A Wanted Woman Part 31

The guns and the gear made it feel like Christmas.

I couldn't wait to try all of it on, especially the holsters.

I wanted to be ready for Barbarians or LKs. Might need to be ready for Black Jack.

I took out a pink razor, made sure no one could tell the carpet didn't match the drapes. Shaved my armpits last. Washed my hair and removed the blackness from my mane. Sat in front of the fan and gave myself a manicure, pedicure, painted my nails with clear polish. All the while my mind was on dead drug dealers, a d.i.c.kless cricketer, and now a black briefcase, this special delivery that had weight.

All of this s.h.i.t had to be connected.

Whatever was the reason behind this suitcase was the reason no one had been paid.

The briefcase slept quietly at my feet. It was my child to watch.

I hated children the same way my mother had hated me.

If a man looked at our child and walked away because of its looks, I'd kill him. That was one of my biggest fears.

I pulled on my new undies, colorful skysc.r.a.per heels, put on a holster and guns, slicked my hair back, painted my lips red, looked at myself in the mirror, struck a dozen poses.

s.e.xy. Was tempted to take photos of myself.

Would love for a man to be on a bed naked, waiting for me, then to dress like this and walk into the room. Killer s.e.x. I'd only been with a couple of men, but I had been with each many times.

The first guy had been the guy before Johnny. I had been with Johnny Parker the most. We'd had s.e.x more times in a month than most people have in two years. He had set the standard.

My body was craving. Wanted to sip a brew, be randy and get some relief, be a woman, be facedown, a.s.s up, moaning for Jesus and his daddy. I had no male friends. No potential lover. My options for s.e.xual healing were few. I thought of a plunge pool, air-conditioning, and Black Jack. The kiss I had put on his lips was gratuitous; hugging him was my own curiosity. I had felt him and been aroused too.

I whispered, "Roll over, stroke it, suck it, ride it. Lucky. So f.u.c.kin' lucky."

No time for old regrets, not when new regrets were the soup of the day.

I had to deal with RCSI and Barbarians. I had to deal with the LKs and Trinidad.

I called Big Guy and asked, "You making progress on the pa.s.sports?"

"I'll need photos."

He told me where to go and I hung up without saying good-bye.

THIRTY-TWO.

Diamond Dust was onstage, like Tim Cook at Apple introducing a new product.

The wives were a.s.sembled. She explained their roles in the creation of their kingdom.

She spoke on the importance of family, the importance of motherhood, said that they were all citizens of heaven, and their heaven would be here on Earth, on their island.

Their kingdom would grow.

She spoke to the women, no one over the age of twenty-five, the majority with college degrees, some with their master's, and they listened to her as if she were their savior.

Diamond Dust looked out at the women.

Wives wore Wellendorff wedding rings, all sparkling under the lights in the room, stars on the finger of commitment. Three hundred thousand Trinidad dollars sparkled on each wife's finger.

The rings represented the marriage to the group, to the cause, not to the men.

The men wore 18-karat gold rings by the same designer as well.

Diamond Dust said, "We are strong. We are those who refuse to give up. We have all had to endure too much. Which brings me to the next order of business. The Kiwi. Finally, after days of searching, after nights of crying and mourning, we have found something of importance. I cannot say what, but we have found her trail. This I a.s.sure you, we are close to victory."

The lights dimmed. Big-screen televisions came on.

A montage of photos went by. All looked like a different woman.

Diamond Dust said, "This is her. All photos are of the same woman. A woman of many faces. An a.s.sa.s.sin who could be anyone, anywhere. The Woman of a Thousand Faces. This is the cold-blooded b.i.t.c.h someone sent into our organization and brought an unfathomable shame to our family. We will reverse-engineer this, find her and her organization, and put the motherf.u.c.kers in the ground."

