“If she doesn’t call back, so be it,” Chloe says. “Why is this woman so important to you? We don’t need any humans to help us defeat my brother.”
I smile, rub her arm lightly. “Of course,” I say. “But my father taught me, ‘Only fools take action without first gathering all the information they can.’ No one knows Miami like the Gomez family does. If Claudia decides to help, believe me, we’ll be grateful for her assistance.”
More minutes pass. “Let’s leave,” Chloe says. “You can try her again in Montego Bay.”
I shake my head.
My bride frowns. “I don’t see what makes her so special that you let her make you wait so long. I’ll wait in the car,” she says and stomps off.
Time drags by. I sit and stare at the phone. When it finally rings, the harsh sound of it startles me so much that I don’t pick up until the second ring.
“You’re at a pay phone in Maxim’s General Store in Ocho Rios, right?” Claudia says.
“Yes,” I say, smiling that Claudia has already taken the opportunity to trace the number. Arturo would have done the same.
“Two men, employees of one of Pop’s smuggler friends are on the way there. What are you driving?”
“A yellow Land Rover.”
“Yellow?” She laughs. “Could you be any more conspicuous?”
“Claudia, tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ve faxed a photo of you to these people. If they find you look like the picture, they’ll give you a cellphone, an untraceable one like we use in Miami. Then we’ll talk. And, Peter?”
“Yes,” I say.
“If you aren’t who you say you are, you better leave now.”
The blare of reggae precedes a huge black SUV as it pulls into Maxim’s parking lot. Leaning against the trunk of the Land Rover, Chloe close beside me, I watch it slowly cruise toward us. “Your special friend’s been reading too many spy novels,” my bride sniffs.
“She’s not special and she’s just being careful,” I say.
The car pulls up to us and the dark tinted front passenger window rolls down revealing a large, well-muscled dark Jamaican, talking into a cellphone, the phone looking like a child’s toy in his huge hand. “Ya, mon,” he says into the phone. He motions for the driver, another oversized Jamaican, equally black, to turn down the music.
The first man holds up a piece of paper studies it, then looks at me. “Ya, mon, he matches the fax you sent us.” He listens for a moment, stares at my eyes and nods his head. “Ya, his eyes are very green, like you said.”
He holds out the phone to me. “For you, brother. The lady, she wants to talk with you.”
I take the cellphone and walk away from the SUV. The car sits, its motor idling, the two men watching me, waiting, I assume, for instructions. “Claudia?” I say.
“Peter, I don’t know what’s going on but I think I’m relieved to hear that you’re you. What can I do?”
“First tell me about Henri.”
“He looked okay the few times I saw him. A little subdued, but he looked healthy. I can’t really report anything recent. Peter, the other one, stopped bringing him to shore a while ago.”
“And Arturo?”
Claudia sighs. “Two nights ago Pop left work at his usual time. According to Ian, he and Peter — the other Peter — and Rita stayed to work late on this merger they’re doing. You can’t believe how Pop hated the whole idea. He kept trying to talk all of them out of doing it. But Peter and Ian insisted.
“Anyway,” she says. “When the others left, they found Pop by the side of his car, all bloody, bruised and unconscious. At first they thought he was dead, but Ian finally felt a pulse. The police think it was a mugging — his money and jewelry were all gone — but I’m not sure. You know how tough Pop is.”
“What does he say happened?”
“He’s still unconscious. I contacted some of his people; they’re putting the word out on the street, trying to find out who did it and why. My bet is we’ll find it’s someone connected to Tindall.”
“Because?”
“Pop thought if he and Ian went to Peter and presented a united front, they’d be able to change his mind about the merger. Ian refused to risk it. The two of them had some pretty brutal screaming matches. Pop told me they both threatened each other.”
I nod, even though Claudia can’t see me. “I can see how they would,” I say.
“Who is this other Peter?” she says. “How can he look and sound just like you?”
“Claudia, you know there are things about my family that we never discuss.”
