got in the van and headed to Sangster Airport. It’s not the busiest airport, but it was still chaotic, minivans and coaches jostling like cattle in the parking lot, people with way too much luggage fighting their way to the front of whatever line they were in. Garfield ignored all direction and pulled the minivan to the curb right by the door to the terminal. We got out and said our goodbyes, and I shook Garfield’s hand and thanked him for all his help.
He smiled. “No problem, mon.”
As I let go of his hand I grabbed his wrist and opened his palm, then I dropped the keys to the motorcycle into his hand.
“You want me to sell it fo’ you?”
I shook my head. “It’s yours now. They’re expecting you to collect it at the resort. It’s not a fast car, but a man like you needs some wheels.”
Dead Fast Page 14
