Kingston Noir (8 page)
The white gyal was crying now. “Stay away from me! Stay away!” And she fanning us off and shouting and shaking, and we was thinking, Lord have mercy! The white gyal gone crazy! She gone stark raving mad. We form a circle round her not knowing whether to advance or to stay back. We was just watching her, and she was just watching us. Sister Doris start to pray, and then she start to sing, and some of the other women join in, but the white gyal just keep shaking and crying and looking at us like we was the devil.
And then Soft-Paw come. The crowd part for him. Soft-Paw have the white gyal camera in his hands and he holding it up for her to see. He smiling like as if to say he was Jesus come to save her. And it was another warm night in August Town. The sky was clear, and the stars was like glass, and we could hear the low river eating away at the banks of Angola. And Sister Doris with her eyes close tight was humming the tune,
The word of the Lord is a strong tower, the mighty run into it and they are saved
. Soft-Paw walking toward the white-gyal now, but she looking at him terrified-like, and her eyes say that she was finally seeing the man that most people see—a man with a hard face, a man with teeth as brown as rust except for the one gold tooth glittering at the back, a man who was more dangerous than most. And the streetlight shining on her was making her look not just white, but transparent, like a piece of tissue. And the blond hairs curl up round her pussy look white as well. And it come to me that I never see before that she was such a small thing.
Soft-Paw smiling and he ask her, “What wrong wid you, white gyal? Why you going on so for? Nothing to worry bout. See your camera here. You can have it back.”
The white gyal shout at Soft-Paw, “Stay back! Don’t touch me!”
Soft-Paw laugh a strange laugh and he step forward.
“NO!” the white gyal shout at him. “I say stay back!”
She was crying now. Crying hard like when little pickney can’t find them mommy. This small gyal with her skin like tissue. And then she was looking up at this bigger black man, like him was the ugliest man in the world, and Soft-Paw must have seen it too. He have to see that something did gone from her eyes, and I wonder if he know that is he who take it from her.
Soft-Paw now raising his voice and saying, “Calm down, white gyal! Calm down.” He make another step toward her. “See your camera here.” He try to hand it over. “Just take the bloodclaat camera and stop the cowbawling!”
The white gyal in a awful state now. A awful, awful state. She box the camera out of Soft-Paw’s hand. It fall on the ground and break. It make a sound like it was the only sound in August Town that night. Like even the river did stop. And those who was praying stop praying. And those who was singing stop singing. And I don’t know why, but we all did jump back when the camera break—and then we look down on all its pieces like we was looking at a dead body.
The white-gyal staring up at Soft-Paw. She trembling. And my dears, who to tell why she do it, but she box him in him face. Box him, right there in front of all of we. And you could suddenly hear the river again. And I believe, for a small while, we could even hear the stars. And all of we was just standing there, holding our breaths.
M
ita landed in Kingston at three and instructed the cabby to take her to the Courtleigh … Knutsford Boulevard … New Kingston.
A slip of paper with the addresses and names was getting damp in her bra. She gazed out the window at the glittering sea, trying hard to relax, but it was impossible. The sea hugged the side of the flat smooth road for miles until it cut away from the sea altogether and became narrow and rutted and cars swerved dangerously past the meager little houses leaning shoulder to shoulder. Soon they were in the heart of midtown in slow-moving traffic, the sidewalks overflowing with people, and floors and floors of office windows climbing to the sky.
At the hotel, she paid cash up front for a week, hung out the
Do Not Disturb
sign, and slipped into bed.
It was night when she woke. The room was dark and her throat was dry. She sat up, lowered her feet to the floor, unsure of how much time had passed, unsure of where she was. Her toes were tense. They’d become used to concrete. They cringed against the carpet, then relaxed. Fuck. How long had she been asleep?
She showered, oiled her scalp until it shone—the head was still shaven—slipped into a shimmering black dress that hugged her curves, and gashed her lips with burgundy.
