When Monk and I were roommates, I had shared with him my grandfather’s three simple rules for surviving life in Florida and the rest of the tropics: “Walk slow. Marry rich. And always park in the shade.”
“Unfortunately,” Monk said, “I can’t slow down or I’ll go broke. And I don’t plan to get married again, or I’ll go broker. But I can damn sure find a decent parking space. It’s way on the other side of the lot, under the trees.”
He pointed to the far end of the terminal, maybe a hundred yards away, where a stately row of royal poinciana trees was in full audacious orange bloom.
I grabbed my two duffels. I had overpacked, not knowing exactly how long I’d be staying or what the dress code might be for a bodyguard.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Monk stopped me.
“Naw, I’ll go get the van and pick you up.”
“I don’t mind walking,” I said. “Be good to stretch my legs.”
But Monk wouldn’t have it.
“Save your energy. You’re going to need it. Besides, it’s an hour’s drive to the resort. You might want to take a leak first.”
“Ah, the power of suggestion.”
Monk put a hand on my shoulder.
“Look, Zack,” he said. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you coming down here. Means a lot.”
“Now, don’t get sappy on me. I just wanted to beef up my resume.”
“We haven’t talked about money,” Monk said.
“I’m not worried about that.”
“I know you aren’t,” he said. “But I’ll make it right for you. Promise.”
He gave me a slap on the shoulder and headed off across the parking lot. I stepped back inside the terminal and found a men’s room and took care of everything that needed taking care of.
Then I made my way back to the curb, passing through the hawker gauntlet again. I turned down two offers of ganja and two offers from drivers wanting to show me all the sights in addition to selling me ganja.
The Libido bus was long gone. I stood on the curb, looking across the parking lot, trying to spot Monk. He’d said he was driving a van. I was betting it was a pink van, just like the pink bus and Monk’s pink polo shirt.
Branding is everything these days. I was hoping my little stint as a bodyguard didn’t mean I’d have to wear one of the pink polo shirts. Pink doesn’t favor me. I’m a khaki-and-white kind of guy. Occasionally I will put on the plumage and wear something navy blue, but I always feel shifty about it for weeks afterward.
I glanced toward the royal poinciana trees at the far end of the terminal. They don’t call them royal poinciana trees down in the islands. They call them flamboyants. It’s a much better name. It says exactly what they are when they are in bloom—an in-your-face orange.
Only . . . these flamboyants were suddenly more orange than any I’d ever seen. They were consumed by orange, an inferno that billowed up from the pavement and above the trees, followed by a massive gray plume that lapped at the sky and swept out in all directions.
In the next instant came the roar and the shockwave of the explosion. I crouched behind a taxi, shards of glass and shreds of metal scattershot all around.
Then deathly silence. And then people screaming.
I leapt out from behind the taxi and ran to the parking lot. I hadn’t made it more than twenty yards when the second explosion came, followed almost instantly by a third.
I hit the pavement, landing behind a concrete balustrade where a young woman lay unconscious, her clothes singed, her face bleeding. The asphalt must have been a hundred degrees, but the air around us was suddenly even hotter. Green needles on a nearby stand of casuarinas crinkled and turned black.
I scooped up the young woman and retreated toward the terminal, casting a glance back toward the flamboyant trees. They were gone. So was the far end of the parking lot. All that remained was a gaping hellhole ravaged by flames.
This time the bastards weren’t bluffing.
14
“I am sorry about what happened to your friend,” said the man sitting across the desk from me.
We were in a small stuffy office at the Mo Bay headquarters of the Jamaica Constabulary Force, and he was a smallish black man wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a black tie—Inspector Eustace Dunwood. His close-cropped hair had a tinge of gray and so did his tidy mustache.
“Has anyone figured out how it happened?”
“Not really,” Dunwood said. He spoke in the measured tones Jamaicans use with foreigners who can’t begin to understand their lyrical patois. “There are witnesses who say they saw a van, one belonging to the Libido resort, explode.”
“That would have been Monk’s.”
Dunwood opened a manila envelope, fished around inside, and pulled out a charred leather wallet. He handed it to me. I opened the wallet. The plastic window that held the driver’s license had been singed, but I could make out what was left of the license’s green logo. “The Sunshine State,” it said. Below it was Monk’s name—Donald Wilson DeVane Jr.
“Is this the only thing of his that you have?”
Dunwood took a deep breath and exhaled.
“For now. Our investigators are still trying to determine what is what.”
My gut ached. I could have been in the van with Monk. It could have been shreds of my former existence that Eustace Dunwood was carrying around in a manila envelope.
“How many others?” I said.
“At least three. Maybe more. A half dozen vehicles destroyed. It’s fortunate the blast occurred where it did, at the far end of the parking lot. Otherwise it would have been much worse.”
I handed Monk’s wallet back to Dunwood. He stuck it in the envelope. He set the envelope atop a small stack of papers. He tapped the papers, straightening them, then squared the stack with the corners of his desk. It was the neat and orderly desk of a neat and orderly man.
“There are a few questions I must ask,” he said.
“Please, go ahead.”
