by Dane Hartman
“Well, it’s hard to say. This is something you have to speak to Mr. Braxton about. But I can tell you it would be important work, strategic, and enormously rewarding. You could remain on in the police department. Actually, Mr. Braxton would prefer it that way.”
“Like Sandy Patel?”
Chauney made a sound that was halfway between a cough and a chortle; perhaps it was a comment on the late Officer Patel. “He was a flunky, more trouble than he was worth. We had something far more important in mind for you. We’re talking about the real political power of the city here. Not just the docks. The whole city. Just because Mr. Braxton was obliged to leave the country temporarily doesn’t mean he’s severed his connections with his supporters back home. Not by any means.”
Harry was quiet.
“Well?” Chauney evidently thought he’d made his point. “If you’re interested—and you don’t have to give me a yes or no answer yet—we can set up a meeting between you and Mr. Braxton and—” His voice fell off abruptly.
“And?”
“I’m not sure I’m really authorized to tell you this. But tomorrow on the shuttle a friend of Mr. Braxton’s is arriving. Someone from home. I mention it only because if you decide to join us he’ll be the man you’ll be working with.”
Harry knew better than to ask Chauney his name but the blood was pounding in his temples. Although he was rarely excited, he nonetheless found it difficult to conceal his anticipation. But Chauney was so preoccupied with his sales pitch that he never noticed. Here at last, Harry thought, he would have the opportunity to discover who had set him up on so many occasions.
“So this meeting, where and when?”
Chauney had an incredulous look in his eyes. He’d probably been told that Harry would refuse and bodily throw him out, maybe worse. That Harry had actually expressed interest virtually shocked him into silence.
“Well?”
Chauney regained the use of his voice. “I don’t know yet. But don’t worry. It’s a small island. We’ll find you.”
As Chauney moved toward the door—and he did this slowly, the heat seemed to have sapped him of any energy he might have had—he turned to give Harry a final piece of information. “I don’t know whether you’ve guessed it yet, I suspect a man of your intelligence would have. But you really have no choice but to join us. That’s the only way you’re ever going to leave Tapaquite—alive at any rate.”
C H A P T E R
S e v e n t e e n
As soon as it got to be morning, but before the sun ascended too high and caused the heat to become unbearable, Harry took himself down to the Plaza de Armas which was where the natives of Ocho Rios lingered; not in any expectation of finding employment, for there was none, but just to idle away the time in talk and unending consumption of coffee, beer, and home-brewed rum which burned the throat in its passage down to the gut.
The looks the natives gave Harry were withering; they did not especially care for people who were not born in Tapaquite. Their voluble chatter ceased abruptly as soon as Harry stepped into view. When Harry approached them—and there must have been forty or fifty of them congregating about a derelict café whose tables spilled over onto the potted pavement—they exchanged darkly significant glances. What’s this cat want? they seemed to be saying, but only with their eyes, because they knew better than to speak in the presence of an intruder.
“Any of you fellows looking for work?” Harry addressed them, uncertain of what kind of response he was going to get.
One man stepped forward, spitting a wad of tobacco out in prelude to replying. “What work you talking about?”
“Fifteen dollars, U.S., a day for keeping track of some people.”
“Keeping track of some people, huh?” the man repeated, eyeing Harry with increasing suspicion. “Fifteen dollars, U.S.” He nodded. “Twenty dollars, U.S.” Money matters were to be settled first, details of the job could come later.
“Eighteen,” countered Harry. Already this was fifteen dollars above the normal wage on the island—if anyone could even get a job.
The man looked back to his companions. The offer evidently satisfied him. There was a low murmur, a kind of rustling chorus of agreement. “How many of us would you need, man?”
“Six. I’d need six for a couple of days.”
Somehow six volunteers materialized. There was neither bickering nor fighting over which six; could be they’d figured out priorities in advance.
The spokesman now decided it might be wise to ascertain some of the specifics. “Who we to look out for?”
“A fellow lives over in Boca de la Sierpe. Him and all his friends.”
“Braxton Mister?” the man asked.
“I see he’s well known in these parts.”
This information did not prove especially pleasing to any of these people. “You saying you want us to spy out over Boca way?”
“That’s all I’m saying. Eighteen dollars just for watching who comes and goes from Boca and where they go.” To Harry it seemed an easy task and he wondered at the darkening expressions on the faces before him.
The spokesman had in the meantime rejoined his circle and was now conferring with a couple of his companions. Finally he turned back to Harry, shaking his head vehemently. “Sorry, man, we no are going Boca way.”
Thinking he might be holding out for additional money Harry said he’d put up twenty per man. It made no difference.
“Braxton Mister, he—” And here he made a slashing motion across the base of his throat with his hand. “Twenty dollar, U.S., hundred dollar, U.S., what matter when you dead, man?”
The fear that these men suffered from was so palpable that Harry immediately gave up all idea of arguing with them; you could see it in their eyes. Braxton had been in Tapaquite for just about a week and already he had earned a reputation for inspiring terror. Several years had had to pass before he had achieved the same effect in San Francisco. He was getting better at it all the time.
