The attorney general reached for his bottle of pink tablets while his counterpart from the FBI took over the conversation.
“What’s all this about the Governor being murdered?” the assistant director demanded plaintively. “We have to immediately deny any involvement in this.”
“We’ve been unable to locate him, sir. I can’t say if he’s alive or dead. Just that we didn’t kill him.”
“That’s not terribly helpful, Friday.”
“We’re doing the best we can, sir.”
The attorney general swallowed his antacid tablet without chewing it. “We’re working the Bishop angle here in DC. I think that’s the only chance we have of finding a way out of this mess. Stay close to your phone, Friday. We’ll be in touch.”
The assistant director leaned toward the speaker console. “And, Friday . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please relieve Agent Hightower of his duties.”
There was no hesitation in his response.
“With pleasure, sir.”
Hotel 1829
~ 77 ~
The Brokered Deal
SENATOR SANCHEZ WALKED beside her uncle as they traversed the steep steps on the hillside above the post office. She held her hand near his elbow, ready to brace him if he stumbled, but the old man’s footing was as sure as ever. Sanchez, still wearing the borrowed T-shirt, shorts, and oversized sandals, was more at risk of slipping than her uncle.
Midway up the stairs, the pair passed the feral rooster, who gave Abe a conspiring nod, as if commending the wily politician’s plan. The bird was far more confident in the outcome than Sanchez. She had at first balked at his idea and had only agreed to accompany him because she didn’t want him to make the attempt alone.
Minutes later, they reached the one-way street at the top of the steps. On the opposite curb stood the coral pink fronting of Hotel 1829.
The bartender buzzed them through the front gate. They were the first to arrive for the morning’s impromptu gathering—which is what Abe had intended.
Given the guests he had invited, he wanted to make sure he and Sanchez had seats against the front wall with easy access to the exit.
•
IN ITS LONG history, Hotel 1829 had witnessed important meetings among politicians, Danish landowners, and other island power brokers. The establishment had hosted tête-à-têtes between governors, premiers, ambassadors, and presidents.
But never had it seen a caucus quite like this one.
Abe chose his spot on the large wooden table inside the bar. Then he rotated the marble game board so that the two participants would be seated in the appropriate player positions.
Backgammon was a two-person game. He was just there to referee.
Knowing the players’ preferences, he preordered their drinks.
An iced tea for the Bishop.
A hot tea for the Fixer.
And a lemonade for himself.
Senator Sanchez opted for a glass of water.
The bartender prepared the requested drinks and set them on the table before excusing himself. He tugged on his graying ponytail as he departed through the veranda gate.
Where Abe was concerned, some proceedings were best left unobserved.
•
THE FIXER ANNOUNCED his presence by ringing the buzzer at the front gate. Abe nodded for Sanchez to trigger the door’s release inside the small office attached to the bar.
The thin man walked quietly across the length of the veranda and stepped inside the hotel. He nodded at Abe and took his seat next to the cup and saucer.
Sanchez shifted her feet, anticipating the arrival of the next participant.
A swishing brown cassock appeared from the bar’s courtyard entrance. The Bishop swept into the room, quickly assessed the settings around the table, and took his seat next to the iced tea. He acknowledged Sanchez but focused his attention on the Fixer.
The Bishop picked up the iced tea, his ruby ring clinking against the glass. He took a casual sip, but his eyes never left his opponent.
Abe cleared his throat. “Thank you both for coming. Shall we begin?” He placed a pair of dice in front of each man. “Each of you roll one die, and we’ll see who goes first.”
The Bishop tapped a finger against his numbered cube. “Is this really how we’re going to settle this?”
Abe continued with his preamble as if he hadn’t heard the comment.
“I believe you’re both familiar with the principles of the game. You’re each assigned fifteen checkers. They have already been arranged in their starting positions. You can move them around the board according to the numbers rolled on your dice. The objective is to be the first man to remove all of your own checkers from the board.”
Warily, the Bishop rolled his die. Silently, the Fixer did the same. Abe leaned over the table, comparing the two numbers.
“Right, then. The gentleman in the green shirt will go first.”
The Fixer slid two checkers across the marble board as Abe wrapped up his instructions.
“Move your checkers according to the numbers shown on the dice, but you cannot both occupy the same point on the board—just as, it seems, your clients cannot both occupy the Governor’s Mansion.” He looked at the man in the brown cassock. “Your turn, sir.”
The Bishop dropped his dice into the marble cup and gave them a gentle shake.
“The Governor has already been removed from the mansion.” He looked across the backgammon board as he released the dice. “Permanently.”
The Fixer lifted his teacup with his left hand, revealing the red gash on his wrist. “I assure you the Governor is very much alive—and about to make his own public announcement on recent events.”
Sanchez glanced at her uncle. Abe had yet to touch his lemonade.
