by Fred Galvin
I hadn’t given any thought to the possibility of getting sunburned. When I was a kid surfing on Long Island in the early ‘60s, I remember my mom saying that by summer’s end I was “brown as a berry.” As school started in early September I had a tan that would last until Christmas and beyond. We never thought about sun block and never even heard of SPF. To this day I don’t know what it means except the higher the SPF number, the better protected you are. All I remember about Coppertone, not that I used it, was the ad you’d see in Life Magazine or on a billboard showing a frisky black dog pulling on the back of a pigtailed and tanned young girl’s bathing suit bottom uncovering her cute white cheeks. We never paid the ads any mind although if they were shown today I’m sure some group would sue the shit out of Coppertone for offensive advertising or promoting child pornography.
Sorry, I digress. End of short rant.
Anyway, Ronnie fired up the Jeep and we headed out of the parking lot taking a right onto Sunset Boulevard. I had reserved a room at the Sea Garden Beach Resort which was located close to the airport and right on the water. I had checked it out on Google Earth and saw that the beach was quite literally a stone’s throw from my room.
The day was magnificent, in the mid-80s with brilliant sunshine and a few puffy fair weather clouds. From the hill I could look down on the sea which was at least three colors of blue-green. The smell of the salt air was familiar to me and brought me back to my beach days. Ronnie accelerated the Jeep and the ride was exhilarating. We passed three local women on bicycles and all dressed in traditional Jamaican clothes. They were tanned and beautiful. She looked at me and smiled.
“A little different than the southeast side of Manhattan, eh DD?”
Looking over my shoulder at the women, “Well, I will say that’s a sight you won’t see outside the Seventh Precinct.”
Ronnie laughed and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Jeep leaped forward. Shortly we came to a T-intersection where Sunset Boulevard ended at Kent Avenue to the right and Gloucester Avenue to the left. From my Google Earth inquiries, I expected Ronnie to turn right as my hotel was just up the road on Kent (as a former cop I instinctively wanted to always know where I was going). Instead she turned the Jeep left and headed south on Gloucester.
“Shouldn’t we have turned to the right back there?”
“Oh, so you’ve been here before? You know your way around Montego Bay?”
“No, not exactly, but I did look up my hotel and I thought it was the other way. I could be wrong.
“Well, Mr. Case, you’re not exactly wrong, but you are mistaken. There has been a change of plans. The hotel where you originally had your reservation was indeed to the right. However, you won’t be staying there, at least if I have anything to say about it, and I do.”
I knew better than to argue and I also knew there was more to come. “Continue.”
Her hair flying she yelled above the wind noise. “Thank you. Your reservation at the Sea Garden has been suspended pending your approval of your new accommodations. If you so-approve, we’ll let the suspension lapse into a cancellation.”
I was beginning to have an idea where this was leading. “New accommodations?”
“Yes, exclusive for VIP clients and close friends of the Deveaux Charter Services Company. Just sit tight for a few minutes. It won’t be long.”
We continued winding south along the beautiful coastline on the right, houses and condos on the left. I had to admit that I was a bit surprised at the modern buildings. I didn’t know what to expect and, frankly hadn’t thought much about it. But, if pressed, I probably would have expected more rustic scenes like small aging houses with tin roofs, dogs, roosters, and barefoot kids running around on dirt front yards.
That sounds terrible to me now that I think back on it. Very stereotypical. Instead, the residences were neat and clean and the people all looked like they were busily going about their day’s businesses. I would have to be more careful about forming uninformed opinions and views.
As Ronnie drove on, I also noted how clean and tidy the roadside was. Another of my incorrect assumptions was that the roadsides would be strewn with litter. For some reason I had this belief that Jamaica was a poor third world country. Not so, at least from what I could see on our ride.
Then I saw a remarkable sight which explained the roadside cleanliness, at least partially. A woman wearing a long flowing and brightly colored dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat was walking on the side of the road picking up litter with one of those robotic pickers, you know, the kind that has a claw at the end of an arm. Her hand was on a trigger which worked the claw.
