Red Stripes (4 page)

I didn’t get a straight answer. “If you wish to speak to Mr. White, I’m afraid he’s out of the office at this time.”

“Can you tell me when you expect him back?”

There was a hitch in the voice, a second or so of a pause that confirmed my fears. When she came back on, the woman went through the motions robotically. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be precise. If you’d like to give me your name and number I’ll have him contact you on his return.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t divulge that kind of information.”

She sounded worried, and rightly so.

I considered asking White’s assistant outright if he was missing, and if she had any idea about what had happened to him. But I didn’t. The Jamaicans had moved on from Miami. They were here in Tampa. As for Charles White, there was a likelihood that he was currently feeding the fish out in Miami Sound.

Instead, I said, “It’s okay. I’ll call another time.”

My assumptions were speculative at best. Maybe Charles was the type to disappear for days at a time, but I couldn’t ignore the coincidence. I had that prickling sense that had alerted me to danger in the past and I wasn’t about to write it off now. The Jamaicans would have easily learned Charles’s identity. Poke him with a machete enough times and he’d give up the names and descriptions of those he’d sent to conduct the rendition of their hostages. Perhaps the Rasta man at Jolie’s had thought my tattoo was more indicative of my identity than my name, and had described it to make sure he was closing in on the correct person.

I’d purposefully left my Audi parked across the street from Jolie’s. The Jamaicans weren’t there, but since they’d already mentioned they’d visited Rink’s office and found it deserted, I decided I’d leave things looking the same way. Possibly they had someone watching Rington Investigations and they’d report if my vehicle turned up.

I went left at the next intersection. Still two blocks up from the office. Mid-way along the next block was a service alley and I headed along it. Coming to the next cross street I paused, conducting countersurveillance measures instilled in me during all those years of active service. I didn’t spot a shadow. I headed for the next service alley, but once out of sight I halted, waiting to see if anyone nosey enough would poke their head around the corner. While I waited I sipped on my coffee. It had grown tepid. I binned the cup in a Dumpster. Nobody showed up.

Happy that I’d gone unobserved I headed down the alley to where a roller shutter concealed the back entrance to Rink’s building. I had a key to the lock and I let myself in the back door. There’s a room at the rear that occasionally doubled as a bedroom. No one sleeps there anymore. A bullet hole in the door frame to the outer-office area had been left as a vivid reminder of what happens when you lower your guard. Alongside the bedroom is a short corridor, where there’s a small bathroom with a sink and a john, a small file room filled with rows of gray cabinets. Next to that is a closet. It holds mops, buckets, cleaning products. It also holds an armory locker. I also held the key to its lock.

From the locker I took out my personal SIG Sauer P226. Unlike the SIG dumped in the Caribbean Sea as Velasquez steered us away from the kidnappers’ den, this one was in full working order. I checked the workings anyway—habit—and slapped in a full mag of 9 by19 mm Parabellums. Racking the slide, I put a round in the breech. Then, dropping the decocking lever, I lowered the hammer, making the weapon “drop safe.” All it would take to fire the gun now was slight pressure on the trigger, but I wouldn’t put my finger on the trigger until a viable target was in front of me. Cops and most military operatives would go postal on me for carrying around a hot weapon, but fuck them. I’d found the difference in a draw down was counted in milliseconds and any advantage outweighed the cons of an accidental discharge. Frankly, I’d never shot myself in the foot. My SIG went into my waistband at the back.

These Jamaican mobsters, they liked their big knives. Well, they were no exception. I took from the armory two cutting weapons. One a military issue KA-BAR, the other an illegal push dagger that I slipped down inside my boot along my left ankle. I felt good to go. But there was something I had to do first.

Using my cell, I asked first Velasquez, then McTeer to stay clear of the office until I gave them the all clear. Both men offered me their services, but I told them to enjoy their downtime. Rink wasn’t due back from his mom’s place for a few days, so I didn’t trouble the big guy. I knew if I called him, he’d be on the next plane out of San Francisco however forcefully I told him not to.

Despite the heat, I pulled on a lightweight bomber jacket and ball cap, then locked up the office, going out the back way once more. I retraced my steps along the service alley to the first cross street and then decided that if I was going to draw out the Jamaicans, then now was as good a time as any. I headed for the main strip and turned for Jolie’s café, still two blocks up on the right.

