Alan Whitehall laughed.
“Could have been worse,” he said. “I mean, by Jamaican standards that was pretty mild. People expect their politicians to call each other names. Part of the give-and-take.”
“Like wit ol’ Auntie-Man,” said Otee.
“Yeah, like that,” said Alan. He glanced my way, then back at the road. “Few years back, this barrister name of Ernest Pantemann stood for parliament in St. Ann’s. He was JDP. And his opponent, from the PNP, twisted his name around, started calling him Auntie-Man.”
“Auntie-Man?”
“Yes, same as calling him a sissy. That’s an Auntie-Man,” said Alan. “So Mr. Pantemann, he had to respond some way, you know? But what’s he going to do? Make speeches denying he was an Auntie-Man? That just make the people laugh at him more.
“So what he did, he put up signs all over St. Ann’s that said: ‘PNP Can Go to Hell.’ Just that, nothing else, just ‘PNP Can Go to Hell.’ It became his campaign slogan. Pretty soon everyone was saying it.”
“He win?”
Alan shook his head.
“No, he lost. But people, they liked him for it. Showed he wouldn’t step away from a fight.”
We bounced along, putting Benton Town behind us. There was just another hour or two of daylight left. Thunderheads were forming above the mountains, threatening a storm.
We were nearing the cutoff where the dirt road met the blacktop when we spotted the white van. It shot out from behind an embankment, straddling the road and blocking our way. Otee hit the brakes and we skidded to a stop maybe thirty yards from the van as two men piled out of it, pointing pistols at our car.
Otee jammed the gear shift into reverse, but stopped as a gray Toyota pickup pulled in behind us. A man got out of it. He held a pistol, too. All three of the men wore red-and-yellow bandannas, tied off so only their eyes were showing.
They kept their distance, pistols leveled at the car.
“You, in da backseat, Whitehall! Get out!” yelled one of the men by the white van. “Get out now and we let da other two go.”
“Dey ain’t letting no one go,” Otee said in a low voice. “Dey shoot us soon as they got him.”
“I’m thinking you’re right,” I said.
I turned around to Alan. He looked remarkably calm, considering.
“Get down on the floorboard behind the seat,” I said. “Keep your head low.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t quite know yet. Think we’re making it up as we go along.”
Alan squeezed down on the floorboard, and I turned back to Otee. He was slowly unzipping the rifle case that sat on the console between us, one hand still on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the two men by the van.
“You can reach da gas pedal with your foot?” Otee asked me.
“Uh-huh.”
“You gonna have to steer, too.”
“I can do that.”
The two men in front of us moved closer to our car.
“Get out, Whitehall! Now!” one of them yelled. He was waving his pistol, and then he fired it, a puff of dirt exploding in the road just in front of us.
After that everything happened in a blur: Otee let go of the steering wheel and pulled the rifle from its case. I reached for the wheel, slammed down on the gas pedal, and the Honda shot forward, fishtailing in the dirt. The two men leapt aside as we sped toward them. They fired, their shots wild and wide.
Otee leaned out the window with his rifle—a wicked-looking thing, brushed black steel with a banana clip. He squeezed off a volley. One of the men went down.
The Honda slid out of control toward the edge of the road and a hairy drop-off that led God knows where. I whipped the wheel and it straightened, plowing into the rear end of the van, knocking it aside and giving us just enough room to rumble past.
Otee fumbled to open the front door, and as I let my foot off the gas and found the brake, he rolled out of the car, onto the dirt road, unleashing another round of shots, more shots than I could count, as the Honda came to a stop. Then everything was quiet.
I looked behind us and saw two bodies in the road. The gray pickup truck was already speeding away, in the direction from which we’d come. Otee stood up and brushed himself off.
“You OK?” I asked Alan.
“Yeah,” he said, unfolding himself from behind the seat.
Otee walked down the road toward the two bodies. We got out of the car and joined him.
Otee nudged the bodies with a foot. They didn’t move. Otee’s rifle had chewed them up pretty badly.
Two pistols lay by the bodies. Otee picked up one of them and looked at it.
“G39,” he said. “Just like the ones got stolen from the guardhouse.”
35
Three hours later we were in Mo Bay, sitting in Eustace Dunwood’s office at the Jamaica Constabulary Force headquarters. I’d driven Alan in his car while Otee followed in the white van, the two bodies in the back. I’d tried not to look at the faces of the dead men when we’d loaded them. They were just kids, really, barely out of their teens. No IDs on either one of them.
Otee had argued against going to the police, saying it was just a waste of time. He was all for dragging the bodies off the road, rolling them down the side of the mountain, and us being on our merry way. But Alan and I had prevailed, and now we all sat on one side of Dunwood’s desk as the inspector leaned back in his swivel chair.
“There’ll be an investigation, of course, but based on what you’ve told me, I’m not recommending charges,” he said. “You figure they were planning to take you hostage, Mr. Whitehall, and demand a ransom?”
“I don’t know what their intentions were,” Alan said. “But they knew I was in the car, and they were demanding that I get out and go with them.”
