A Wanted Woman Part 33

"Not much. I need every dime I can get. Forced to work this way at the moment."

"You look so stressed."

"I am. Body is off. Can't sleep."

"You need a ma.s.sage."

"Need more than a ma.s.sage."

"If you have downtime, I can set up that other thing for tonight."

"Mrs. Child Support Waiting to Happen. Go home to your fake marriage and have fun."

"Don't hate."

"Not hating."

"Well, take a break, give Black Jack a shot at plunging in that American-born pool."

"I don't know him like that and I don't want to know him like that."

"It can be a one-off."

"Don't be rude. He's not the guy I want to be naked and share my scars with."

"Let me set this other thing up then."

"No."

"Let me."

"Focus, Petrichor."

"Please?"

"I just need you to handle that little mission."

She shook her head. "The Barbarians had you attack the LKs' drug shipment here in Bim."

"Then I'll bet I killed the man the LKs used to move product through Barbados."

"He wasn't killed over being a rapist."

"We'll find out for sure."

"So their Barbados operation has been shut down, or at least suspended."

"That means they might come here to investigate."

"They might already f.u.c.kin' be here."

THIRTY-SIX.

Trinidad Diamond Dust and a dozen wives walked the lively roads in St. James Market.

As they weaved through the crowded market and patronized vendors, her cellular rang.

She answered, "Speak."

She was informed that someone had hacked into the company's computer system.

She asked, "Was it shut down?"

"Yes. It happened here in the Caribbean."

"Find them. Terminate with extreme prejudice."

"Should I contact War Machine?"

"No. My order is the only order you will ever need. Once we leave here, we're going to the Tunapuna Market. Keep me posted."

Smiling, she hung up the phone without asking where the violation had originated, hung up because she was surrounded. She faced the world and smiled, a few people stopping her as she pa.s.sed, asking her to pose for photos to post on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, others too timid to ask and sneaking photos of her, in awe, intimidated, in the place Diamond Dust was born.

To them she was more valuable than any entertainer.

The top entertainers begged to perform for her.

Begged.

It made her feel like she was Eva Pern.

She made things, incredible things, happen.

She turned slum girls into intelligent Cinderellas.

Even now she was working, thinking forward, recruiting.

She went to those women, and if they were young enough, without children, had a profound love for Trinidad and Tobago, were interested in being educated, she took their names, numbers.

Women who were poorly dressed, women who had poor social skills, women with low self-esteem, she spoke to them as well, encouraged them to be more, to become an a.s.set to the nation.

It was about tough love.

She was the radiation that would kill the cancer. Radiation killed before it cured.

Some good had to be removed to destroy what was bad.

Some would have to die.

From long before the creation of the Bible, long before the Seth Rebellion during the reign of the pharaoh Seth-Peribsen of the second dynasty of Egypt, to long after the Libyan Civil War, there has been blood spilled in the name of change, in the name of a revolution. In every revolution, there was chaos, death, then control, acceptance, then calm. It took many deaths to get to that period of calmness.

Death was never easy.

Necessary.

But never easy.

So many had died on the streets where she was born.

Death had touched every family, some many times over.

An idea came.

She would organize the women, the grieving mothers, and march the streets of Laventille protesting the deaths of their slain children, holding their photos high, as the mothers in Argentina marched and protested the 30,000 gone missing there at the hands of the military junta.

Every mother would be asked to join in.

The mothers of her slain men would stand up front.

She would form the Mothers of Trinidad.

Every leader needed a movement that defined him.

Every leader needed a movement that helped unite the people.

Death would work in her favor.

She looked around. Two generations away from perfection.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

At four thirty in the morning, less than an hour before sunrise, I pa.s.sed by scorched cane fields that led to Coral Ridge Memorial Gardens. Less than a mile up the road from where the dead were sent to rest until Gabriel sounded his trumpet, just before Frere Pilgrim and Edey Village in the parish of Christ Church, I found the small mouth that led to Ridgeview Estates. That was where Black Jack lived in comfort.

It was a private community between here and there, situated between rural and urban, between working poor and the mansions of the seem-to-be rich in the prestigious St. Georges Valley. Black Jack's hideaway was on eight acres of landscaped grounds, reminded me of town houses in Florida and L.A. I downshifted to first gear and drove from rugged road to the smooth paved tongue that led from the main road into that enclave. The smoothness of the road spoke of a different standard of living. I drove in first gear, rumbled by a playground, then pa.s.sed by a gray garbage truck that was leaving the community.

They gave me lights as a h.e.l.lo. I waved, hoped they wouldn't remember me.

