"I think it's a status thing. You make over six million deutsche marks a year or whatever, you get to go without pants," said Henry, still groggy from the sun.
"I just don't think it's fair. I mean, he doesn't have to look at it - he can't with that belly - why do we?"
"So. You wanna go to Rouge tomorrow?"
"Don't you?" said Frances, lighting a joint and straddling Henry on the chaise. "It's much nicer. No tourists."
"You can't go naked anymore. Last time, I mean . . . remember? French fucking cops almost hauled my ass away in leg irons," said Henry, taking the joint.
"They just asked you politely to put something on."
"So how come they didn't say anything to you? You were naked!"
"Maybe you were frightening the other beachgoers."
"Yeah. As much as I'd like to think that a glimpse of my mammoth dong caused panic and envy amongst the populace, I don't think that was it. I mean, I don't get it. People run around buck naked on that beach all the time. Why pick on me?"
"You were feeling me up," said Frances.
"I was on my stomach!"
"Oh, that's different," said Frances, taking a long hit on the joint and passing it back, the smoke making her blink. "So what does this mean? No more Rouge?"
"No, no, no . . . I just didn't like seeing cops in their pillbox hats and their dress shoes, coming down the beach, making a beeline for my blanket. You notice that? They came right for me. I hate that. Dress shoes on sand. Reminds me of that show, you know - 'Book 'em Dan-O.' That guy wore dress shoes on the beach too. It was embarrassing."
"Yeah, right," said Frances, fixing him with the hard look for a millisecond before breaking into a smile. Henry liked how she could do that.
"Hey. I got a reputation to consider. I don't want to read about myself as some notorious nudist in the Chronicle, thank you very much. The known nudist H. was apprehended yesterday by French-side police. After a stern warning, he was released into the custody of his wife, F.'"
"Listen," said Frances, slightly annoyed, "you're taking this entirely too seriously. They got a specific complaint, probably from that lady in the red one-piece - the one with the kids. That's who dropped the dime."
"The one with the husband with the nose shield? He was looking at your naked ass all day without any apparent ill effects."
"Whatever," said Frances, bored with the conversation. She stood up and wrapped the white terry cloth tightly around herself, staring out to sea.
"Okay, okay. Rouge tomorrow. I'll bring a suit. Just in case."
They both said nothing for a while, listening to the waves chopping into the coral below the balcony. Henry began to drift off to sleep as Frances headed for the shower.
Henry was still sleeping in the chair when there was a knock at the door. He woke with a start and looked around for Frances. He heard the shower running, so he threw on a robe, went to the door, and opened it.
It was a short Vietnamese man of about fifty. He wore cheap polyester slacks, leather sandals, and a white guayabera. His fingers were short and stubby, the hands and forearms muscular to excess. There was a big grin on his face as he stood there on the porch, while an ancient blue Citroen van, motor running, sat in the parking lot behind him emitting exhaust.
"Hey, Trung," said Henry. "Snapping any necks lately?"
"You come please," said Trung, still smiling.
"Come where?"
"You come see you friend now. He want to see you now. You come now please."
Still half asleep and rubbing his face, Henry struggled into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He stepped into some flip-flops, then stuck his head in the bathroom and told Frances he was going out.
Frances's head appeared from inside the shower curtain, shampoo running down her face. She squinted at Henry. "Is everything okay? Where you going?"
"I have to go see my French friend," said Henry. "Don't sweat. I should be back in a while."
"Tell that awful man not to keep you. Happy hour at the Dock in an hour."
