Dead Fast

by A. J. Stewart

  THE US CONSULAR agency office turned out to be hidden away in a newish office/shopping complex between our resort and Sangster International Airport. It was designed to look tropical in that Key West way, if Key West had been designed by Walt Disney. We found the office in a pastel-colored building opposite a Burger King. There was no signage other than a small silver nameplate by the front door, and the whole place gave the impression that it really didn’t want to be found.

  A woman at the reception desk told us that yes, the office was open for consular business, but no, the consul general himself was out of the office and therefore not available. He wasn’t expected back anytime soon. We thanked her for her help, and wandered out into the near-vacant parking lot. The whole area seemed designed for tourists who were encouraged to never visit it. There was a tour office and a souvenir shop, and what looked like an insurance agency, a sandwich place and an automotive supplies store. I nodded to Danielle and wandered over to the auto store, and I grabbed a couple quarts of brake fluid and a can of spray paint. I took my goods in a drawstring bag with an oil company logo on it, and walked back into the sunshine.

  Danielle stood waiting in the shade of the patio of the building, and I glanced at an older man sitting back in the shade of a palm tree by the auto store. He wore a gray beard and no shirt, and was thin as a pencil. He smiled and nodded at me.

  “You be wantin’ da ambassador,” he said.

  I was pretty certain the ambassador was sitting in much nicer digs in the capital, Kingston, but I got his meaning alright.

  “Yeah. She says he’s out of the office.”

  “Dot be sure, mon. He always out a de office.”

  “You know where?”

  “Yah, mon. You be wantin’ Gloucester Avenue. Margaritaville.”

  “Margaritaville?”

  “Yah, mon. Trust me. Dots what you be wantin’.”

  I gave the old guy a ten for his trouble and wandered back to the bike.

  “He says if we want the consul general, we should check out Margaritaville. What do you think?” I said.

  “You’d rather go back to the buffet?”

  We cruised by the airport and followed the coast, until we reached Doctor’s Cave beach, and the road where the taxi had dropped us the first time we had come into town. I slowed down, the lunch traffic hardly rush hour, but the relaxed speed was more in line with the pace of the street, and we puttered by all the gregariously colored bars and eateries on the water until we came to the one named after Jimmy Buffett’s finest work. I’m a Buffett fan. We dress from the same tailor, I love his tunes and I even saw him in concert at Coco Beach one time. But I’m not a fan of mass-produced, lowest-denominator Americana. We parked the bike and stood looking at the building, two stories with a waterslide shooting out the back of the top level, down into the warm ocean below. It was more Daytona than Caribbean, and I shuddered in my shirt with little surf boards on it.

  The interior was as exterior as inside can get, breeze wafting through at will, keeping things mild and relaxed. Alan Jackson was playing on the sound system, and the brightly colored lunch tables had been mostly vacated but remained unbussed. A bar ran across the side, above which was a big flat-screen television. A solitary man sat at the bar, looking up at a college football game on the flat screen. He was sitting on a beer and was demolishing a chicken wing.

  “Mr. Lambert?”

  The man looked along the bar. He wore a blue oxford shirt and a cream jacket was hanging off the backrest of his stool. To my eye, he looked a lot paler than a man living in a sunny place like Jamaica ought to look.

  “Can I help you?” he mumbled through a mouthful of chicken.

  We stepped toward him, and I couldn’t help but notice him give Danielle a good looking over. I couldn’t blame him for it—I caught myself doing the same thing more often than I should, but most strangers were at least a little furtive about it. Danielle grinned. Not because she liked being ogled by a lech who should have been at work rather than drinking at a bar, but because she knew, before she even opened her mouth, that she had his measure.

  “Mr. Lambert, my name is Danielle Castle.”

  “American?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If it’s consular business, the office is in Whittier Village.”

  “Yes, sir, we went there. It was actually you we wanted to talk to.”

  “Please make an appointment at the office.”

