A Wanted Woman Part 21

"Whatever makes them feel better. I'm sure the dead cricketer has a thousand posts from people chatting with him like he can still see them and chat back or poke them at some point."

"Scott Pinkerton was never that good at cricket. He wasn't even mediocre."

"Sure about that?"

"Sure as baby s.h.i.t stinks. Other cricketers here are still living with their mothers. If he has a big house and a luxury car, he had another revenue stream, and my guess is that he's had it for a long time."

"I had no intel on him. Order came and a few hours later I was stalking him, doing my thing."

"That revenue stream is what got him killed."

"So, you don't think being an accused rapist had him put in the ground?"

"Not the rape charge. Hate to say it, but I have to be honest; n.o.body . . . well, not many . . . not many down here would pay to have someone killed for rape. Not many women report it. Somebody might get a cutla.s.s and wait for the man, maybe try to cut his throat while he sleeps, but from what I read, they just get raped and keep moving, not many bother calling the police, or pressing charges because they end up with their photo in the local papers. Small island. Women don't want that shame, that stigma. Only a few watering holes here. They would have to pa.s.s the man who raped them on the road or end up in the same minibus with him. Or at the same church. That's from what I hear. I can't see a poor woman like that taking the payoff money she got and spending most of it to have someone killed, then go back to being the working poor. Then again, I'm not a woman, just speculating. What do I know?"

"You're right."

"That a woman wouldn't spend her last dime to hire a professional to solve her problem?"

"No, that you're not a woman. A woman would spend her last dime."

"An American woman. A British woman. I love my island, but it's still a destination for women from the Dominican Republic, Guyana, and Jamaica. The same for St. Lucia, the Netherlands Antilles, and Suriname. s.e.xual exploitation is big business in the islands. Not only the women get bad treatment. Men from China, India, and Guyana are trafficked for slave labor, are exploited in construction and other sectors. It's not as extreme as it is on other islands; we pretend it's not a big deal, but it exists. Those are our Mexicans, to put it in terms an American can understand. Women from here in Barbados are trafficked to other islands and to England as well, for the same reasons: s.e.x and domestic servitude. So, in my opinion, if she was raped, and if she was paid, she would take the money and leave Barbados."

"You're right. I don't know s.h.i.t about this island. I'm a dumb and stupid American woman."

"I better leave while I'm ahead."

"Yeah, do that. While I sit here and realize I've been exploited as well, you do that."

Black Jack left Chefette, stopped by the beggar with the triplets and gave her some coins, then skipped puddles and headed across Broad Street, climbed into his ride, and left Bridgetown.

Bad luck was all I had had since I came to the bottom of the West Indies.

I made it back to my motorcycle just in time to catch two hooligans trying to hurry and push its weight up on the back of a Toyota pickup truck. The wheels were locked, so they had to use much manpower. They saw me, damaged motorcycle helmet in hand. No one walked the alley with me. They jumped off the truck, came toward me, and without a h.e.l.lo or introducing themselves or asking me how my day was going, they barked and demanded my helmet and my backpack.

One in a stupid cowboy hat yelled, "Where the money? Where the money?"

I slid my backpack off, let it fall.

Before it hit the ground I had used my helmet and disarmed my aggressor. I came to life. We danced. There was rain, but there was no singing, no Gene Kelly moves, only knees to their faces, elbows to their eyes, blows to their throats. I was Ip Woman. I was the female version of Tony Jaa. I moved so fast, they couldn't touch me, but so much happened to them.

Each blow that I struck told me that I was competent.

Again I had proven that I could handle myself and I was competent.

I wasn't dumb. I wasn't stupid.

I said, "Hard-ears saga boys wid nuh brought-upsy, catspraddled in a ba.s.sa-ba.s.sa."

I spat on the ground, then kicked their cheap silver gun in one direction before throwing the bullets from the gun into the throat of the alley. Straining, I put the key in the ignition of the Ducati, unlocked the wheels, and rolled my heavy bike back off the truck. The driver's-side window of the truck was broken, all sorts of electronics on the floor of the cab. They had been on a robbing spree.

Behind me hooligans were on the ground, broken bones from ankles to arms, two steel pipes on the floor of the alley. Helmet on, gloves on, I mounted my Ducati. As it drizzled, I sat there thinking.

I whispered, "Keep a woman in poverty, keep her under control. She'll never be able to leave."

TWENTY-TWO.

Studio lights shone on her pulchritude, on the youthful face of the woman called Diamond Dust. She wore a red-white-and-black outfit by local designer Deron Attzs, stunning and runway ready, was introduced as Mrs. Karleen Ramjit, a woman born in Laventille married to the man who was CEO of both Trinidadian holding companies Hummingbird Limited and Trinity Limited. Those were two of the companies run by the organization known on the streets as the Laventille Killers.

She was in an interview on TV6. She was strengthening their brand.

