by Ted Oswald
— What is it? barked Yves.
— What do you know about their killer?
Every member in the group shifted uncomfortably. Libète looked to Jak out of the corner of her eye, and she saw he was still confused.
The crowd’s eyes turned back to Yves, the organization’s de jure leader. Emboldened by the attention but unsure what to say, he fumbled for a reply.
— Of course I—I mean we—don’t know anything.
Libète pushed back. Jak and I are investigating…
Laughs broke out in the crowd. Jak was mortified.
— …instead of sitting around arguing about shit.
— Whew, Libète, you’ve got a mouth on you! someone in the crowd shouted out.
She turned to address everyone. We can’t just sit by and let something like this happen to our own people!
Davidson was embarrassed. Yves was put off. Wadner spoke.
— How dare you! You didn’t even know Claire. You call them “your own people.” How much more do you think we care about her? Did you go to school with her? Did you ever watch Ti Gaspar for her? Do you know who Ti Gaspar’s father is? She was one of us! Why don’t you go home, little detectives, and stop disrespecting the dead?
An old lady, Myriam, spoke up from across the street. Wadner, unless you’re admitting you’re the papa, you need to shut your mouth! Not even Claire’s mother knows that! And when did you ever watch Ti Gaspar? You mean watched her hold him?
The crowd laughed at this.
— Shut your mouth, Myriam! Yves shouted back. All you do is gossip. Everyone knows you have a lang long, making trouble where it doesn’t belong.
Libète was smug, enjoying the pot she was stirring.
— Maybe we should go home, Jak. Looks like these guys don’t know anything about anything.
She started to walk away before a parting shot sprang to mind.
— Ah, all the diarrhea coming out of your mouths made me forget the real reason I came to talk to you. I noticed that one of your officers is missing. Anybody seen Lolo?
All of FFPOP, including blustering Yves, became very, very quiet.
Her eyebrows shot up. No? she asked. You’re meeting without him? What is he? Your treasurer? Seems like he should be here.
— He’s sick. At home, Wadner said.
— No he’s not! an older woman in the crowd. He lives next to me. I haven’t seen him the last couple days.
A look of worry spread among FFPOP.
Davidson chimed in. Yves, I thought he left and went to the provinces to get over his illness. Like all of us, he was so sad to hear about Claire—it worsened his health.
— That’s right! Yves said. He’ll be back soon.
— Whatever, Libète sneered. I’m just glad to hear you all haven’t gotten over the murders already.
Libète stomped off, and Jak followed dutifully, the crowd’s patience leaving with them. It soon broke up and FFPOP adjourned, its members quick to shrink away from public view.
**
Libète and Jak retreated to the cement cemetery, knowing they would not be bothered there.
— Man, I hate those guys! I don’t know why my cousin hangs out with them. All they do is sit around, looking—
— We need to follow Wadner, Jak interrupted.
— What? Libète shot back in surprise. She had been readying a rant and didn’t appreciate being cut off. Why do you say that?
— While you were insulting Yves and making us look ridiculous in front of everyone — Libète shrugged cavalierly — Wadner was…uncomfortable.
— They were all uncomfortable.
— Right, but Wadner was different. Really uncomfortable. He kept looking down at his pocket and checking his phone when you mentioned Lolo’s name. Like he couldn’t help himself.
— Why does that matter?
— It’s obvious, Libète. They were lying about Lolo. They all must know part of the truth. But Wadner, he was extra nervous—nervous about something that had to do with his phone.
— So?
Jak sighed.
— I’m saying that we need to get a hold of that phone. I bet it will lead us to wherever Lolo is hiding.
Libète’s brow furrowed. She shook her head in surprise.
— Lolo, Lolo, Lolo, she said remorsefully.
— I can’t believe it either. As soon as you said his name, I realized he must be the one Elize saw in the grasses. The description fit perfectly. But I can’t imagine him doing something like that. He seemed so…so—
— Good.
