Spyfall

by John Hegenberger

  “This is Teddy Whiteside.” Fleming introduced a wide-shouldered black man with a scruff of salt-and-pepper curl on his round jaw. “He used to own the place.”

  “Dat was befo it wa called Goldeneye.” The Jamaican grinned. “Our famblies go back together a long time.” Whiteside held a glass of amber rum in one hand and a thick unlit cigar in the other. He put the cigar down and wiped a massive pale palm on the leg of his pants before shaking hands all around. “Boss Fleming and me are practically related. My momma and him--”

  “Let us not go into that now,” Fleming warned.

  The big dark man dipped his cigar into his rum, but still didn’t light it.

  Fleming went on. “Teddy manages the local ice plant and could be useful in locating the faux Fleming, if he’s still on the island.”

  The four of us shared information and dinner at a seafood restaurant on Fisherman’s Pier overlooking a small fleet of pirogues and other fishing boats moored in Ocho Rios Bay. I filled the writer in on the situation with the Mob and he said he’d already been thinking about switching the bad guys in his novels to a world-wide corporate terror organization.

  “Good,” I answered. “Mickey Cohen will appreciate hearing that.”

  “Who’s dis Mickey fella?” Teddy Whiteside asked.

  “He’s in the machine business,” I said dryly. “Vending, slot, and voting machines.”

  The big man threw back his head and laughed heartily like a black Sidney Greenstreet. Both he and Fleming drank Red Stripe, the local beer, straight from the bottle. Norman tried one and quickly switched to club soda, like me.

  “Maybe you’d like a sarsaparilla,” I suggested, but Norm misunderstood and protested against any drink called a “sassy gorilla.”

  After the new laughter died down, we all got down as well, to business.

  “I made a call,” Teddy said, “and a frend o mine at da Ocean Sands Hotel say he saw da Boss register der dis aftanoon.”

  “But, of course,” Fleming said, “it wasn’t me.”

  I asked, “Where is this hotel?”

  “’Bout a kilo from here.” Whiteside jerked a thumb over his right shoulder.

  “Then let’s go before we lose him.”

  “Dat won be so easy. Dis is the night o the Ska Festival and, if you hadn’t already noticed, the whole area is fillin up with revelers.”

  Norman wanted to know what ska was.

  “A new kinda music dat’s caught on like lightnin. Combination o jazz an calypso. Very sublime. Everbody on the island is doin it dese days.”

  “Sounds a little like Mardi Gras,” I said, nudging back my chair.

  “Da streets will be packed wid bands and crowds o dancers,” Whiteside advised, already swaying from side to side from imagined music.

  Out in the street, beyond the restaurant, a happy mob had begun to gather in the night, making it seem even hotter. People all around were strolling, biking, laughing, and drinking.

  Every so often a firecracker or two would jolt the herd into a nervous surge. And then the ranks would close again and good times rolled on.

  I didn’t see how we would be able to make it back to Goldeneye, let alone travel to the Ocean Sands Hotel where the imposter had been sighted.

  “We’ll have to go on foot,” Fleming called out above the gathering din.

  The horde of partiers continued to grow and mill about us as we pushed our way down Main Street.

  Everyone was chatting, chuckling, smoking, and dancing to the music that pulsated from small bands playing guitars, trumpets, and even bongo drums.

  Norm hobbled along, holding tightly to my sleeve. “They’re doing everything here, except spinning and twisting.”

  “Not quite everything,” I answered. “But someone will think of that, too. You can be sure.”

  As we neared the hotel’s front porte-cochere, I thought I saw Fleming in a straw hat and blue shirt covered with bright images of red and golden parrots.

  In haste, I almost lifted Norm as we rushed forward. Our quarry sighted us, probably because we looked like a bad three-legged race. We dashed ahead, as he scanned to left and right. Then he dove in the direction away from us, through the mass of raucous celebrants.

  A five-piece band--piano and all--on a flatbed tractor-trailer circled the square and separated Norm and me from the other two members of our party.

