Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02

by Jamaica Me Dead

  “Make sure you show them that when you go through airport security,” said Skingle. “That way they might not make you open up the canister.”

  I signed the papers. Skingle tucked them away.

  “So,” he said. “When’s your flight out?”

  “Don’t have anything booked yet.”

  Skingle made a face. This simply would not do.

  “I’ll pull what strings I can and see if we can’t get you something early tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll handle it.”

  “Well, please see that you do,” he said. “By the way, it’s really not necessary for you to return.”

  “Oh?”

  “Believe me, there’s nothing you can do. Just let my office and the Jamaican authorities do our jobs. I will personally keep you posted regarding our progress.”

  “Personally? You mean we can exchange home phone numbers and stuff like that?”

  “No reason for you to make this difficult, Chasteen.”

  “You’re right. So, personally speaking, what sort of progress have you and the authorities made so far?”

  “You have to understand, these things take time,” Skingle said.

  “Something I’ve got plenty of. Might as well spend it here.”

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Particularly if it leads to episodes like the one today up in the mountains. Jamaican-on-Jamaican crime is one thing, happens every day. But when a U.S. citizen is involved it is quite another. You can’t imagine what sort of problems it has caused our office. It would have been even worse had you managed to get yourself killed.”

  “That really would have created a lot of extra paperwork for you, huh?”

  Skingle narrowed his eyes. I think it meant he was trying to look tough. He didn’t have the face for it.

  “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Mr. Chasteen.”

  “Somehow I’ll find a way to live with that.”

  Skingle put a hand to his mouth and coughed, like some people do when they can’t think of what to say.

  “Well then,” he said, straightening his tie, “I suppose I should be going.”

  “With all due speed,” I said.

  38

  I like to flatter myself by thinking I’m a man of action and decisiveness, but at that particular moment, watching Jay Skingle walk away while I was cradling a canister that contained the meager remains of an old friend, I wasn’t sure which way to go, or what to do. I needed to get back on track. I needed to come up with some kind of game plan, not just stand there immobile in the driveway. I started kicking things around in my head, hoping maybe that would jump-start me.

  I wondered why Skingle was so anxious for me to leave Jamaica. I didn’t have an answer for it, other than the fact that he didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. Little boy stuff. If we were in third grade we could have met each other on the playground after school and duked it out and probably wound up best friends. Nah, I take that back. Skingle was a born prick, nobody’s best friend. I would have preferred to just beat the hell out of him and been done with it.

  I wondered why Darcy Whitehall was acting the way he was. I felt sure he was holding out about something, something that might put matters into perspective, something that might explain why bombs were exploding and people were dying. I wanted to squeeze it out of him. But I didn’t want to go sit inside his house. Too much sticky business, some weird family vibe. Best to let it air out, at least for the night.

  I wondered about Monk. How had he managed to get hooked up with Darcy Whitehall in the first place? There were some big gaps in Monk’s life, and more than a few indiscretions. What had led him here? Would those files in the dresser back at his cottage help explain anything?

  I wondered about the two dead guys. Had they and their partner dreamed up the plan to waylay our car and snatch Alan? Or had someone else been behind it? If someone else, then what other sort of mayhem might they now be plotting? And would the shoot-out set off a round of political revenge that would get even uglier?

  I wondered if there was anything that tied all this stuff together. From the skybox in Gainesville to the airport parking lot to the dirt road near Benton Town—how could it all possibly be related? I didn’t see how it could.

  Eustace Dunwood and Alan Whitehall were right. There were two separate things going on. Had to be. Because if they were wrong, if it really was all tied together, then whoever was behind it had more resources than any of us did, orchestrating acts of bedevilment and violence from Florida to Jamaica, acts that, even if they misfired, required a certain degree of logistical finesse and know-how. Just what the hell was going on?

  Too damn many questions. My head was ready to explode. I needed something to settle me down.

  Which was when I got to wondering about Barbara. I missed her, needed to talk to her. When things in my life fly out of control, as they’d been doing for the past three days, she has a way of putting them back in their proper orbit. She’s my gravity.

  But Barbara was in Berlin, and in Berlin it was, let’s see, six hours ahead of us, only 5 A.M. A little too early to call. I needed to give it an hour or so, but I didn’t want to just go sit in my cottage and wait.

  And so I finally made a decision that got me moving again: I needed a drink, and I set out find one.

  39

  There were several nightclubs at Libido, and I picked the first one I came to—the Kama Sutra Lounge. A placard by the entrance announced that it was “Glitter & G-String Night” and everyone was dutifully observing the theme. Two guys walked in wearing jockey briefs adorned with sequins. It passed for conservative attire. The women with them wore just sequins.

  I found an empty space at the end of the bar, put the metal canister down in front of me, and ordered a glass of rum. When it came I raised the glass and clinked it against the canister. Cheers, Monk, old pal. Why did you drag me into this?

