by Ken Douglas
“ I wasn’t dismissing you. ‘Good night’ is a greeting here. You know like, ‘good morning’ and ‘good afternoon’. You say ‘good evening’, we say ‘good night’.” Her eyes were smiling at him. “Now tell me why you’re covered in filth on such a fine, clean evening and why you’re driving George Chandee’s car.”
“ George Chandee, the attorney general?” Broxton said.
“ The very one. That’s his slick car that your lady is sliding out of right now.”
“ I didn’t know that,” Broxton said. Why had Chandee been following him? Maybe he didn’t believe Broxton’s story. Maybe he wasn’t following him at all. Maybe it was only coincidence that he’d been in the same place at the same time, but whatever the reason, it was a good thing he’d been behind him and that he’d left the car open with the keys in it when he did.
“ How’s that?” she said.
“ He stole it,” Maria said, coming up the walkway.
“ Stole it?” the woman said. “You stole Chandee’s car? The chief law enforcement officer in Trinidad?”
Broxton saw the smile splitting her face and grinned. “I guess so,” he said.
“ Well, la de da, here I’m sitting on my porch swing and a man with brass balls comes a walking right up to me. Lord I wish I was twenty years younger.”
“ I do too,” Broxton said.
“ You’re in trouble boy, Mr. Chandee is not a forgiving man.”
“ We’ve met,” Broxton said. “I don’t think he likes me.”
“ You stole his car. I can tell you right now he hates your guts, pardon my French. And I’ll tell you something else. You need help and you need it now, right now.”
“ Can you help us?” Maria said.
“ I can and I will. You come on up here, darling.”
Maria brushed past Broxton and made her way up the steps. The woman stood and from the effort it took her to push herself out of the porch swing, Broxton could tell that she wasn’t well. She coughed, then reached out and opened her front door. “Freddy, you get on out here. We got some company.” Her voice rang true with the authority of command and when a tall, light-skinned man framed himself in the doorway it was easy to see who was in charge of the household.
“ What you want, woman?” He sounded tough, but the love he had for the frail woman was pouring out of his eyes. Then he turned and saw Broxton and Maria. “Lord if they aren’t a sight.” Then his eyes moved on past them. “Chandee’s car,” he said, turning toward his wife.
“ Does everybody in Trinidad know that car?” Broxton asked.
“ Probably,” Freddy said, “Trinidad’s a small place and Chandee’s a popular man, and ain’t too many people own a green BMW with AG 1 on the license plate.”
“ Popular with some,” the woman said.
“ He’s a son-of-a-bitch is what he is,” Freddy said. “How’d you get his car?”
“ They stole it,” the woman said, laughing, then she held a hand out toward Maria, “My name’s Bertha, but most people call me Little Bee, or just Bee.”
“ I’m Maria and that’s Broxton.”
“ What happened to your hair, boy?” Freddy said. “You got cancer?”
“ No,” Maria said, “he wears it that way on purpose.”
“ Stupid,” Freddy said and Maria laughed. Broxton didn’t think it was funny.
“ You come in and get out of those clothes and tell me all about it,” Bee said, and thirty minutes later Maria was wearing a spare change of clothes from her flight bag and Broxton was wearing a pair of Levi Dockers and a bright Hawaiian shirt with a busy floral pattern full of yellows and greens. He liked the shirt and he liked Freddy and Bee.
“ The shoes are a little tight,” Broxton said.
“ Beggars can’t afford to choose what they wear,” Freddy said.
“ That’s the truth,” Broxton said. Then he asked, “How come you don’t like George Chandee?”
“ He threw a big money cricket game and I lost a bundle.”
“ Now, Freddy, you don’t know that.”
“ I do, woman. I used to play, dammit. I know the game. He claimed he was sick, but I know better.”
“ And you better keep your mouth shut about it or you’ll be in a world of trouble.”
“ Hush, woman, it was years ago.”