  A host of bouncing bodies danced around us, swinging arms in two-four time while drums pounded and a sax wailed in our ears. I caught a glimpse of the blue, yellow, and red shirt edging around the side of a dark, low building.

  Someone yelled, “Skavoovie,” over a loudspeaker and the audience screamed back the greeting, bobbing to the one-two repeat of the musical beat.

  We cleared the corner of the building and found a high, chain-link fence, but no imposter. I thought I could hear running footsteps slapping cement on the other side of the fence.

  “Get the police,” I shouted to Norman. “I’m going over.” He started to limp away and then pointed to a padlocked gate. “Go now,” I hollered and began clawing my way up the side of the fence.

  “I’ll try and cut him off at the pass,” Norm called out.

  I came down hard on the concrete yard next to what looked like an ancient warehouse. A single pale light hung over a doorway and faded sign that read, Sugar Mill Rum. Heading for the relative safety of the light, I began to hear rushing water over the cheerful, distant crowd noises.

  I took two more steps toward the light and saw that the door was labeled Office. It was also splintered and ajar. That was when I made the first of about four bad decisions in the next few minutes.

  It was as black as the Le Brea Tar Pits inside. I paused for my eyes to adjust, but it was taking too long. I fumbled out my courtesy Zippo and spun the wheel with my thumb for a quick look around. Mistake number two.

  The office was deserted for the night. There were wooden desks, chairs and file-cabinets, stacks of papers, a cluttered bulletin board, and an open door off to one side, but no people.

  I should have turned around and gone back out into the yard, but that second door beckoned me like a Lorelei into the warehouse proper. Call that mistake number three.

  I struck the lighter again and burnt my finger on a spark. I put it out, but the after image in my mind was full of pallets and crates of Jamaican rum in a cavernous vault. I was tempted to call out, “Marco,” to see if he’d respond with “Polo.” That’s when I found I was holding my breath, waiting for some slight sign that would lead me in the right direction. I strained to listen, but only heard the distant roar of rushing water.

  I had some loose change in my trouser pocket, but no weapon, which was another mistake. I tossed what few coins I had into the darkness to try and draw him out. They clattered and tinkled into silence. Then I saw a straw hat sail through a ray of faint moonlight over my right shoulder. The imposter must have liked my idea of throwing things in order to confuse or distract.

  I realized abruptly that he had to be behind me. I started to duck and turn in the same motion and felt my last mistake slam into the base of my skull. The lights seemed to flash on for a second and then go out completely.

  ***

  For a moment, I dreamed of Max. He was chasing a woman I knew, a woman I’d killed. Then someone was slapping my face over and over. In the dim light, it looked like Norman. I came up swatting and tasting dust from the floor.

  “He made me do it,” Norm shouted, backing away in panic.

  I needed a new head, but I doubted they had one my size in all of Ocho Rios. We were being held at gunpoint by Fleming the Fake. I tried to think of his real name. Yuri something. But the pain at the back of my head demanded my full attention. I resisted giving it, offering up my left hand instead, which caused the pain to bit even deeper into the back of my brain.

  “Get up, shitheads,” our host commanded, waving his revolver at us to show who was boss. “Turn around and lean into that wall.”

 
I rose slowly, winced in Norm’s direction, and shuffled around as ordered to face a tall stack of rum crates.

  The imposter’s voice was as smooth as a shark on ice. “So you finally figured it out, Wade.”

  At some point while I’d been busy dreaming, a dim electric light had been switched on, creating crazy shadows around us. Or maybe I was still in dreamland. No, I could hear the cascading water nearby, but it wasn’t enough to drown out Norm’s comment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wade. I thought I could pick the lock and help, but he caught me like a flatfoot.”

  “That’s flat footed,” I corrected.

  “Really? Are you sure, because I thought--”

  “Shut up!” barked non-Fleming. He patted me down and found my lighter, comb, and wallet, which he tossed on the floor. When he discovered all the bulges in Norm’s vest, he ordered it removed and dropped into a clunking heap. “What are you, fool?” he wondered out loud. “Some sort of human hardware store?”

