“I have had enough of you!” he screams, as he pounds my back harder, driving the little air I had out of my lungs. After a few more hits, he rolls me onto my back, driving the knife deeper. I cry out in white hot agony, which seems only to fuel his blood lust more.
His fists are now slamming into my face. I feel something pop in my nose. I think it’s broken, but I’m not sure. I raise my arms up, trying to ward him off, but he bats them away as he pounds me even more.
After a moment, he seems to tire. He leans back on his knees and takes a series of deep breaths. In the momentary reprieve, I mouth the word, “Why?”
For the briefest of moments, his eyes soften.
“Because she loved you. Not me. You.” He wipes the drool from his lips and his brow furrows. “It don’t matter none whether you returned her love or not. You were her world. I was nothin’ but hired muscle d’at she slept wit’. And I’ve never forgiven you for it.”
Love.
It’s a crazy thing.
Makes no sense half the time, and Jacques Lagrange is living proof of it.
Catching his breath, the big man shoves me onto my left side and pulls the knife from my back. He then lets me roll back and shifts his weight to straddle me.
I can hear gunshots in the distance. The KGB agents are still in a full fledged gunfight with Trixie. She might as well be a hundred miles away. She won’t be able to help me this time, and it feels like the Candyman and I are the only living beings in the world.
With both hands, my old friend raises the dagger above my chest for the killing blow.
“You were like a brother to me,” I manage to croak out.
“As you were to me. But I hate you with every fiber of my being for turnin’ my wife’s head.”
I watch as the knife begins to descend, then I close my eyes tight for what I know is about to come. But a screeching howl stops death from plunging into my chest, followed by angry shouts from the Candyman himself. I open my eye to see Moe on top of the big man’s back. The monkey’s fingernails rake viciously at the skull-like face paint, bringing large red welts bubbling up to the surface of his skin. Before the Candyman can lash out, Moe bites down on his neck, drawing a gusher of blood.
For a moment, I’m taken aback. Vervet monkeys are usually all bark and very little bite. They only attack when they or one of their troop are in extreme danger. So at the moment, I’m thankful that the little ball of fuzz considers me part of his family.
I’m also thankful that the monkey’s attack has given me an opening. As the Candyman clutches at his now gaping wound, I wriggle out from under him and use both feet to kick him away. He falls over onto his back just as the monkey leaps to a nearby tree. But instead of running, like I should, I lunge for the big man, giving him every blow…every pounding…he’s just given me. My fists slam into his face in a flurry of rage, pain, and sorrow. He squirms underneath me, trying to regain the advantage. But I don’t let up.
Then, my eye catches something gleaming on the ground beside me. The knife. The Candyman must have dropped it when falling backward. Without a second thought, I reach out and grab the blade. I know I have to end this. I can’t keep someone stronger than a gorilla down for too much longer. Blood loss and exertion, not to mention the conk to my head earlier and a possible broken nose, are having a heavy toll on me.
Before I can change my mind, I bring the dagger down into the Candyman’s chest. He sits up from the blow, throwing me off him, as he gasps. His wide eyes look down at the blade, then over to me.
I scramble to my feet, taking a defensive stance. I’ve been in enough fights to know that things aren’t like the way they are in the pictures. People don’t just keel over and die when they get stabbed. It usually takes a while. Cause of death is usually blood loss, and for a man his size, losing enough blood to kill him will probably take a while.
“You pale piece of…” He lunges forward, knife still buried in his chest. His hands are reaching out to me, preparing to throttle the life out of me before he bleeds out.
But just as his fingers are curling to grab my neck, there’s another clap of thunder. A geyser of blood spews from a new wound in his shoulder, spinning him around. And another boom. This time, the bullet punches its way through his chest—almost dead center. He continues spinning with the momentum he’s already built, then hurls to the ground and doesn’t move again.
