At last he said, rather vapidly, ‘You are joking?’
‘Straight up,’ I said, bloated with bravado, buoyed by his unexpected restraint. ‘The bottom line is that we’re near – so very, very close – to bagging Pope.’
‘But …’ he started to say.
‘We’re closing in,’ I cut him short.
‘But why didn’t you brief me?’ he said, almost plaintively.
‘Because I feared you’d put the kibosh on it,’ I said, surprising him once more, this time with my candour.
‘But for fucksake!’ He was starting to regain consciousness, so it was time to cut and run.
‘It’s too long a story to go into now. The line’s terrible this end and you’re breaking up. Pass the update on to Pomfrey, won’t you?’
I didn’t hang around for an answer. Instead, I hung up with, ‘I’ll call you again tomorrow.’
‘Hey, wait, listen….’
Sarah was already into her second whisky sour when I joined her at the pool bar, sheltered from the excoriating sun by a straw canopy.
‘Well?’ she said, removing the drinking straw from her mouth. ‘What did you use to extinguish the fire in your ears?’
‘No fire, not even smoke,’ I said, hopping on to a stool beside her, shaking my head as the bartender approached.
‘You’re making this up as we go along, aren’t you?’ said Sarah, dismayed.
I understood exactly what she meant, but I made her spell it out.
‘You don’t have a game-plan. We’ve followed Laura to Nassau, but now what? If we go near her hotel, she’s very likely to spot us. But if we don’t get a handle on her, we’ll have no idea what she’s up to. If she’s supposed to lead us to Pope, how can that happen if we’re not privy to her movements?’
‘You’re right,’ I said.
‘About what?’ she retorted, argumentatively. ‘I asked two questions.’
‘I am making it up as we go along. I don’t have a game-plan.’ These admissions drew the steam from her.
She lowered her shades almost to the tip of her nose and gave me an old-fashioned look over the frames, eyeballs dilated. ‘I think I prefer you brash and bullish to meek and conciliatory,’ she said.
‘We still don’t even know what Pope looks like,’ I said, keeping on track.
‘Let’s face it, Mike, we don’t know anything.’
‘What the hell is Pope doing here?’ I said, more to myself than to Sarah, my gaze into space sightless.
‘I could think of worse places to be dumped in disgrace,’ said Sarah.
‘I know all that, but what’s his mission?’
‘Maybe there isn’t one.’
‘You mean he’s been banished here?’ I said, now turning to face Sarah again.
‘As good a place as any if you just wanted him plucked out of circulation and put into cold storage for a few months.’
‘Hardly cold storage,’ I said, smiling and dabbing sweat from my forehead. ‘Instinct tells me there’s more to it than using these islands as a hiding place.’
‘Does the CIA have a bureau here?’ said Sarah, squinting.
‘Not that I’ve heard, but who knows?’
‘So, there’s no official outpost. His base could be a hotel room, same as us, same as Laura,’ said Sarah.
‘There’s plenty of legitimate reasons for his being here,’ I said.
‘Such as?’
‘The Mafia got a foothold in the Bahamas in the 1960s.’
‘What on earth is there here for them?’ said Sarah, frowning. ‘Apart from a great holiday.’
‘Plenty. Big-time gambling in the casinos. Ideal for them to skim profits and launder dirty money. They’ve also been using the outer islands as staging posts in the trafficking of drugs – heroin and cocaine – then flooding the US underground market, through Miami and Fort Lauderdale.’
‘But Laura will know his whereabouts,’ said Sarah, after a moment’s cogitation.
‘Oh, yes, she’ll know. She’ll know exactly where he is, even if not thoroughly au fait with his assignment.’
‘So what’s her plan?’
‘That’s another million-dollar question, Sarah.’
‘We’ve come all this way and yet we’re still at an impasse. We’re no further forward than when we left Oxford.’
‘That’s selling us a wee bit short,’ I suggested.
‘Well, how do we keep tabs on Laura if we can’t do a surveillance job on her?’