Before making it as far as Jolie’s, I crossed the street, jaywalking on a red light. A block ahead of me my Audi A8 waited. So did a tall black man. He was coal dark, bald headed: not the guy who’d spoken with Jolie about me. He was sitting on the hood of my car, arms crossed on his chest, sinewy muscles glistening under the sun. He wasn’t looking my way but across at the café.

I picked up my pace, but not enough to draw the baldy’s attention, slipping into step with other pedestrians on the street. I kept my head down and facing forward, the peak of the cap casting a shadow on my face, but scanned to the right. As I neared my car I got a clear look across the street to where the outdoor tables were grouped on the sidewalk. I instantly recognized Jolie, who was standing talking with another black man. This one had café-au-lait skin and Bob Marley hair.

Seems I wasn’t the only one with a raised alert level, because it was as if he sensed my scrutiny and turned to gaze at me. Even from across the street I could see he had intense jade-green eyes. Jolie also spotted me; she tried to distract the Jamaican, but he brushed her off with a flippant wave of his hand. Seeing the intensity in his friend, the guy perched on my Audi turned to follow his gaze. By then I’d put my right hand in my jacket pocket, and I pushed out with my index finger. He saw the positioning of my jacket and assumed that I’d a weapon pointed at him. Oldest, cheesiest trick in the book, but it still gets some people worried.

The baldy slid off the hood of my car, unfolding his arms. He set his weight on his back foot. By now I was ten feet away, and as far as he could tell within point-blank range.

“Tandeh, mon,” he said, holding out a hand.

I hadn’t a clue what he said, but judging by his gesture he meant, “Stay there,” or, “Wait.”

“Move away from my car,” I said.

“Ease up. Everything’s irei, mon,” he said.

“No, everything isn’t all right,” I said. I looked for his friend and saw the other man approaching from across the street. Like his pal he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. No unusual shapes under the clothing, which meant they were unarmed. I turned so that I was at an angle, able to watch both men at the same time. In the background Jolie was watching, a hand fisted at her throat. I gave her a subtle headshake, encouraged her to go back inside her café. Jolie backed away but continued to watch from the shadows of her doorway. Brave woman, I thought. Most people would have buried their heads in the sand, but Jolie looked the type who’d come to my rescue with only her fingernails for weapons. But then, I was a good customer.

The dreadlocked guy came to a halt, standing on the roadway. The curb was high, but he still met me eye for eye. He was tall. He was also young and fit, his muscles equally as defined as his buddies.

“You’ve been asking about me,” I said. “What do you want?”

“I think you know that already,” said Dreadlocks. His English was clearer than his friend’s, and I wondered if he’d spent some time across the Atlantic. That, or—judging by his lighter skin coloration—one of his parents was a British Caucasian.

I considered his words.

“You looking for revenge?”

It was the bald man who answered. He laughed harshly. “Hector. Im run de Jamdung Rude Bwoy bizness. Im nuttin, mon.”

I caught half of the words, but got the drift. Hector ran the business in Jamaica, but he was nothing.”

“Hector was a piece of shit,” I agreed. It was pointless disputing who I was or what I’d done: they knew. “He chopped the fingers off a boy, and was about to rape a girl.”

“Ha! Im be tinking im mantell. Im kyaan lock im hose off.”

“I have no idea of what you just said.”

Dreadlocks explained. “Hector always thought he was the man. He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”

“So you have a pretty low opinion of him. You didn’t come looking for me for revenge then?”

“Not on Hector’s behalf.” Dreadlocks moved off the road, stepping up alongside his pal. “But you cost us a big payday. We can’t allow that to happen again.”

“That right?”

“That’s right. We can’t have you ruining any of our future schemes.” Dreadlocks flicked a lazy hand toward Jolie’s café, and made another languid gesture in the general direction of Rington Investigations. “Some people might get hurt.”

“Your beef’s with me, no one else.”

“You strike me as the type who cares more about others than he does about himself.”

“Enough to fight to the death for them,” I assured him.