The Laventille Killers knew that the Kiwi had fled Trinidad. Two days ago they had found the fake pa.s.sport the Kiwi had used to exit the island, knew her destination, and now they were on the island of Grenada. The Kiwi had landed there a dark-haired gimp. They knew that when the Kiwi left there she had fled to the Grenadines a redhead wearing braces, white Levi's, and a blue South Carolina T-shirt. She had arrived in Bequia dressed in a colorful sundress and wearing long braids, her hair Bo Derekstyle, her nationality Swiss. Each time her eyebrows were a different color, a different shape, her makeup had changed the shape of her face, other makeup had changed her hairline, her breast size different each time, her nationality different. Her height only varied by inches, her stated weight varied by twenty pounds in either direction, reasonable ranges. They didn't know if the Kiwi was still on that smaller island or had fled to Balliceaux, Canouan, Mayreau, Mustique, Isle Quatre, Pet.i.t Saint Vincent, or Union Island. Diamond Dust ordered the LKs to send a small group to catch a flight to Saint Vincent and arrive in the Grenadines in a few hours.

Appaloosa wanted to be in charge, said that War Machine should be like the president, should stay out of harm's way, should stay in Trinidad and be the face of the company.

War Machine refused, insisted that he lead his men.

He said, "I am a warrior. Not an armchair warrior. I carry my own sword into battle."

When the Kiwi was caught, when this exploded, he planned to be there.

Two hours after her speech, with War Machine being unavailable, Diamond Dust oversaw the delivery of cocaine being transported from Catia La Mar, Venezuela, through Trinidad. She kept some for her group, for her members. Recreational use was permitted, as long as it was only recreational. Suitcases of cash were handed to her. Containers of cocaine were transferred to her buyers. South America had never failed. Only one shipment out of the last one hundred had been dumped as the suppliers evaded the law, that cocaine in the Caribbean waters being called "white lobster."

It had been a bad season. New York. Miami. Barbados.

Today was a day to celebrate. Today things were back on course.

Each victory was cause for celebration. Women came in, women she had brought along, and they entertained the drug runners. Men from South America paused for an hour and celebrated on their vacation paradise, land of sandy sh.o.r.es and crystal-clear waters, where the Africans, Creoles, Chinese, Indians, Spanish, and French had all left their mark. They prayed to their absentee G.o.ds, broke bread, ate the indigenous food of the islands Trinidad and Tobago: iguana curry; flower dumplings; conch and the p.e.n.i.s of the conch, the p.e.n.i.s being the part Diamond Dust enjoyed eating the most; breadfruit; sweet potatoes; plantains; sea grapes; lobster; pig's feet souse; chicken's feet souse; cow-skin soup; chicken, beef, goat, and liver rotis; doubles, cow-heel soup; callaloo; pig's tail; Richard's Bake & Shark; and kingfish heart.

The women were there for the pleasure of the men.

Diamond Dust knew how to do business, how to keep customers happy.

Then came the true entertainment.

One of her men against one of their men.

She always brought a boy, a soon-to-be man who wanted to become a gunta.

Her counterpart always brought a man who wanted to be part of their organization.

Before them all, as they sat in silence, the men fought to the death.

Men were willing to die, end their h.e.l.l, as a chance to get into someone's false heaven.

After that she was in her private plane, drinking the most expensive wine in production, Shipwrecked 1907 Heidsieck, $275,000 a bottle, doing a line of the best of the best cocaine, her Brazilian mistress going down on her as the plane took them into the sky. Her mistress made her come and weep as she escaped the world and flew above the islands for two hours, took her away from the world. Her life had been hard. Had been so f.u.c.king hard. Every day so intense. Her phone rang. She answered.

"Husband?"

"Catch you at a bad time?"

"No. What's the issue?'

In the Grenadines, the image of the Kiwi had been matched against that of a woman leaving Saint Vincent with a ticket set to arrive in Barbados a little more than forty days ago.

She told War Machine, "Get to Barbados. See where that leads us."

"The men are tired. Two hours of sleep over the last two days. I'm working while they recuperate. She will be gone. I want to find where she went after Barbados, if it is possible. It's been more than a month. The way she moved, she never stayed in one spot more than two days."

"But she never left the islands. There has to be a reason for that."

"The men need some downtime to remain highly motivated."

She understood. She needed to get away as well, so she understood.

After a night of women and wine, after a night that rivaled the orgy they had given on the roof of the Carlton Savannah, the Laventille Killers would rest, then rise and travel in the darkness.

She looked down at her Brazilian lover, whispered, "Love you."