“Yes,” she says. “Pop was real clear with me on that.”
“Let’s just say he’s a relative — anot very friendly one.”
“Whatever you say.”
“What’s more important is our getting to Miami and resolving this whole situation.”
“Our?”
“I’m married now. My wife, Chloe, is with me.”
“What can I do?”
I know there’s no time for false papers to be made. Without them any commercial air travel is out. “Can your friend smuggle us into the Miami?”
“His next shipment leaves in two weeks.”
“I don’t want to wait that long. Find out for me what cruise ships are in Montego Bay and what their itinerary is.”
“Sure,” Claudia says. “I’ll have to call you back on that.”
“Fine,” I say. “Do you think your friends here can help with a few things?”
I hand the cellphone to the Jamaican in the SUV. He listens, nods a few times, saying, “Ya. Ya,” then disconnects and hands the cellphone back to me. He opens the glove compartment, gives me a charger for the phone and a manila envelope.
“A thousand dollar in twenties, mon.” He flashes me a wide smile. “Your lady friend on the phone must like you very much. She said you have some things for us.”
Opening the trunk, I say to Chloe, “We’ll never get your herbs and potions through customs.” I take the wicker chest and our suitcases and hand them to the Jamaican. “This way everything will be in Miami in a few weeks.”
After the SUV drives off, Chloe folds her arms, gives me a hard stare. “ ‘Your lady friend must like you very much,’ ” she says, mimicking the Jamaican’s accent and tone.
“She works for me,” I say,
Chloe shrugs, obviously not pleased with my answer.
The cellphone rings just a few minutes after we leave Ocho Rios. As soon as I answer, Claudia says, “You may want to stay where you are. The Carribean Queen is in port at Ocho Rios right now. It’s due to leave at six. Their schedule calls for a stopover in Cayman, a sea day and arrival at the port of Miami the next morning.”
I check my watch. Three P.M. With luck we have plenty of time to find our way aboard the ship. “Can you arrange for some of your people to watch my island and some others to watch the office — so we know what’s happening with the other Peter?”
“Sure.”
“And can you get Arturo’s SeaRay and meet us in Key West the day after tomorrow?” I say.
“Why Key West?”
“I don’t want to contend with customs in Miami,” I say. “Key West is the first place we can get off.”
Claudia says, “But the ship doesn’t stop there.”
I sigh. If all goes as I plan, arriving in Miami could prove inconvenient. For beings like Chloe and me, leaving a ship at sea is a simple matter. But I’ve no desire to explain any of it to Claudia. It’s none of her business just how I intend to get on the ship or how I plan to leave it. “Didn’t your father tell you there would be questions that go unanswered? I just need you to meet us.”
“Sure. Whatever you say. It’s a push but, yeah, I can do it,” Claudia says. “Then what?”
“Then we have some people to visit.”
Chloe shakes her head when I tell her to turn the car around. “Why? Did your special friend tell you to?”
I glare at her. A
little jealousy may be cute and endearing, but enough is enough. “Why would you be jealous of any human women, let alone this one?”
My bride shrugs. “I don’t like that you’re making plans with her and not discussing them with me. And don’t tell me you never took any of them to bed. Derek brags about the hundreds he’s had.”
“I’m not Derek,” I say. “Since Elizabeth, there’s only been one — and I regret that. Most certainly it was not Claudia. We need to go back to Ocho Rios because there’s a cruise ship there that I want us to catch.”
“How?” Chloe says. “We have no papers.”
I tell her.
24
The Carribean Queen sits at the end of a long, narrow concrete pier jutting into Ocho Rios bay. Painted a brilliant white, with six tiered levels above its waterline, it looks more like a floating wedding cake than a majestic ship of the sea.
Dozens of tourists stroll along the pier: some going back to the ship; others heading for some last-minute shopping on land. A number of them wear loose-fitting T-shirts decorated with a large blue trident, the same insignia that decorates the ship’s three smokestacks.
