Dead Fast

by A. J. Stewart

  “Ron Bennett,” he said.

  “You don’t have a special picture of me that comes up on screen when I call?” I asked.

  “I’m looking at video of a Russian oil guy getting all kinds of nasty done to him by a couple of Latinas dressed as cheerleaders. I’m not looking at my phone.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “All business, you know me. His wife is paying two grand a day plus to get the dirt.”

  “Sounds like you got it, but I didn’t think Peeping Tom work was really your thing.”

  “Actually I didn’t get this. The hotel he was in runs a good little blackmail racket. They have HD cameras throughout the rooms. This thing is even edited.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “The guy who runs the hotel has a kid who wants to learn to sail, so I’m sorting him out at the yacht club.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “And what can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that you were right. The consulate was a bust. That guy didn’t want to upset his little paradise friends.”

  “Yeah, that happens a lot, especially in the backwater offices where they hide away the less talented diplomats.”

  “Anyway, we struck out.”

  “Maybe not. I had a think about it after you called, and I remembered you told me the guy was after the top athletics job. What was his name?”

  “Winston. Cornelius Winston.”

  “Right. Well, I remembered that my father used to know the guy who held a pretty top position in Jamaican athletics, so I googled him to see if he was still around.”

  “And?”

  “And he is. Turns out he’s the guy who holds the IOC slot right now.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do. And he’s about to retire. He must be worn out from all those first-class flights and five-star hotels and champagne.”

  “It would wear on you.”

  “No doubt. Anyway, I gave him a call.”

  “You are super-resourceful, aren’t you,” I said.

  “You have no idea. Turns out, not only did he remember me, but he also knew Cassandra’s late husband.”

  “It’s a small world, up there at the top.”

  Ron’s lady friend, Cassandra, was a rich widow in Palm Beach. Anyone with a lot of zeros on their bank account who wintered in South Florida knew the Lady Cassandra. She was a feisty old bird, and she made Ron happy, which made her alright in my book.

  “So long story short,” said Ron, “he is expecting your visit in Kingston.”

  “Kingston? Can I call him?”

  “You can call his assistant. But he really insisted you come for tea. He’s like that.”

  “He’s also on the other side of the country.”

  “It’s not LA to DC. It’s like crossing Andorra.”

  I had no idea what crossing Andorra would entail, except perhaps ski gear, and I didn’t think that was where the simile was supposed to go.

  “Alright, give me the number.”

  I jotted down the details and thanked Ron and told him I’d see him at Longboards on the weekend. I was tossing around the percentages of making it to Kingston alive on the motorbike, when a better alternative popped into my head. I grabbed my phone and made another call.

  “Lucia? It’s Miami Jones.”

  “Miami? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong. I was just on a call from my partner in the States. Does the name Bradford Prestwich the Third mean anything to you?”

  “Of course. He’s Jamaica’s delegate to the International Olympic Committee. Why?”

  “He’s about to retire, did you know that?”

  “I’d heard rumors, nothing more. He is pretty old.”

  “So that’s the job Winston wants.”

  “Yes, and if he knows Prestwich is about to retire, that might explain why he’s so skittish. He needs all his ducks in a row, and he needs them now.”

  “Right. Well, Mr. Prestwich has invited us for tea.”

  “Doesn’t he live in Kingston?”

  “He does. And it’s a good hundred miles away, right?”

  “About a hundred eighty kilometers. And I wouldn’t do it on a bike.”

  “Me either. So what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Looks like I’m having tea in the capital.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  IT ALL FELT a little too secret-agent, but I didn’t want Cornelius Winston wandering in on our conversation. I rode the motorcycle to the workshop where I had bought the thing, and asked the guy there if he could get in touch with Garfield. He told me Garfield was probably working, at a resort two along from the one Danielle and I were staying at.

  I rode over to the resort and got the same strange looks for arriving on a bike from the doormen as I had the first time where I was staying. I told them I was looking for Garfield, and they directed me to a sports bar on the second level of the main building. The sports bar was aptly named The Bat and Ball, which covered a multitude of sins. Inside it was dark and clubby, with a brass-ringed bar that reminded me of Cheers. Garfield stood behind the bar, polishing glasses and chatting to a handful of people who were watching what appeared to be a cricket match on the screen behind the bar. Garfield saw me walking in and offered his generous smile.

  “Miami, what brings you to da Bat’n’Ball?”

  “You, actually,” I said, taking a stool at the bar. “Can I order a beer for cash?”

  “Yah, mon. What’s your poison?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “You tried Balashi? It from Aruba.”

  “Hit me.”

  Garfield opened a bottle and poured it into a frosty glass, and then placed it on a beer mat before me. I took a taste and gave him the thumbs up, and he gave me his trademark smile.

  “You come all dis way just for da best bartender in MoBay?”

  “I did, actually. I need to have a chat with Markus and his mom about something, and I don’t want Mr. Richmond or his people to know about it.”

  “Good stuff or bad stuff?”

  “Good stuff. There’s a chance we might be able to get Markus a college scholarship in the States, but Richmond isn’t keen on the idea.”