“You stated that Mr. DeVane was at the airport so that he might give you a ride to the Libido resort, correct?”
I nodded.
“And he met you outside of customs and the two of you chatted there on the curb for a few minutes.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So why is it that you did not accompany him to the van?” Dunwood said.
“He told me to wait for him on the curb. He said it was a pretty good drive to the resort and suggested I might want to use the men’s room before we got started.”
“And did you?”
“Did I what? Use the men’s room?”
Dunwood nodded.
“Why yes, I did.”
“Did anyone see you use it?”
I looked at him.
“Exactly what are you getting at here?”
Before Dunwood could answer, the door to the office opened without anyone knocking on it and in walked two men, white guys.
The younger of the two, he might have been thirty, showed a lot of white teeth in a face that was tan and smooth. He wore a blue blazer with some kind of fancy crestlike insignia, white polo shirt, khakis with sharp creases, and leather loafers with socks that matched the pants. He looked as if he had just stepped off a golf course, a very private golf course.
“Inspector,” he said, nodding at Dunwood. He stuck out his hand for me to shake. “Jay Skingle, U.S. Embassy, assistant consul for Homeland Security. Got here as soon as we could. On behalf of the ambassador, I’d like to express our sympathy over your loss and any hardship you might have suffered. We stand by to do whatever we can to assist you in this matter.”
His words flowed out like oil from a can. A born diplomat.
The other guy didn’t introduce himself. And Skingle didn’t bother to do it for him.
The other guy moved to a corner and leaned in it. He was a small man, quite slender. He wore plain brown pants and a plain beige shirt. His face was all angles, li
ke something a cubist painter might draw, with a sharp nose, boney cheeks, a sharp brow—the very definition of a hatchet face.
Skingle sat down in a chair next to mine and gave me the once-over, his expression pinched. Guess the bloodstains on my shirt didn’t do it for him. Dunwood had told me the girl I’d pulled from the parking lot would be alright.
“I understand you were a friend of Mr. DeVane’s,” Skingle said.
“That’s right. We used to play ball together.”
“And you came here on vacation?”
I shook my head.
“No, I came to help Monk out.”
“Doing what?”
“I was still waiting to find that out,” I said.
“But did it involve his work with Darcy Whitehall?”
“Yes,” I said. “It did.”
Skingle shot a quick look at the guy leaning in the corner.
“Some sort of security work, right?” Skingle said.
“That’s right,” I said. “Did you know Monk?”
“No, no, not at all,” said Skingle. “But I was aware that Mr. Whitehall had recently hired him, on a consultant basis.”
Eustace Dunwood cleared his throat.
He said, “If you don’t mind, I was in the midst of interrogating Mr. Chasteen when you arrived.”
I looked at him. Interrogating?
“Carry on, then,” Skingle said.
He made a steeple of his hands and placed them under his chin. He reminded me of every frat boy I’d ever known in college. I didn’t feel like talking to him. Or Dunwood. Matter of fact, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Or being interrogated.
I stood.
“Sorry,” I said. “But I’m not up for this right now. I need to make some phone calls, let a few people know what’s going on.”
“Now listen here,” said Dunwood. “There are still a number of matters we need to discuss.”
“Like what? Who I took a leak with at the airport? Go interrogate someone else about that.”
Dunwood started to say something, but Skingle stopped him.
“Please, Inspector, you must understand that Mr. Chasteen is under a great deal of strain at this time. I’m sure he will be more than happy to make himself available to you when he has had a chance to collect himself, won’t you, Mr. Chasteen?”
“Whatever,” I said.
Skingle stood from his chair, brushed off the seat of his khakis, and shot the sleeves of his jacket.
“Mr. Chasteen,” he said, “in situations of this nature, the embassy is charged with seeing to it that next of kin is notified. May I assume you will take care of that?”
I nodded.
“Also, regarding the proper disposition of Mr. DeVane’s remains, there will be some necessary paperwork, which the embassy will assist you with. We will be in touch with you at the appropriate time.”
“Fine,” I said.
Skingle turned to Dunwood.
“As for you, Inspector, I would be remiss not to mention that the U.S. Embassy will be closely monitoring the handling of this affair.”
Dunwood said nothing.
“And I would be further remiss not to mention that you can expect the embassy to lodge a formal complaint with the prime minister’s office regarding the Jamaica Constabulary Force’s lack of initiative in controlling certain groups that present a clear and present danger to the well-being of U.S. citizens in your country,” said Skingle. “I refer specifically to the NPU.”
“No reason to believe the NPU had anything to do with this,” said Dunwood.
“No reason to believe they didn’t either,” said Skingle.
Skingle gave the guy in the corner a look, and the two of them walked out the door. Dunwood turned to me.
“Where will I be able to find you, Mr. Chasteen?”
“Suppose I’ll head to Libido and check in with Darcy Whitehall.”
“Taxis are out front,” he said.
I started for the door.
“One more thing, Mr. Chasteen,” Dunwood said. “Don’t be telling that embassy man anything you don’t tell me. We clear on that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Real clear.”