‘We get someone who can.’
‘We can’t go to the cops for help. We’re not supposed to be here. We’re a pair of long-haul truants, at best.’
‘There must be gumshoes here,’ I said. ‘We can repeat the LA drill.’
‘You reckon?’ she said, sucking up the whisky sediment from her frosted tumbler.
‘Got to be. Haven’t you heard of the Bay Street Boys?’
‘No,’ she said, quizzically. ‘We’re on Bay Street now, aren’t we?’
‘That’s right and this is where all the action is.’
‘Yeah, I can see it all! Plenty of action drinking poolside and getting lethal melanomas.’
‘The Bay Street Boys are wheeler-dealers. Big-time.’
‘You’re kidding?’ said Sarah, seriously doubtful.
‘For decades, the Bahamas has been an offshore haven for banking, insurance, real estate and tax avoidance; a colony of brass plates. There are companies trading in millions of dollars daily here. Banking millions, too. But the office on Bay Street may consist of nothing more than a brass plate on the door, an answer-machine, a mail-box and one employee. Just a front.’
‘Like the Caymans?’ said Sarah.
‘Except the Bahamas was way ahead of the Caymans. There’s a lot of money here, apart from that brought in by high-roller tourists. Massive colonial properties, too. Gin palaces on the water and yachts for billionaires. Along with the fast-living set are racy women.’
‘Just the place for you, then.’
‘On my salary? You’re kidding!’
‘Aren’t we straying?’ she said.
‘Not my fault,’ I said, defensively. ‘I was going to explain that where there’s so much moolah, sleazy commercial skulduggery and bed-hopping, there’s bound to be a lucrative trade for professional snoops.’
‘OK, so how do we go about finding one? I don’t suppose they have anything like Yellow Pages here.’
‘No idea, but they have two local newspapers, morning and evening.’
‘And all newspapers carry Classified ads,’ said Sarah, following my drift.
‘So let’s spend money in the shop in the lobby.’
We slid from our stools in a synchronized departure from the bar.
After buying a copy of the broadsheet Nassau Tribune, we parked ourselves on a leather settee in the cool, air-conditioned lobby to flick through the pages towards the Classified section at the tail-end of the publication.
Huddled together, scrolling down the columns with our fingers, we quickly came to the insertions under the ‘Personal Services’ heading.
‘How about this one?’ said Sarah.
I focused on the ad where her finger had stopped. Female ex-Miami police officer, equipped to tackle almost any assignment. Has worked Vice, Narcotics and Homicide. Competitive rates. Anything considered. Tracing missing persons a speciality. So, too, checking out matrimonial and partnership infidelity. Also industrial espionage. Not an agency. Operates as Lone Ranger. A mobile number was given, followed, in brackets, by Day and night, 24 hours.
‘Worth a try,’ I said.
We went to our room to make the call in private.
I thought I was about to be diverted to voicemail, when the PI answered. ‘Hold on, please, while I pull over.’
I could hear the thump of traffic in the background, which made me guess that she was driving a convertible. In a saloon, in this heat and humidity, the islanders drove with the air-conditioning on max and all windows closed. Open
windows negated the cooling system.
‘OK, I can talk now, please go ahead.’ There was a South American or Caribbean cadence to her voice, leading me to speculate that she could well be second-generation Cuban American. A professional voice, direct manner, but very pleasant and articulate. With one sentence, she had made a good first impression, reminding me of my father’s favourite maxim: You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
I decided to be equally direct. ‘My name’s Michael Lorenzo and I’m looking to hire someone like yourself.’
‘You’re English?’
‘Correct.’ Some detective!
‘What’s the nature of the job?’
‘Surveillance.’
‘On a person, persons, or a company?’
‘A person.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Woman.’
‘She your wife, ex-spouse, mistress, or daughter?’
‘None of those.’
I wasn’t surprised by the elongated pause, before, ‘Are you a resident of these islands?’
‘No.’
‘OK, why me?’
