Stout, my ass.
16
The A1 hugged the coast, shooting straight through flat countryside. To our left, the sea lay hidden behind the walled compounds of private estates and big resorts. To our right, the terrain began its ascent toward the mountains.
I’d visited Jamaica several times over the years, but had lingered mostly along the coast. I had very little firsthand knowledge of the island’s wild interior. Not many people do, including the majority of Jamaicans. But I knew there were vast stretches of the hinterland, from the Cockpit Country to the John Crow Mountains, which remain virtually uncharted, as hostile and impenetrable as they were hundreds of years ago when Jamaica was a colonial outpost in the conquest of the Caribbean.
I couldn’t see the mountains from the car. Yet, I had a real sense of their presence, a feeling that something dark and threatening loomed out there.
Then again, maybe it was just my own dark mood. An old friend was dead. And I was alone, heading into uncharted territory of my own. I kept shifting around in the backseat of the Mercedes, but no matter how I fidgeted I couldn’t make myself comfortable.
After an hour or so we neared the bluffs around Repulse Bay. The road steepened. A canopy of Jamaican cedars hid the night sky. The afternoon showers were long gone, but water still dripped from the trees.
We rounded a bend and the high beams of the Mercedes lit up a concrete wall on our left. It was tall, eight feet at least. It was painted pink and ran as far ahead as I could see. The grounds along the wall were landscaped with stately Royal palms and clusters of bougainvillea. The grass was thick and manicured.
Spotlights drew attention to big letters that were inset on the wall. They spelled out “Libido.”
The spotlights also drew attention to something else. When she saw it, Ali shot up in her seat.
“Damn them!” she said. “They’re at it again.”
Alongside the Libido logo, black spray-painted letters announced: “NPU say go!”
Otee slowed the Mercedes. As the car edged along the wall, we saw a succession of graffiti, all written by the same hand. Sometimes it was just the three letters “NPU.” Elsewhere there were slogans: “NPU say no to Babylon!” and “NPU say stop da exploitation!”
Then the high beams picked up three figures along a section of the wall that lay ahead. Two of them turned toward us, frozen in the headlights. The other one crouched beside the wall, working furiously with a can of spray paint.
“Stop them!” shouted Ali.
Otee whipped the Mercedes off the road, driving along the shoulder. We hit bumps and hollows in the grass, and Otee kept tapping the brakes. We couldn’t go very fast. I bounced around in the backseat.
As we closed in, the crouching figure slung the spray-paint can aside and stood by his accomplices. Three boys, barely in their teens—one of them, the spray painter, barechested and wearing red running shorts; the others in baggy pants and T-shirts. All three of them wore yellow-and-red bandannas pulled tight against their heads.
We were about fifty yards away when the shirtless one reached down, picked up a rock, and flung it at the Mercedes. It struck dead center in the windshield and sent out a spiderweb of shattered glass. Otee hit the brakes, and I heard Ali scream as I tumbled onto the floorboard, the car spinning in the wet grass, crashing into something, and slamming to a stop.
I pulled myself up and saw Otee leap out his door, saw him pull a pistol from his waistband, saw him lean across the hood of the Mercedes, using it to steady his aim. But the three boys had already bolted across the road and disappeared into the underbrush.
I got out of the car. The Mercedes had crashed into one of the palm trees. The front door on the passenger’s side was crumpled. I helped Ali slide out on the driver’s side.
We joined Otee by the wall. And we looked at the words that had been written there, the paint still fresh and gleaming.
“NPU say go!”
17
They call themselves Nanny’s People United—NPU. Officially, a political party. But just hoodlums, as far as I’m concerned, committing crimes and calling it politics.”
We sat in the living room of Darcy Whitehall’s cliffside house at Libido, just Darcy Whitehall and me. Otee had deposited me there, then left to escort Ali to her cottage elsewhere on Libido’s sprawling grounds.