22
St. Noel Island
The Next Day
I lean back in the reclining chair on the upper deck of The Ulysses Dream. I’m currently sipping on my third glass of rum, while enjoying the bright sun shining down on me from a clear blue sky. I’m shirtless. Trixie has just finished putting another bandage on my busted nose, and is now busy wrapping fresh strips of gauze around the knife wound in my back. Moe and Malik are playing on the dock.
It’s a perfect morning in St. Noel, despite the wounds—both physical and emotional—we’ve all gone through for the last few days.
Inspector Decroux has just left us, heading back to the police station to write his final report on the events perpetrated by the Candyman and the rest of the motley crew searching for the classified lists. Seems I’m now cleared of all suspicions. More than a few of the Candyman’s congregation had overheard enough of our conversation, when I was strung up as a sacrifice, to put the pieces together. I’m no longer on the lam, and it feels great.
“Hold still,” Trixie says, pulling the bandage tighter across my chest. “You’re like a child.”
“Well, stop pinching me, and I will.”
I reach for my jacket lying on the deck next to me and search its pockets for a fresh cigar. After a few moments, I curse.
“Joe!” Trixie glances down at the boy, then back at me.
“What are you worried about? The kid’s the one that taught me that word.” I toss the jacket back to the deck. “I’m out of smokes.”
“Good. You need to give those horrible things up, anyway.”
I grin at her. “I’ll give them up when you agree to make an honest man out of me.”
She rolls her eyes at that, then pulls the bandages even tighter, eliciting a howl from me. Then, she stands up, looks down at her handiwork, and smiles. “I should have been a nurse.”
“You would have been aces at it, I can tell you that.”
She takes the deck chair next to me and stares up into the sky. We sit without speaking. I’m not sure for how long, but it’s a nice change of pace. After a while, like most women, she has to go and ruin the moment.
“So, do you think anyone will ever find it?” she asks, glancing at me over the rim of huge dark sunglasses.
“Find what?” I pour myself another glass from the nearly empty bottle of rum sitting on the table between us.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“The list?”
She nods.
“Frankly, I could care less.”
“Couldn’t. Couldn’t care less,” she corrects me, then she shifts positions in the chair and rests her body with her right elbow. “And come on. I know you care. Those secrets would do your government a lot of good.” Her English is so perfect, I often forget the U.S. is just her adopted home. She’s still a Hungarian citizen.
I shrug. “I’m not even convinced it was ever on the island. You know, cloak and dagger stuff. Slight of hand. Make the bad guys think it’s heading to St. Noel, when it’s really going to Miami instead. It’s what all those spooks love doing, right?”
She pours herself a glass, finishing off the bottle, and taking a sip. “True, but what if?” She swings her legs around, sits on the edge of the deck chair, and leans toward me conspiratorially. “Those KGB guys are still out there, you know.”
I cringe at the mention of those mooks. Or rather, I silently mourn the FBI agent pretending to be Alexi Krashnov. I still haven’t told Trixie about him. She thought he was about to kill me when he cut my bindings. She reacted. Fired. And it was over. If she discover
ed he wasn’t really a bad guy, I’m just not sure what that would do to her. So, I’m keeping it quiet for now. Besides, I’m still not convinced the guy’s story was jake.
“They’ll be caught soon enough,” I tell her. “Governor Lagrange has Decroux and an entire task force from Martinique combing the island for them right now. Take it from someone who knows. This island is too small to hide out for long.”
Her lips pinch together. A sure-fire sign that she’s disappointed. Or miffed. I can understand why. Girl’s been sheltered most of her life, until she came out to the Caribbean to make it on her own. Her head’s full of those old pulp stories of spies and political intrigue. To her, finding this fabled list would be something akin to those.
Personally, I think we’ve had enough adventure to last a lifetime.
Trixie gets up and gathers up her medical kit and other things. “Well, Cap’n, I need to get ready for my show.”
I scramble out of my own chair, careful not to reopen my wound. My back is stiff, but I’ll survive. “Ah, come on, Trix. Don’t be sore with me.”