  I knew this guy. Not literally, but I knew the type. He’d done his time in the Foreign Service, maybe served as an aide in an embassy or some kind of junior staffer, and then as he grew older and showed little ambition and minimal work ethic, he was shifted by the State Department into positions where he would cause the least damage. Now he headed up an office that saw little business, the odd PR task representing the US to the local government, but mostly handling complaints from US citizens who had lost their passports while on snorkeling trips on a reef. Working too hard was definitely not on his agenda.

  I pulled my phone out and flicked it onto video, and scanned a shot of the bar and the football on the television, then I panned down and pointed the phone at the consul general.

  “What do you think you are doing?” he scowled.

  “I’m taking some vacation video. I call this one our nation’s diplomats hard at work. I thought my friends in the State Department might get a kick out of it.”

  Lambert dropped the wing on his plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin that was covered in sauce.

  “What do you want?”

  Danielle took the seat next to Lambert, and I the next one along. The bartender wandered over, and with a nod I ordered two beers.

  “Our situation can’t wait for an appointment, I’m afraid,” said Danielle. I couldn’t see if she was batting her eyelids, but it felt like she was.

  “What situation is that?”

  “A friend of ours was assaulted,” said Danielle.

  “Is your friend a US citizen?”

  “No.”

  “Then they should talk to the local authorities.” Lambert eyed the basket of wings but didn’t take one. He glanced up at the television. It was Georgetown against Brown. It wasn’t exactly the Orange Bowl, so I wondered which of the schools Lambert had attended, and decided my money was on Brown.

  “We were then driven off the road the other night, and we were also assaulted.”

  “Like I said, you should talk to the local constabulary.”

  “We did,” said Danielle, sipping her beer. “They weren’t very interested.”

  Lambert dragged his attention away from the football and looked at Danielle.

  “Look, miss, what can I tell you? Jamaica is a safe place for US citizens to visit, but the Department recommends you stay in your resort, and visit tourist destinations through approved tour companies.”

  “How safe can it be if you tell people to stay locked up in their resort?”

  “Safe enough. Like any country with poverty, there is crime. But crimes against tourists are rare, if you act accordingly.”

  I leaned my elbows on the bar and looked at the television, but I spoke to Lambert.

  “So the State Department’s position is if US citizens get in trouble, they’re on their own?”

  “The Department’s position is that you should not go looking for trouble.”

  “What if trouble finds you?”

  Lambert frowned at me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Jones, Miami Jones.”

  “Miami? That’s your name?”

  “Beats the hell out of Brown Bear,” I said. Brown University was a member of the Ivy League, and they had gone with the imaginative moniker of Brown Bears for their athletics teams.

  “How did you know I was a Brown alum?”

  “Educated guess. You’re watching a football game no one but alums of the schools would care about, and if you had gone to Georgetown you’d be a lot better at your job.”

&nbs
p; “Mr. Jones, you can insult me all you like—”

  “Great.”

  “But it is not my job to run interference for troublemakers who have been offered the finest local hospitality yet keep wanting to search out the worst in people.”

  “Finest hospitality?”

  “I know you were at Rose Hall the other night. I remember you,” he said, looking again at Danielle. I was pretty sure it wasn’t me he remembered. He licked chicken grease from his lips before continuing. “And I know you tested the hospitality of more than a few important people. Our business is diplomacy, Mr. Jones, not assisting bullies.”

  “We’re talking about an otherwise defenseless young man, and you’re talking about the rich and powerful. Seems to me that your diplomacy is helping bullies.”

  “I believe we are done.” Lambert finally picked up a chicken wing and bit into it, signaling an end to the conversation, at least in his mind. I generally find people expect me to leave the room at such a juncture, so I swiveled to the bar and sipped my beer. Danielle watched me, and then joined in. We drank in silence, watching Lambert wiggle in his seat. He glared at the television, chewing on his chicken wing like it was uncooked grits, doing everything in his power to not look at us. Eventually he lost. They always do. I can sit in silence and stare someone down for hours. Lambert wiped his mouth with the same dirty napkin, smearing his face rather than cleaning it, then dropped off his stool and threw the napkin into his plate. He gave me his best dirty look, but the effect was nullified by the buffalo sauce that ringed his mouth. He opened his lips to say something, but must have thought the better of it, and he stormed out, leaving his lunch, his beer and his football team behind.