Ronnie had slowed to stop at a red light across the road from her and I watched in amazement as she deftly plucked items from the ground with her picker and put each one into a canvas bag she had slung over her shoulder, all in one smooth motion.
As soon as one Styrofoam cup was nabbed and swept up into the bag, the picker was immediately down again pinching a beer can in the claw. This time she actually tossed the can into the bag with the picker, not bothering to place it, a deft flip and the can soared end-over-end into the bag. I saw her telescope the picker to reach a piece of paper which was blowing away from her. It was like one of those slow motion videos of a frog’s tongue whipping out to snag an unsuspecting grasshopper several feet away. Sproing … gotcha!
Just as Ronnie was starting to move again as the light turned green, I watched in fascination as her device expertly picked up a cigarette butt, as if the claw and picker were her arm and fingers, and with a flick sent it flying into the air and down into the bag.
Ronnie saw me staring at the performance outside the Jeep and smiled. “She’s good, isn’t she? That’s Katie-The-Picker. She famous out here. Her four mile territory is the tidiest stretch of highway in all of Jamaica. She likes to show off for the tourists like what she just did with the cigarette butt for you.”
“So she’s like a tourist attraction?”
“Not exactly. She lives down on the beach and just hates litter. She started cleaning up the beach on her own a few years ago and graduated to the road. She walked the side of the highway with a plastic grocery bag picking up the litter with her hands. Soon she had that picker which was better for her back and greatly increased her range without having to take any extra steps. I’ve seen a bus pull over and the passengers take pictures and applauded her out through the windows as she put on a show. Katie’s a real beauty. A local TV news crew did a short spot on her last week and she’s becoming somewhat of a local legend.”
“That is a cool story.”
Chapter 4: Duppies, Rolling Calves, and Ol’ Hige
Ronnie continued south along the coastline eventually turning inland winding through residential areas of Montego Bay. There was moderate vehicular traffic consisting mostly of scooters and small cars. I saw many people riding bicycles and on foot.
“So, where to now?”
“If you don’t mind I thought I’d give you a bit of a tour of the Montego Bay area. Are you hungry?”
“I’d like a tour and, yes, I’m hungry.”
She soon turned left away from the coastline and onto a narrow two lane road with what looked like the outskirts of the city on one side and green fields sloping up to hillsides on the other. The road gently climbed affording beautiful views of the city of Montego Bay and the sea below.
After a few minutes she pulled off the road onto the gravel parking area and stopped under a sign reading:
Day-O Roadside Stop
Best Bammy and Jerk Chicken
in Montego Bay
“Let’s grab a bite to eat and a drink here and I’ll tell you about my Montego Bay and Jamaica.”
“Bammy and jerk chicken. Won’t see that in Yankee Stadium. How can I resist?”
The Day-O Roadside Stop was a mostly open-air eatery where patrons sat under large awnings and trees with fans blowing cooling breezes laced with what I imagined were the scents of bammy and jerk chick
en.
We walked to a small table and sat ourselves. My stomach gurgled audibly as we sat down and Ronnie laughed.
“Yes, those aromas do the same for me every time.”
“So, you’re a regular here?”
Before she could answer a tall man wearing shorts, flip flops, and a flowered shirt walked to our table. He look to be in his mid-to-late thirties, prematurely graying at the temples. A good looking man with blue eyes and an easy smile.
“Ronika, always good to see you again.”
Ronnie stood up and gave him a hug. “Hello Malcolm.” She turned to me. “Malcolm, this is my good friend Dan. Dan’s from New York City.”
I stood and offered my hand. “Nice to meet you, Malcolm.” We shook. He had a very firm grip and I returned in kind. His Jamaican accent was classic and refreshing.
“Welcome to Jamaica, Dan.” Jamaica came out JahMAYkah with the accent on MAY. Then, with a wink, “I didn’t know Ronika had any friends besides me.” Ronnie gave him a light backhand to the ribs. “What brings you to our island paradise, Dan?”
“Oh, just a vacation of sorts. Ronnie is going to show me around and I’m going to go out on her boat with her brother.”