— Right.
— But we see people do things for strange reasons, wrong reasons, all the time.
— We must push ahead and see, Jak said soberly. Justice demands it.
Libète smiled, pleased to hear these words come from Jak’s mouth. So how are we going to get a hold of that phone?
**
Libète and Jak are hidden.
It is late, later than these two have been up for some time. Their plan was one only children could conceive and believe might work. For all of its outlandishness, it appeared to be doing just that.
Shortly after agreeing Wadner’s phone was essential, Libète and Jak were inside her home. By now it was getting dark.
— Should we just tell Simeon? Jak had asked. The police could get Wadner to hand his phone over.
— He’ll junk it or erase it if he hears cops coming. And I don’t want to get Davidson involved with the police. No. Wadner has got to give it up or we need to steal it. And he’s not going to give it to us.
Libète went to the corner of her living room and lifted the mat laying there, looking at the stash of alcohol hidden beneath it.
Aunt Estelle and her Uncle both happened to be away. After closing up shop after the morning’s Independence Day business, her Aunt left for a funeral in La Plaine for the rest of the weekend. Her Uncle had slunk away to drink with friends and most likely abuse other more costly drugs.
She lifted the bottles out one by one. There would be consequences for this, that was plain, but there was no other way they could conceive that would get them that phone. No phone, no Lolo.
They placed the assorted bottles of rhum, tafya, and kleren into a plastic milk crate and hid them away to return to later.
The next part of the plan was more of a long shot. It took a few hours to track him down, but they did.
They found Dionald sitting on a stacked pallet of Coke bottles outside of a general store, singing a song to himself. Libète flashed back to her first meeting with him at the cement cemetery those years before, the retarded man who killed the cat while Libète watched in silence. She felt bad about using him but nonetheless coaxed him to join them. Before long, he carried the milk crate full of booze, the three walking together in the dark toward Wharf Soleil.
Davidson had lived with Yves and Wadner the past four months, ever since a severe fight with his mother. The friends rented a small house in Wharf Soleil, a notoriously grim (and cheap) corner of Cité Soleil, located along the water to Bwa Nèf’s south. Libète had only been to the house twice before, both times in daylight. In the dark it took on an entirely different character.
There were few lamps lit at this hour. Nearly all its residents were already asleep behind locked doors, even though many in Bwa Nèf would party late into the night on a Saturday. A miasmic fog wafted in from the ocean, thick with the smell of salt. The temperature dropped along with the Sun, and Libète felt chills prickle into goosebumps on her arms. Jak must be about to pee himself if I’m this scared.
They were a curious trio. Libète felt the stares of people shrouded in shadows and mist, watching them on their way in the low moonlight. She was grateful Dionald was there. He sang an old folk song in rhythm with the glass bottles clinking and clanking, immune to the eeriness putting the children on edge.
When they neared the house, their pace slowed. A light flickered inside. Good. We won’t have to wait around for them.
Libète turned to their unlikely companion.
— Ok, Dionald. Now you do what we asked, you hear?
He nodded.
— Jak and I will be here, in this alley, the whole time. Alright?
Another nod.
— Now go knock on that door!
Jak and Libète split away to hide in the narrow and darkened alleyway between two quiet houses, directly across from Davidson’s. They could make out three indistinct voices.
Dionald approached the metal door to the home and set down his crate, freeing up his hands to knock several times.
— Who’s there? they heard Wadner say, his voice tinged with suspicion.
— Bon nwi! Dionald greeted him in his slow, slurred speech.
The door opened a crack.
— Dionald? What the hell are you doing here?
Wadner stood in the entryway. Dionald picked up his crate without a word.
— Shit! Dionald is here—with a ton of alcohol!
— What? Davidson and Yves rushed to join Wadner at the door. Bring him in, bring him in! they said with wide, welcoming smiles, patting Dionald on the back as he entered.