It was one swell house—soaring ceilings, bamboo floors, exotic hardwood furniture, everything opening onto a broad deck that wrapped around the place. Airy and expansive, the house seemed to draw in the outdoors and create the impression it was floating above the sea. It was like something the Swiss Family Robinson might have built if they had good taste and a decent design budget.
The wall opposite me was filled with badges of honor from Whitehall’s storied career in the recording industry—framed albums that had gone platinum, photos with all sorts of famous musicians, a row of trophies that included several Grammies.
“Nanny’s People?” I said. “Sounds like it ought to be the name for a day-care center, not a political party.”
“Oh, this Jamaican Nanny, she was about as tough as they come. You never heard her story?”
I shook my head no.
“Granny Nanny, they sometimes call her,” Whitehall said. “Jamaica has seven national heroes. She’s one of them.”
“Like George Washington or Thomas Jefferson.”
“No, actually, not like them at all,” said Whitehall. “There’s really no one in America like our Nanny.”
Whitehall wore a faded blue polo shirt and cream-colored pants that could have been pajamas, baggy and made out of cotton with a drawstring waist. He was barefoot. Mr. Casual Elegance.
He reached into a pocket and came out with a roll of cash. He peeled off a bill and handed it to me. It was for five hundred Jamaican dollars, about eight bucks U.S. given the current exchange rate. The face on the bill was of a gaunt, fierce-looking woman, wearing a turban and a necklace of bones and leaves.
“That’s Nanny. Someone says, ‘Hey, mon, lemme hold a Nanny,’ means they want you to give them five hundred J’s.”
I handed Whitehall the bill. He tucked it away.
“Nanny was a leader of the Maroons,” Whitehall said. “You know about them, I assume.”
“That’s what they called the runaway slaves who lived up in the mountains and fought the British. Back in the 1700s.”
Whitehall nodded.
“Didn’t just fight the British, they beat the British, with Nanny leading them all the way. Descendants of those original Maroons still live up there. Got Maroon villages scattered all over Cockpit Country. They have their own autonomous government, their own leaders, their own way of life. Might as well be a separate country up there.”
“And these Nanny’s People, the NPU, they’re based in the mountains, too?”
“Oh, they’re everywhere. In the city, in the mountains. They’ve spread like a brushfire. Got some woman they call Nanny Two, stirring them up and making them do what they do.”
“So what’s their beef with you?”
Whitehall arched an eyebrow, gave me an ironic smile.
“Why, I am the Great Oppressor, of course.”
“Because you own big resorts?”
“Exactly. According to the NPU, tourism equals slavery. Rich white people come here, and poor black people wait on them. No different than the plantations. What they neglect to see, of course, is that without the money tourism brings here, there would be no roads, there would be no airports . . .”
A voice interrupted him.
“No AIDS, no pollution, no homogenization of the culture.”
I turned to see Alan Whitehall standing at the entrance to the living room. Otee stood just behind him.
“What, the NPU has brainwashed you, too?” said Whitehall. “Or are you spouting their nonsense just to win a few more votes in the countryside?”
He said it with a smile, and Alan Whitehall returned it as he joined us in the living roo
m. He embraced his father warmly.
“I might stand miles apart from the NPU on most matters,” said Alan, “but there are some things on which we share a common ground. And the negative impact of wholesale nonsustainable tourism is one of them.”
“I don’t know what this talk is about nonsustainable tourism. All I know is that the people who come and stay in our hotels make it possible to pay the bills,” said Whitehall. “What would you do, man, bite the hand that feeds you?”
“Oh no, Father, I would never bite it. But take a friendly little nip from time to time? Just to keep you honest? Sure, I’ll do that.”
Whitehall jostled his son’s shoulder in mock anger. There was clearly a lot of affection between the two of them whatever their political differences might be. Alan shook my hand.
“My condolences for the loss of your friend,” he said. “I did not know Mr. DeVane well, but no one deserves to die in such a fashion. Such a horrible thing.”