  It was then that I saw Norm had palmed what looked like a silver fountain pen. I knew instantly what the slender, shiny instrument was and shook my head, which caused the pain to lance back. A single-shot tear-gas pen was no match for a revolver.

  But the Defender of Justice wasn’t built that way. He cocked the defensive weapon with his thumb and began to turn.

  I said, “Sonova--” and went low at our assailant’s legs, catching some of the exploding gas when Norman fired.

  My opponent’s gun erupted twice above my head. Each shot wanged something high and echoed off the ceiling.

  My eyes began to blur from the dispersed gas, but I could still find the guy with the gun, because he was a screamer. We went down together and he bit into my left forefinger as I tried to squeeze the living shit out of his throat. I grunted like a bull and slammed a shoulder into his side. The gun flew into the darkness between a star and a comet, as the enemy struggled, kicked, broke free, and ran for the exit.

  “Stay here, this time,” I shouted, lurching to my feet. “Or get the cops. But do not follow me.”

  Back out in the warehouse yard, under a moon half obscured by passing clouds, I could hear the footfalls dashing in the direction of the rustling water.

  I banged my sore knee rounding the edge of a stack of skids and came to the foot of the tumbling waterfall that slid down a series of wide, rounded rocks. The footing was slick and tricky. The sound of the rushing water was a constant white noise. Shadows cast by the moon in the trees slid back and forth, almost hypnotically. I bent and cupped water in my hand, applying its cooling power to the lump at the base of my head.

  A loud splash farther up the falls caught my attention and I sloshed myself to the next mini waterfall only a few yards behind and below the man I was after.

  I slipped and got drenched, while he gained distance up another rising tier of limestone. Wiping water from my eyes, I saw a small sandy beach and pool down below us. High above, colored lights dangled, indicating the top of the slithering falls flowing freely three or four hundred feet above our heads.

  The guy was scrambling up and getting away.

  I grunted and positioned my injured leg in the strong current. We both struggled on and up, climbing to the left side of the torrent where the power of the falling water was weaker.

  I almost lost my footing again as a boulder the size of a beach ball bounded past. From a hundred yards below, I heard Norman shout, “Stop! I have your gun and I’ll use it!”

  The roar of the streaming water snatched away my soggy response. “Don’t shoot!”

  I heard the man above me call out the exact same words, but I guess Norm didn’t.

  “Duck, Mr. Wade,” he yelled and fired twice up the dark falls.

  The revolver’s kick threw him back against his wounded leg and flipped him over into a deep pool.

  I hissed water from between clinched teeth and started back down, when a body abruptly bounced past me, splashing, and clutching at the wet rocks to my right, before sliding beyond my grasp into another dark pool past where Norm had gone under.

  I rode the water over the lip of a smooth stone and came to where Norman floated sideways in a mound of foam. He coughed and flailed around so much that I had to pull him to dry land, or we’d both drown.

  “Did I get him?” he spat.

  The Noir Man wanted to dunk him again.

  CHAPTER 13

  “The boy’s name is Bobby Marley,” Whiteside said. “He a fun musician, partyin’ at the Fest when he hear da gun go off. Dat’s how da police find you and we catch up.”

  I wrung water out of my pants legs, while Fleming gave a twenty-pound note to an overjoyed Jamaican youth. The kid smiled and clasped the bill before him, backing away and bowing like he was leaving the court of Saint James.

  Once again, we’d been questioned by Jamaican officials and, once again, Fleming had covered for us. This time our freedom seemed to have hinged on a handful of British currency.

  After spending ten minutes searching the falls and finally locating Norm’s glasses, we collected our possessions from the warehouse.

  Moving around in wet clothing was actually a refreshing alternative from the island’s oppressive heat.

  Whiteside assisted Norm into the back seat of the Sunbeam, but decided to stay at the celebration, promising to again try and locate the imposter for us.

  “With luck,” Fleming said, putting the car into gear, “the man drowned in the falls of Dunn’s River and washed out to sea. The police will likely find the body there.”

