by Jacob Ross
I cracked up, was laughing so hard Miss Stanislaus thumped me on the back. Caran threw me a wink and set me off again.
‘Now, these is real guns, Digger! Fellas like my father save a few. Bury them, yunno.’ He rested a big brown hand on the PKM. ‘Gas operation, belt-feed, open bolt. Two hundred and fifty rounds a minute. Accurate up to eight hundred metres. It stay alive in any weather.’
‘What about them patrol shooters y’all got?’
‘They not for war, Digger, they just for public viewing. Okay, y’all! Tidy up and catch a nap. Sand soft. I make arrangements with that shop across the road to use their facilities.’ He turned a polite smile on Miss Stanislaus. ‘I bring a sleepin bag for De Lady.’
‘Think you,’ Miss Stanislaus said. I threw her a mock-envy glare. She pretended she didn’t notice.
My phone buzzed.
‘Six thirty,’ Chilman coughed. ‘Best I could do. I tell him he’s at y’all mercy.’ The DS hung up. He called again. ‘Good luck to y’all, Digson.’
‘What he say?’ Miss Stanislaus said.
‘How you know is him?’
‘Your face tell me, Missa Digger.’
‘He say good luck.’
‘Uh-huh.’
One last chance . . . ‘Miss Stanislaus, I leaving you with Caran for a couple of hours. I got to go back to San Andrews. Is important.’
‘What you thinkin, Missa Digger?’
‘I thinking Sarona and Luther Caine.’
I checked the time: 7.01am. I hurried to my car.
I drove at a steady forty miles per hour. My heartbeat had stepped up pace.
I sat at Pet’s desk, slotted in my USB stick and navigated to my Luther Caine folder. I printed out the documents I’d received from Dessie, then spent another twenty minutes highlighting and underlining figures with a marker. I slotted the documents into an envelope.
I drove south to Grand Beach. Dessie had told me that Luther was always down there early setting up in advance for the youngfella he employed.
Of course the skiing job was a cover for what Luther Caine really did – coordinating the cocaine trafficking operations in the Lesser Antilles, as well as fixer and tuner of those high-performance engines for the last critical lap up north. His house on Lavender Hill was a pit stop. Any fool could have seen that the fella could not pay for his lifestyle with the money he earned teaching people to glide on water. But we were accustomed to not looking. Money was as much a part of what he was as the clothes he wore, the paleness of his skin, the squared shoulders and straight-ahead gaze. In Camahoan eyes, Luther Caine didn’t need to have money to be wealthy. He would never go to jail, never have to stand inside a court house – like his father, who in his teens had desecrated a schoolgirl and murdered her. And what happm? He got posted off the island to America, returned with an expensive education that made him Governor General in the end.
I found that hard to swallow. Make it worse, my father was one of them.
His white speedboat with a blue dolphin painted at the side nodded on the waters of the foreshore. In the far background, the buildings of San Andrews town – heaped around the edges of a peninsula. It was as if I were looking at another place in some other country. Lone figures speckled the milelong beach, jogging or walking along the shoreline.
It was 8.47.
Luther was bending over a ski. I pretended to be fiddling with my phone, about to make a call. He must have sensed my presence. His head shot up. I pressed the shutter release. Grey-green eyes settled on my face. I took him in: a nest of wiry hairs spread across his chest and shoulders, blackfella’s legs – muscular with prominent calves, and arse that curved like the head of a question mark. Those marks along his shoulder and down his arm were still visible.
The hostility that he had been good at hiding at his cocktail party was there now in every movement of his body.
He was expecting me to say something. I let him wait.
‘What you want?’
‘You,’ I said.
He chuckled. ‘I’m not that way inclined.’
He straightened up, raised both arms above his head, clasped his hands and curved his body from side to side. ‘Tired of my wife?’
He dropped his arms, a big smile across his face. I was smiling too.
‘You here for advice? Don’t know how to handle her?’ He began busying himself with another ski. ‘Dessima is like a pretty mango. But I suppose by now, Saga Boy, you know that. Problem is, when you bite, it’s full of worms.’