  “No, I would tink not. If dare no coil in it fo’ him, Mista Richmond no much interested in any’ting. But dot is good news. I can arrange it.”

  “You can?”

  “Yah, mon. Tonight. I will make a story, den I will bring dem to your hotel.”

  “That would be great.”

  “No problem, mon.”

  I stayed and enjoyed another beer and watched a bit of cricket with the other guests, who turned out to be from Germany and knew as much about it as I did. Garfield tried his best to explain, but when the batter hit the ball directly over his own head, over the top of the catcher, who Garfield called the wicketkeeper, and scored runs, I was lost. I bid Garfield a good afternoon and he promised he would see me later.

  Danielle and I took an early dinner in one of the non-buffet restaurants in the resort. Apparently one had to line up at the concierge desk at six in the morning to get a reservation for that evening in one of the prime restaurants, which I was told were the sushi and the Italian places. We wandered upstairs without any reservation to the Jamaican restaurant, which was mostly empty. Should I ever visit Rome I won’t be eating salt fish and ackee, so I didn’t see the point of pasta in the Caribbean. We had a lovely view of the pool and the beach beyond, the water glowing as the sun set in the distance. We drank Red Stripe and dined on grilled snapper, with locally grown vegetables and for dessert light banana fritters with ice cream.

  We were just finishing up when the young woman serving us came to the table and whispered that Garfield was in the lobby. I went down to meet them while Danielle signed for dinner, and we retreated back upstairs to our resort’s equivalent of The Bat and Ball. This one was called Winston’s, which caught everyone’s attention, but we were relieved to s
ee a large painting of Churchill on the wall inside. All the other guests were at the pool bar or at dinner, so we had the room to ourselves. We sat in a circle of club chairs: me, Danielle, Markus and Mrs. Swan. Garfield made to leave and I told him to take a seat. He’d proven himself one of the good guys as far as I was concerned, and he seemed not the slightest bit interested in Markus’s coattails.

  “Thanks for coming,” I told Mrs. Swan and Markus. Both of them wore curious frowns. Evidently Garfield had not told them exactly why I had called them there. The bartender brought a tray of ice waters over, and gave Garfield a soft low five.

  “Why are we here, Mista Jones?” said Mrs. Swan.

  “Can I ask, did you mention to Markus what we spoke about previously?”

  “No, suh. I did not want hope for some’ting dot may never be.”

  “Well, there’s a chance that it may be.” I explained to Markus what I had told his mother, about the college and the scholarships. Then I expanded on the story with the news that they had seen video of Markus running and were interested.

  “I don’t need to go to America,” said Markus. “I can run here, win here.”

  “I’m not suggesting you can’t,” I said. “But this would allow you to get a college degree and race as well.”

  “I go to school now, ’cause I have to,” he said, glancing at his mother and then quickly away. “Once I finish school, I can train more. I will get faster.”

  “College studies don’t get in the way, they complement your athletics.”

  “How do you know, mon? What do you know about it? You no runner.”

  “No, you’re right I’m not. But let me tell you what I am. I have my own business. I have staff who work with me. I get to set my own hours, I choose my clients, and I have plenty of time to relax with my friends and family.” On the last word I smiled at Danielle. “But I wouldn’t have any of that if I had not gone to college. But when I was your age, I didn’t want any of that. I was an athlete. I played American football and baseball. I got recruited by the University of Miami to play both those sports, and I went to college on the same sort of scholarship I am talking about for you. Without that scholarship, I probably wouldn’t have been able to go to college either. But here’s the thing.” I leaned in toward Markus and took his eye. “I got to play two sports, and in one of them, baseball, I got drafted and played professionally. College didn’t get in the way of my sport, college made that happen. I had the best coaches, great facilities, and we competed against other great teams. All that made me better. And I got to go to the big leagues because of it.”

  I leaned back and sipped some water. “And I had a good sports career. But you know the thing about athletics? It ends. It ends young. You don’t stay a pro athlete your whole life. One day it’s over. Younger guys come through, faster guys. Your legs get old and they get heavy, and you slow down.”

  “I’m not gonna do dot. Become some big fatty,” said Markus. His mother slapped his thigh.

  “I’m not saying that. But to be at the top, you have to perform at a level that can’t be sustained forever. Think about it. How many sprinters are there over thirty? Not many. How many win big races over thirty? Not many, if any. And at thirty, you’re hopefully only one-third of the way through your life. There’s a lot of time left. Even if you become Usain Bolt, and win big and get rich, you still have a lot of life left. And let’s be honest, most guys don’t become Usain Bolt. Most guys don’t reach those heights. I was one of those guys. I did well, played pro sports, and then it ended. I wasn’t rich. But I did have a college degree. And that degree got me into graduate school toward the end of my baseball career, and that got me this career. The second part of my life.”

  Markus sat back in his club chair and frowned. He wasn’t convinced and I didn’t blame him for that. He wanted to run, to use the wonderful body he had to do the thing he did best. He felt indestructible, unbeatable. Just as a boy his age should. I wouldn’t have listened to me either. So I changed tack.