Mrs. Quash, the interviewer, asked, "Your husband has made a few controversial comments regarding TTFA."

"He spoke the truth. The Trinidad and Tobago Football a.s.sociation now has to reconcile the twenty-five-million-dollar debt, to rebuild its image away from Jack Warner's shadow and to function as a proper business. My organization would be capable of bringing success to that arena as well."

"You befriend civilian politicians, yet you tend to portray them as corrupt and ineffective."

"We are neutral and work with all parties, and we give constructive criticism to all. We do what is required, and that is not always pleasant. It's called tough love. We are for Trinidad, not an individual. If you are for the people, as we are, there is no need to be afraid of an honest a.s.sessment of your efforts."

"Okay. You were nine when you discovered The Fountainhead, and it changed your life."

"Yes. Within two sentences Ayn Rand and her way of thinking, her rationale, changed my life."

"She is probably the most debated philosopher in the world."

"Undoubtedly. If her controversial points weren't valid, she would not be remembered."

"She is your role model."

"I look up to her. I would have loved to have had conversation and dinner with her."

"Ayn Rand promoted a totally irrational, destructive, movement-destroying, freedom-destroying . . . the Russian woman came across as an intellectual thug, and to top that off she believed that believing in G.o.d was a cop-out and destroyed man's ability to reason, and argued that going with emotions and not reason went against reality. So far as morality, she led a polyandrous lifestyle, a lifestyle that you and your members are rumored to have as well. I have read . . . oh . . . Mrs. Ramjit? Mrs. Ramjit?"

Trinidadian viewers saw a cold stare rooted in the hills of Laventille, a telling glare that was more than an ultimatum, it was a deadly promise. In the interviewer's eyes lived fear, on her brow sprouted sweat like she was in the pouring rain. An unpalatable fear that the viewers felt left her frozen.

Mrs. Quash swallowed, shifted, in a trembling voice said, "I . . . I apologize, Mrs. Ramjit."

"I take offense to that horrid characterization. As would my husband. As would my children. You say things as if I am not a mother, as if my children would not hear these lies. Mrs. Quash, simply by raising such preposterous questions you're sinking to a new low, a new low even for a second-rate journalist like yourself, and you're doing nothing more than spreading hearsay and malicious rumors."

"I . . . I . . . I had hoped that we could dispel many of the rumors regarding your group."

"We are a family. Educated. Professionals. Proud Trinidadians. That is what we are."

"Shall we continue with the interview?"

Diamond Dust sat still, silent, nostrils flared, looked at Mrs. Quash like she would cut open her chest and s.h.i.t inside her heart. Diamond Dust removed her microphone, stood, and exited.

Five minutes later. Backseat of her limo. Moving through traffic in Port of Spain.

Every day was a day to make a new friend. Or discover a new enemy.

Diamond Dust poured herself a gla.s.s of Henri Jayer Richebourg Grand Cru, wine from Cte de Nuits, France, the most expensive on the planet, the wine she drank daily, her only bad habit.

Before this travesty, before the Kiwi, none would have dared challenge her.

No one would have dared to blindside her, and never on live television.

She felt vulnerable. She did not like feeling vulnerable.

This was the fault of her brother. King Killer's actions had weakened them in ways she had not realized. They were losing respect, and without respect there would be no power.

She had worked hard. She deserved the best. Only the best.

Her cellular rang. She looked at the number. It was her oldest child.

She answered, smiling, "Hey, baby. You saw mum on TV? Mum will be home soon. Croods? We can watch The Croods again. No junk food, baby. Eat fruit. Mum wants you healthy and strong. Another Barbie? Sweetheart, boo bear, you already have over one hundred. We'll see. Love you too."

She ended the call, frowned. Her children had seen her be weak.

Her children had seen her be vulnerable.

She screamed.

f.u.c.king Kiwi.

Her brother had brought the red-haired Kiwi b.i.t.c.h into their fold.

Her brother, the first boy she knew, the man she loved most.

The man she had given her secrets and had trusted first more than she had trusted any lover.

She whispered, "Neziah, what have you done? What have you done to my dream?"

Her brother was with the others. With War Machine, Appaloosa, Guerrero, Kandinsky, and whoever they had taken, all at the warehouse, as they had been for days. She would go visit him now.

When you had issues, you looked the other person in the eyes.

You did that no matter how difficult it might be.

She would look in her brother's eyes.

She would tell him how f.u.c.king disappointed she was with the choices he had made.

She would tell him that his d.i.c.k-led decision had brought insurmountable shame on what she had worked to build. His one bad move was f.u.c.king up what she had sacrificed and killed to create.

She would tell her twin brother her grievances.

She would tell him to his face, as he died.

TWENTY-THREE.

Back at Six Roads, I questioned everything about the Barbarians, every job I had been given. In the front room I collapsed on the sofa. The brick structure and its metal roof turned the inside of the safe house into a convection oven. I sat in the stuffy room and sweated as I continued to read about the dead cricketer. Curiosity was strong. Soon I turned the fan on high, stripped down to my panties, rubbed ice across my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and neck and read to distract myself.