Our statements about the shoot-out were sitting on Dunwood’s desk. He rocked forward in his chair and looked at them.
“The two got shot, they were wearing NPU colors?”
“So was the third one, the one who got away,” said Alan. “Red-and-yellow bandannas.”
“Just like the other night,” I said.
Dunwood cocked his head.
“The other night?”
I reminded him how we’d caught the group spray-painting slogans on the Libido wall.
“These two dead boys, could they have been with them?” said Dunwood.
Otee shook his head.
“Nah, ones the other night they just children; they run off scared. Ones today, they different. Nothing scared about them.”
“Let me ask a dumb question,” I said.
They all looked at me.
“Why would they advertise who they were?” I said. “Why would they be wearing those bandannas, something that would point a finger at the NPU? Doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. Except in Jamaica,” said Dunwood. “The way it works here, everything is politics. Even when it’s not. You can’t separate it. It’s like wet on rain.”
“But wouldn’t they at least try to avoid throwing suspicion their way?”
“It’s like this, Zack,” Alan said. “Say some Kingston boys go into a grocery store, shoot the owner, and take all the money out of the drawer. Turns out the store owner supported the People’s National Party, the PNP.”
“The party you belong to,” Zack said.
“Uh-huh. The majority party,” Alan said. “So if the store owner was PNP, then who’s automatically going to get the blame? The opposition party, the JLP, the Jamaica Labour Party.”
“Even if it was just some guys walking into a store and robbing it only because they were low-life scum who wanted the money?”
“Even if,” said Alan. “So next thing that happens, some JLP store it gets robbed and that gets blamed on the PNP. It just goes on and on, robbing and killing and calling it politics.”
“But what if the store owner doesn’t back any of the parties, doesn’t have any opinion about politics?”
It brought snickers from all three of them.
Otee said, “Dis Jamaica, mon, everyone he got an opinion. Ain’t no one sits on da damn fence like dey do where you come from. Here, everyone dey with one party or da other. And dey like to advertise it.”
“The politicians are always making speeches condemning the gangs, saying they’re against the violence, claiming their party has nothing to do with it,” said Dunwood. “But at the same time they got their henchmen out on the street paying this gang for allegiance, promising another gang they’ll do something for them. Politicians figure they got juice on the street then it gives them juice at the polls.”
I looked at Alan Whitehall.
“You got henchmen out on the streets?”
He smiled.
“Just you and Otee,” he said.
“But your party, the PNP, it pays off the gangs like Dunwood here says?”
“It’s something I prefer not to know about,” he said. “The system isn’t perfect. I’m trying to do what I can to change it.”
“Here’s what it all boils down to, Mr. Chasteen,” Eustace Dunwood said, “Kenya Oompong is Mr. Whitehall’s opponent and the head of the NPU. Something happens to Mr. Whitehall and everyone is going to say the NPU was behind it.”
“Still,” I said, “why would the guys who stopped us on the road wear those bandannas? It just doesn’t fit for me.”
“Because the NPU is new on the scene. Trying to make a name for itself. Since they’re going to get the blame no matter what, why not wear the colors, just go ahead and underline it?”
“Gives them some street cred,” I said. “Makes them seem bold and badass.”
“Exactly,” said Dunwood. He looked at Alan Whitehall. “You want me to haul in Kenya Oompong, all of us sit down, ask her what she knows about this?”
“No,” Alan said. “She’ll just call a press conference, bring in the newspaper and the TV cameras, say she’s being set up for something she didn’t do. It would be like throwing fat on the fire.”
Dunwood folded his arms across his chest and thought about it. Didn’t seem to give him much pleasure.
“Guess all we can do is see how it plays out. Figure out who those two boys were, ask some questions, see where that white van came from. Get lucky, maybe we can find the third one, the one driving that Toyota truck.” He looked at Otee. “You get me the serial numbers of the Glocks that were stolen and we’ll compare them against the ones those two were carrying.”
Otee nodded.
“I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” he said.
“One more thing,” I said. “Them trying to hijack us up there on the road, grab Alan, do whatever they were going to do . . . what does that have to do with the bombs?”
No one said anything. Finally it was Alan who spoke.
“I really can’t see how it’s connected. I still don’t think the NPU had anything to do with the bombs.”
“I agree,” said Dunwood. “Think we have two different things going on here. We got someone messing with Darcy Whitehall. And we got someone else messing with his son.”
Dunwood stood. So did we. He stepped from behind his desk and opened his office door. As we left, he put a hand on Alan’s shoulder.
“Like I told you, we’ll do what we can. Still, you know how it goes once things like this get started. People want to get even, match things tit for tat. Best watch yourselves,” he said.
36
It was almost 10 P.M. before we got back to Libido. We went straight to Darcy Whitehall’s house to let him know what had happened.
“He’s in his office, on the phone,” said the security guard who’d been assigned to the house.
Call me insecure, but I had the distinct feeling Darcy Whitehall was avoiding me. Still, I couldn’t let that get in the way of what needed to be done.
“Come on,” I told Alan. “We’re going to get your sister.”
“What for?”
“I’ll explain once we get down there,” I said.