  “How would you like to run on start-of-the-art training tracks every day? Run in competitions against the best up-and-coming athletes every week. Lift weights in brand-new gyms that offer fresh towels you never have to wash. And have them pay for it all?”

  “But I heard you can’t race in da Diamond League if you is a student,” said Markus.

  “Not so. You can race anywhere you qualify. Now it is true, you cannot accept prize money as long as you are a student. US college athletics are strictly amateur, and they enforce that, believe me. But how many races do nineteen or twenty-year-olds actually win at that level? Your body is still developing. A sprinter doesn’t hit peak form until his mid-twenties.”

  Markus lost the frown some. I could see I was hitting home, at least a little.

  “Let me ask you something,” I said. “How many Olympic gold medals has Jamaica won to date?”

  “Plenty,” said Markus.

  “Seventeen, all time, as of the last Olympics. Do you know how many golds were won by athletes who were either studying at or had graduated from a US college at the last Olympics?”

  Markus shook his head.

  “One hundred thirty-six. That’s golds only, and just the last Olympics.” I had to thank the Internet for my new knowledge on the subject. I couldn’t verify the figures, but I was confident there was some truth to them, and they made my point well.

  Markus nodded slowly to himself and I left him to consider those facts. I turned to Mrs. Swan.

  “The University of Miami wants to meet with Markus this weekend. There is a race on, a regional event, lots of runners from Florida and the south, and they can get Markus an entry. He can tour the campus, meet other student-athletes, see if he likes it.”

  “We don have da money to go to America,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about that. I can take care of that.”

  Mrs. Swan shook her head. “No, we don take charity.”

  “It’s not charity, Mrs. Swan. Mr. Richmond paid me for watching over Markus, and I don’t need his money. Let’s call it the down payment that your husband never got.”

  She nodded to herself, letting that sink in. I knew she was a proud woman, who had brought up a son alone. A son who had turned out to be a good kid, thanks to her. But I could see that she was just looking for an excuse to put her pride aside so her son could have a better opportunity.

  “Look, the plan is this. Markus flies over to the States with us, day after tomorrow. He meets the coaches, tours the facilities. They’ll look after him. He’ll stay on campus, get a feel for it. Then on Saturday, he’ll race. If he runs a good enough time, the university may offer him a scholarship that will cover the cost of his education.”

  “What is a good enough time?” asked Garfield.

  “If he can run the sorts of times I’ve seen him do at training, I think that will impress them.”

  Markus snorted. “I can do dot. Easy. I got my new shoes. I can go faster.”

  “You got new shoes?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “From where?”

  “Mista Richmond.”

  I took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. I wasn’t sure how this part was going to go down.

  “You can’t take those shoes. You need to leave them here.”

  “Huh? What you talkin’ about?”

  “College rules don’t allow you to get paid or accept gifts that might be considered sponsorship. And they don’t allow you to have an agent.”

  “What’s an agent?” asked Mrs. Swan.

  “An agent is anyone who represents an athlete. Anyone who gets you free stuff or money or does deals for you.”

  “Mista Richmond got all my shoes,” said Markus.

  “Has he ever given you any money, or offered your services to anyone, like a business?”

  “No. Just da shoes.”

  “Okay, so if needs be, we can argue that it is race equipment provided as a gift. That would be p
ermissible. But beyond that, you need to cease any relationship with him.”

  “Cease? Wadda you mean?” Markus’s frown returned. “He helped, you done nuttin’. Now you say cease?”

  “You can’t be represented by anyone, and that is what he seems to want. Markus, if this doesn’t work out, you can go back and work with him. But if you get an offer from the college, that’s it. You can’t work him anymore. So it’s best he doesn’t know.”

  “How we do dot?” asked Mrs. Swan. “How we get off de island witout him knowin’?”

  I shrugged. “We just go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  WE WERE STANDING at the entrance to the resort when the dark green Land Rover Sport pulled in the next morning, but we paid it no attention until Corporal Lucia Tellis stepped out of it. She smiled and beckoned us over. Inside the car smelled like new. There were swathes of beige leather and a digital touchscreen navigation system.

  I nodded and gave my impressed face. “Cops do alright in Jamaica, don’t they?”

  “It’s a drug impound. It’s going to go to auction at some point, but for now it was just sitting in the yard. So I borrowed it.”

  “You’re not going to get in trouble?” asked Danielle.

  “No. The officer in charge of the impound is married to my cousin.”

  I was liking Lucia more and more. She took us out of the resort and headed east, along the coast road around Falmouth. We cruised alternately along the water and then inland slightly, always hugging the coast. When we reached Steer Town, where the road broke off to Ocho Rios, Lucia cut south across the island, toward Spanish Town and on to Kingston. The capital sat on the south coast, and we came in past Calabar High School, which Lucia explained was one of the top schools competing each year in the All-Schools Athletic Championships. We drove past the Canadian embassy, and then Lucia cut into a leafy area called Jack’s Hill that offered expansive views of the city below, out across Port Royal to the blue Caribbean. Even in Jamaica these homes had to have been in the million-dollar-plus bracket.