46
She told me to sit down while she went inside the house. I planted myself in one of the rocking chairs. She came back out a few minutes later with a glass of water and handed it to me.
She took the chair beside me, placed a hand on my arm, squeezed it, then worked her way up to my shoulder, across to my chest, then back to my arm. She kept her hand there.
“You stout,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve heard that.”
“Stout man’s a good man. Stout woman, too.”
I sipped the water and rocked in the chair.
“You seen our river?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. Saw it on the way in. Nice river.”
“Nicest river in all Jamaica. You know the story of its name?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Long time ago, before they brought the first slaves here even, back during the Spanish, there was this Indian princess, this Arawak, and her name was Martha Brae.”
“So there really was a Martha Brae?”
“Oh yeah, and she was something. She knew the secret of the river, knew where it kept its gold.”
“Gold?”
“Uh-huh, this river used to have a cave filled with gold and Martha Brae she was the only one knew how to find it. The Spanish they came marching in and they grabbed Martha Brae and they told her she had to show them the cave of gold. So she took them straight to it. And soon as they got inside the cave, while those Spanish were busy looking at all the gold, Martha Brae she said her words.”
“What words?”
“Her secret words, powerful words, words that changed the course of that river so it threw a big boulder up to seal the mouth of that cave and locked them all inside.”
“Martha Brae, too?”
“Uh-huh, she died right there with ’em, just so those Spanish couldn’t carry away all that gold.”
“Quite a woman that Martha Brae.”
“Yes, she was. Strong woman. That’s why I named my daughter after her. That’s her place in the back, although she’s hardly ever here.”
“Your daughter’s named Martha, too?”
The old woman nodded.
“Her middle name, but she doesn’t go by it. She goes by her first name—Kenya.”
“Kenya Oompong?” I said.
The initials in the daybook—K.O. Man, how thick could I be?
The old woman turned her head my way.
“Why, yes. Our surname be Freeman, but Kenya she took on the name Oompong, because that’s what some of our people were called. They were Maroons,” the old woman said. “You know Kenya?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I know who she is.”
“Then you know all about the NPU.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I do.”
“She’s a fighter, Kenya. Stirring things up. Might not get elected, most probably won’t, but she’s making a name for herself.”
“She’s doing that,” I said.
I drank the rest of the water. We rocked quietly for a while.
“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “This white man who was here a few weeks ago, did your neighbor get a good look at him?”
“Not much of one. It was night. I was off to church, singing in the choir. That’s what I do on Wednesday nights.”
“Did your neighbor say he was a big man, you know, a stout man like me?”
The old woman shook her head.
“Oh no, said he was a slight fellow, not much to him at all, like a shadow coming out of my yard, getting in his car and driving away.”
“Anything missing from your house?”
“No, uh-uh. I called Kenya and she drove all the way up here and looked around and she couldn’t find anything missing either. That’s when she went out and got me that dog. I call him Tiny.”
“Yes, ma’am. That Tiny’s a real fine dog,” I said.
47
When someone says they work at the U.S. Embassy it conjures visions of a stately building where diplomats and dignitaries mingle, a handsome edifice with a big flag flying outside and an aura of grandeur, even in this buttoned-down era of international terrorism. While Uncle Sam has an embassy like that in Kingston, the Department of Homeland Security suboffice in Montego Bay was not the sort of place that caused the heart to swell or inspired spontaneous renditions of “God Bless America.” Johnny Cash’s “Fulsom Prison Blues” would have been more appropriate.
It sat in an industrial zone next to the airport, and it looked exactly like what it was—a cluster of nondescript concrete-block buildings that had been given drab coats of beige paint and encircled with enough electrified fence and concertina wire to outfit a couple of maximum-security state penitentiaries. Marines with rifles guarded the entrance.
I parked the Mercedes, walked up to the guardhouse, and stated my business. The Marine inside made a phone call. He hung up and said: “He can see you now, sir. Building B, Room nine.” He pinned a visitor’s badge on my shirt. The gates opened, and I followed a sidewalk to Building B.
Inside, there was a large waiting room. A dozen or so people, mostly Jamaicans by my guess, were filling out various applications, probably for visas of one sort or another.
Ever since the aftermath of 9-11, the Department of Homeland Security had been in charge of what used to be the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Critics of the system said it was part of a larger plan, hatched by xenophobic conservatives, to seal our borders to people of color. Supporters said it was a first line of defense in the war against terrorism.
At that moment I didn’t much care about the political implications; I just wanted to get some answers from Jay Skingle. I hung a left down a hall and came to a reception desk outside a suite of offices. The woman at the desk looked up and smiled.
“You must be Mr. Chasteen,” she said.
She was older than her voice had sounded on the phone, a bit more substantial, too, but no hardship to look at.
“I am he.”
“I see you came empty-handed,” she said.