Downstairs in the lobby there was a band of old timers playing ska. Couples danced close by the pool. Around the corner was the bar. People were laughing and talking loud and smoking and drinking there. Dense clouds of smoke hung heavily around their heads. She elbowed her way up to the counter, ordered two shots of Appleton back to back, swallowed them down swiftly, and nursed the third while studying the bartenders. There were three of them, all wearing sparkling white shirts and black trousers. She was looking for the one named Ralph. She’d been told he had a runaway eye. When she spotted him, she waved him over, ordered a plate of cow foot stew.
This Ralph did not look anything like his uncle Gracie, she thought. He wore a big badge of a mustache and he was attractive and flirtatious and when he smiled he showed all his teeth and they were big and magnificent and bright. She paid him in cash and when he handed back her change, she clamped his hand with hers. She eased her mouth to his ear. I need a gun right away, she said. Fear creamed from the pores on his hot cheek. She could smell it. His hand stirred, shivered. She held it down. He dragged it. She let go. He straightened up and glowered. The runaway eye began to roam along the wall behind her. The other one fixed her like a nail.
Who the fuck you is? he said, without moving his lips. The ridiculous little badge over his mouth trembled.
I’m Gracie’s friend, she said, taking care to sound and look at ease. Gracie in San Francisco. He sent me to you. He said you’d … know …
Gracie, he said, looking her up and down. His face was tense. You know Gracie? Gracie no dead?
He’s in prison, she said.
His cheeks bagged a little.
I need it right away, she said, sliding an envelope toward him. Tomorrow morning first thing. Her voice was low and hard. Room 211. She did not look at him again. She slipped off the stool and stepped out, her shoulder blades drawn tight.
A man in a dark shirt who had been eyeing her eased up from his seat at the bar, laid out a few dollars on the counter, and trailed her outside into the courtyard.
The night was black and there was neither moon nor stars in the sky, just the unbearable heat settling down heavily on her face and bare arms and blotching her dress at once.
When the man appeared beside her she said nothing to him, and he said nothing to her. But she could feel his gentle presence right away and her shoulders that had edged themselves up near her ears softened. She sighed long and deep into the night. He was tall. But that’s all she could make out. He was little more than a shadow softened even more by smoke. The eye of his cigarette winked each time he sucked in. She spoke only after he had crushed the butt into the concrete.
I’d love a cigarette, she said, facing him.
Smoke was still trailing from the corner of his mouth.
She narrowed her eyes to see him more clearly in the weak wash of light from the bar and the street. He cocked his head as if thinking, fumbled in his pocket, brought out a crumpled pack of Benson & Hedges. When he struck the match, she could see the shape and color of his eyes, the scattering of moles on his face, and she could tell he was a man who was content with his own company, neither happy nor sad, but good to the core. No, he wouldn’t need anything from her … didn’t need much from anybody, maybe now and then a little closeness, but that’s all. The shirt hung loosely off his square shoulders.
Music from the band skittered toward them and they stood silent together and smoked. She could smell Old Spice on him and the Dragon stout he’d been drinking. Out on the roadway the lights of passing cars flashed, their engines revving and whining. From somewhere distant came the tap-tap of pistols. She thought briefly of the bartender, Ralph. She knew she had frightened him. That’s how things get done down there, Gracie had said. Act like a badass. She shook her head slowly. Gracie was in for life. Probably wouldn’t see his country again. She sucked deeply on the cigarette and breathed out heavily from way down deep inside. Was really a miracle how she got out. A fucking miracle. But that was another story altogether. In the sky she saw an airplane’s winking lights. And every now and again the wind would shift and bring the smell of gas, of exhaust, and, although they were miles from the sea, of kelp.
Mita and the man in the black shirt and cream pants stayed together smoking in silence till the pack was done. By then an understanding had formed between them. He turned to leave and she followed him. She wanted company tonight and she liked his quiet, his calm.