“That’s what’s taking us home,” I say.
We cruise past the harbor as I study the sidewalks for likely couples. But most seem to be paired with other couples or using guides.
The crowds of tourists thin out as we pass a clock tower in the center of town. I grin when we approach a farmer’s market after that and see a couple — both the man and the woman wearing blue trident decorated T-shirts and carrying shopping bags in both hands — arguing with a cabdriver. They look to be in their mid-thirties — the woman attractive in a sort of suburban, overdressed, country club way; the man smaller than me, balding, but trim.
The taxi drives away, the man and woman frowning as they begin their long walk toward the pier. I motion for Chloe to drive up to them. Putting down the window as we approach, I call out, “Would you like a ride?”
The couple stops, the man peering into the Land Rover. “You American?” he says.
I nod. “Miami,” I say.
“No kidding? We’re — Marcia and me — we’re from Boca. Barry and Marcia Liebman . . .”
“And believe me, we wish we were back there, right now,” the woman says. “I can’t believe these people. Would you believe that cabdriver wanted to charge us extra to turn the air-conditioning on? Uh, don’t think we’re too spoiled. . . .” She looks into the car, smiles at Chloe. “But neither of us think that perspiration makes for a better vacation experience. You understand that, don’t you, honey? After all, if Barry and I wanted to sweat, we could just as well stayed home and turned our air-conditioning off.”
“We have to make a stop first, but if you don’t mind that, we’ll be glad to take you to your ship,” I say.
“Great,” Barry says. He and his wife rush into the car’s backseat.
“Thank God! Air-conditioning!” Marcia says, arranging the bags on the floor before them as Chloe drives forward, heading out of town. “I told Barry if he wanted sun we could have stayed home and gone to the beach club. At least there, the floor doesn’t move. They say they have stabilizers on the ship but, honestly, I don’t think they ever use them. The boat was rocking so much last night I was positively green.”
“Marcia,” Barry says. “You wanted to come.”
“Only because of the food — which I haven’t had any appetite to eat — and because he got us a free stateroom,” she says. “Barry does the cruise line’s books.”
Barry grins. “It’s one of the perks of being a CPA.”
“Next time” — Marcia looks at her husband — “tell them to give you a bigger check instead.”
Chloe puts her right hand on my thigh, mindspeaks to me. “How long are we going to have these people in our car?” I smile.
We drive out of town, Marcia and Barry talking non-stop, neither even asking what our names are.
“I’m telling you, as soon as we left Miami, I got sea-sick. We haven’t been out of our room the whole time. I don’t even know where our dinner table is,” Marcia says.
“It’s okay, Marcia. You’re better now,” Barry says.
“There’s a road over there,” Chloe mindspeaks. I look up ahead, at a dirt road to the right, just past a run-down shack, three half-naked children playing in its overgrown front yard.
I nod, say, “Take it.”
“Look at that,” Marcia says. “How can these people live like that?”
A handmade sign says, WHITE RIVER, with an arrow pointing to the road. “We’re almost there,” Chloe says out loud, turning onto the dirt road, the Land Rover sending up a cloud of brown dust behind it.
Marcia and Barry complain about the road’s condition, the jungle desolation we drive through. Neither Chloe nor I speak until we come to a small clearing by the river’s bank. My bride pulls into the clearing, turns off the ignition. “We’re here,” she says and gets out of the car.
Marcia and Barry look around. “Where?” Barry says.
I open my door, get out. “It will be cooler for you if you get out while you wait,” I say.
The man and woman both get out slowly. “This is the middle of nowhere,” Marcia says.
Chloe gives her a sympathetic smile and walks over to her. “True,” my bride says, changing the shape of one finger, slitting Marcia’s throat with a quick slash, grabbing the woman by her hair, holding her so no blood stains her clothes.
“No!” Barry shouts. Before he can move, I grab him by the neck and hold him in place as I strangle the life from him. After he goes limp, I lay him on the ground and undress him. Chloe does the same with Marcia.
