by Karl Tutt
Chapter 4
The shop was easy enough to spot. Red, green and black in huge swaths across the front with RASTA LUV painted in huge letters above the door. I parked and crossed the street. I could see her from the open door, straightening piles of t-shirts and positioning objects on the counters like a mother hen. She was a little startled when I walked in. I’m damned sure not a teenager and I don’t think I’d remind you much of a Rastafarian, either.
She was small and pert, her hair cut in a close afro. She wore a gleaming white starched t-shirt emblazoned with RASTA LUV in bold letters. Underneath it was a phrase that read “de best dere is.” The slacks were black denim, and on her small feet, a pair of matching Crocs. Her lipstick, nails, and toes were done up in in a raspberry red.
I quickly surveyed the shop. A varied collection of the stuff you’d see in any beach setting, although there was a noticeable lack of shirts with the crude sayings that some of the kids are so fond of. I knew she was Haitian, but the music and the motif had a definite Bob Marley vibe. She came over and smiled warmly.
Oh boy, a chance to try out my high school French.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Comment ca va?”
She grinned like a satisfied tabby cat.
“Ah, si vous parlez la Francaise?”
“Je suis tres desole. Ma Francaise is tres mal. Je parle une petite.” I held up my hand and squeezed my fingers together to indicate my obvious inadequacy. Nevertheless, the corners of her mouth went up and she laughed almost girlishly. Her eyes told me where Henri had gotten that golden glow.
“Then it is English. May I help you?” she asked. Her pronunciation and inflection were perfect. She stopped and stared for a moment. I could see her forming the recognition. “Wait. I know who you are. You are Dee, and Ricky is your partner. You have been very kind to my Henri. He speaks of you both constantly. I am grateful.” Her English was flawless, but the hint of musical patois they speak in Haiti lay in every word.
“Henri is a wonderful kid. You’ve done quite a job of raising him.”
“Thank you. It is often difficult. I work many hours and his father is absent.”
“Ms. Toussaint . . .”
She interrupted, “Please call me Grace.” I nodded and bowed slightly.
“Grace. Ricky and I are concerned about Henri. We saw the results of the beating he took. Ju Ju D’s. That’s what he said. He also referred to a man they call Bijet. Can you tell me a bit more?”
Her eyes darted around the shop and into the street. It seemed empty.
“I am sorry,” she said, “they are always watching.”
“Who?”
“Ms. Rabow, this is not your business. I do not wish to be rude, but there are many things you do not know. I appreciate your concern, but your involvement is not needed, nor is it prudent. I must keep my boy safe.”
“I understand your love for Henri. What you must understand is that the boy’s safety is our foremost concern. We don’t wish to interfere, but there may be something we can do. Without more information, we are helpless. Please . . . if there is anything you can provide us, we may be able to protect him.”
Her eyes shot around the area once more. She briefly placed her hand to her chest and inhaled deeply. She looked me over again, testing me quietly in her mind.
“I will talk to you, but not here. L’ENFANT DULCE. It is a restaurant owned by my cousin. We will be secure. I can meet you there at 9:30 tomorrow evening.”
“I would like to meet with you and I would like to bring Ricky. He loves your boy as he would a little brother, even perhaps a son.” She quickly raised one dark finger, put it to her lips, and nodded.
“Buy a shirt in case they are here. Then you must leave.”
I picked out a sky blue shirt, extra large, with the store logo and paid for it in cash. The sun hammered into the window of the Focus. The sweat formed on my forehead in an instant. I didn’t know a damned thing, but at least we had an avenue that might lead us to something useful.
I went back by the office, but Ricky wasn’t there. I checked the messages, nothing. I hadn’t seen my old pal Bugsy in a few days. A cocktail just might be appropriate before the hot date that awaited me this evening.
I parked the dusty Focus in the lot and went into the bar. It was pretty quiet, a few locals at tables in the back laughing and talking about the latest Dolphins’ game fiasco. Some were arguing that a playoff was in the offing, while others insisted that Tannehill would never be able to step up. Everyone wanted another Marino, but I didn’t think that was likely. I took a stool at the end of the bar and nodded at Bugsy. He limped over with a double of Evan Williams and a water chaser.
“I been missin’ you, Dee. You gettin’ too classy for old Bugsy?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
In another life, Bugsy had been deeply involved with some of the royalty of Fort Lauderdale mobsters. I had met him when he was a pimp with a string of girls that actually respected him. He had been more like a Daddy . . . using them, yes . . . but protecting them from the bad dope and the legion of creeps that enjoyed their services. The bar was his retirement, hastened by a close encounter with a baseball bat after one of the big boys demanded a takeover.
“So Bugsy, can I ask a couple of questions?”
“Sure, Dee . . . but only if I don’t have to answer them.”
“Ju Ju D’s. Ring any bells?”
The color instantly drained from his face. He leaned over the bar and scanned the tables. His voice was almost a whisper.
“Gang. Badass motherfuckers. Extremely violent. Got their filthy mitts in half the shit operations in the city. Drugs, guns, prostitution, all kinds of petty crimes. Heavy into the War Tax. You don’t want to know any more. Don’t want to fuck with them, Dee. It’s very unhealthy.”
“So what is this War Tax?”
“It’s like fire insurance. You make the payments, you don’t get no fire. No payment . . . well, baby, that’s an accident waitin’ to happen.”
“So it’s a protection racket? You pay it?”
“You didn’t hear me say that.”
“What about some character they call Big Ju Ju or Bijet?”
“Yeah, Dee. He’s the real thing. Very scary cat. The toughs all answer to him. They’re freaked. Think he has some powerful mojo. Like some Voodoo character. He kiss you, you die.”
A young couple walked in the door and sat at the bar. Bugsy gave me a “that’s enough” stare and hobbled toward them.
I nursed the Evan Williams, mixing it with sips of the cool, clean water. There was too much going on and besides, I had a date with my dreamboat. He was picking me up early. “Get gorgeous, but pack an overnight bag, strictly casual. You’ll be back by noon,” he told me.