Wadner stepped out into the street, looking both ways to see if there was any explanation for Dionald’s appearance. He shrugged and rejoined his companions, closing the door behind him.
Now came the wait. It took nearly an hour and a half before the laughter inside gave way to snoring. Libète kept watch, shivering all the while.
— Let’s go, Jak, Libète said wearily, rousing the boy. They stood, yawned, and lurked across the street.
Libète touched the cool iron of the locked door, looking it up and down. Two-thirds was covered with sheets of iron welded together while the top third had a few bars permitting airflow and a view of whomever stood on the street.
There was no sophisticated lock on the other side to worry about, that much Libète knew. All it would take to unfasten the door was to reach through the bars and shift the bolt from right to left.
— Jak, get over here. She bent over and put out her hands to catch Jak’s foot, boosting him up onto her shoulders. This routine was familiar, rehearsed many times over years of getting into places where they should not be. Jak jumped up and snatched the bars, trying to pull himself up.
— Hurry up, Jak. You’re fatter than before.
— Shut up! I’m trying! He pressed his face hard into the bars, straining to reach the bolt. His fingertips just barely touched it. I…can’t…get…it!
— What?
— It’s too low—lower than most.
— Just do it!
She boosted him higher, forcing his face harder into the bars. He gritted his teeth and tried again.
A sudden, horrible noise came from down the lane: the sound of singing. Libète inadvertently dropped Jak down several inches, squirming to try to see who approached.
— Ouch!
— Shh! Someone’s coming…
It was a man. He shuffled down the little street with a bottle hanging from his left hand. His shirt was unbuttoned (or missing some buttons) and his slacks were too large a size. He sang a familiar song:
I left the village of Jacmel
And went to the city of LaValay
When I arrived at the crossroads of Difo
My hat fell off!
My hat fell off!
My hat fell off!
Whoever is in behind me
Please pick it up for me.
— We have to hide!
— There isn’t time! He’ll see us if we move, she hissed through gritted teeth.
The man came even closer and the children froze, Libète struggling to keep still and prevent Jak from falling. The smell of alcohol came off the drunken troubadour like a cheap cologne. He continued:
I left the village of Au Cap
And went to the city of Port-au-Prince
When I arrived at Ti Ginen
My hat fell off!
Their eyes followed him as he shambled past, the only parts of their bodies they let move. When he had gotten nearly fifteen feet away without noticing them, she exhaled long and hard. He must be pretty drunk.
He finished the last verse of his song and turned out of nowhere.
— Children! the man pronounced in a deep voice that matched his baritone singing. The word sent electricity coursing through Libète and Jak, their hearts near exploding with the surge of adrenaline. Dear Lord! It’s all over—we’re caught!
— May God bless you and keep you! he slurred, returning to his path to wherever. The children could not make themselves move.
Libète spoke. Jak—open this door! Now!
Though his nerves were shot, he strained once more, ignoring the crushing pressure placed on his bar-squeezed face until finally his fingers clasped the bolt and drew it aside. It produced the familiar shriek of metal rubbing metal, a seeming warning that to go forward was a poor idea.
She dropped Jak, shaking her numb arms. They felt as if she’d been lifting heavy buckets all day. The children peered into the dead room, hesitating.
I’m going to get beat bad for stealing that booze—I better make sure it’s worth it. She took a step in and turned.
— Jak, keep watch.
Jak replied with a nod, relieved he need not follow.
She surveyed everything. The light, a nearly exhausted candle, sat elevated on an old aluminum coffee can. Bottles were strewn about the floor. Dionald was slumped on a stool, leaning at an uncomfortable angle against the back wall. Davidson and Yves were both on mats, sleeping face down and still entirely clothed. The room’s few furnishings reminded her of Elize’s empty home, though where that felt like a deliberate decision this was the result of want. They drank all of it? she thought. Vomit is going to be coating the place by morning.