Otee went with us as we took a golf cart down the hill to Ali’s house. The lights were on, and Ali was busy at her easel, working on a sketch when we knocked at the door. She spun around, surprised. She was wearing a black, floor-length gown with ruffles and sequins, something fit for a fancy ball.
“That’s one of mother’s gowns,” Alan said.
Ali bristled at his words.
“I like to wear it sometimes when I’m working. I find it inspiring,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”
“No, no, I just didn’t know you had it, that’s all,” Alan said. “I thought all Mother’s things had been . . .”
“What, thrown out? Burned? Destroyed? Purged from the face of the earth?”
Ali was dragging out the family laundry, and Alan was quite obviously embarrassed by it. He started to say something, but held back. He stepped onto the porch. Otee joined him.
I sat Ali down on the couch and told her about what had happened on the road back from Benton Town.
“Oh my God,” she said when I was done. “Who were they?”
“Still trying to figure that out,” I said. “Maybe NPU.”
She clenched her jaw.
“My brother and his goddam politics. I don’t care what he says, this whole thing—the bombs, Monk dying—it’s all because of him. Isn’t it?”
I didn’t have the answer to that. I left her on the couch and went out on the porch.
“How many security guards does the resort have?” I asked Otee.
“Be something like forty to fifty, working eight-hour shifts,” he said.
“We need to beef it up,” I said. “I want you to call security, tell them there’ll be twelve-hour shifts starting immediately. More patrols, no one just sitting around in the guardhouses. Then I want you to tell them to send four guards up to Mr. Whitehall’s house as soon as they can get there.”
“Dem boys gonna want extra pay,” Otee said.
“Tell them they’ll get it.” I was playing fast and loose with Darcy Whitehall’s money, but what could he do, fire me? “Just make sure they get someone up to Mr. Whitehall’s house right now.”
Otee went off to use the phone, and Ali stepped onto the porch to see what was up.
“I want you to get your things,” I told her.
“What things?”
“Whatever it is you need to spend the night up in your father’s house.”
“I’m not spending the night up there,” she said.
“Yes, you are. And you’ll be staying up there until everything settles down,” I said. “So will you, Alan. I want everyone in one place, not spread out all over the property. After what happened today, I want someone keeping an eye on all of you, all the time.”
“There’s no way I’m staying up there with . . .”
“Just go do it, Ali,” Alan said, cutting her off.
She left in a huff.
“I apologize for my sister’s behavior,” Alan said. “Old wounds.”
“Every family’s got them.”
“Yeah, but ours seem to run deeper than most.”
Before he could offer any more than that, Otee returned from using the phone.
“Dey sending guards up to Mr. Whitehall’s house right now. Want to know if dey can send up someone else with dem.”
“Someone else?” I said.
“Yah, mon,” said Otee. “Fellah from the embassy. Said it was important that he see you.”
37
It took Ali longer than it should have to put her things together, her way of registering displeasure about the unwanted sleepover. Which meant Jay Skingle and the security guards had been waiting for us several minutes when we arrived at Darcy Whitehall’s house. Skingle looked very official, from his dark suit and striped tie down to his peeved, screw-faced expression, his way of registering displeasure about us wasting his precious time.
I introduced Skingle to Ali and Alan, and then the two of them stepped inside with Otee a
nd the guards while I spoke with Skingle in the driveway.
Skingle held a dull gray metal canister, about the size of a thermos jug. I had a pretty good idea what was in it.
“There was very little in the way of remains, shredded clothing, not much more,” Skingle said. “Still, the family generally likes to have something. I wanted to get it to you so that you might proceed with the final arrangements at your earliest convenience.”
He handed me the metal canister. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Gave me the chills. I didn’t want to think about it.
“There were a couple other things,” I said. “Monk’s wallet, his Super Bowl ring.”
“I assume that’s still part of the investigation. I’ll inquire about it and get back to you,” he said. “I did take the liberty of notifying the Department of Veteran Affairs on the family’s behalf. Mr. DeVane is eligible for interment at a national cemetery, should the family so desire. Do you know what they’ve decided?”
“Haven’t had a chance to speak to anyone about it since yesterday,” I said.
“It’s really not a good idea to dawdle in matters such as these, Mr. Chasteen,” he said. “I suggest you move forward with all due speed.”
So young, and already so very pompous. The guy had a brilliant future doing government work.
“Just one more thing,” said Skingle. “A formality.”
He reached inside a coat pocket and pulled out some legal papers. We moved under a light by the front door of the house so we could see them better.
“I just want to look through these one more time, make sure everything is here,” Skingle said.
There were several pages and he took his sweet time looking at them. Minutes passed. Seemed to me that he was the one who was dawdling, but what the heck did I know?
He handed the papers to me.
“Please read these over carefully,” he said. “Then sign where I’ve indicated.”
I read the papers, perhaps not as carefully as Skingle might have liked, but most of it was just boilerplate legalese and didn’t bear a word-by-word inspection. A release form for Monk’s remains. A “Statement of Death” issued by the Jamaican government.
Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02 Page 12
