Gone Bamboo (4 page)

"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 trying 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

T
ommy? 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.

"Tommy," said Henry. "As in Tommy's Tropical. The beach bar." He watched Frances from the bedroom. She had her hair up in a white bath towel; she was still stunning at thirty-six. Henry's eyes wandered over the reflection of her nut-brown body in the mirror.

"Stop gawking and tell me what the fuck's going on, please," said Frances.

"Cheryl. That's the girlfriend?" asked Henry, perfectly aware that it was.

"The cute one behind the bar," said Frances, meeting his eyes in the mirror momentarily. "I have a hard time believing you haven't noticed her." She slipped into a Hawaiian shirt.

"I've been too enthralled by your own considerable charms," said Henry. "I guess I didn't notice."

"Too stuttering drunk is more likely," said Frances, searching a shelf for some pants to wear.

"So you know her? You're friends? When did this happen?"

"We've hung out a couple a' times. When you're out sailing. The place does no business. I've hung at the bar with her. She's nice."

Henry shook his head. "The guy's right down on the beach. I have to tell you, I almost shit when he told me. Right there the whole time, a friend of Charlie's. Can't believe I missed it. I mean, the one, two times I've had a beer there, I should have figured something. The guy opens his mouth and you know exactly where he's from."

"No, no," said Frances with assurance. "He's not like that. I really don't think so. Tommy's not one a' those—"

"Really?" asked Henry skeptically. "Then how come he's such good buddies with Charlie fucking Wagons?"

"They house-sit. They live up there at the house, Tommy and Cheryl. I'm telling you. The kid is sweet."

"He's sweet now. Jesus. What's going on? You put Albert Anastasia on a beach with a panama hat on and you're going to say he's sweet."

"I'm not kidding," said Frances, brushing her long, dark brown hair. "He was a chef before he came down here. He worked the same restaurant as Cheryl - that's how they met."

"So, how come he shows up here?"

"His place went belly-up or something. He had a few bucks, so they came down here. Can you blame him? I mean, that's what we did."

"What makes him such good pals with Charlie is what I want to know," said Henry, pacing now. "I need a drink. You ready?"

"Almost," said Frances, sorting through a salt-stained and wrinkled pile of khakis. "Don't worry. The Dinghy Dock's open for hours more."

"But happy hour—"

"We have time. Listen. You want me to ask Cheryl a few things? I can do that."

"Maybe."

"You want to knowr if Tommy knows Charlie from before, right?"

"He must have. He must have. I want to know if he's straight. Is he a wise guy, half a wise guy, a snitch, you know."

"You want my opinion, he's straight. Just a nice Italian boy in love. He's crazy about Cheryl. She's gonzo over him. They're absolutely the cutest—"

"According to you, everything about them is adorable."

"What can I say? I'm a romantic."

Henry stepped behind Frances and tried to hug her as she shimmied into a pair of cutoffs.

"Stop pawing me, I'm getting dressed."

"You're being so sentimental. I'm moved," he said.

"Yeah. I can feel what's moving. Forget it. I'm dressed."

"They live in that big stone house up on the hill," said Henry, stepping back into the bedroom while Frances braided her hair.

"I know."

"With Charlie . . . and a team of marshals."

"They look after the house."

"They hang out. That's what my friend says. Like father and son."

"He's a good cook. Maybe Charlie likes his cooking. The kid is picking up a few extra bucks. That doesn't make him a bad guy. Next you're gonna be saying he was in Dealey Plaza. Maybe we should run the Zapruder film again . . . Tommy's face might pop up in the grassy knoll."

"Hysterical," said Henry. "Listen. All I'm saying is they
hang.
It's not like an employer-employee relationship. My friend has his little Vietnamese dude watching the place, and they
hang."

"Okay, okay. So what do you want me to do?"

"Well, I want to talk with Charlie. It's a tricky situation. There's marshals all around him. I don't want him to take it the wrong way. That would be bad."

"Uh-huh."

"I have to be careful."

"Explain, please, why you don't just kill the guy. Finish the job . . . so we can have a little peace of mind."

"No can do. My friend was . . . very specific on that point. He wants me to have a nice talk with Charlie. Let bygones be bygones and all that."

"Is that wise? I mean, you're supposed to just walk up to Charlie and say, 'Hi, Charlie, sorry I shot you in the ass. Let's be friends'?"

Henry sighed loudly. "Pretty much."

"Nice plan."

"Well. He assumes, he expects me to get an idea of the man's intentions first. If possible. You know, get an idea of his state of mind, feel things out, see what's possible, what isn't." Henry paused to lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. "I was thinking Tommy . . . if he's straight like you think he's straight . . ."

"What if Charlie's real pissed? Then what?"

"Then we get tossed off the island, I guess. If we're lucky. If we're not so lucky, if Charlie blabs to the marshals, then we have a serious problem."

"Bummer," said Frances.
"That
sucks. All I can say is, we better get the guy a real nice housewarming gift. Somebody shot me in the ass, I'd be kinda angry."