“I bring only my boyish charm. That marine outside made me check my good looks.”
She smiled.
“Ah, that explains it,” she said. “Mr. Skingle can see you now.”
She got up from her desk and I followed her down the hall. She was a pleasure to follow. She knocked lightly on a door, then opened it and nodded me in.
Skingle was sitting behind a desk, talking on the phone. He waved me to a chair and kept on talking. The secretary gave me another smile and shut the door.
I sat down in the chair and looked around the room. A few pictures on the wall—Skingle glad-handing it with other guys in suits, a signed photo of him with the current president. His college diploma. Princeton. The date on it was ten years ago. Skingle was older than he looked. Yet he was still just an assistant consul. Guy definitely wasn’t on the foreign service fast track.
Skingle hung up the phone, and before he could say anything, I said: “Where’s your buddy?”
“My buddy?”
“Yeah, the guy who was with you the night of the airport bombing, the guy who drove you to Libido last night, the guy who stole Monk DeVane’s files.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap, Skingle. Someone saw your guy leaving Monk DeVane’s cottage carrying a black garbage bag. I got there a little after that and all Monk’s files were gone. Ray Charles could connect those dots.”
Skingle didn’t say anything.
“Plus you lied to me, saying you didn’t know Monk. You met him at a place called the Bird’s Nest a couple of weeks ago.”
“Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “All that really matters is that when it comes to credibility, yours is shot.”
Skingle made a tent of his fingers and put them under his chin, studying me. I’d read somewhere that if you want to gain leverage in a conversation then you sho
uld subtly mimic the body language of the other person. So I made a temple of my fingers and put them under my chin and studied Skingle back. I don’t know if it gained me any leverage, but Skingle got up from his chair and turned his back on me, looking out a window.
When he turned around, he said: “OK, I’ll level with you. But I must have your guarantee that nothing I tell you leaves this office.”
“That was good,” I said. “Sounded like right out of the movies.”
“Do I have that guarantee or not, Mr. Chasteen?”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll play.”
Skingle put his hands behind his back, paced in front of the window. The guy was all about dramatic effect. Finally, he said: “Certain of Mr. DeVane’s effects are now under review by this office.”
“Why?”
“Sorry, that’s classified.”
“Wow, you really know all the lines.” I got up from my chair. “Who’s your boss?”
Skingle looked startled.
“Excuse me?”
“Who’s your boss? I want to see him.”
“It’s a her.”
“Fine. Let’s go see her.”
“Why?”
“So she can explain why the U.S. government is sneaking around taking things that belonged to one of its citizens—of late, deceased—and which now belong to his rightful heirs. And if she can’t explain, then I’ll get the name of her boss and I won’t stop until someone tells me something.”
When I hop on my high horse I give it a good ride. Skingle thought it over. It looked as if it pained him.
“OK,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Ah, the voice of reason.”
He sat back down. I did, too.
Then Skingle said: “Mr. DeVane worked for us.”
It was my turn to look startled. Skingle appeared to enjoy it.
“For the Department of Homeland Security?”
“Not directly. It’s a joint investigation, involving the resources of several departments.”
“An investigation of what?” I said.
“I really can’t go into any of the specifics. I’ve already told you more than you should know.”
Skingle leaned back in his chair. I sat there trying to process everything. It was a lot to process.
“Does this involve the NPU?” I said.
“Really, Mr. Chasteen, I’ve said all that I can possibly say. To reveal anything further would be to jeopardize the integrity of a plan that has taken months and months to put in place. And it would hinder our attempts to bring whoever killed Monk De-Vane to justice,” Skingle said.
“Do you know who did it?”
“I think we’re closing in on it, yes,” said Skingle. “That is why I suggest you return to Florida and let us do what we have to do. Once again, may I assist with your flight arrangements?”
I shook my head.
“Taken care of,” I said. “I leave tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” said Skingle.
He stood. I stood.
Meeting over.
48
When I got back to Libido I checked in briefly at Darcy Whitehall’s house. Darcy Whitehall still hadn’t made an appearance.
“He left a message earlier,” said Alan. “He’ll be staying over the night in Mo Bay. That’s all I know.”
“Everything good here?”
“As good as house arrest can be,” Alan said. “At least I’m getting plenty of work done.”
“Your sister still in a funk?”
“She’s being Ali. Thought I’d try to talk to her.”
“Do the big-brother thing?”
“Doesn’t really work on her,” he said. “If we can just spend five minutes in the same room without getting into an argument, I’ll consider it progress.”
I went back to the cottage. I sat on the porch for a while. The tobacco seeds and salt that Otee had spread a couple nights earlier were still there, doing their job, keeping the duppies away.
I went inside. I sat on the couch for a while. I watched the ceiling fan turn, listened to the refrigerator hum.
I was hungry. The buffet at the resort’s beachside restaurant went on until midnight. I didn’t want to deal with the whole scene. Still, that didn’t make me any less hungry.