  “That crazy commie almost drowned me,” Norman said from the darkness of the back seat.

  I turned to glare at his still drenched face. “The next time I tell you to stay put, you stay put.”

  “What? Am I Lassie or Nit-Nit-Nir?” he complained.

  “You got caught and could have been killed. I’m not ready for that, yet.”

  “So did you.”

  He had me there, but I persisted. “You almost drowned and I had to stop and save you.”

  “Well, I saved us both by firing that gun, thankyouverymuch.”

  Damn. Checkmate. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. We both just sat there steaming, figuratively and literally, in the warm night.

  “Why does your friend hate the Communists?” Fleming asked.

  “He had relatives killed behind the Curtain,” I grumbled, taking hold of the wooden cane, just because it felt good to grab something.

  “I see,” the novelist replied. “That is quite enough for anyone.”

  There was a pause and we were now driving slowly through the crowded streets, past joyous throngs tumbling out of bars and cafes. This ska music was the Hit Parade of the island.

  “We’d best not return to Goldeneye,” Fleming advised quietly. “Kaminski still could be out there and he’s probably associated me with you by now.” The novelist reached out his left arm and fumbled open the glove box in front of me. “Take this,” he said, handing me a .25 Beretta, while easily navigating a sharp turn on the A3. “It’s a ladies gun, but all I have at the moment.”

  Fleming pretended not to have knowledge or resources to deal with danger, but when circumstances forced his hand, he was right there, ready to act.

  I held the cool little weapon in my damp palm while we accelerated into a night layered with darkness and gathering fog. “Where to, then?” I asked.

  “We’ll visit Firefly,” Fleming mused. “I usually play bridge with Noel Coward there on Tuesday evenings anyway. Who knows?” he arched an eyebrow at me. “He might need a fourth.”

  “My leg is starting to throb again,” Norm announced from behind us. “I could use a fifth.”

  I turned and stared at my friend.

  “You should see the look on your face.” He laughed, but it ended with a sneeze.

  I sighed and shook my head, feeling the pain at the back of it and hearing water gurgle in my left ear. “You can be the dummy.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’
t you think?” Fleming commented, continuing to concentrate on the road before and behind us. He certainly played things guardedly for a mere author of popular fiction.

  With the windows rolled down, and the heat, I was almost dry by the time we arrived.

  Firefly was a lot like Goldeneye, only larger, cleaner, and higher up on a cliff overlooking Port Maria Bay. There was another small river down a ravine at the back of the clipped lawn with mauvish rocks and feathery bamboo bushes climbing up the hill.

  The estate’s owner, a self-presumed knight of the realm, was a jolly-well, balding man with a slight orange complexion, even under his tan. Noel Coward, dressed in tan shorts, a pale green shirt, and a red scarf loosely knotted at the neck, greeted and took us in as if we were old school chums.

  “The island still has its magic, don’t you think, Ian?” Coward asked as we stepped through the vine-covered entranceway. “But it’s losing its charm to the tourist trade. Well, don’t stand on ceremony. Come in and join us. I’ve just fixed a fresh batch of martinis.”

  I had never been in a place before with so many framed photographs of its owner on display. There were pictures on walls and in stands of Coward in uniform during the war, Coward in Hollywood with Jane Powell, and Coward at Drury Lane with Michael Redgrave. Clearly, this Coward was vain.

  He had a baby grand piano stuffed into one corner of the estate’s main room, which I should have expected, since I knew he’d composed so many tunes and musical plays through the years. What I didn’t expect were the paintings he’d created and scattered about the bungalow. Several were populated by young men and the one on his easel illustrated a well-endowed lad standing nude on a sun-filled beach.

  The artist caught me looking at it and came over to lightly place his hand on the back of my shoulder. “I usually paint over the body and add clothing before I exhibit my work in public. You’re getting an exclusive show, m’lad.”

  I got the distingue impression that he was pretending to be Waldo Lydecker in Laura, but I kept my eyes fixed on the easel. “Your work strikes me as a little crude,” I judged.