Malcolm gave us both a quizzical look. “Ronnie?”
I added, “Oh, yes, sorry. ‘Ronika’ became ‘Ronnie’ very quickly in New York.” Ronnie squeezed my hand signaling me to hold it there and not to offer any more details. Evidently she kept her life as close to the vest here as she did in New York. I understood and left it at that.
Ronnie jumped in. “Malcolm, I’d like to show my friend some real Jamaican food. Please bring us a sampling of bammy and jerk chicken with some fried plantains and two of your coldest Coronas.”
Malcolm nodded to me and smiled a very warm smile Ronnie’s way. “Well, you picked the right day. Tomorrow the Day-O closes for two weeks as the owners take their annual vacation.” He went off into the quaint building which housed a small inside dining room, for when the weather turned, and the kitchen. I could see behind it was another smaller building which I imagined was for storage.
Ronnie looked after him. “A wealthy couple owns the Day-O and Malcolm has been working here for about a year. Even though it’s out here off the beaten path, it’s still very popular with the locals and many tourists manage to find it. You’ll find the food to be very good and the Coronas very cold.”
I tossed a line into the Ronnie fishing hole hoping for a bite. “He’s a good looking guy. Is he single?”
Ronnie turned to look at me and in typical Ronnie Deveaux fashion, sniffed the bait, and immediately rejected it with one of her classic deflections. “Yes, he is and yes, I think he is but I’m not sure. I haven’t asked about his personal life since I’ve been here. I think you’re going to like bammy with the jerk chicken. I know you’re a spicy food weenie but you’ll be okay.”
I just smiled and nodded. I’ve known Ronnie too long to think she’d open up if she had any interest in Malcolm. I reminded myself to make no assumptions where Ronnie Deveaux was concerned. “Really. Tell me more about bammy and jerk chicken.”
“Well, bammy is a flat bread unique to Jamaica, especially the northern part of the island in the rural areas here around Montego Bay. It is served round, looks kinda like a potato pancake, and can be folded over with any fillings you desire. It can be a snack or a whole meal.
“Jerk chicken is chicken over an open fire and marinated with special Jamaican spices. The flavors seem to jump out of the chicken as soon as it hits your taste buds.”
“Sounds good. So it won‘t set my lips on fire?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Any jerk chicken places in New York?”
“Haven’t I ever taken you to Miss Lily’s and Melvin’s Juice Box on Houston Street? Best jerk chicken in the city.”
I couldn’t resist. “Nope. I suspect that would have been a giveaway to your origins and we wouldn’t have wanted that, now would we?”
She hesitated just a second. “Now DD, you know me well. Anyway, Miss Lily’s also has jerk corn, lobster tacos, and oxtails. Look it up when you get home.”
“I surely will. I won’t forget Miss Lily’s although I may pass on the oxtails.”
Malcolm brought our Coronas with a promise that our bammy and jerk chicken would be right out. We squeezed our limes into our beers and clinked bottlenecks in toast. “Here’s to a pleasant stay in my country, Mr. Case.”
We each took a long pull and Ronnie ripped an impressive belch.
“Good one. A Jamaican tradition?”
“It’s considered a compliment.”
So I took long pull on my beer and “complimented” her loudly. We both had a laugh as Malcolm brought our food out to our table. Since he brought only napkins and no utensils I assumed fingers would suffice. Ronnie immediately took a bite of her bammy then dug into the jerk chicken. At first I was a bit wary, even after Ronnie’s assurances. I’m ashamed to say good pepperoni on a slice of pizza makes me sweaty. But I must admit, the jerk chicken was outstanding. I made sure I complimented each bite with some bammy and a sip of Corona to cushion the blow to my stomach but I soon suspected that wasn’t necessary.
“Well?”
Crudely, while chewing, I said, “It’s really good. I thought it might be a bit too spicy for me but I like it.”
“Dan, a bowl of Cheerios is too spicy for you.” I made a face at her, the child in me coming out which was easy since he was never too far below the surface.