She smiles, then kisses my cheek. “I’m not sore, darling. We’ll continue this conversation tonight. But I have a lunch-time show at Nessie’s, and I’m already way past late.”
I watch as she seems to glide down the gangplank to the pier, her hips swinging back and forth with each divine step. When she gets to the dock, she stops, turns to me, and blows me a kiss before making her way back up to Port Lucine.
I sigh when she slips out of sight, then I return to my chair. I grab my jacket again and do another search of its pockets, hoping a fresh batch of cigars might have just magically appeared since the last time I looked.
But me and Lady Luck. We’re never going to get along.
I’m leaning back in the chair again, when Malik’s voice carries up to the top deck from the pier.
“One, two, three…” The boy is playing hide-and-go-seek with Moe. Never a wise move to play that game with an alcoholic monkey, but Malik doesn’t seem to mind. “…five…six…seven…”
“Malik!” I shout.
There’s a pause. Then the kid lets out a curse that makes even me blush.
“Language, kid!”
“You made me lose count!” he shouts back at me.
“Yeah, but if Nessie hears you using that kind of language, you’ll have to eat so much soap, you’ll be crapping bubbles for weeks.”
Malik giggles. A few seconds later, his head pops up on the gangplank. “Yes, Cap’n Joe? What do you need?”
I smile. Once again, the prim and proper boy we all know and love.
“I’m out of smokes,” I say. “Don’t suppose you have any more in that knapsack of yours, do you?”
He shakes his head. His face is dead serious now. “I’m afraid not.” He moves up onto the boat, digging his hands in his pockets for something. “But maybe d’ese will help ’til I can get back from da apothecary with more.”
He holds his hands out to me and drops a handful of hard candies into my palms. I nod my thanks while placing the candy on the table, and hand him some money. “Be a pal and go pick some up for me, will you?”
“Aye, aye!” Malik jerks to attention, snapping a crisp salute at me, before taking the money and running off toward town. I chuckle to myself as he speeds away. They just don’t make them like Malik anymore.
Absently, I grab one of the candies, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. It’s orange flavored and tangy, and I savor the morsel as something I might never have tasted again, if the Candyman had had his way with me. That’s when I remember the monkey.
“Moe?” I shout. There’s no immediate response. “Moe, the kid’s gone. The game’s over. You can come out now.”
The monkey appears out of nowhere, clambering up the Dream’s mooring lines and leaping into the chair that Trixie only recently occupied. He sits cross-legged, looking at me expectantly, then looking down at the candies on the table.
“I swear, monkey, your teeth are going to fall out.”
In response, he just thumps his chest with a limp-wristed swat and squawks at me.
“Fine. Fine.” I reach over, unwrap a piece of candy, and toss it to him. He catches it easily in his mouth.
I sit back in my chair and resume my relaxation with a deep breath. Despite the peaceful morning, the events of the past few days are whirling through my mind. The murders. The frame-ups. The spies and secrets lists. I’m still struggling to make sense of it all.
I didn’t want to admit it to Trix, but the list is still on my mind. So are the KGB agents. Or more specifically, their head honcho. I’ve pretty much identified all the players on the field, but the identity of the island’s top KGB stooge is still a mystery to me. And that’s just troubling. Long after Vlad, Boris, and Lamont are caught, the secret agent will still be lurking somewhere on St. Noel. I can’t have that.
With the political winds changing in the Caribbean, the influence of just one subversive agent could be a major game-changer for the entire world.
The list itself documents numerous Caribbean residents sympathetic to the communist cause. Each one of those names on the list has the potential of devastating the political climate of the entire world. No, I played it casually with Trixie—for my own reasons—but the truth is, I’m worried. I know I’ve got to find that list before anyone else does. Got to get it to Uncle Sam as soon as possible.
But the Candyman was right. They’ve searched the crates top to bottom, and no one found it. I know Morris was always good at the intelligence game, but wherever he chose to hide it must have been brilliant.