Wadner lay on a mat of his own and snored loudly with his arms splayed in odd directions. He was partially covered by a sheet to protect against the evening’s surprise cold. It looked like he had managed to at least get his pants off before intoxication won out over consciousness. Where are they? Libète thought, looking about for the trousers in the dim light.
She noticed a line of sisal rope strung from one wall to the other, the pants resting there, folded over a hanger. She stepped gingerly—a small skip over Davidson’s arm, a dodge of a pair of bottles, and another tip-toed hop—before reaching them. Her hand immediately sought out the pockets.
She cursed. Nothing.
She scanned Wadner’s body once more and shook her head upon realizing the phone’s likely place of rest. His head lay upon a shirt stuffed with dirty laundry, a poor man’s pillow. She knelt down and planted her hands upon the ground, crawling toward the pillow like a hungry animal tempted by a baited trap.
She held her breath as best she could, feeling around the edges of the shirt for signs of the phone. Wadner’s mouth, open wide, permitted his strange breathing. He inhaled and held his breath for a pregnant moment before giving birth to a loud snore. Her hand hovered near the top of the crinkled shirt halo, waiting for the moment when further exploration had the least chance of waking him. Libète couldn’t find a reliable pattern. Fear began dripping out of her pores.
He inhaled deeply again. Her hand shot under the shirt, feeling for the phone. Wadner shook his head aggressively in response, his eyes flashing open.
Libète shot onto her backside as if she’d touched a livewire. She sat for a moment, cradling her prying hand, terror gripping her. His eyes, heavy-lidded, soon closed again. Still, quiet tears began bubbling out of Libète’s eyes. The phone was not there.
She sat there for some moments wondering what to do next. Leaving meant failure—failing Jak, San Figi, and most of all, Claire and Gaspar. Staying meant risk—endangering herself and Jak at the hands of these drunken men. The choice seemed impossible.
Suddenly, to her right and near Wadner’s hand, a small chime sounded, a few musical notes piercing the quiet stillness. It was followed by a set of
three, short metallic vibrations. Her eyes followed the sound. The phone! It’s been sitting in that damned can all along!
The sound awakened Wadner and he bolted upright. Libète covered her mouth and froze. As long as he doesn’t turn around…
He reached for his phone, knocking over the aluminum can, his movement uncoordinated. He grunted as he looked at the device, pressing some buttons before abruptly flopping back onto his mat and rolling over on his side. The phone remained in his hand.
What he did, it seemed, he did while still asleep.
No time was wasted. Her nimble fingers pried the phone from his clasping hand. She had it.
Within a moment she was advancing through its menus. Those in Cité Soleil could afford only the cheapest phones, and Wadner’s was a standard Nokia, popular among his set. She had spent hours playing with her cousin’s own and knew its features well. Each press made an annoying beep, and she quickly silenced it.
She first looked at the phone book. Lolo’s number had been deleted. The call log was unhelpful, too. A lot of unfamiliar numbers appeared, but it was impossible to know which, if any, was Lolo’s.
She moved into text messages and began scrolling through, inundated with messages from different girls Wadner was trying to woo simultaneously. Libète looked at Wadner and shook her head in disgust.
The most recent one, the one that had awoken Wadner, had been from such a girl. She scrolled through others from the last few days, all unremarkable in the extreme.
Was Jak wrong?
She re-read one that had seemed strange on first glance.
“Swiv Jean, ki se mawon, e li pral traverse Jean-Jacques. Yo toujou rasanble nan kay la vèt.”
It was strange on second glance too. “Follow Jean, who is brown, and he will cross Jean-Jacques. They always meet in a green house.” She needed Jak and his keen memory.
She moved toward the door.
— Finally! What was happening in th—
— Shut up. Look at this. She held the phone to his face. Remember the message, and the phone number.
— Oh—OK. He looked at it intently, mouthing it to himself and trapping it inside his mind. Got it.