The baldy laughed at my front. “Naa mek im vex, mon,” He said, with a look of pride for his friend. “Mi naa jesta, im tak your head.”

“You’re forgetting I’m the one with the gun,” I said. “What’s to stop me taking off both your heads?”

Dreadlocks hooked his thumbs in his waistband. Nonchalant. “If you have a gun it’s not in that pocket.”

I took out my hand, my finger pointing at his gut. I gave him a lazy smile. “As if I’m going to shoot you with all of these witnesses watching. Where do you want to do this?”

“You choose,” said Dreadlocks.

“Where are your wheels?”

Dreadlocks jerked his head, indicating a blue Ford parked behind my Audi.

“Get in your car,” I told him. “Go back to Miami and forget all about me. Or follow me. Your choice.”

“Only one choice for me,” he said. Then, with a grin for his pal, he slipped into patois, adding, “Mi muss a go kill mi dead.”

B
etween Downtown and the Channel District off Meridian Avenue is a space dominated by railway tracks and sidings. Many freight companies have warehouses in the area, as well as there being a number of factories and mills. Near to one such mill, along a street where the trucks had long ago torn up the asphalt to display ancient cobbles beneath, was a deserted industrial unit. It had stood empty for a couple of years, a victim of the economic downturn. I only knew about the place having tracked a thief to the unit a few months earlier, and discovered his stash of stolen goods. The thief got off with a stern warning—and a lump on his head—and his wares were liberated and returned to their respective owners. I’d tagged the building’s location, never expecting that it would serve the purpose I had in mind for it now.

I pulled into the weed-choked parking lot, followed closely by the two Jamaicans in their Ford. While they sat in their car watching me, I went to the chain-link fence, pulled shut the gates and locked them with a padlock I’d fished from the glove compartment of my Audi. For all I knew, the café-au-lait dude wasn’t as honorable as he made out, and had called in backup on the drive over. I didn’t want to find myself surrounded by his pals without some kind of warning. Neither the fence or the padlocked gate would keep them out for long, but it would give me a half-minute breathing space while they were negotiated.

The two men got out of the Ford as I walked across the lot.

“We didn’t set terms,” said Dreadlocks.

I halted, stared him down.

“The terms are simple. We sort this between us. I win, that’s it. You win, that’s it. No more trouble between your friends or mine.”

“Where’s the profit in it for me?”

“You win, you get to live,” I said. “But that’s it. There’ll be no more talk of lost profits.”

“What’s to stop me killing you, then taking up where I left off?”

“Me.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

“Yet you don’t seem too worried.”

“I’m not.”

For the first time the baldy chipped in. He laughed at my expense, while nodding grandiosely at his pal. “Im dandimite, mon. Im put Obeah pon ya. Im vank you, mon.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, having no clear idea what he’d said.

“Im be
Jancro
,” the baldy went on. “Im kyaan be killed.”

At mention of
Jancro
the dreadlocked guy squinted at his friend. He wasn’t happy with the term. I wondered what it meant.

“Jancro?” I gave him a lazy smile.

“John Crow,” Dreadlocks translated. “An expression of hatred. Also the name given to a mythological albino vulture.”

“A nickname I guess you’re not too happy with?”

He shrugged. “It serves a purpose.”

I indicated the industrial unit. “Let’s do this inside. It’s too hot to be out in the sun.”

Dreadlocks returned my lazy smile. “You have friends waiting for us inside?”

“Just me an’ you, buddy.”

“What about him?” He indicated his friend.

“He can watch. We’ll need someone to take word of our agreement back to your bosses in Miami.”

“My bosses? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Didn’t take you for the top honcho,” I admitted.

“Why not? Because I don’t look like a full-blood Rasta man? That my Rastafarian bruddas wouldn’t accept me, a white
nyega
?” He straightened his shoulders. “They call me John Crow, but I’m Nyabinghi. I’m more than the hired muscle you assumed, eh?”

Nyabinghi. I’d heard the term before. It was something to do with the Rastafarian movement of black supremacy.

“I wasn’t counting on it,” I said. “You seemed like a man with some clout behind you. Plus a man whose word I could trust. But, yeah, I did believe that you had come after me on someone else’s orders.”