If these impoverished men balked at opposing Braxton—or even being put in a situation where they looked as though they were—then Harry might just as well resign himself to one unhappy but inescapable fact: he was operating wholly on his own.
When he arrived back at the Crown, intending to sample the breakfast that was included in the room tariff, he found Chauney waiting for him, rocking back and forth in a wicker chair on the hotel’s shabby veranda.
“Mr. Callahan, what a pleasure to see you.”
“That’s hard for me to imagine but we’ll let it go.”
“I’ve given Mr. Braxton an account of our conversation last night and he’s mightily pleased by your interest. He proposes that we all get together down at the docks—right over there you can see it—oh, at about four this afternoon. Mr. Braxton is anxious to take you for a little cruise, show you the local fishing grounds.”
Harry had hoped for a more public meeting, some place from which he could extricate himself if need be. A forty-foot sailboat, manned by Braxton’s bodyguards, was not the public place he had in mind.
“Frankly, I’d like to postpone the pleasure cruise for another day. I was thinking more along the lines of the Cay. That way I could just sit and look at the sea and not have to go out on it.”
Chauney frowned. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr. Callahan. Mr. Braxton’s not offering you the choice of meeting places. Arrangements have been made.” He got up from the chair, mopping his brow of all the sweat that had collected there. “See you at four.”
Braxton’s selection of four o’clock was no arbitrary decision. The shuttle plane would arrive from Fort-de-France at three, allowing more than enough time for the mystery guest from San Francisco to get into Ocho Rios from the airport.
Harry determined on going out to the airport himself to see who this visitor was in advance of his meeting. In fact, if he could identify him then, he wouldn’t have to even risk the meeting at all.
At the very bottom of Crown Stre
et Harry found a taxi, which was in slightly better shape than the one he’d taken the day before. He woke up the driver who looked quite astonished that someone should actually desire his services.
This driver was also less inclined to talk or play tourist guide, and so he was able to deliver Harry to the airport long before the shuttle plane was to come in.
At this drowsy time of day, when the sun was close to its zenith, the terminal was as desolate as a graveyard. Even the energetic little boys and wizened men who shrilly harangued newly arriving tourists could barely summon up the initiative to raise their heads and look at Harry.
But as the hour approached when the plane was due in, the terminal came to life. Beggars, taxi drivers, vendors, guides, and one customs official seemed to materialize from out of nowhere.
So did a number of very serious-looking fellows who stood out in uncomfortable jackets and slacks that were obviously inappropriate for this torrid heat. The way they separated, taking up positions at different corners of the terminal, seemed to indicate that they thought themselves inconspicuous. But whatever else they were, they certainly weren’t inconspicuous.
After several minutes had passed the faint droning rumble of the incoming Cessna registered in Harry’s ears. Several others in the lounge also noticed it. Many hurried to the window to catch a glimpse of the plane, but Braxton’s men—Harry knew the type well enough by now to identify them with no trouble whatsoever—stayed put. The expressions on their faces however altered subtly; they looked more worried now and their bodies were tensed, in readiness for action.
The Cessna was the same that Harry had arrived on, and its landing was as uncertain as yesterday’s had been. It seemed to bounce as though it preferred being up in the air, then it settled down on the airstrip for good and began taxiing steadily in the direction of the terminal.
At that moment, from out of a barracks-like building that stood adjacent to the terminal a platoon of military personnel came running. They probably represented the only police force and army the small island had. They were armed with light carbines to which they’d fixed bayonets.
No sooner had the plane come to a full stop than the soldiers had taken up position directly beneath it. When the stairs were down the stewardess appeared at the open door and looked out. Then, with a nod, she descended. Following right behind were a group of men, all in somber suits, all with dark glasses, all carrying leather briefcases; they proceeded down the steps in a great hurry. The soldiers flanked them on both sides and, like an honor guard, accompanied them as they walked to the terminal.
It seemed that whomever Braxton’s distinguished guest, was, he had enough power to reserve the shuttle from Fort-de-France completely for himself and his party. Try as Harry might, he could not get a look at him. Nor was there much of an opportunity to do so. The customs official motioned them through without inspecting either their documents or the luggage which was brought in off the plane within minutes.
At this point the soldiers surrendered their charges to Braxton’s men. There were a few polite words exchanged, a few obligatory handshakes, and then they headed en masse to the exit. Outside, three limousines stood waiting.
Harry kept trying to move in closer. The soldiers were not interested in him; their objective was to prevent the beggars, taxi drivers, and vendors from approaching. When someone proved too determined, the soldiers would glare and threaten to impale him with their bayonets. This action generally caused the person to withdraw.
But Harry did not look like a beggar, taxi driver, or vendor, and the way he was dressed, for all these soldiers knew, he might well be a member of Braxton’s burgeoning group.
But while the soldiers more or less ignored him, Braxton’s associates in plainclothes did not. For a time Harry had enjoyed perfect anonymity mostly because no one had expected to see him at the airport to begin with. But one of the men happened to recognize Harry and he was not especially happy about it. Particularly when he realized that Harry was coming dangerously close to Braxton’s guest on whom this VIP service was being lavished.