“I see.” The Bishop rolled his dice and then stroked his neatly trimmed goatee. “That leaves us at a bit of an impasse.” He moved his requisite two checkers and set the dice cup in the middle of the board.
Abe strummed his fingers on the table’s edge. “Of course, either one alone is weaker than the two acting together, however fractious their union.”
The Fixer grabbed the cup and shook it, letting the dice clatter against the sides for several seconds before letting them tumble onto the board.
“The Governor doesn’t feel the differences are irreconcilable.”
He looked across at the Bishop, who, in turn, shifted his gaze to Abe.
“And the attorney general?”
Abe finally took a slurp of lemonade. “I believe I can resolve that aspect.” He set down the glass and smacked his lips. “If we’re all in agreement, there’s just one more matter to discuss.”
He tilted his head toward his niece.
“My commission for brokering the deal.”
•
ABE COLLECTED THE dice and checkers as the Bishop and the Fixer stood to leave.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I have conferred with the First Lady,” the Bishop said solemnly.
As he turned for the doorway leading out onto the veranda, there was a disturbance in the refrigerated bathroom attached to the opposite end of the bar.
The flushing whoosh of water was followed by a feeble voice that echoed off the inner tile floor.
“Mojito? Bartender, can you bring me another mojito? I can’t bear to leave this nice cold place.”
~ 78 ~
Funeral Plans
IT TOOK THE author far longer than she’d anticipated to make the return trip back up to Government Hill from Emancipation Park.
She’d been detained for almost forty-five minutes by a surly FBI agent with a bulky gorilla build who reeked of stale rum. The agent had ordered several apologetic National Guard troops to corral her while he demanded to see her camera’s digital s
torage card.
It wasn’t until a second agent arrived on the scene—a harried man with a horsey face—that she was finally released with her camera and digital photos intact.
She returned to Hotel 1829 to find a curious assortment of individuals walking out its front gate. It appeared a meeting of some sort had just broken up, and the participants were departing.
There was the elderly uncle and niece who she’d seen eating breakfast outside the diner earlier that morning. They were followed by the man in the brown cassock who had taken the author’s flight from Miami. In her head, she reluctantly called him the Bishop, although she was more convinced than ever that that was not his religious affiliation.
Lastly, the author passed the flat-faced man in the golf shirt and chinos. He held the gate open for her and smiled, ever so slightly, as she stepped through.
The author hurried across the veranda, reaching into her backpack for her notebook and pen. She was so eager to take notes on this odd assortment of characters that she forgot to watch out for her thirsty travel companion.
The bartender looked up from his counter as she stepped inside. A moment too late, she caught his warning expression—and the glass of muddled mint leaves at his station.
•
“HELLO, LOVE.”
The author closed her eyes, wincing at the voice that called out from the bench along the wall next to the door. She turned as the Mojito Man pulled his frail figure up into a seated position.
He gripped the edge of the backgammon table, trying to stand. Instinctively, she lunged forward to keep him from falling.
She felt his weak arms wrap around her shoulders for an indulgent hug.
“Nothing like the healing powers of a woman.”
The bartender finished preparing the mojito and set it on the counter.
“Here you go, sir.”
The man’s attention shifted from the author to the drink.
“Help me, over, can you?” he asked, nearly breathless from the effort it had taken to stand.
She eased him onto a bar stool, and his mouth found the straw. After a long slurp, he seemed to recover a bit of his energy.
“Have you been inside that bathroom?” He pointed to the door at the end of the bar. “You could chill a corpse in there. I told ’em that’s where they should stick me when I’m gone. You know, before the hearse comes to pick me up.”
With a sigh, the woman slid onto the adjacent stool. The bartender smiled and began making a frozen daiquiri.
“Mango?” he suggested with a pump of his mustache.
“That’ll be fine.”
Her neighbor swiveled in his chair to look at her.
“Will you go to my funeral?” His bloodshot eyes pleaded pathetically. “No one else will be there.”
The bar fell silent. The author pressed her lips together, knowing she would regret answering the question, whichever way she responded.
Finally, she nodded the affirmative, making a promise she knew she didn’t intend to keep.
Emancipation Park
~ 79 ~
Judas
IN THE HOUR since the First Lady’s startling announcement on the KRAT broadcast, the crowds at Emancipation Park had quadrupled in number. Spurred on by news of the Governor’s assassination, residents from across Charlotte Amalie converged on the area to express their sorrow, outrage, and anger.
While the grandstand microphones were in full use, the noise in the crowd exceeded the amplified voices on stage. The agitated atmosphere was growing more unstable by the minute.
All of this activity ground to a halt, however, when a line of shiny black SUVs circled the park’s perimeter and stopped along the street next to the post office.
The crowd shifted its focus, several hundred people turning in unison to stare at the official-looking arrivals. Speculations soon began to float through the masses.
“It’s the First Lady.”
“It’s the feds, come to arrest us.”