“ Can’t trust anybody that would throw a game,” Broxton said.
“ Exactly,” Freddy said.
“ And they made him attorney general?”
“ It’s not like the whole world knows he did it, but I know.”
“ Freddy,” his wife said.
“ I know I what know,” Freddy said.
“ I only talked to him for a few seconds and I know I don’t like him,” Broxton said.
“ You going to take his car when you leave?” Freddy asked.
“ Not if I can help it.”
“ You need a ride somewhere?”
“ I have to get to the American Embassy.”
“ What for, you gonna file a complaint?”
“ He works there,” Maria said.
“ You don’t say? I had a party at my house two weeks ago and I invited the American ambassador. I know most the people at the Embassy.” Broxton watched as Freddy puffed up. He was sitting, but if he’d been standing he’d have been strutting. “I take them out on my fishing boat, usually one weekend a month,” he continued. “We go out to Scotland Bay, it’s a lot of fun. You’ll have to come along next time.”
“ I’d like that,” Broxton said.
“ Freddy thinks he’s just so important. The ambassador never came to the party.”
“ But I invited him.”
“ Yes you did. You invited him. You also invited the prime minister.”
“ One of these days, woman.”
“ Hush up, Freddy.”
“ Where’s the little lady going?” Freddy said.
“ I’d like to go to the Hilton,” Maria said.
“ You take the man to the embassy,” Bee said. “I’ll see to lady.”
“ Fair enough,” Freddy said, and after a few minutes of goodbyes Broxton found himself on the way to the Embassy in Freddy’s small Mini. Once there he promised to have dinner with Freddy and Bee a week from Saturday. He’d been assured that several important people were going to be there and he promised that he wouldn’t miss it. Then he was out of the car and headed into the embassy as the sun was going down.
Chapter Seven
Dani Street raised her wrist so that the porch light lit up the face of her Rolex. It was the maid’s day off and she had two hours before her father came home, plenty of time. She was leaning against the porch swing, long legs barely covered in a bright, very short summer dress. The ambassador would be shocked, she thought, but the ambassador wasn’t home.
She looked past the circular driveway and out across the Queen’s Park Savannah, the tree-lined park that dominated the center of Port of Spain, on the other side of the street. Although it was just after dark, the lights around the park were on, keeping the night alive, and safe. A young couple was jogging along the Savannah, followed by a pair of frolicking German shepherd puppies. Off to her right a man was selling hot dogs and lemonade. Boys were playing cricket in the park. Lovers were strolling, holding hands. A young Rasta man was sitting, playing the guitar, his case open at his side, and every now and then a passerby would drop some coins into it.
It was a typical Friday night at the Savannah. Cool tropical breezes fanned a myriad assortment of trees after a hot and humid day. People were bustling, the night was alive. The sounds of the Rasta’s deep voice drifted across to her. She started to lose herself in his song of love and love lost, when her reverie was interrupted by the black Mercedes rolling up the circular drive.
She looked at the watch again. An hour-and-fifty-five minutes till her father bustled in the front door. The ambassador was always punctual, something that was close to impossible in Trinidad, but it was his punctuality tha
t unnerved the Trinidadian political and social set and gave him his edge. The world, even Trinidad, marched to his drummer. He’d even taught the prime minister a thing or two about being on time.
The Mercedes stopped in front of the porch. She silently watched as Kevin exited the car. He closed the door with a soft push, barely enough to latch it, and even that slight movement made his biceps ripple. He looked over at her and smiled, then he moved toward the back of the car, running his hands lovingly along the top as he made his way. The car was only two weeks old.
“ I brought a case of that Venezuelan rum your father likes so much,” he said, opening the trunk.
“ He’ll be home soon.” She flicked the long blonde hair from her face. “What took you?”
“ We got in late. I’d still be at the airport sweating customs, but I whisked right through with Chandee and the prime minister.” He looked at his watch. “We have plenty of time,” he said, echoing her earlier thought.