I reach over for another piece of candy, but all that’s left now are wrappers littering the table and the deck around Moe’s chair. I sit up, but the monkey’s nowhere in sight.
“You little thief!” I shout. “Maybe I wanted some, too. Ever think of that?”
I chuckle while grabbing one of the candy wrappers and leaning back in my chair. Absently, my fingers glide over the cellophane wrapper, as I continue pondering everything. Besides the mysteries of the list and the KGB agent stationed permanently on the island, there’s also the issue of the shooter dressed in Morris’s flamboyant shirt, who shot Winston Musel. Winston himself is recovering rather nicely, according to Inspector Decroux, but someone went to a lot of trouble to make me think my old friend was still alive and looking out for me.
This whole thing makes no sense.
I turn the wrapper over in my hands, reading the little Brach’s logo as I do, then I sit up instantly. Everything just clicked. The pieces of the puzzle—every last one—have fallen into place. The list. The KGB boss. Winston’s shooter in Morris’s shirt. All of it.
I scramble to my feet and run down into the boat’s cabin before rummaging through my desk drawer for some paper and a pen. I then scribble out a hasty note, explaining everything I need, and seal it up in an envelope. Satisfied all is in order, I jog back up onto deck and begin to pace, while mentally finalizing my plans.
23
It’s another twenty minutes or so before Malik returns with my cigars in hand. His face is flushed from running so fast, and I pour him a tall glass of lemonade, then mull everything over as I enjoy one of the stogies, while he catches his breath. When he’s rested, I hand him the envelope.
“All right, buddy,” I say to him. “I’ve got another job for you.”
He beams at me, excited to help me however he can.
“Get this letter to Inspector Decroux. Make sure he reads it completely, got it?” He nods his understanding. “But don’t tell a soul about this. I think I know where the list is.”
“Whoa! Really?”
“Yep. But here’s the problem. The more people who know, the easier it will be for the Reds to find out, got it? So this is probably the most important mission I’ve ever sent you on.” I pat him on the head. “So remember, mum’s the word.”
“You got it, Cap’n!”
The boy takes off before I can say anot
her thing, running down the pier and to the lane leading to Port Lucine. I smile as he goes. He’s really a great kid. So eager to please. But a bit of a blabbermouth. And I know he’ll have told at least ten people about the message before he ever reaches Decroux.
Then again, that’s what I’m hoping for. It’s the only way I can think of to draw out the KGB agents and their boss.
With my plan in motion, I slip my old .45 in my shoulder holster, pull on my flight jacket and cap, and escort Moe down into the cabin, where he’ll be safe. I make sure the liquor cabinet is locked up tight, though. I really don’t trust the monkey. Then, I start strolling toward the bend leading to the Customs Office. It takes me nearly twenty minutes by foot to get there, but it allows me time to cement my theories, so my plan will go off without a hitch.
When I get to the office, I find the gate locked and the dogs curled up, sleeping through the muggy morning heat. As I approach, one of them lifts a head and lets out a low growl of warning.
“Easy there, Lassie,” I say to him. “You don’t need to come home. I’m waiting on an invitation this time.”
The dog lowers its head, and I lean against the gate post and wait. A few minutes later, I hear a motor car rumbling down the road toward me, and I know my wait—not to mention this whole mess—is almost over.
Soon, Governor Lagrange’s 1936 Studebaker rolls up and crunches to a halt in front of the gate. A moment later, Inspector Decroux climbs out of the back seat. His left leg is cocooned in a plaster cast from being struck by the Candyman’s car, and he’s forced to walk with the help of a cane. The backseat door on the other side of the car opens and Trixie’s bright smiling face appears. She rushes over to me, nearly jumping up and down with excitement.
“Malik told me you found it,” she says, throwing her arms around me, while showering my face with kisses. “I knew you could do it. I just knew it!”
I take her hand in mine and give it a soft squeeze. I wish she hadn’t come, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Doll.”
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