After a couple of minutes Malcolm stopped by and Ronnie ordered two more Coronas. “Aren’t you driving?”
“Yes, but I have friends in high places. Roje’s girlfriend is a cop.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“Shit, he’ll probably be pissed that I told you. Forget I said it.”
“Wow, you Deveauxs sure do keep things close. Okay, I won’t let on I know anything about a cop-girlfriend for Roje.”
“Good. Let’s relax here a while and I’ll tell you all about Montego Bay.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll kick it off. What’s the population of the island and of Montego Bay? Kingston’s the capital, right?”
“I believe the island’s population is just short of three million, a bit more than Brooklyn. Yes, Kingston is our capital. It’s a beautiful city but I’ve always been partial to Montego Bay.” Malcolm came over with our beers and Ronnie gave him some cash for the bill. Nodding deferentially to me, “Compliments of Deveaux Charter Services.” She stood and gestured toward a path leading into lush woods. “Come on, grab your cold one and let’s take a walk.”
She took my arm and we walked casually along a path that wound through mango and magnolia trees. Several colorful birds squawked their songs, almost like out of a movie set in the tropics. One of them, multi-colored and the kind with the big long curved beak looked down at us with absolutely no fear and let out a melodious croaking sound. “That’s something you don’t see or hear in Manhattan! What is that?”
“That’s a toucan. He’s a bit agitated that you’re invading his space. Don’t worry, you don’t have to pull your weapon. He’s harmless.”
I chuckled. “I didn’t bring my Glock along on this trip. I hardly ever carry it any more unless I’m on a dicey case, which I try very hard to avoid. I’ve been cherry-picking my cases lately and I have to admit, I’m loving the laid-back PI lifestyle.” In my best Bogart voice, “It’s five hundred a day, ma’am, plus expenses.”
“Oh, Dan, I was hoping you’d leave Bogey back in New York.”
“Not a chance, shweetheart.”
Eyeroll accompanied by, “Why me?” Then she squeezed my arm. “Seriously Dan, I’m happy for you. You deserve a taste of the good life.”
We walked along and I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would have been to be walking like this with Jen on my arm. We had just started mapping out our retirement activities when Big-C stepped in and ruined our plans. He was relentless and the only thi
ng we got to do was take the ferry out to see Libby holding her torch high in the harbor. Of all the years we’d lived in New York, neither of us had ever visited the Statue of Liberty.
“Yeah, the good life,” I mused. Knowing me as she did, it wasn’t a stretch for Ronnie to read my mind and thoughts.
Brightly, “Okay, DD. I’ll tell you all about MoBay, Jamaica.”
I was surprised at the level of detail she was able to relate about Montego Bay. I asked questions and she knew the answers, stopping a couple of times to confirm some on her phone.
“Of course most everyone who has any contact with the tourist trade speaks what we call ‘Jamaican English’ which resulted from the British colonial influence.”
Channeling my best Jamaican accent, “Yes, I have noticed a bit more of a ‘gentle rollin’ eyelond occent’ from you here. It didn’t take you long to stray from the Noo Yawk way of speaking.”
“Very good! Yes, I suppose that’s true. In New York the talk is clipped and staccato-like. Here we slow it down and tend to run our words together, mon. It’s almost syrupy coming out and most words seem to be spoken with a smile in your voice. Of course, our native language is Jamaican Patois (which came out patwah) or Jamaican Creole. It is spoken in the inner city where the tourists don’t roam and in the rural villages. One interesting characteristic is that Patois is a spoken language only. It is not written.”
“I have no idea how that would even work. I mean, how would they put up a STOP sign in patois? Just a big hand?”
She just looked at me, raised one brow, and blinked a couple of times as though a child just asked her Why is there air? “Jamaica is a very interesting land, Dan. It is much more than just a tropical tourist paradise. Many Jamaican natives believe strongly in the myths and legends of the island.”
I glanced at her, eyes half closed as if to say, Now remember who you’re dealing with here, Missy. But my inner sense of self-preservation told me to keep my mouth shut. I just let my expression of mild doubt do the talking.