The phone rang. I answered it. It was Barbara calling from Berlin.
“What time is it there?” I asked.
“Almost three A.M. We went out clubbing.”
“Baby seals?”
“Cute,” she said. “We hit the Scheunenviertel district. Aaron and some of his friends.”
“You sound a little drunk,” I said.
“I am. A little. But I can still pronounce Scheunenviertel. We had fun.”
“Hmmm,” I said.
“How about you?”
“I’m not drunk. And I’m not having fun.”
“Does it take one to have the other?”
“No. Sometimes. I don’t know.”
“Zack, what’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Just at loose ends, that’s all. Darcy Whitehall’s run off somewhere. Monk DeVane was working for the feds. I almost got mauled by a bigass dog. I’m hungry. I’m beginning to wonder just what in hell I’m doing here. And I miss you.”
“Me, too.”
“You, too, what?”
“I miss you,” she said. “And I’m beginning to wonder just what in hell I’m doing here.”
“Thought you were having fun.”
“Oh, I am. Kinda. Not really. Oh, not at all,” she said. “Should have stayed at home.”
“Why?”
“It’s a control thing, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you never have to worry about being in control of what’s going on around you because you are in control no matter where you are.”
“Believe me, I’m in control of nothing that’s going on around me right now. I can’t seem to get a handle on anything.”
“But you will. You’ll find a way. Because that’s who you are. You can plop down anywhere and you’re still the same Zack. You’ve got everything you need within you. You’re that army of one, like in those commercials they run to get kids to sign up for the military.”
“Stupid commercials.”
“Yes, but that’s you through and through. You’re self-contained. You define yourself. Me, I need my office, my people, the phone ringing all the time, this emergency to deal with, that fire to put out. It tells me who I am, and I’m feeling a little cut off from all that here, and I’m out of my element and, yes, I’m a little drunk.”
“Don’t you think that’s what Hockelmann had in mind?”
“What, getting me drunk?”
“No, taking you out of your element, putting you on his turf. Getting you drunk was just a bonus.”
“Oh yes, that’s absolutely what he had in mind. I knew it when he suggested I get on his stupid jet and fly over here with him. I knew it was just a power thing. It’s just that I thought I could cope with it better than I seem able to.”
“So what you’re saying is that, basically, you are a control freak and you can’t stand letting someone else be in charge of things and calling all the shots.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. I make no bones about it. Only when I’m with you my whole control neurosis shuts off and I don’t feel that need to . . .”
“Boss people around?”
“Yes, that. What do you think that means, Zack?”
“I think it means you’re having some real misgiving about selling Orb to Aaron Hockelmann.”
“Oh, I know that. I’ve already made my mind up. I can’t possibly do it, no matter how much money he throws at me and, believe me, he is throwing a lot,” Barbara said. “But what about the other part, Zack? Why is it that I’m not like that when I’m with you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Zack?�
��
“Yes?”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Me either. But it’s that way, isn’t it? We go good together, don’t we?”
“Yes,” I said. “We do.”
49
My standby flight was at noon, so I got up early, went for a long walk, hit the Libido breakfast buffet, dropped by Darcy Whitehall’s house—he was still gone, Ali and Alan were still in bed—and was on the A1 to Montego Bay before 9 A.M.
They’d reopened the airport to traffic, and I found a spot under covered parking to leave the Mercedes for a couple of days. Then I went through immigration and security and sat in the Air Jamaica terminal for more than an hour only to learn there wouldn’t be a seat for me on the noon flight. The only guaranteed seating was on a 7:30 P.M. flight to Miami. I took it.
No way I was going to sit in the terminal until then. So I did the whole immigration and customs thing again, got the Mercedes out of parking, and thought about the best way to kill an afternoon. I thought about eating, but I didn’t want to eat. I thought about drinking, but I didn’t want to drink. That didn’t leave much to do but drive, so I drove.
I followed the Queen’s Road to a butt-puckering, four-lane roundabout and let it spit me out where it wanted. I wound up on a road that followed the gentle curve of the broad harbor and I looked out on the water.
Three hundred years earlier the Spanish were drawn to this point of land by the large number of wild pigs that roamed the shore. They killed the pigs and rendered the fat to lard, or manteeca, “pig’s butter,” as they called it. On some early British maps, the area was even called Lard Bay, but most stuck with manteeca, and over the years that mutated into Montego, which had a lyricism not normally associated with swine.
As I neared the crunch of shops and so-called craft markets known as Gloucester Avenue, I made the obvious observation: things really hadn’t changed all that much over the years, at least in the sense that vast numbers of porkers still roamed the shore, only now they were known as tourists, most of them fat, happy Americans recently disgorged from cruise ships or on furlough from all-inclusive resorts. And the locals were busy rendering them into cash flow.
Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02 Page 15