  The place was dark and done up in Oriental fashion, incense heavy in the air. Big murals on the walls showed men and women in various contorted positions based on the ancient practice of tantric sex. Private alcoves with gauzy curtains lined the room. Just as well it was dark. I didn’t much care about seeing what sort of pairings the murals had inspired inside the alcoves.

  I ordered another rum. I checked the time. Ten minutes since I had ordered the first one. At this rate I would polish off another four rums before it was time to call Barbara. Pace yourself, Zack-o.

  The music was canned and it was some kind of trance/ambient/techno nonsense. What was taking place on the dance floor wasn’t so much dancing as it was syncopated writhing. It was all very pseudo-tribal with much rubbing of bodies and no small amount of groping—foreplay before stepping off by twos and threes and fours and more to one of the private alcoves.

  I was working on my third rum when Lynette and Darlene walked in, spotted me at the bar, and came over to join me. Both wore thong bikini bottoms, tiny T-shirts that barely covered their breasts, and spike heels. They had on some kind of sparkly makeup that made them glitter with specks of gold and silver.

  “We just came from your place,” said Lynette. “Thought we’d pay you a surprise visit, see if we could drag you out to have some fun.”

  “And here I am.”

  “Yes, here you are. And here we are,” said Lynette. “You know what that means.”

  “Time to party!” said Darlene. She wiggled up against me.

  “Only, you are so overdressed,” said Lynette. “You ought to at least take off your shirt or something.”

  “Afraid I might catch a chill.”

  “Don’t you worry, baby, I’ll keep you warm,” Lynette said, sliding close. She undid the top button on my shirt and snaked a hand inside.

  “Oh, what a nice cocktail shaker,” said Darlene, grabbing the canister. She shook it and started to unscrew the cap.

  I pulled away from Lynette and took the canister from Darlene.

  “Yeah,” I said.
“They sell them in the gift shop.”

  I tightened the canister’s cap and put it back down on the bar.

  “You know, your neighbor’s really creepy, not very friendly at all,” said Darlene.

  “My neighbor?”

  “Yeah, the guy who lives next door to your place. He was coming out when we were walking up and we asked if you were around. He just ignored us. Hurried off like we weren’t even there.”

  “He was carrying this big old garbage bag,” said Lynette. “Looked like he’d been cleaning house.”

  “Hmm,” I said. Profundity masking for total bafflement is one of my strong suits.

  Darlene slid close and rubbed a hip against mine. Lynette did the same thing on the other side. Then they started rubbing up against me in time with the music.

  I drained the rum and grabbed the metal canister.

  “Gotta go,” I said.

  “But we just got here,” said Lynette. “Don’t you want to party with us?”

  “You know, I really didn’t dress for the occasion. Feeling a little out of place,” I said and headed for the door.

  40

  Whoever had gone through Monk’s cottage had been neat about it. Nothing was out of place, but when I opened the bottom dresser drawer it was empty. Monk’s files were gone.

  I went to the phone, called the guardhouse by the main entrance, and when a man answered I asked him to check the logbook to see when Jay Skingle had signed out.

  “Don’t need to check,” he said. “Watched him sign out about half an hour ago, then saw the two of them drive away.”

  “The two of them?”

  “Uh-huh. That embassy man had a driver.”

  “You see what the driver looked like?”

  “White fella. Slight. Not much to him.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “He was inside the car.”

  “What did he do while Skingle came up to see me?”

  The guard thought about it for a moment. Then he said: “Didn’t keep a real close eye on him. After the embassy man came up to see you, the other one he parked way down at the far end of the parking lot, out of the light. Didn’t see him again until they drove away.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  I tried to picture the guy who’d accompanied Skingle to the police headquarters in Mo Bay. Slight, not much to him. Yeah, that was the guy.

  Skingle had kept me busy with paperwork while his buddy pilfered Monk’s place. What were the two of them up to? And what did Monk have that they wanted?

  Two good questions, but before I could put my vast intellect to work on them, the phone began ringing in my cottage, and I ran next door to grab it.

  41

  “No, Aaron Hockelmann isn’t nearly as awful as I expected,” said Barbara. She was calling from her hotel in Berlin. “Still, I don’t know that I intend to crawl in bed with him.”

  “You’re speaking in a business sense, right?”

  “Well, of course, darling. Not that I could even conceive of crawling in bed with him in any other sense. He’s just much too . . .”

  “Germanic?”

  “Or Trumpish. Very full of himself. Boorish. Consumed by his own self-image. I can’t imagine that he would be much fun in bed at all.”

  “Not that you’ve imagined it.”

  “Not that I have at all,” said Barbara. “I’ve only been imagining you.”

  “Was it good for you?”

  “Yes, but not as good as if you were here with me. Not as good at all.”

  “Are you in bed right now?”

  “Yes, I am. Just woke up a few minutes ago and called you right off. Well, I called room service first. For coffee. But you were a very close second.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “What are you wearing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you in a bathrobe or what?”