‘You didn’t know that before you married her?’
‘We’re all entitled to one mistake. Still, she’s not yours. She’ll never be yours. Won’t divorce me if I beg her.’
‘Still thinking y’all kin own people? Those days over, Luther. They gone for good.’
‘I’ll tell you what you don’t have.’ He pointed at his temple. ‘This!’
‘A big red Negro head like yours?’
‘Brains,’ he snapped. I’d riled him now. ‘Detective, my arse!’
He dropped the ski he was holding. ‘I heard she took you to see Raymond Manille? Bet he hated the sight of you. Take this from me for free: Raymond’s not protecting Dessima, he’s guarding her ovaries. Raymond knows that when a pothound breeds a Dobermann, it makes a thoroughbred of neither the pothound or the offspring.’
‘Nor,’ I teased. ‘Neither nor, Luther, not neither or. Get your grammar straight!’
His hand froze. He straightened up, his face twitching with rage.
‘A couple nights ago, a fella named Shadowman came out of the dark, mash-up my car and almost killed Miss Stanislaus and me before I shot him. That was a mistake you made.’
He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. ‘Comes with the job, I suppose.’
‘Including killing Lazar Wilkinson? Them marks across your shoulder and down your arm, he give you them? Strong fella, Lazar. Not so? The mash-up ground on the beach where y’all kill him tell me he gave you one helluva fight! And if your Venezuelan woman – what’s ’er name, Sarona? Sandra Fernandez? If she didn’t put him at a disadvantage he’d’ve cut y’arse. He didn’t want no fee. He wanted part of the business. A percentage. And if you didn’t do it he was going to sell you out to the police. And yunno Lazar Wilkinson meant it. So you set him up and kill im. You couldn’t trust Shadowman to do it the way you wanted, so you done it yourself. Tell me what it feels like to strangle a fella and cut his throat, Colombia gangster style! Like you forgot this is not no fuckin US or Kingston ghetto! This is Camaho, and Camaho got stupid people like me and Miss Kathleen Stanislaus.’
‘You’ve clearly been hallucinating.’
‘I got samples of skin that Lazar Wilkinson tore off you. I cleaned his nails. They sitting in my fridge. I got a phial in my car, come spit in it for me so I can run a test and clear your name. Or if that’s too lowclass for you, come spit on me, please!’
Once, Dessie had described the way Luther’s anger boiled in him until it exploded and spilled over. The way it would heat him up and redden him. I watched the transformation and his struggle to control it.
‘And what about Jonathon Rayburn? You think I going to let that pass?’
‘I had nothing to do with any of what you’re talking about. I don’t even know what you’re on about.’
‘Nothing to do with Juba Hurst either?’
‘Who’s Juba Hurst?’ He pulled back his head and showed me his teeth. ‘You trying to catch me out? I know no one by that name.’
‘If you say so, bossman.’
I hefted the big A4 envelope in my hand and tossed it at his feet.
‘Read this soon as you can, Luther. Is a record of all your transactions for the past fourteen months. I mean all: transfers from a couple of accounts in Colombia, Bermuda and Venezuela. Transfer to Dora Wilkinson’s account to buy her mouth after you murdered her boychild – the last two payments, directly from one account in Venezuela in the name of one Sandra Fernandez alias Sarona – or the other w
ay around.’
What I said next was a lie. ‘Before you blow up, I didn’t get it from Dessie. Is from the US Drugs Monitor, Bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs in Florida. They on your case. They want to lose you in jail.’
He didn’t touch the envelope. But he’d gone quiet, forgetting which of the skis he was working on. Switching from one to the other, then back again.
‘Talking about pothound, Luther, you know what a throwback is? Is what you and Juba Hurst got in common. You ever wonder where he got his size from?’
I offered him a smile. ‘Coupla hundred years ago, they used to breed fellas like him, for the muscles and the size. Like mules, to carry heavy loads. I hear they still got some of them in Cuba.’
I pointed at my head. ‘Stupid me! I figure that you from the line of the breeders – I know what you used to do to Dessie. You inherited their cruelty.’