He had a suite on the highest floor and he took her through the tall glass doors that led out to the balcony. Red and silver lights were sparkling and shaking and slurring for miles into the distance. The breeze was just as hot as it was downstairs but had more flutter. Toy cars zigzagged ten floors below, the sound of them stretching and shortening, fading and growing, then melting away in waves.
What can I get you? he said when they were back inside. The room had a pair of matching couches. The flat screen on the wall was on, but silent. Soccer. She stood in front of it, watching but not really seeing, marking time, with drinks.
Suddenly his breath was warm on her neck. Was this even what she wanted? She turned into him. Now they were too close. His long, mole-sprinkled face was narrow and kind. He reminded her of a horse. She stepped away. What could he get her? What did she want? A bath, she said.
And it surprised her to hear her need jump out so fierce in front of this man she’d met less than an hour before.
A bath coming up, he said, and disappeared.
Inside the bedroom there was a suitcase open on the bed and she rummaged through it quickly without disturbing the neatly folded trousers, the striped shirts with stiff collars, his white briefs. She couldn’t tell if he was going or coming. Back in the living room, she switched the channel to tennis. Serena was playing Wimbledon. She turned it off and poured herself a glass of water.
She still hadn’t decided yet if she would sleep with him. She had not been with anyone, man or woman, in years. He wasn’t exactly her type though she had no earthly idea what that was anymore. For a minute, her ex-husband had been her type, and then the woman she’d lived with for seven years before had been her type. She couldn’t say that about the transients in between … and this man now … he didn’t look like he could hold her, he didn’t look strong, but then again she could relax with him. Wasn’t easy to relax after six years. Would’ve been twenty without early release. But she wanted to learn how to rest again and start her life over.
The man called out to her, and as she approached the bathroom she could see that he had turned out the lights and arranged candles in a row on the edge of the tub. Their flames gave off a soft moon glow. The water was perfumed with ylangylang and scattered with rose petals he’d gotten from the bouquet on the nightstand.
He did not hover. He was respectful. He stepped out while she undressed and returned only after she had slipped in. He was down to his boxers and his dick inside them was hard, but his movements over her body were languid. He sponged her back and her neck and her breasts and her clavicles. He sponged her feet; he sponged her polished toes. There was desire in his touch, patience in his movements. But he asked nothing of her. For this she was grateful. Right now she only wanted care and she liked that he could sense this. She closed her eyes. She let her face soften.
She must’ve dozed off, for when she woke again she was naked in his bed under his sheets and she could hear him snoring on the couch in the living room. She put a hand to her eyes. The sun was bright through the half-turned blinds.
She let herself out without looking at him. She left him as a sound.
Mita returned to her room to find a plastic bag wrapped in duct tape on the chair near the window. She edged up to it, a tiny smile breaking the corners of her lips. So, things were working then, she thought. The boy had come through. She sat on the bed in her black dress from the night before and turned the package over slowly.
It was small, less than half a pound, and flat … no roundness or grooves, so no barrel. She imagined a semiautomatic. Something that could fit easily in her purse, like the one she used to take with her to work at the lot.
It was wrapped in a dense wad of tape and plastic and newspaper. It took forever to tear through the layers.
That fucker! she cried when all the unwrapping was done. The metal chinked the concrete wall and thunked on the carpet when she flung it.
An L-joint piece of copper pipe.
She grabbed the piece of plumbing and tore downstairs to the bar to deal with that fucking boy. She could see through the glass wall that the lights were off. The chairs turned down. The place was closed. She pounded on the wooden door. Tried the lock. Leaned in with her shoulder. That fucker!
A watchman in a uniform appeared. He looked about twenty or so.
Bar not open yet, miss, not until this evening, bout five.
What about Ralph? she said.
Ralph, miss?
I’m going to kill him, she said. As there is a God. He took two hundred of my good, good money.
The watchman started to grin and then he stopped himself and straightened up his face.
Ralph is a sweet boy, miss. Women grab onto him. You have to watch yourself. He make plenty woman cry.
She looked at the watchman for a second. Finally she caught on. She put the pipe behind her.