A cheeky pickpocket piped up. “It’s the Cow Foot Woman, ready for a brawl!”
The first SUV disgorged the Governor’s regular security team. Several members of the cabinet—including those who had been indicted—stepped out of the second.
The third and fourth vehicles carried the USVI senators who had just been released from the Legislature Building. The politicians quickly spread through the crowd, mingling with their constituents, rumpled but triumphant.
The crowd waited, eagerly anticipating the last reveal, as the security team surrounded the fifth and final vehicle. The door to the rear passenger compartment swung open. A suited leg and formal leather shoe kicked out and planted firmly on the curb. Then a large man with a sturdy build, rotund middle, and a beaming smile exited the vehicle.
His identity was spoken in a single stunned whisper.
“It’s the Governor.”
•
THE GOVERNOR STRODE to the grandstand, nimbly climbing the steps to the platform. Few people noticed that he was accompanied by the fifth SUV’s second occupant, Senator Sanchez, who had hastily changed into a suit and heels.
The Governor wasted no time in addressing the crowd. He approached the nearest microphone and spread his arms wide, embracing his listeners.
“We’ve been through a dark and troubling time, my friends, but I’m pleased to tell you that reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
A cheer exploded across the park. Even those who had, hours earlier, derided the Governor as a thief and a coward, now clapped enthusiastically.
“My fellow islanders, I know that you have been distressed by recent events. Believe me, I share your concerns about the foreign troops who have spread across our territory.”
A number of hisses and boos rose up from the audience.
“But I must tell you the truth. It was a traitor in our own family, a trusted source close to me, who betrayed us.”
The crowd’s anger quelled, replaced by morbid curiosity. Who could it be? The question circulated through the park, quickly followed by a myriad of wild guesses. Someone even dared to suggest the First Lady.
“This sordid individual spun a twisted web of lies and deceit—a hoax that fooled the justice department officials, law enforcement, the FBI, and most of all, me.”
The Governor detached the microphone from its stand so he could pace back and forth across the stage.
“Who was this Judas?” he asked, leaning toward the crowd. “This betrayer of our beloved islands?”
The question hung in the air. The murmurs fell silent, waiting for the Governor’s next words.
“It was my closest aide. A young man who was born and raised here. He served in my administration for many years, and he was a trusted member of my staff. But now he is a fugitive from the law. A wanted man.”
The Governor shook his head. His expression conveyed sorrowful disbelief.
“Cedric, I encourage you to turn yourself in.”
•
THE GOVERNOR PAUSED, waiting for the impact of his message to sink in. A member of his security team offered him a water bottle. He reattached the microphone to its stand and took several long gulps. Handing back the near-empty container, he resumed his speech.
“My fellow islanders, there are long and difficult days ahead of us. This callous act of sabotage has caused severe damage to St. Thomas. We must now rebuild our reputation with our friends in the tourism industry. We must redouble our efforts to welcome the cruise ships and their guests to our port.”
The crowd nodded in agreement. The Governor’s silver tongue had always served him well. Scooping the mike once more from its stand, he bent over the platform to deliver one more blow to his opponents.
“But know this. We will not rest until all those involved in this treacherous crime against our territory have
been apprehended and brought to justice.”
While another round of raucous applause swept through the park, the Governor motioned for Senator Sanchez to join him at the front of the stage.
“I want you to know that Senator Sanchez has worked diligently, throughout this ordeal, to rectify the harm that has been done to our territory—even while being wrongfully accused herself. She has shown true leadership and skill.”
Sanchez blushed at the Governor’s words and tried to stifle the surge of guilt she felt for the honor she was about to receive.
“I am pleased to announce that she has accepted my invitation to join my cabinet as a senior advisor. She will play a key role in liaising with the tourism industry, our most vital and important economic partner, and rebuilding that relationship. She is a bright and rising star, and I expect great things to come from this young woman. I know she will succeed.”
Sanchez nodded and smiled through the subsequent polite applause, drawing heavily on her weatherperson’s media skills. After the earlier dramatics, this was merely a perfunctory administrative matter. Few, if any, realized that Sanchez’s position had been negotiated by her uncle Abe at the Hotel 1829 backgammon table.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me,” the Governor said with a wink. “I have to get home to my wife.”
FRIDAY STOOD AT the outskirts of Emancipation Park with several of his fellow agents. His was a skeptical stance. He had observed the spectacle with a wry expression on his face, his arms folded across his chest.
With the Governor’s political rebirth complete, Friday shook his head and turned toward the sidewalk leading to the deepwater port. The US Navy ship would soon be departing for Virginia with its load of National Guard and FBI agents.
He had hastily conferred with his assistant director and the attorney general prior to the Governor’s arrival at the park. While Friday didn’t yet know all of the underlying details, he recognized a politically contrived solution when he saw one.
Aground on St. Thomas Page 23