I left him with that and strolled up the western end of the beach. I stopped in the shade of a seagrape tree. Luther Caine rushed the envelope, tore it open and became a living picture of panic.
Run, Luther. I want you to run.
I had my reasons for not mentioning the boat.
Pothound! Who de arse he callin pothound? Hm!
I gave it half an hour, then called Dessie. ‘Luther Caine been phoning you, not so?’
‘And so early! I’m ignoring him. He’s not giving up!’
‘Stay clear of him. For all of today, at least.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘He used to try to kill you. Now I sure he will.’
‘Why, Digger? I don’t understand.’
‘Dessie, you swear you dunno exactly when that boat leaving?’
‘I don’t! Why you said Luther wants to kill me?’
‘Just stay clear of him. What’s your father’ number?’
‘Why d’you want it?’
‘I won’t be around to protect you. Somebody got to let your father know.’
‘No!’ She cut off.
I rushed back to the office. At 9.30 I called Manille’s Hardware Emporium and left a message with Raymond Manille’s PA.
In a couple of minutes, he called back. I didn’t take the call. He was obviously concerned.
I spent the next half-hour uploading a photo of my ID and the picture I’d taken of Luther Caine to twelve email addresses.
Then I called Spiderface. I figured if he’d been taking Sarona around, he’d have an idea where she might be. ‘You with Malan’ woman?’
‘Nuuh, Missa Digger. De princess gone shopping. I drop ’er off on de Carenage. I got to pick ’er up later.’
‘What time is later?’
‘Around one, Missa Digger.’ He sounded uncomfortable. ‘I, erm, could tell Missa Malan you askin for her?’
‘Is not what you think, Spiderface. Coupla questions I got to ask her. I not stopping you from telling Malan, though.’
I made a round of the town on foot. Half an hour later, I spotted Sarona in the marketplace. She was bending over a mound of sugar apples, a beige cloth bag hanging off her shoulder. Wide-brimmed straw hat, cream billowy shirt. Green, pleated skirt that reached her sandals.
‘Hi, Digger,’ she said without raising her head.
Sarona dropped some coins in the vendor’s hand, straightened up and smiled – generous, effortless, convincing. I’d seen her turn that smile on and off like a light switch.
My mind returned to Dog Island when Malan shot that goat. For days after, I’d carried Sarona’s face in my mind, her staring at me, interested it seemed in what effect the sight of a murdered animal had on me. Dessie had seen that look and misread the dilated eyes, the flared nostrils, the parted lips. It was not attraction, it was arousal – and I wasn’t fooling myself. That look had nothing to do with me.
‘What’s on your mind?’ she purred. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘What you think I’m thinking?’ I said.
‘That I should have met you first?’
‘I’m already taken – I was when I met you, and I still am.’
‘You know you’re not,’ she chuckled.
The vendor’s eyes were switching between our faces, the woman looked entranced. I was sure she couldn’t hear our words.
‘Malan taking you serious, and in Malan’s book serious is dangerous,’ I said.
‘And you wouldn’t have taken me seriously?’
‘When you leaving here?’
‘Here?’ She gestured at the market. The corners of her mouth had tightened. Steady, steady eyes.
‘Don’t bullshit me,’ I said. ‘I not Malan. You tell him your name is Sandra Fernandez? You tell him you in business and in bed with Luther Caine? He know Luther plant you inside Camaho police Force to monitor what go on? You warn him that you running out on him soon in that drugs-boat y’all been hiding? You think people on this island chupid? You think we comic-book people, not so?’
She dropped her eyes on the bag, raised her head at me, her brows pulled together in a tight knot. ‘So many questions and we’re not saying much.’
‘What I have to say will start a war between Malan Greaves and me. He don’t see you like I see you.’ A chuckle escaped her, a quick lift of her head. ‘You want to sit somewhere and talk?’
‘Nuh.’
Something in her attitude had changed. I looked behind and there was Malan, his mouth twisted into a hateful sneer. ‘What’s your beef, Digger? You fink you kin break me with my woman? You fuckin can’t!’