Trung drove like a madman, a burning Kent in the corner of his mouth blowing ashes around the inside of the van as he bounced over potholes and fishtailed through gravel patches. Henry winced and put his hands against the dash every time they went around a turn, expecting a head-on collision with a dump truck or cement mixer at any second. Saint Martin's twisting, badly banked roads were notorious for collisions with suicidal goats, juiced-up tourists in rental jeeps, unlicensed Haitians in clapped-out beaters held together with duct-tape and bailing wire. And the year-round residents - the islanders - favored ludicrously overpowered murder cars like Firebirds, GTOs, Trans-Ams and Corvettes - insanely dangerous choices of vehicles on an island with no straightaway longer than a few hundred yards. The roadsides were littered with dead animals and the burnt, crumpled, inverted hulks of Detroit's finest. When Trung took the wide turn past the Coralita Hotel, Henry had to reach out the window and grab hold of the roof to keep himself from falling onto Trung's lap. When they sped through the residential area of Orleans, heedlessly splashing pedestrians every time they went through a puddle, Henry slunk down in his seat, not wanting to be recognized as a perpetrator of such rudeness.
Trung had a country music station on the radio. Henry had always been puzzled by the popularity of country among the islanders, but it seemed even more incongruous that this Vietnamese thug next to him should be tapping his foot along with Willie Nelson and caterwauling out the window in what Henry could only guess was an approximation of singing.
"Willie Nelson Number One," said Trung. "You like?" He cranked the volume up another notch, the speakers distorting.
"Rock and roll," said Henry, not taking his eyes off the road.
Trung shook his head vigorously. "Rock and roll no good. Rock and roll make American peoples lose war. Cominiss music. No good. No good."
Willie Nelson sang about lost love and too much booze. Henry's thoughts were on the axles of the aged van, and whether they'd break before they reached their destination. They drove past the rolling pastures of La Savanne. The roadsides had been planted with evenly spaced shade trees, reminding him of the French countryside. In the fields beyond, the wind made ripples in the tall grass. Trung stomped on the gas pedal to pass a slow-moving tour bus and a flatbed truck full of construction workers. Henry held his breath as Trung jerked the van out of the way of oncoming traffic just in time to avoid crashing into a water truck. They hurtled past Pic Paradis, the highest peak on Saint Martin, bouncing over a row of crumbling sleeping policemen, and plummeted down a steep, twisting hill to Cripple Gate.
At the mouth of the verdant green valley of Colombier, they turned right and roared down a narrow dirt road, the old Citroen shaking and clattering and banging up and down on its barely functional suspension as if it was going to fall apart any second. They passed some private homes, some of them still under construction, the wheels of the van sinking almost up to the axles in the brown runoff from the nearby lagoon. Trung sped across a pitted cement bridge and pulled to a noisy stop at Friar's Beach.
It was nearly high tide on the flat, pebble-strewn stretch of beach. The sea on one side had merged in spots with the lagoon on the other, swamping most of the area. The Rastafarian bar a few hundred yards down was closed. Water lapped at the wooden supports. The beach, what was left of it, was deserted.
Trung hopped down out of the van, opened Henry's door for him, and led him over to an abandoned barbecue shack. Picnickers had torn much of the roof and walls off for firewood. The concrete foundation was breaking apart like an overcooked brownie. From behind a plywood wall covered with curling posters, Monsieur Ribiere stepped out into the failing light.
"Bonjour, Henri," he said, before switching to his British-accented English. "Perhaps we can walk a bit?"
"You don't mind getting your feet wet?" said Henry, noticing Monsieur Ribiere's dress shoes.
"I don't mind."
Henry fell in beside the old man, and they walked slow
ly down the swampy beach. The standing water and the mangroves in the lagoon had made the area a breeding ground for mosquitoes and no-see-ums, which were out in force. The hours between four and six were always bad in the best of circumstances, and Henry cursed himself for having neglected to apply repellent before leaving the hotel. The beach was teeming with the little bloodsuckers. He swatted at the tiny bugs that hovered around his mouth and ears, noticing with displeasure how Monsieur Ribiere ignored them entirely. Perhaps, after all the years skulking around in the bush in Africa and Asia, he had become used to them.
Henry looked back at the blue van, saw Trung squatting under a sea grape tree, his face illuminated by the glowing end of a Kent.
"Henri," said Monsieur Ribiere. "There is at the present time someone on the island . . . a man. A man who I believe you know."
"Oh?"
"Someone you maybe have had some . . . business with in the past."
"Really. You going to tell me who?"