Alan Whitehall bore only the slightest resemblance to his father. Like Ali, his features were dark, the Creole blend so common in the islands. Where Darcy Whitehall was dashing and devil-may-care, Alan was bookish and buttoned-down.
Darcy Whitehall gestured us to the bar. He made drinks. The two of them had gin and tonics. I saw a bottle of Appleton Estate Reserve twenty-one-year-old rum. Costs sixty bucks a bottle in the States. When you can find it. I had some that.
We stepped out onto the broad deck that wrapped around the house. Otee stationed himself between the living room and the deck, his pistol snug in the waistband of his pants.
Far below us, waves crashed against cliffs that fell away to a perfect crescent of white-sand beach. Lit up at night, Libido’s layout resembled a wagon wheel cut in half. Pathways radiated out to clusters of villas. The hub was a long low complex near the beachfront with a couple of restaurants, a nightclub, a spa, and a fitness center.
“I know you must have many questions, Mr. Chasteen,” Darcy Whitehall said.
“Just one,” I said. “Who killed Monk DeVane?”
Whitehall shook his head. It was a long moment before he finally said: “I’ve no idea.”
I’m no good at masking what I’m thinking. Whitehall said: “You look surprised by that.”
“That’s because I am,” I said. “I just assumed you might have some suspicions about who’s responsible for all this. Someone you’ve crossed, someone you’ve done business with, someone who has it out for you. Back at the skybox, in the elevator, when you said you knew the bastards were bluffing . . .”
Whitehall cut me off with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Just a figure of speech,” said Whitehall. “I wasn’t referring to anyone in particular.”
“What about Monk? Didn’t the two of you talk about who might have planted that fake bomb in the skybox? Didn’t he have his suspicions?”
Whitehall sipped his drink. He held my gaze.
“No,” he said. “We never discussed that at all.”
I didn’t believe him. I looked at Alan Whitehall. He seemed to be studying his father with the same skepticism I felt, but he didn’t say anything.
“OK,” I said. “What about these Nanny’s People characters? They obviously don’t have warm, fuzzy feelings about you.”
“No, they don’t. If I had to suspect anyone, then it would be them. Not only do they have their grievances with me, they are fielding a candidate to oppose Alan in the parliamentary election,” said Whitehall. “However, my son, the politician, disagrees.”
“I don’t think they had anything to do with it,” Alan said. “The NPU has been vocal, but it hasn’t been violent.”
“Not yet, anyway,” said Whitehall. “But this is Jamaica. Politics leads to bloodshed like honey to the bee. Which is where you come in, Mr. Chasteen.”
I took a sip of my drink. The twenty-one-year-old rum is the oldest that Appleton puts on the market. They make a forty-year-old batch, but don’t let us riff-raff have any, saving it as gifts for presidents and prime ministers and heads of state.
“I know you came here as a favor to Monk DeVane, not out of any allegiance to me,” said Whitehall. “But I would be greatly obliged if you stayed. Just to help out for the short term, until all this gets settled.”
I took another sip of my drink. Wonder how often any of those presidents and prime ministers and heads of state ever pour a big glass of the good stuff, kick back and enjoy it. The world would be a better place . . .
“I am fully aware that you don’t have any particular expertise in such matters,” Whitehall said.
No denying that. I was completely out of my league. But I saw no need to second my shortcomings. I sipped some more rum. I let it puddle in my mouth before I swallowed it. It burnt good going down.
“Monk held you in high regard and that’s quite good enough for me,” Whitehall said. “Still, please know that I forgive you should you choose to walk away from all this.”
I drained the last of the rum.
“Appreciate that,” I said. “But if I were to walk away, then I couldn’t forgive myself.”
Darcy Whitehall smiled. He took my glass.
“Let me get you a refill,” he said.
18
We all had another drink. Darcy Whitehall offered a toast to Monk’s memory. We talked and talked, but I didn’t learn much more about who might be running around setting off bombs and killing people.