‘Is not what you thinking, Malan Greaves, but you can’t see it any other way. Woman made for one thing in your mind – that’s all you know.’
‘You don leave she alone . . . ’ He’d slipped his hand behind his back. Sarona looked interested and alert – that same look I saw on her face on Dog Island.
‘Impossible,’ I said, gesturing at his gun hand. ‘You raise that gun at me, you better use it. Either way, you’ll be a dead man before nightfall. I guarantee that.’ I looked him in the eyes. ‘Just so you know, we been looking for the wrong woman.’ I raised my chin at Sarona. ‘Tamara got nothing to do with this case.’
‘Digger, fuck off.’
‘Not because you say so, Malan, but because I got a boat to catch. My advice – keep an eye on your woman.’
I left them there and strolled back to the office.
Sarona said something to Malan. Then that soft laugh came from her.
Fuckin La Diablesse, I muttered. Just wait!
64
I was back in Leapers’ Town by late afternoon. Caran handed over to Toya. She called ahead to Kara Island, spoke to someone about a twenty-footer – V-hull if they had one – with the best outboard engine they could find. She wanted it fitted and ready by the time we got to Kara Island.
She cleared an area in the sand, drew what looked like a giant question mark. The tail, she said, was half a mile wide with rock-islands on either side. It was the entrance to Blackwater – nasty water, yes, but no sensible boat avoided it, else it meant a three-hour journey further out to avoid the acres of reefs and ‘rock-heads’.
If we placed ourselves on Goat Island, we’d have a fullfrontal view of the approaching boat – that was, if our guess was right.
We left Leapers’ Bay under a menacing sky with clouds stacked in brooding formations overhead.
‘It going to take some time,’ the captain said. The fella was so neatly dressed, he looked like an office worker.
With a sea gone black and resentful under us, we entered Blackwater channel an hour later, the engine of the ancient Boston whaler barely managing to push the boat, the craft hardly righting itself before another wave struck it.
‘Current,’ the captain said.
‘Goat Island.’ Toya pointed straight ahead. In the gloom, about half a mile in front, the low, loaf-like shape from which multi-jointed cacti rose in towers. Between Goat Island and our boat were the dreadful seething waters of Devil Tooth.
Miss
Stanislaus sat cross-legged, ponchoed and at peace, tending her nails, a plastic cap – elasticated around the edges – protecting her hair.
The captain swung hard left, the boat wallowed and righted itself. Directly ahead was Kara Island.
Toya moved forward, said something in the captain’s ear. She looked back at me and straightened an arm at the stretch of water north-east of Kara Island – the wide open Atlantic.
When we docked, Caran camped us down at the entrance to the jetty. The world had gone opaque with rain.
The twenty-footer that had been prepared for us was a fibreglass affair with Mercury Verado EFI 200 imprinted on the engine.
Miss Stanislaus said she would stay behind. Caran pretended he did not hear her protests when he ordered his two men to remain with her. She came forward, gave me one of those wordless face-searches, then backed away, her gaze never leaving my face.
At 3.30am., Toya Furore aimed the boat at the darkness with Caran and I sitting on the plank of wood that served as a seat. Her LED torch once again taped to her helmet. She’d fitted a long rod to the steering, which allowed her to be almost at the front of the craft. I looked at Caran, then at the back of the woman, her body curved forward, her rifle slung over her shoulder. He nodded at me and smiled, and I thought I saw a man who would go to the ends of the earth with his crew and, without a worry, place his life in their hands.
Toya took us to the back of Goat Island, the engine tuttutting as she eased us through the waterways between the reef that half-girdled the island. She cut the engine, held out a steadying hand to me as I stepped onto a stone beach. We helped her lodge the keel of the boat in the space between two boulders.
She took us on foot up the side of the island through cactus and bramble that seemed intent on plucking out our eyes.
Then we were down the other side, drenched to the bone, facing the storming waters. We spread out on a low rockshelf, settled down and waited.
The rain let up, enough for us to glimpse the darkly glinting waters at the entrance of the channel. I took deep breaths to settle my nerves and bypass the feeling of futility.