The cricketer hit that I had effected, just like the island's hotel rape case in Sandy Lane, there had been a payoff, the amount undisclosed. It was the money that had my attention, the money that kept me reading. Always follow the money. Especially when you had none.

I took out the roll of bills I had taken from the cricketer, the b.l.o.o.d.y greenbacks. I put the wad on the bed, stared at the cash, tried to own it, but it didn't feel like it was rightfully mine.

I had those kinds of hypocritical issues, raised to kill, but not to steal from another human.

I made men widowers, women widows, children orphans, made grandparents have to take care of their dead children's babies, made children have to bury their parents. I wondered what Johnny Parker would think if he had seen my true resume, the one written in blood. Wasn't like Parker knew that I was a hit woman. Wondered what he would have thought of me if he had seen me on the roof of the Carlton Savannah, or if he had walked into Sugar Ultra and seen me dirty dancing with the cricketer.

Parker knew Jennifer, but had no idea who I really was.

I wasn't Jennifer.

He had no idea what I had been through, had no idea what I was capable of doing sans remorse.

Parker's ex-wife knew. That psychotic b.i.t.c.h knew.

Johnny Parker had left his wife two years before we shared a bed, but when she found out about us, she began hara.s.sing me, used a friend who worked at Verizon, obtained the number I used under my bogus ident.i.ty, and then blew up my BlackBerry. When I didn't reply, she made my BlackBerry ping-ping-ping all night long, then made it ping-ping-ping into the next morning, ping-ping-ping into the afternoon, and ping-ping-ping again into the next night. Johnny was over and we were in bed. I was giving him head and the d.a.m.n phone started to ping-ping-ping. I jumped up and told Johnny to end it. I told him that if he didn't, I would. The ping-ping-ping never stopped. Then she came by my place looking for him. Now she had obtained my address, probably from the same friend at Verizon. She ping-ping-pinged me all day and then she had the nerve to ring-ring-ring my doorbell at three in the morning, and when I opened the door wearing a T-shirt and boy shorts, she called me a b.i.t.c.h, wh.o.r.e, s.l.u.t, whatever she could think of. I stared at her. I had a coveted middle-cla.s.s existence. I lived from job to job, was barely making my ends meet, but like my neighbors, I held on to the facade of being richer than I was. It was a normal existence in a capitalistic world. I didn't live in a neighborhood of violence. So when Parker's ex-wife had come to my door, I had to maintain my ident.i.ty, one of a kind and peaceful neighbor who gave smiles to everyone she pa.s.sed, so I had to pretend and respond accordingly. She went to her car and right away my phone started to ping-ping-ping. I did all I could not to scream. She ping-ping-pinged my phone while she drove away.

She had bullied me. I loved Johnny Parker, so I had allowed her to bully me.

I lived in a cul-de-sac and she had to turn right, exit a slow-opening unmanned security gate, then make another right again to get to the main road. The main road was to the left of my townhome. By the time she had exited my sw.a.n.ky complex, I had sprinted across the perfectly manicured gra.s.s, had pa.s.sed by a new unit under construction, had picked up a brick, jumped over a six-foot wall, and stood to the side. Just as she came up on me, speeding of course, the brick went flying like a tree dove, crashed into the center of the windshield. Her Lexus swerved and crashed into the wall. I went to the driver's side and opened the door. She was stunned from the impact, beaten by the airbag, but not beaten enough. I pulled her out by her blouse, ripped the material, and then gave her a strong head-b.u.t.t. Her nose exploded and blood gushed from her face. I pimp-slapped her. I b.i.t.c.h-slapped her. Followed by another pimp slap. She cried out in terror and tried to stop me from slapping her around, but the dance had started. I grabbed her left hand and bent her fingers until the one she had flipped me off with broke like a dried twig. She needed to be accountable for her actions, regret her choices.

I said, "It's three in the f.u.c.king morning, and you want to play games? Stupid, arrogant beeyatch, Parker left you. Get over it and move on. This is how this will go from here. Don't make my BlackBerry ping-ping-ping. Next time you ping-ping-ping, you will wake up on a boat and your hands and ankles will be bound and I will drop you in the ocean. Do we have an understanding? Do you understand?"

She nodded ten thousand times, had been nodding through my entire diatribe.

I needed her to see and remember the seriousness in my eyes.

I said, "Do not make my BlackBerry ping. That's not polite. It's rude. Don't be rude."

I picked up the brick. She freaked out, scampered back over the oil and dirt on the asphalt. I wanted to do it. Wanted to smash her head in. Was going to smash her head in. Then I heard the child crying. Parker's six-year-old daughter screamed. She was in the backseat. Strapped in, no child seat.

Jarred, I snapped, "You brought Parker's daughter on a fool's run? Without a child seat?"