  We let him go and finished our beers. I asked the bartender to change the channel onto a real football game, and he flicked it over to English Premier League soccer, which wasn’t quite what I meant, but he seemed happy about it so I let it lie. We ignored the screen and moved to a view of the water. As we watched a skiff move across the water, my phone buzzed. I picked it off the table, didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway.

  “Miami Jones.”

  “Mr. Jones. This is Corporal Lucia Tellis.”

  “Lucia. I got your message.”

  “Yes, I wanted to let you know, I have reliable information that the assailants whose names you provided are recuperating at their residence.”

  “So you’re going to pick them up?”

  “Not yet. I also tracked down the marijuana plantation that they run, on the mountain.”

  “And?”

  There was a pause before Lucia continued.

  “Are you doing anything tonight?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  AS IT TURNED out, we were doing something that night. We stayed at Margaritaville enjoying the view until it was time to collect Markus from school. He was pensive as we made our way home, he and Danielle walking together, me straddling the bike and kicking alongside, my drawstring bag on my back. We arrived at his home, where a gathering of friends and family was already waiting for us. There was an expectant buzz in the air, people chatting quietly, food and drinks being brought in, like preparation for the arrival of royalty. We walked through the group in front of the house and took Markus inside. A woman I didn’t know was sweeping the floor, and gave me a harsh look for traipsing dirt in. We found Mrs. Swan in the kitchen, sitting at the table. A couple other women were tending pots at the stovetop. Men were setting plastic chairs around the open slab of concrete outside. Mrs. Swan looked indifferent to the activity. She gave a soft smile to Markus and he touched her shoulders before retreating to his bedroom.

  “A lot of hubbub,” I said.

  “Yes, suh.”

  “When does his highness arrive?” I said.

  Mrs. Swan smiled. “At his pleasure.”

  The crowd had swelled, and a party was well underway when word filtered through to us in the backyard that Mr. Richmond had arrived. Darkness had fallen, and I was eating some kind of delicious curry dish, the flavors of which I couldn’t replicate if I had the rest of eternity to figure it out. Mrs. Swan was in the kitchen, and Markus had gone out to meet Richmond. There was quite a welcoming line, because it took Richmond a good ten minutes to make it to the kitchen. I saw him greet Mrs. Swan, who didn’t stand from her chair. They talked for a time, then Richmond was presented with a drink and he continued along the line of people, everyone wanting to shake his hand, everyone clambering for a space on Markus’s coattails.

  Richmond took his time getting to me. Obviously I knew who he was, and given Danielle and I were still the only white faces in the place, he knew who I was. He shook every hand in the yard, making his way around the concrete slab, smiles and backslaps like he was the second coming. When you play top-flight college sport you meet plenty of boosters who know how to work a room. The number doesn’t go down at the pro level, but Richmond worked a room as well as any of them. He was different from Cornelius Winston in almost every possible way. He was younger, for a start. Maybe fifty, give or take, and his close-cropped hair was all black. He wore a thick black mustache, beneath which beamed the kind of smile that can be produced only by a high-priced orthodontic practice, a variety of which did a roaring trade in South Florida. But the thing that struck me most about him was that despite looking like everyone else around him, even down to the casual shirt and gray trousers, he wasn’t like them. And the proof was in his eyes. I’d seen plenty of eyes like them. Playing in the minor leagues, I saw all kinds of eyes, with all kinds of intensity. And in my major league adventure, twenty-nine glorious days with the Oakland A’s, almost all the eyes held a level of focus and determination that most folks were incapable of. Richmond had those eyes. Focused, like he was capturing everyone’s face on a hard drive hidden in his brain. But Richmond’s eyes were also dark and mean. His smiles told you that you were the center of his world for that moment, but his eyes said that in any other moment he wouldn’t care if you were dead.