‘First name to catch my eye in the local evening newspaper.’
‘What about it appealed especially?’
‘The fact that you’re an ex-Miami cop.’
Flattery could be relied upon as a dependable tool.
‘How long do you envisage this job taking?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘Around the clock?’
‘From the moment she’s on the move in the morning until she’s tucked up in bed with the light out, but not necessarily around the clock.’
‘Are you hoping for snoopy bedroom stuff? Porno shots?’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘Voice recordings?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Long-range pics?’
‘Always useful.’
‘Where you staying?’
‘Paradise Inn,’ adding, ‘I’m not alone.’
Now she hesitated and I knew why.
‘It’s OK, my companion’s female. We’re a couple.’
I sensed the evaporation of tension.
‘You at your hotel now?’
‘We are.’
‘OK, I can be with you in fifteen.’
‘Fine. We’ll be in the lobby. How shall we recognize you?’
‘You won’t. I’ll ID you. Give me a description.’
‘Tall, dark, handsome and irresistible.’
‘OK, you’re short, fat, bald and ugly. Can’t be missed.’
She had a quirky style and was winning me over rapidly. ‘We’ll be sitting on one of the couches, a copy of the Nassau Tribune spread on the table in front of us.’
‘Less conspicuous than riding a pink elephant, I guess,’ she said, deadpan. ‘See you in fifteen. Oh, one last thing: I’d be obliged if you had a beer set up for me. I’m parched.’
‘Done,’ I said, but she was already gone.
‘Sounds like you two are made for one another,’ said Sarah, feigning jealousy. ‘Mind you, she’ll soon change her mind when she sees she was right: short, fat, bald and ugly!’
I kissed her on the cheek. ‘Bless you!’ I said, sorely. ‘I didn’t realize she was talking loudly enough for you to overhear. Come, let’s bag ourselves a seat in the lobby.’
A waiter had only just deposited a Budweiser on the table in front of us when a voice directly behind me said, ‘Mr Lorenzo?’
We both turned simultaneously to find ourselves looking at a brown-skinned blonde, about five-six tall and stunningly attractive; undoubtedly of Cuban heritage. Her eyes were shielded by large, reflector shades. She had the lips of a pugilist, highlighted with blood-red lipstick. Bulging breasts stretched a silky, cream top that was buttoned down the front. Her legs were encased in narrow-fitting, pale-blue designer jeans. Rawhide, pointed-toe cowboy boots completed the ranch-style picture.
‘Carla Josez,’ she said, offering a hand with long, artificial nails that had been painted the same colour as her lips. ‘Don’t take this as an insult, but, at this moment, I’m more pleased to see that beer than you two.’
‘Some sales pitch!’ I said, shooting her with a smile that was supposed to be read as, Pleased to meet you, too!
Carla took a long draw on the beer from the bottle before shaking Sarah’s hand. We were the only people sitting in the lobby, which was busy, mainly with residents passing through, collecting or depositing room keys at Reception or checking in and out. No one was taking any notice of us; not even the white-jacketed porters and waiters.
‘So,’ said Carla, ‘what’s the story?’
‘As I said on the phone, it’s a surveillance job on a woman: American Caucasian, age mid-forties, travelling alone, booked into the Beachcomber.’
‘I assume you have a photo for me to work from?’
‘No, but I can give you a graphic description and the name she’s travelling under.’
Carla lowered her shades to impale me with enlarged and very expressive walnut eyes. ‘You mean the name she’s using is false?’
‘Yes, but that’s not the issue here.’
‘Maybe not for you, but it could be for me.’
‘Take my word for it,’ I said, refusing to be drawn further. I had no intention of revealing that Laura was CIA and so too the person we were hoping she’d lead us to. No PI who valued his/her life would relish tangling with the CIA; anyone crazy enough to do so would treble the fee, calling it ‘extreme danger money’.
Carla wasn’t completely won over, but she shelved that line of questioning, at least for the time being. ‘So, basically, you just want her followed?’
