“I should’ve known,” the kid said. “You think they’ll find anything?”
“Not this year.”
80/
Wesley couldn’t get anything solid about Haiti on the radio or TV for days. The papers were mostly full of the destruction in the building across from the Pier. The one thing that puzzled the police so far was the absence of any bodies that could have belonged to the killers ... they continually referred to the job as the work of several men. Several cops privately told their reporter contacts that the killers had been blown into such small particles that the lab boys would never be able to identify anyone. The FBI was asked to enter the case on the presumption that the killers had crossed a state line in the preparation of the crime. The CIA outbid the FBI and the locals—and promptly collected a ton of useless information. Wesley finally found what he was looking for in the
Port au Prince, Haiti--A brief attempt at a military coup has failed on this Caribbean island once ruled with an iron fist by Prince Duvalier as it was by his father before him, the infamous “Poppa Doc.” A spokesman for the provisional military government announced that the island was completely under control and that Generale Jacques Treiste would temporarily assume command until free democratic elections could be held. If such elections follow the former pattern established by “President for Life” Duvalier, the island will undoubtedly remain a dictatorship.
It is not known how the islanders will react to the rule of a strictly military regime. “Poppa Doc” was widely believed to have occult powers stemming from his intimate relationship with the dark gods of obeah. His son, appointed following the old ruler’s death, was actually controlled by Duvalier’s wife. Any relationship between Generale Treiste and Mrs. Duvalier is unknown at this time, but insiders believe there will be no change.
Wesley read the article over several times, then slammed it to the floor in disgust. The dog jumped, startled—it had never seen Wesley move with such a vicious lack of smoothness. Wesley never left the room—the kid brought him the papers every day. Four days later, he found the confirmation.
Port au Prince, Haiti--Earlier today, Madame Duvalier, the former wife of the infamous “Poppa Doc” Duvalier and mother of the recently assassinated Prince Duvalier, was married to Generale Jacques Treiste, head of the provisional military government of Haiti, in a lavish ceremony attended by thousands of cheering islanders.
“President for Life” Treiste allowed his new bride to do most of the speaking to the assembled journalists. The crux of her remarks was contained in her opening statement: “I am in constant communication with my husband. This marriage is at his wish, so that the great nation of Haiti can continue to show the unity and strength that has marked its recent period of growth. My son died for his country, as did his father before him. In Presidente Treiste, we have a new leader ... a leader with the blessings of both my husband and my son.”
Mrs. Duvalier, as she still prefers to be known, told journalists that her son knew there would be an assassination attempt if he came to America, and that a Communist plot to overthrow the government was behind the killing.
Inside sources also reported that a brief armed rebellion by guerrillas in the southern part of the island was crushed by 2,500 Haitian troops without difficulty. Persistent rumors that American troops were involved have been denied.
Wesley stared at the newsprint until it blurred and faded. He focused on the white paper from which the black print was disappearing.
It was dark by the time he went down to the garage. The kid had the intake manifold and the heads off the Ford and was working under a single little trouble-light.
“It didn’t work, kid.”
“I know—I read it, too. Those niggers got no fucking guts.”
“Forget that shit. It’s not guts. All people got guts when it means enough to them. A woman once tried to take me out with a tiny little knife when I was holding a loaded M1 at her chest ... because of her kid, you know? I think ... there’s
“Yeah. In the training school they used to give you a parole if you grabbed a kid trying to run. The bigger guys used to make the little kids run, so’s they could catch them.”
“They make you run?” Wesley asked, curious.
“The first time I was in, they did. And they caught me and beat me with that fucking strap until I couldn’t stand ... and I went in the Hole for thirty days ... and the motherfucker who caught me got to go home.”
“You didn’t learn nothing from that?”
“The next time, as soon as I got out of the Hole, I went up to another big one and told him I wasn’t getting my ass whipped for nothing. I told him I’d run again but he had to leave me his radio when he went home ... and I told him I wanted some money, too. He said okay—probably laughing himself to death—and I went over the fence the next damn night. I told him I’d meet him by the big tree just about a hundred yards outside the fence. I was waiting for him up in the branches. I dropped a cinderblock right on his skull and split it wide open. I thought he was dead and I was going to hat up ... but I could see him breathing, so I dragged him back to the fence and screamed up at the guards. They threw
“That was good.”
“Yeah. But I didn’t
“You learned a lot earlier than I did,” Wesley told him. “Yeah, the only way we get to beat them even a little bit is to beat ourselves. It’s like...”
Wesley pulled a soft pillow off the kid’s cot and held it in front of him.
“Here. Punch this, as hard as you can.”