"He arrived here a few days ago. He calls himself Pastou, but that is not his name and he is not a Frenchman. He is an American named Iannello. You are familiar with this man, I think?"
Henry took a long time to consider his answer. It generally did not do to mislead the old man. He was well informed, frighteningly so at times, and he rarely asked a question to which he did not already know the answer.
Henry was not anxious to insult him with a lie or a half-truth. He was still pondering his answer when Ribiere spoke again.
"Of course you know the man," he said. "You shot him, didn't you?"
"Yes. I did," said Henry. What else could he say?
Monsieur Ribiere looked relieved. "Thank you for being so frank with me. It wouldn't have done, lying . . ."
Sneaky bastard, thought Henry.
"What's he doing here?" he asked.
"He is a guest of your Federal Witness Protection Program," said Monsieur Ribiere, a note of disapproval in his tone. "And, for now, he is also a guest of the French government."
"No shit."
"I am informed that Monsieur Iannello has made a very favorable arrangement with your Justice Department. He is to testify against some of his old friends and associates. In return he will be permitted to live here in safety, free from legal difficulties. He owns a home here, it appears. For some time, even I did not know."
"Me neither," said Henry, sourly. "Quelle fucking surprise."
Monsieur Ribiere shrugged noncommittally. "It seems his recent brush with death contributed to his decision." He turned to look directly at Henry for a second. "You know, he was injured. Very gravely. Were you aware of that?"
"Yes," said Henry.
"Dommage," said Monsieur Ribiere. "My interest, my concern is this: that there be no problems, no difficulties between you and Monsieur Charlie Wagons, Monsieur Iannello, Monsieur Pastou, whatever he calls himself. You are practically neighbors, you know. He is not aware, yet, I do not think, of your presence here. I don't see that he could be or he never would have come. Perhaps, also, he is not aware that it was you who caused his injury. Still. We must assume that it is possible he will find out. Someday, perhaps, he will see you, someone will say something, in the trial, from an old friend, we do not know . . . He might see you at the beach, on the road, and perhaps he will think about things. Perhaps one of his former associates will also be anxious to stay out of prison. This is possible, you agree?"
"Yeah."
"He knows you by sight?"
"Yes. I'm afraid so. We had some . . . some business ventures together at one time."
"Mmmm . . . So."
Henry sighed, a lump forming in his throat. "Charlie's not stupid. I'd be surprised if he hadn't figured out already it was me. Like I said, we've . . . you know . . . I've done a few things for him over the years. Most guys he knows about would have done him in the street. Handguns or shotguns. The usual Sicilian surprise."
"I see. Do you think he bears you ill will? Certainly he is angry with the man who paid. I assume that it was this Monsieur Calabrese who paid? He will testify against him."
Henry thought about this for a while, plodding silently along by Ribiere's side, his feet in brown water up to the ankles now. "I don't know," he said hopefully. "Like I said, I know Charlie pretty well. At least, I think I know him pretty well. A nice guy as they go. Smart. You'd like him. I'd say he generally does a thing because it's the smart thing to do, because it's in his interest, not because it's something he feels like doing. He didn't get where he was knocking off every guy who got him mad. If you're asking me does he want me dead, I don't know. If you're asking me would he do something to try and make that happen, or would he tell the feds about me, I'd have to say not unless he felt it was to protect his interest. If he sees me and the wife someday, on the beach, maybe, grilling up some snapper, is he going to grab a gun and take a shot at me? No. Will he call New York, have somebody still loyal get on a plane? I doubt it. That would blow his whole deal with the feds. I don't even think he'd rat me out to the feds if he could avoid it. Jimmy Pazz is another thing. I don't think he could avoid it there. I don't know. I don't think so."
"I am less concerned about what he will do," said Monsieur Ribiere. "He is an old man. Very sick. And surrounded at all times by marshals. I am more concerned what you might do. This man Calabrese is, understandably, very anxious that this man not live to testify. I imagine he'd pay a lot of money . . ."
"You can forget about that. I don't work on the island. You know that."