“ How did it go?” she asked.
“ Good as gold, picked it up on the stop over in Caracas. Carried it in my shoulder bag the whole way, no problem.”
“ You have a sample?” she said, backing through the doorway.
“ Of course.”
She turned and he followed her into the house.
“ You want me to set this in the kitchen?” he asked. He was holding the case of rum as if it was feather light. He had a good body, the result of six days a week in the gym at Starlight Plaza.
“ Sure.” She led him through high-ceilinged rooms, first through the entryway, then a sitting room, then the formal dining room.
“ The table, is it new?” he asked of a massive oak table surrounded by nine chairs, four on each side and one at the head.
“ Yes,” she said, without turning around.
“ Nothing but the best for old Warren,” he said.
“ That’s right.” She pushed a swinging door aside and stepped into the modern kitchen. Her father loved the old house, but he’d had the kitchen completely redone. Cobalt blue tiled floor and counters, stainless steel range and oven that would be at home in the best of the world’s restaurants. She spent a lot of time in here with him, cooking, talking, laughing. The kitchen was his unofficial office, and on a small breakfast table sat his laptop and numerous papers.
“ He’s still working on that book? I thought he’d given it up,” Kevin said.
“ Still at it,” she said.
“ Nobody will ever print it,” he said.
“ I’ll get it printed. I still have a lot of clout in the publishing industry.”
“ Even so, it’ll never sell. Nobody cares about a race of people that died out two hundred years ago.”
“ They’re not all dead, but that’s not the point. It’ll sell because it’s good. People will want to know their story, how they lived, what they believed, because through them we learn more about ourselves. This book is so well written it would make you cry. He makes them come to life.”
“ Give me a break. Nobody wants to hear that Columbus killed the Caribs. Nobody cares about naked Indians. Nobody wants their idols trashed.”
“ Columbus didn’t kill them.”
“ You know what I mean. He started it.”
“ That’s like saying if my father gets drunk on your rum, your grandmother’s responsible. If she hadn’t had your mother, your mother wouldn’t have had you, and you wouldn’t have bought the rum. Where’d you get it by the way? You surely wouldn’t try and slip a case of rum by customs while you were smuggling in the coke.”
“ Margarita, last trip. I stopped by my place on the way over.”
“ You can set it by the sink,” she said, wondering if getting the rum for her father was the only reason he’d stopped off at his apartment.
“ Fine,” he said. By the time he’d laid the case on a long tiled counter she was leaving the kitchen and headed for the hallway. He turned to follow.
She heard him behind her as she entered the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. She opened a bureau drawer and took out a mirror and handed it to him. She eased the drawer shut with the eager anticipation she always felt when she did a test. It was the only time she allowed herself to use the drug.
“ Are they ready to ship?” she asked.
“ They sent five kilos with me. It’s all up front, to show their good faith. They want my principal to know they’re ready to go. Soon as I call them, the goods will be in route.” He untucked a shirt tail and wiped the mirror off. Then he blew his hot breath on it and wiped it again.
She pushed the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ears as he lay the mirror on the bureau and pulled out a brown glass vial from his shirt pocket. She wet her lips with her tongue as he unscrewed the cap, and she started drumming her fingers against her thighs as he tapped the vial against the mirror, spilling out some of the white powder.
She sucked in her upper lip and gently bit down on it as he pulled out a credit card and a blue hundred dollar bill from his shirt pocket. He set the bill on the bureau and divided the cocaine into two equal white lines with the credit card. He picked up the blue bill and started rolling it up.
“ Put it away,” she said. “We’ll use mine.”
“ Got a problem with the local currency?” he said, tucking the bill back into his pocket.
“ The paper on these is better, they roll nicer.” She rolled the green US hundred dollar bill. She approached the mirror, put the rolled bill to her left nostril and inhaled. Then she did it again with the right. She closed her eyes, inhaled a deep breath through her nose and let the cocaine rush to her brain.