15
Outside, the air was still heavy from the heat of the day and smelled of diesel and dust. It was almost dark and the streets of Mo Bay were busy, people rousing for the evening. Trucks honked, music played loud. Taxi drivers leaned against cars, smoking cigarettes and talking.
I looked down Union Street, past the old Cable & Wireless building and Raj Mercantile and the Scotia Bank. Church bells were ringing from the other side of Sam Sharp Square. I saw a tiny sliver of the sea. The sun was a half hour gone. The sky was the color of a day-old bruise, and the water showed not a bit of blue.
I felt dirty and grimy. It would be good to take a hot shower and slip into some clean clothes. Only . . .
Zack, you damn fool.
In the madness at the airport I’d left my duffels behind. No way they were still sitting on the sidewalk, but maybe it was worth a shot to swing by there on the way to Libido.
I signaled the closest taxi driver. He hopped in his car and pulled my way. Just before he reached the curb, a horn blared and a black Mercedes vectored in from Union Street and cut off the taxi. Gold letters were monogrammed on the front door—D. W.
The passenger’s window went down on the Mercedes. Looking out at me was Darcy Whitehall’s daughter, Ali.
“Get in,” she said.
I gave the taxi driver a shrug, sorry, and he responded with a string of enchanting colloquialisms regarding my parentage, mating habits, and personal hygiene. There were several references to goats.
I settled into the backseat of the Mercedes. It slid into traffic.
The driver was a sinewy black man with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks that fell like thick pieces of rope below his shoulders. His helmet of hair rubbed up against the Mercedes’ headliner.
Ali turned around in the front seat, her big dark eyes rimmed with red.
“What about Monk?”
I shook my head.
“Oh my God, no,” she said.
She let out a wail and buried her face in the headrest, slamming a fist against the seat.
“No, no, no.”
She slumped in the seat and sobbed.
We drove like that for a while. We went past the airport. I didn’t mention anything about my bags. Wouldn’t have done Ali any good for us to stop there. And even if we had stopped, we couldn’t have gotten anywhere near the terminal. It was blockaded with armed troops stationed at the barricades.
The driver snaked the Mercedes into a roundabout and exited on the Al, the coastal road to Runaway Bay and Ocho Rios. We passed clumps of sunburned tourists walking along the sidewalk. Small hotels, big hotels, every kind of restaurant and a joint on the shoulder called Bushman’s Jerk Shack. A crowd of people stood outside it. I could smell the reason why. If I’d had any appetite at all I would have been right there with them.
A few miles down the road, Ali pulled herself together. She turned around in the seat again. She smiled. She was a lovely young woman.
“We didn’t have a chance to meet properly the other day. I’m Ali.” She pointed to the driver. “And this is Otee.”
I caught his glance in the rearview mirror. We exchanged nods.
“Tell me about it,” said Ali.
And so I did. When I was done, Ali was quiet for a while. Finally, she turned to me again and said: “Monk told me you were a famous football player.”
“I played. The famous part is debatable. My career didn’t last that long. Bad hinges,” I said.
Ali looked confused.
“My knees gave out,” I said.
“Oh,” she said.
We rode for a bit. Then she said: “Did he play the game well? Monk, I mean.”
“Yeah, he played it very well. Had a Super Bowl ring to show for it.”
“And you do not?”
“No,” I said.
“I do not.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I played for the Dolphins.”
“The Dolphins of Miami.”
“That’s them,” I said.
“They are a bad team, the Dolphins?”
“No, we weren’t bad. We always seemed to start the season strong and fizzle at the end. My last year we went nine and seven. But we lost the last four in a row and didn’t make the playoffs. We had to play the Patriots and the Bills in the snow. We sucked in the snow.”
A day like today and we were riding along in a car talking football. The real salvation of sports is not the victories or the devotion to a team. It’s the blessed distraction. It gives us something to talk about when we can’t bear to talk about the bad stuff bearing down on us.
Otee looked at me in the rearview mirror.
He said, “Da real football, mon, you ever play dat?”
“Soccer, you mean?”
“Yah, mon, what da whole resta da world call football.”
“No, I didn’t play it.”
“Didn’t tink so,” he said. “Big stout man like you be suckin’ air.”
“Stout?”
“Yeah, mon, you stout.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel stout. I was carrying two hundred thirty pounds on my six-foot-four frame, just ten pounds more than my old playing weight. I ran. I worked out. I watched my carbs. Well, sometimes. Like maybe every fifth meal.
“Wot position you play, mon?” Otee asked.
“Strong safety.”
He nodded. Probably had no better idea what a strong safety did than I did about a midfielder or a left wing or a sweeper.
We rode along for a bit, and then Ali said: “We could use some of that now.”
Otee looked at her.
“Wot dat we could use?”
“Some strong safety,” she said. “That’s what we really need.”
Maybe that was my cue. Maybe I should have spoken up and told her not to worry. Maybe I should have tipped my hat and slipped my thumbs under my belt and said something like: “Well, ma’am, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours, because that’s exactly what I’m here to give you.”
But I didn’t say anything. I sucked in my stomach. I sat up tall in the seat.
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