"So. If this man Calabrese were to contact you, offer you a great deal of money, you would not consider his request?"
"Just to make sure. What exactly is your position on this? Before I answer, I mean."
"I would prefer - in fact, I must insist - that you resist the temptation. As this man is here through the somewhat reluctant auspices of my government, we would prefer not to have any problems with the Americans. We do not want any assassinations, any shootings, any unexplained accidents at the present time, particularly if they involve this man. It is a very sensitive situation. If even my superiors in my own service were to become aware of your presence on the island, of your previous relationship with this man, they would be very, very unhappy. Should some mishap befall Monsieur Iannello, I would of course be obliged to inform them. My career, such as it is, would be finished. And you" Monsieur Ribiere stopped again and fixed Henry with a very unpleasant stare - "You, no doubt, I would be instructed to deal with in the harshest way possible. That is the sad fact."
"Your accent gets thicker when you're menacing," said Henry, genuinely menaced.
Monsieur Ribiere cleared his throat. They had reached the deck of the Rastafarian bar. Ribiere rolled up his pants legs, squeezing water out, and sat down on the edge of the rough wood steps. Henry sat down next to him and lit a Gitane.
"So," he said. "You going to chuck me off the island? Is that what this is all leading up to?"
Monsieur Ribiere took a deep breath, smelling the heavy salt air.
"I love it here," said Henry, sadly.
"Yes," said Monsieur Ribiere, unusually sympathetic. "I always thought that peculiar, you coming from the City. One might expect a man like you, the money you have, to live elsewhere. But maybe it is not so strange. You know, I was born in Paris. But I came to love Algerie just as you love this place. Strange, yes?"
It was completely dark now. Monsieur Ribiere looked up at the moon, took off his glasses for a moment, and rubbed his nose where the frames had pinched. "When a man thinks he has finally found a home, it's sad, very sad, to have to leave it."
Encouraged by this uncharacteristic reverie, Henry still, wisely, said nothing, waiting for the old man to finish.
"Perhaps there is another way. For me . . . for me it is always a changing situation. You say you know this man. Perhaps, as you say, he is reasonable. How well, exactly, do you know him?"
"Pretty well," said Henry. "I even like him."
"That didn't prevent you from try
ing to kill him."
"You know how that is." Seeing light at the end of the tunnel, Henry pressed on. "He's a funny guy. All dese and dose but smart like a whip. We got along."
"I think . . . I think you should bury the hatchet," said Monsieur Ribiere, astounding Henry. "If you were to find a way to see him, talk with him, without his guards . . . Do you think he would tell them? Myself, I don't think that a man of his experience could have much to talk about with them. They are so young. So different from him. I think, if you could talk to him, without jeopardizing your own situation, that would be for the best. Of course, if things don't work out, you will have to find someplace else to live. I would, naturally, be very sad, but . . ."
"Sure . . . I could try . . . shit." In truth, Henry had no idea if he could pull such a thing off. "Maybe if I could arrange to bump into him. Right circumstances. Got any ideas?"
"Well," said Monsieur Ribiere, enjoying himself, now. "I am informed about another man. A young friend of Monsieur Iannello. An expatriate New Yorker like yourself. Maybe you have seen him. He owns the little restaurant, a bar really, on the beach by your hotel. Tommy's Tropical. He's been here about eight months, with his woman friend. They live under the same roof as this Iannello. You know who I refer to?"
Henry nodded, trying not to look surprised.
"Trung tells me they are very close. Yes. He prepares food for the man each day. They talk, they laugh. They are like father and son. Perhaps you could befriend this person. Or your wife. She is not without resources. She could befriend him, his girlfriend. The difference in age is not so very great. You will become great friends. They are, after all, new to the island. You can show them the sights. And you will find a way, together."
Monsieur Ribiere stood up and began to walk back to the van. "And, at all times, I expect, you will keep me informed."
"Whatever you say."
7
Tommy? You mean Cheryl's Tommy?" said Frances. She was applying insect repellent, standing naked in front of the double sinks, one leg up on the counter.
Gone Bamboo Page 4