I did learn a lot about Libido. Darcy Whitehall steered the conversation away from Monk’s death and toward the resort business. He gave me an overview of his operation—about two hundred and fifty acres at the Jamaica property, the largest in his chain of resorts, with a maximum occupancy of three hundred guests and a staff of four hundred. Then he and Alan started talking about amortization of capital outlays and tax-deferment strategies, and unable to hold up my end of the conversation, or even wanting to fake it, I called it a night.
“Meet me for breakfast,” said Darcy Whitehall, “and we’ll decide where we go from here.”
He told Otee to take me to where I would be staying.
“Give him a quick tour of the place,” said Whitehall. “Then stop at the main guardhouse and make sure Mr. Chasteen has everything he needs.”
Several golf carts were parked outside. Otee pointed at one and we got in it and drove off, zipping down the hill that created a buffer zone between Whitehall’s house and the resort proper.
We passed thickets of bamboo and ginger, heliconia and antherium. The sweet smell of frangipani was thick on the air. Giant philodendrons arched overhead with fronds the size of market umbrellas. Tree frogs croaked a racket.
The guest villas were so well hidden behind all the plants that I could barely make them out. Idyllic, open-air affairs, they gave their occupants the impression of bunking down in a private Eden.
Otee pulled the golf cart into a mulched parking lot and got out.
“Dis where all de action is come night,” said Otee.
He set out down a footpath and I followed him. I heard music and the throbbing beat of a bass line coming from the direction of the beach. As we drew nearer, I spotted a long pavilion, a low glow silhouetting the people dancing inside. At least, I think they were dancing. A few of the couples appeared to have progressed to more intimate rhythmic diversions. It was hard to tell in the dim light.
Ahead of me, Otee stopped on a wooden footbridge. Squeals of laughter cut through the night.
I joined Otee and looked down on an artificial stream that rushed out of a shrub-luscious glade. It was a flume ride, like you’d find at a water park, made of poured concrete, its smooth sides painted turquoise. Big round lights lined the bottom, and the shallow water sparkled as it whooshed under the bridge.
The squeals of laughter drew closer.
“Here come da show,” said Otee.
They came in groups of twos and threes and fours and more, shooting down the flume, all of them naked and all of them having a wild old time. Mo
st of them were just in it for the ride, whooping and hollering as they went. For others it was a grope-fest, and they had latched on to each other in wonderfully creative ways as they negotiated the flume’s banks and turns.
Some went down on their bellies with partners riding their backs. Some went down sitting upright in long human chains, their legs wrapped around each other. I spotted one guy gleefully coursing along in tandem with a slim brunette woman, his hands clutching her perky boobs, manipulating them as if they were steering knobs.
There was a brief lull in the parade. And then another couple came into view.
“Oh, yah,” said Otee. “Dose two got it figured out.”
The man was riding on his back, hands behind his head, comfy as could be. The woman was straddling his lap, facing forward. She worked her hips with intensity of purpose, leaving little doubt what the two of them were up to.
All in all, it was an impressive display. The woman’s blond hair was plastered down her back. She smiled and waved as they shot under the bridge.
“Hey, there!” she called out.
It was Darlene, the friendly woman from Tennessee who had sat next to me on the plane. I waved back as she and her partner disappeared around a bend in the stream.
Otee gave my arm a tug and took off down the path ahead.
“Got to see how dose two finish it,” he called out as I hurried after him.
We passed a sign that said “Libido Lagoon” as the footpath opened onto a free-form pool the size of three tennis courts. It had been designed to look like some tropical version of aquatic paradise—water trickling down limestone walls, lots of ferns, and lots of naked people lounging on terraced ledges and paddling around in the pool.
A faux volcano belched smoke and kept the pool enshrouded in a haze of watery mist. Small caves honeycombed the limestone walls. They were dark but I could catch an occasional glimpse of movement from within and could well imagine what was going on in there.
A few dozen people were gathered at one end of the pool, by a broad waterfall with a ten-foot drop. It was fed by the flume we’d crossed just moments before. Bodies were spilling over the lip of the waterfall to the delight of the people in the pool.
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