In the section facing the clubhouse and swimming pool, I searched for Black Jack's BMW.

The neighborhood wasn't enormous, only had fifty-two town houses, and all parking was uncovered. Within five minutes, I found his dirty German ride parked in front of a set of units that faced the clubhouse and its swimming pool. A black Toyota was parked next to his ride. Every townhome had two s.p.a.ces outside its front door. I looked up at the windows on the bedroom level. No lights were on at the front side of the townhome. Shutters closed. He might be between legs right now. The Toyota. I touched its hood. Warm like an engine turned off a few hours ago, the right time for a midnight booty call. He could go back to f.u.c.king after we had a short meeting. I knocked softly. No one answered. I called his number. No answer. I rang the doorbell. Rang again. Knocked on the door six times.

A neighbor appeared two units down. The chubby blonde came out and walked in my direction. Female in a tennis skirt, sandals, wife-beater. She had two little dogs on a leash. She was overfed and the dogs looked malnourished. All three paused when they saw me standing at the door, my helmet still on. I waved. She returned the greeting, then stood tall, the dogs yapping as she studied me a moment, then she went back to the little rats on the leash, both tugging at her, both aching to get to their favorite tree and s.h.i.tting spot. I looked up again. No lights had come on. I touched the hood on Black Jack's ride. It was cold. I was about to walk around the units and find Black Jack's back entrance, tap on his patio door, but I left, my eyes on my mirror as I pulled away, looking to see if Black Jack appeared I left his sweet community. As I rode, I dug inside of my jacket pocket, removed three Durex condoms, tossed them to the road.

I took my energy to Garfield Sobers Gymnasium, stretched, hit the heavy bag, gave my anger to circuit training, tempo runs, walking lunges, grunted and ran around the complex six times without pause, ran all-out the seventh time. I showered and pulled on white shorts, threw on my backpack, and called Black Jack again, ready to blister him the moment he answered. No f.u.c.king answer. That was bulls.h.i.t. Frustrated, I was tempted to return to his townhome. The overnight and morning Bible study should be done by now and the day started, but I was on a tight schedule. It was time to continue being defiant.

Back at Oistins, I changed my attire and haggled with the same flirty man-boy and leased a Jet Ski at the Bajan rate, then rode toward Miami Beach, spied on the safe house. Naked women were all over the place, lounging and watching television. World's oldest profession. p.u.s.s.y would never go out of style. Even when it became old, somebody would buy it at fire-sale prices. I wasn't mad at those girls.

I rode the waves to a beach across from Graeme Hall Sanctuary, a calm stretch of land filled with Brits and Canadians who owned so many shops and condos that it seemed like I was in a separate country. They had carved out their own world here. Properties and hotels were hidden off of the main road, so I could drive through Christ Church all day and night and never see this area.

When I stepped on that pristine sand, hardly a brown face could be found, except for the servers and the renters of dinghies and Jet Skis. I wore a punk-rock purple wig with an asymmetrical cut, a bright-yellow bikini, and bootleg Wayfarers the hue of honey. I had the only purple hair in the area.

Soon a woman came to me. Porcelain skin. Louboutins and a bikini. She covered herself in a psychedelic wrap, sun lotion on her skin, anger in her bloodshot eyes.

We'd never met face-to-face. Without a h.e.l.lo, she handed me a large bag from Chefette.

I nodded. "Are you all right? You look like you're about to lose it."

"Look at the women on this beach. Look at you. I have two babies. Now look at me. I have stretch marks and cottage cheese. What happens to me? When do I find real love? When do I get to be the one running up and down the beaches having s.e.x with all the handsome men that I can handle?"

"Are you okay?"

"At the age of thirty, I look fifty-four. Imagine what I will look like at fifty-four."

I watched her cry and pour her heart out over a man who had rejected her.

It was pathetic.

If she expected a hug or compa.s.sion, she had the wrong chick.

While she blew snot bubbles I checked my phone. No messages. Anger rose.

She asked, "Have you found my husband?"

"I have an alphabetized list of the places the target had been spotted. From Accra Beach Hotel to Wytukai Restaurant. He's been going to a doctor in Belleville to get shots and medication."

She looked concerned. "Why is he going to doctors and getting shots? Is he ill?"

"Since he's been here, he's had two testosterone shots and three doses of steroids as well. Time is doing its thing. Guess he can't get as hard as he used to. Or not as often."

"What kind of women has he been seeing since he came here?"

"Island girls."

"How many women has he been with since he came here?"

"You don't want to know."