In fact, Harry was so intent on seeing who it was that he momentarily let down his defenses. Three of the men who had stationed themselves at intervals about the lounge now came swooping down, determined to hustle Harry away as fast as they were able. They weren’t certain whether Harry’s interest lay in the new arrival or in catching the outgoing flight, but in neither case were they going to allow Harry to do what he planned.
It was only when they had circled around in behind him, using the imitation marble columns to protect themselves—for they had learned from experience that Harry was someone to reckon with—that Harry became aware he was in some degree of trouble. Facing him were maybe half a dozen men in uniforms—boys more than men, scarcely out of their teens. Behind him—well, he would have no idea until he turned around and he wasn’t certain he wanted to do that yet.
But the choice was not his to make. One of the three, the bravest or the stupidest, it was hard to tell which, risked sacrificing his cover and moved into the open, not even bothering to be too quiet about this since he was convinced that the hubbub in the lounge would adequately drown out the sound of his footsteps. Harry had not yet made it known that he had recognized his predicament. The man was simply calculating his risks and gambling.
Sliding out a Baretta from a shoulder holster, the man drew to within ten feet of Harry, then raised his weapon so that if he fired—and this was not his intention—the back of Harry’s head would be shattered.
He was about to call to Harry, to command him to disarm and submit himself into his custody, but right then an elderly man with shags of gray hair springing out of his scalp saw the gun, pointed to it, and shrieked, and in doing so alerted Harry. Another of Braxton’s aides emerged from behind the column and, infuriated, brought the barrel of his gun down against the old man. Blood raced to the surface of his skin and with a sigh the beggar tumbled to the floor. There was suddenly a lot of screaming; panic rooted itself among the crowd and it began to eddy toward any means of egress.
With this unexpected distraction, Harry had time to maneuver. He submerged himself in the crowd, which was not easy to do because he was taller and whiter than those who surrounded him. Evidently he made for a target, however imperfect, because two bullets whined over his head. This only stirred the crowd to quicken their pace with the result that a few of the less nimble ones tripped and fell. Rather than stopping for them, people pressed on, trampling them.
Even though the limousines were pulling away with their passengers, the soldiers felt compelled to restore order. They hadn’t any idea of who had fired the shots or why but they quickly went into action, crouching, bringing their carbines up to their shoulders, preparatory to laying down a barrage. Maybe they thought a revolution was underway.
Two of Braxton’s men ran toward the exits, deciding that this would be the best tactic for heading off Harry’s escape. But the fact of the matter was that Harry really couldn’t escape, being stuck as he was in the midst of this thronging mass; every which way he turned, he was blocked off. There were more shots. It didn’t make any sense why anyone should be shooting given just how confused the situation was. But the effect was to increase the panic. People were wailing and throwing themselves against the person in front of them in an attempt to extricate themselves.
The soldiers were now under the impression that they were confronting a full-scale attack and never mind if they couldn’t determine from where exactly it was coming. Either their commanding officer gave the order to fire or else one of the men simply got too trigger happy and started shooting on his own. In any case, once it started no one was in any hurry to stop it.
To the right and left of him people were being flung back and forth by the force of the bullets, like so many kites in the wind, but because there was virtually no room to maneuver in, they could not fall. They remained trapped between other bodies, some living, some not, suspended grotesquely, blood pou
ring from them and forming small pools at their feet. The bullets cut through flesh, they cut through poles and posters advocating the virtues of the national lottery. Several pinged against the black board that displayed the time of day flights came in and left for Fort-de-France.
When the man in front of Harry—a toothless hawker of mangoes and nuts—was thrown aside by a round, Harry suddenly found he could get free. Leaping over a corpse, he got himself to the outside, sprinting through the lounge to a place of safety.
He was spotted, not by one of Braxton’s hirlings but by a soldier who evidently didn’t like the idea of anyone escaping. He was not a very good shot; the bullets were way wide of the mark. Harry knew enough not to trust to luck, however, and he pivoted around, firing simultaneously. He’d not really aimed, he had an instinctive sense of where to shoot. And his aim bore out his instinct; the soldier’s neck erupted in a spout of blood and he keeled right over, a vastly surprised and irritated expression on his face.
Another soldier turned his attention toward Harry, but by this time he had lost all advantage and he was hit before he could get off a shot. He stiffened at the shock and fell back partway, then, somehow, improbably raised himself again. With a shudder he began coughing. Blood flowed generously from his mouth, and then he collapsed again; obviously he was never going to move.
Seeing that the panic-stricken crowd that was busy stampeding toward the exit was not resisting them, the soldiers decided to concentrate on Harry. There were maybe ten of them—Harry was not sure where they’d all come from—and they spread out, hoping to encircle him and trap him in a withering fire. They no longer cared about the beggars and vendors who had broken the glass doors from their hinges in their attempt to get out of the terminal. Behind them they’d left several bodies—who’d finally been allowed the opportunity to crumple to the floor. Some were still alive and crying in pain; you could see them writhing, struggling to get back on their feet and walk away as if this alone could overcome the gaping holes in their bodies.