War Machine responded, "Love you too."

Caressing her lover's cheek she said, "I want this resolved."

She hung up, ran her trembling fingers through her lover's luxurious hair.

She wanted everything to be perfect, for her, for all involved.

Which was why she worked hard now. It was hard to evoke change.

One had to embrace corruption, master that art, to make change.

Kindness never won a war. The kind filled many graves.

THIRTY-THREE.

Sheraton Mall, Parish of Christ Church The photography studio was near the KFC entrance to the contemporary food court, near Nature's Discount Nutrition Centre. I entered the establishment dressed in a green business suit, long strawberry-blond hair in a workday ponytail, lips dark, my face in makeup, but not too much. Using a Russian accent I asked for Nigel, then I stepped to the side and pretended to read the morning newspaper. Nigel appeared. Made eye contact. I nodded. He motioned for me to follow him.

He was nervous. Sweating. Reputation preceded me.

In a back room, I became six people from various countries. Combinations and permutations. I created six new names. Once the photos were taken and printed, I made sure they were deleted from the camera and the computer, then instructed Nigel to pa.s.s the prints on to the big guy who had sent me.

I went to the ladies' room, locked myself inside of a stall. By the time I made it to the three-level parking structure, I was in Levi's, boots, and a wrinkled UWI Cave Hill T-shirt over one of the black tees I had been given to conceal a.380, my hair red with blue streaks, my walk quick and impatient as I devoured a slice of pizza. When I finished my meal, I called Big Guy's cellular number. I called five times before he answered. The moment he mumbled h.e.l.lo, I blasted him with curse words. He hadn't answered right away, and that had left me swimming in paranoia. In a voice that made the message clear, I told him the clock was ticking, and his clock was ticking a h.e.l.luva lot louder than mine. I had calmed enough to hear his drugged-up voice as he explained. He had been rushed to the hospital. The head injury. Dizzy. Vomiting. Hadn't been right since he'd met me. I didn't give a f.u.c.k. He could talk. He was conscious. He could answer a phone. Hospital was better than the morgue. In a tone that left no room for ambiguity, I instructed him to get a bucket of strong coffee and wake up and get up off his a.s.s. I told him to contact Nigel right away and get out of that d.a.m.n hospital bed and go collect the package that I had left behind within the next hour, and to send a message to this number to confirm it had been collected. He said he needed more money for the friend of the friend of the friend who did the pa.s.sports. I told him I would get him more f.u.c.kin' cash. If I had to rob every b.u.t.terfield and First Caribbean and RBC and Scotia and Republic and CIBC bank, if I had to become Bonnie without a Clyde and stick up every Texaco, Rubis, Sh.e.l.l, Esso, and Sol gas station on the island, I would get the f.u.c.kin' money. Was losing it. I snapped, barked, told him to remember the cricketer, told him to read about that death, imagine the pain, to realize that missing fingers, and I'd take ten, wouldn't be a problem for a dead man. Then I killed the call, rubbed my temples, screamed, the echo scaring every child and gentle bird on the island.

Hated needing people. Hated being dependent.

Felt like I was begging everyone to lend a hand.

There was no answer at Black Jack's number and his message box was full.

I sent him a text.

Waited ten minutes.

No response.

I cursed him.

The Laventille Killers. The Barbarians. The island shrank with my every breath. The island was hot and they had me on lock, had to keep my weapon loaded, had to keep moving.

Always had to keep moving.

Only the dead remained still.

THIRTY-FOUR.

Oistins, Parish of Christ Church I pulled into the parking lot at the Brenda c.o.x Fish Market. Dozens of chattel-house vendors were grilling or preparing to grill fish. Fishermen trapping small fish to use as bait to capture larger fish. Sea turtles bobbed up in the clear blue waters. At the end of the dock, I took out my binoculars.

I wasn't close enough.

I found the concrete bathroom and changed into a pink bikini, stuffed my riding clothes into my backpack, covered myself with a green wrap, and then headed down to the beach and chatted up a dread. Lean, toned, wore slim ragged jeans cut off above the knee, was shirtless.

I said, "Jet Ski. How much, handsome man?"

He scratched under his hairless chin and grinned. "Sixty US for half hour."