  “No, I’m wearing my white silk pajamas. The ones you bought me at the Mandarin Oriental when we were down in Miami a few weeks back.”

  “Just the pajama top, right?”

  “Yes, just the top. With panties.”

  “What color are the panties?”

  There was a pause. Then Barbara said: “Zack, we aren’t really going to do this, are we?”

  “Do what?”

  “Have phone sex.”

  “Is that what we were doing?”

  “Well, it certainly seemed as if we were heading in that direction.”

  “You don’t like phone sex?”

  “Don’t know, never tried it. But no, I don’t think that I would like it very much at all. Seems rather desperate.”

  “Well, I am rather desperate. And on top of that I’m horny.”

  “Subliminate,” said Barbara.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Suppress physical desire for as long as possible and, when it is finally satisfied, then it is ultimately more fulfilling.”

  “Nice theory on paper,” I said. “But me, I’ve always been a firm believer in bonk-on-demand.”

  “Well, then,” said Barbara, “perhaps I shall just have a slot installed on my forehead and you can pop in a quarter whenever you’ve got the urge.”

  “Make it a dime, toss in a dollar-bill changer, and you’ve got a deal.”

  We must have talked for an hour. I hoped Aaron Hockelmann was paying for the call. We talked about everything. I got her up to speed about where things were on my end, and she did the same. It was good medicine for both of us.

  Finally, Barbara said: “Maybe the man from the embassy is right. Maybe it is time for you to go home.”

  “Not until this all gets worked out.”

  “Zack, it will all get worked out. With or without you.”

  “But there’s no guarantee that it will get worked out the way I want it to get worked out.”

  “And which way is that?”

  “The good guys win and the bad guys don’t.”

  “Zack, dear, is it impossible for you to accept the fact that things sometimes just can’t turn out the way you want them to?”

  “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty much impossible for me to accept. Does that make me a control freak?”

  “Yes, but a lovable one,” she said. “So. Who are the good guys and who are the bad guys?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Alan Whitehall is a good guy. Even if he’s a politician. Everyone else, I’m reserving judgment.”

  “Even Monk?”

  “Monk’s out of the picture. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Still, it sounds as if you’re not as keen on him as you once were. All that business about running out on his ex-wives, leaving them high and dry.”

  “Apparently, he was still married to one of them. Not that it slowed him down in the least.”

  From her end I could hear a doorbell ring.

  “Oh, that’s room service. Right back.” When she returned she said: “Fifteen dollars for a pot of coffee. It’s a scandal.”

  “Charge it to Aaron Hockelmann,” I said.

  “I intend to.” I could hear her blowing on the coffee to cool it, taking a sip. Then she said: “I must agree, it does seem as if Darcy Whitehall is being rather circumspect about all this. Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Beats me,” I said. “All I know is that he’s totally committed to his son and seeing to it that he gets elected to Parliament.”

  “And somewhat less committed to his daughter.”

  “Yes, there’s a distance between them. Probably measurable in light-years.”

  “Which could explain why she took up with Monk. She can’t please her father, but she can please the father figure.”

  “That’s a psychological explanation. Could be there was just a mutual attraction and they wanted to fuck each other’s brains out.”

  “My, but you do have fucking on your mind today, don’t you?”

  “Comes with the turf, only not my specific turf. I feel like I oughta be wea
ring a T-shirt with a big ‘C’ on it.”

  “For celibate?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Well, if it becomes too great a burden for you to bear then I would surely understand if you were to submit to animal instinct.”

  “Like hell you would.”

  “You’re right,” said Barbara. “I’d claw your eyes out. Hers, too.”

  “You might have your hands full,” I said. “There’s two of them.”

  I told her about Lynette and Darlene.

  “Doesn’t sound as if I really have anything to worry about,” said Barbara.

  “You don’t,” I said. “But one question.”

  “Ask,” she said.

  “Are they black?”

  “What?”

  “The panties . . .”

  42

  When I arrived at Darcy Whitehall’s house the next morning, three of the guards were spread out around the place. They carried rifles and wore the glum expressions of men who are engaged in something serious but are trying very hard not to look bored. The fourth guard was stationed by the front door. I stepped inside.

  Otee sat at the kitchen counter, eating a plate of food, peas ’n rice it looked like, watching something on television. His Browning was on the countertop. I walked to the living room, where Alan sat in a chair working on his laptop.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He was heading out the door when I was getting up,” he said. “Mentioned something about going to Mo Bay.”

  “He went alone?”

  Alan shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I was just getting up and . . .”

  “Went by himself,” Otee hollered from the kitchen. He appeared in the kitchen door, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Tried to go with him, but he wouldn’t hear it.”

  “Did he mention what he was doing in Mo Bay?”

  “Or who he was doing?”

  I hadn’t heard Ali Whitehall walk up behind me from a hall that led to the sleeping quarters. She was barefoot and wearing a white terrycloth robe.