“ Well?” he said after a few seconds.
“ Exhilarating. You’ve done very well.”
“ I try.” He sounded smug, and from the tone of his voice she knew the real reason he’d stopped by his apartment. She could never prove it, because she’d never met the Salizars. It had to be that way, both because of her father and because there was no way they’d ever deal with a woman.
She opened her eyes and nailed him with her stare. He met her eyes with his own and for a few seconds they were locked together, a contest of wills. He grinned, looked away and she bit into her lower lip, enjoying the euphoric high and resisting the triumphant smile. The bastard had stolen some of her cocaine.
“ You made the papers again,” he said.
“ Really? What was it this time?”
“ Picture of us leaving the Red House Ball last week.” His voice had a haughty kind of sneer in it that put her on her guard.
“ And what else?” she asked. There was no reason the paper would print a week old picture. She was popular, but not that popular.
“ Headline implied that there might wedding bells in our future.”
“ That’s not so bad then,” she said.
“ Why did you agree to marry me?” he asked.
“ You’re exciting, you take risks, you’re in love with me, you come from a solid British family, you’re great in bed and you’re the only person in the world that understands me.”
“ We are good in bed together, aren’t we?” he said.
“ Yes,” she said, but she’d had better. Of course she could never tell him that. Because like all men, when he wasn’t serving his ego he was trying to serve his penis. And like most men he never seemed to get either one right, where the penis wanted to go, the ego followed, dragging along the wagging tail of a man, like an eager puppy anxious to please.
“ Why do you do it, the coke I mean? Don’t you have enough money already?”
“ I’ll have enough when I’m satisfied,” she said.
“ I’m sorry, I’ve spoken out of turn. It’s just that it doesn’t mix too good with our other business.” He looked at his watch. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. Life was never simple. She heard the tapping of the vial on the mirror again and exhaled, opening her eyes.
“ I won’t do another.” She was about to say more, but she was interr
upted by the phone ringing in the other room. “I’ll be right back.” She dropped the rolled hundred on the bed. She left the door open on her way out and she was conscious of him watching her backside as she made her way down the hall to the living room. She knew he was licking his lips as her body moved beneath the tight summer dress, not a wiggle, not a bounce, but a natural, almost innocent teenage movement that locked men’s eyes onto her like they were radar trained. But she was no teenager and she was no innocent. They knew it and she knew it.
She turned back and saw him as he sat on the bed, she smiled, flicked the long hair out of her eyes again with her right hand as she picked up the phone with her left. “Ambassador Street’s residence,” she said with a Spanish accent, mimicking her Venezuelan maid.
“ Dani Street, please.” She recognized the smooth voice of George Chandee, only this night he didn’t sound as smooth as usual.
“ It’s me,” she said into the phone with her own voice. She looked down the hall, Kevin was off the bed and leaning in the bedroom doorway, staring down the hallway, watching her. She knew he could hear her every word. He looked at his watch. He wanted to do the cocaine, but he’d wait for her.
“ So you have an extra fiance I didn’t know about?” Chandee said over the phone.
“ I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“ A man named Broxton.”
“ Where did you meet him?” her voice turned wary.
“ On the plane. He told us about his marriage plans right after the bomb went off.”
“ Say again,” she said.
“ He said he was going to marry you.”
“ Not that, the other.”
“ The bomb?” Chandee said as Dani clenched her fist around the receiver and shot Kevin a cold glare.
“ Yeah, that.”
“ A bomb went off on the plane. We had a frightening flight. For awhile I didn’t think we were going to make it.” Now she knew why he wasn’t his usual smooth self.
“ I’ll get back with you,” she said.
“ Dani-”
“ Not now, I’ll call you, soon,” she said, and she cradled the phone.
She started toward Kevin. “I need a drink, how about you?”