‘We need to know about all men she meets, plus photos of the meetings.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Just locations.’
‘So timewise it’s open-ended.’
‘Yes, but I can’t see it running longer than two or three days.’
‘Is there any chance of my being subpoenaed for a court appearance some place?’
‘No.’
‘Definitely no?’
‘Rest assured, definitely no.’
‘OK, a thousand Bahamian dollars up front as a retainer, five hundred dollars a day fee, plus expenses.’
‘You’re expensive,’ I observed.
‘I’m worth it.’
‘How did I know you’d say that?’
‘Because you’ve already assessed how good I am. My charges are commensurate with the workload and time involved. To do this job to your specifications, it would be impossible to combine it with other assignments. So you’re paying for exclusivity.’
Case proved. Fee justified.
‘A deal,’ I said. ‘I assume it’s acceptable to you for payment with plastic?’
‘Anything except cheques. Plastic has the advantage of being a universal currency.’
Carla had credit-card machinery with her and after the transaction had been sanctioned, she said, ‘There’s something I have to ask you. When I say have to, I mean for my own peace of mind, though there are many people in my trade who wouldn’t be so fussy.’
‘Fire away,’ I said, making Sarah wince.
‘If I come good for you, is there any prospect of the fruits of my labour being used unlawfully?’
‘No chance,’ I said.
‘You may be lying, but I’ve asked the question and your answer enables me to go ahead with the commission, reasonably satisfied that I’m not getting involved in something I might live to regret. I have principles which I adhere to unyieldingly. Give me your mobile number.’
As she wrote down the digits, she said, ‘This is the best way for me to keep in touch with you. The moment I have something positive to report or need further instructions in a hurry, I’ll call, OK?’
‘OK,’ I confirmed.
‘Any night-time deadline?’
‘No. If something happens middle of the night that you reckon is worth reporting, cal
l me.’
I left the description of Laura Clapton to Sarah, who had a unique ability to graphically sketch personality, as well as physical features, so succinctly with words.
‘Brilliant!’ said Carla, when Sarah had finished. She downed the remains of her Budweiser, rose, shook hands businesslike with us both, promised to make contact the moment she had any news, and disappeared into the early sunset. I was soon to discover that in the Bahamas the sun went down like a guillotine. There was no red and smouldering dying embers of the day; no seamless overlap. Daylight was decapitated; sudden death. Blackout.
‘I think our Carla knows a thing or two about your proverb,’ Sarah said, quietly, squeezing my hand. ‘She realized that the first impression was the only one she was going to get a chance to make.’
18
We heard nothing from Carla for thirty-six hours. The same cannot be said of Sharkey or Pomfrey. Suffice it to say I stonewalled very badly. The blitz of calls ended with Pomfrey decreeing, ‘You have forty-eight hours to wrap up whatever the hell you’re allegedly packaging and be on a plane for London – or else!’ I didn’t ask for him to decode what ‘or else’ translated into.
Carla didn’t call; she arrived, without warning, brimful of confidence.
Sarah and I were in the restaurant having breakfast when she swaggered in, photographic eyes snapping the scene. She located us within a single frame.
‘I’ve made progress,’ she said, hoisting her briefcase from the floor on to the table. ‘Well, I think it’s progress, but you two will have to be the judge of that.’ She snapped open the briefcase and extracted a buff folder.
Sarah and I stopped eating.
‘We have an interesting situation,’ said Carla, slowly rolling her head and eyes. ‘It didn’t take me long to hook on to the target. What quickly became evident was that while I shadowed her, she was busy following someone else.’
‘Who?’ I said, suppressing excitement.
‘A guy.’
‘Have you managed to ID him?’ said Sarah, impatiently.
‘Sure. Dickie Lambert. US citizen.’
‘Got any pics?’ I asked.
‘Naturally.’ She opened the folder, producing photocopies that she’d obviously printed from her computer. Some of the shots were of Laura, others were of Dickie Lambert, who we knew must be Richard Pope.
The One a Month Man Page 18