  He finally reached Danielle and me and we stood, and Richmond gave me the pearly whites. He did a good job of keeping his eyes on me when everyone else preferred looking at my girlfriend. I offered my hand, and Richmond took it with a grip that could have pulled the skin off a snake.

  “Mr. Jones, it is good to finally meet you.”

  “You too, Mr. Richmond. Good flight?” No one could say I wasn’t a master at meaningless chitchat.

  “Like riding the bus. But I must thank you for looking after my charge in my absence.”

  “We were pleased to help.”

  Then we gave Richmond the opportunity to cast his eye over Danielle. He shot her the pearly whites as well. “Desmond Richmond,” he said.

  “Danielle Castle.”

  “Miss Castle, my humble thanks. My charge has been much safer under your eye.”

  “I agree. Which makes me wonder what happens when we leave.”

  “I am here now, of course.”

  “But you live in Florida, is that right?”

  “It is. But I will take steps. I assure you of that.” Richmond turned to a younger man who stood five paces off him, and put out his hand. The young man dropped a thick envelope in his hand, which he passed to me.

  “For your time,” said Richmond, handing me the envelope. It felt like cash, but the currency and amount was anyone’s guess. I didn’t look in it. I agree with Kenny Rogers. You never count your money when you’re sitting at the table.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No, thank you. I know you interrupted your vacation to take this job, so I don’t wish to keep you any further. Please enjoy the rest of your vacation.” He stepped aside as if to let us out, and I got the sense he thought it was time we left. But we weren’t there for him—we were there for Markus, and Mrs. Swan.

  “Thank you, Mr. Richmond, but we are enjoying our vacation just fine.” I smiled and sat back down, and Danielle joined me. Richmond almost frowned, but he caught himself and tacked into the smile, the
whole time watching me with those dark eyes. He nodded and moved on to the next coattail jumper. He was giving everyone he spoke to the impression that the coattails were really his, not Markus’s, and he was the one who decided who came along for the ride and who did not. Eventually he completed the circle, and he disappeared back inside. Danielle and I ate some jerk chicken, drank some beer and chatted to some smiling, happy people who proved, if ever it was needed, that money did not buy happiness. Which made it all the stranger that they were all trying to climb on the Markus train. Perhaps money didn’t buy happiness, but it could buy a finished home.

  I saw Garfield wander into the yard, moving like a reed in the breeze. I nodded and he smiled and came over.

  “Mista Miami,” he said, slapping me a low five.

  “It’s just Miami.”

  “A course, mon.”

  “Good party.”

  “Oh, yeah, mon. E’body bring out dare best fo’ Mista Richmond.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s his story?”

  “Mista Richmond?”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t know?” Markus smiled and slapped his thigh. “Oh, you’ll love dis one, Miami.” He took a sip of the juice in his hand and leaned in like he was about to share the location of the Ark of the Covenant.

  “You ‘member da Cool Runnings?”

  “The bobsled movie?” said Danielle, who was leaning in from my other side. I felt like Switzerland.

  “Dots da one. Da Jamaican bobsled team, nineteen eighty-eight. Mista Richmond was on dot team.”

  “He was one of the bobsledders?” Danielle seemed impressed by this news.

  “Yah, mon. Sort of. He was what ya call da alternate. He wasn’t in da team at first, but one mon got hurt, and he was the backup. He never actually raced in da ‘lympics, but he done turned it into someting.”

  “How did he turn it into something?” I asked.

  “At first, dare was not such a big deal after da ‘lympics. No one in Jamaica pay much notice to da winter games. But den dare was da movie. Now it become a big deal.” Garfield nodded his head to emphasize how big a deal it was, and sipped his drink. “All da team become famous, but Mista Richmond, he work it good. In America e’body wants to see da Cool Runnings boys, and Mista Richmond, he a guy wit a lot a charisma. You know? He go to America, he on TV, he do shop openings, he become a celebrity.”