Once their clothes are off, folded and placed in a neat pile on the car’s hood, Chloe and I take our clothes off. “Me first,” she giggles, and studying the dead woman lying before us, she shifts shape until I see her becoming Marcia, her hips widening, her legs thickening, her hair growing longer, turning dark. Likewise, I change until not even Barry’s best friend could tell I wasn’t him.
Chloe stares at me, says, “Well, you look like him.”
I examine her. “You did fine too.”
My bride shakes her head. “Look at her face. I’m sorry,” she says. “I have no idea how anyone can put on so much makeup. I don’t know how to do it.”
“You’re fine,” I say.
“They were such disagreeable people.”
“True,” I mindspeak as I remember how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. I shift into my natural form. “But I bet they make a most agreeable meal.”
We leave the Land Rover in a parking lot a few blocks from the pier and walk to the Carribean Queen, carrying the bags of souvenirs that Barry and Marcia had bought. I offer to carry all the bags but Chloe refuses, even though she clearly has a problem remaining upright in Marcia’s high heels while carrying two shopping bags and Marcia’s oversized sequined, leather handbag.
After she twists her heel the third time in almost as many steps, she says, “Why do their women do this to themselves?”
I shrug, don’t even attempt an answer.
Our suite looks as large as most homes’ main bedrooms. Chloe flops down on the queen-sized bed as soon as we get in the room, pulls off her shoes. She points to the closet. “She better have some sneakers or flat shoes in there or I’m going barefoot the rest of the time.”
I grin, say, “Whatever. We don’t even have to leave the room until we get near Key West.” I point to the wide pair of sliding glass doors leading to a private outdoor balcony overlooking the water. “We can watch the ocean from here.”
“Uh-uh,” Chloe says, shaking her head. “I’m not going to let you off that easy. Don’t they have shows on board these ships?”
“And gambling . . .” I say.
“And dancing and movies?”
I nod my head.
We don’t get back to our room until after three in the morning — after losing four hundred dollars at blackjack, af
ter seeing a truncated version of A Chorus Line performed on an impossibly small stage, after watching a comedian tell jokes that made most of the audience groan and mostly confused my bride and after dancing for hours in the ship’s club.
“I loved all of it!” Chloe says, pulling off her clothes, dancing her way across the room, naked. “Didn’t you?”
“Not all of it,” I say. “I could have come back sooner.”
“I think you’re taking your impersonation of Barry Liebman a little too seriously,” she says, coming to me, rubbing my bald spot, kissing me, undoing my clothes for me. “Don’t be an old fuddy-duddy accountant. Wouldn’t you like to balance my register?”
I look at the dark-haired woman in front of me, attractive but not my Chloe. “I’d rather make love to my real wife,” I say.
Chloe smiles, changes before me. “You too, Peter,” she says.
It takes me only a moment to shed Barry’s image. “Wait for me on the bed,” I say, going to the sliding doors, pushing them open.
The room fills with the fresh, salt smell of the open ocean. I breathe it in. “This is what it smells like on my island,” I say, returning to my bride, admiring her brown body, her chocolate breasts.
“I like it,” she says and we make love surrounded by the salt air, the ship gently rising and falling as it makes its way through the waves.
Afterwards, we lie on our backs, naked on top of the sheets, letting the ocean breeze cool our bodies. Chloe nestles against me, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my thigh. I sigh, glad to just be lying beside her, happy that for the next day, we have nothing we must do. So much has happened since Chloe and I met, that all I want right now is to take this time for us to pay attention to each other.
This evening on the ship was the first time we were able to relax and to play together. Chloe’s enthusiasm to try to do everything available almost wore me out, but it also delighted me. “This can be sort of like a mini-honeymoon for us,” I say.
“That sounds nice,” Chloe says. “Of course, you know, technically, we’re not married yet.”
“No?” I frown. “Screw the technicalities, I think we are.”
Dragon Moon Page 20
