She had toast and jam in the restaurant and killed some time on the computer, but it was still only four o’clock when she got back to her room. She turned on the television for the first time and watched old reruns of M*A*S*H and the Bob Newhart Show.
Six o’clock came and went without a word from Patrick. She checked and double-checked the kitbag she had packed with the odds and ends she would need for Seto. She also started getting her luggage organized for the trip home.
At six thirty she thought about calling Patrick and then held off, fearful of looking too anxious, like an amateur.
It was almost seven when her cellphone buzzed.
“Yes?”
“He’s on the move, headed for downtown. I’ll pick you up in five minutes. Be outside.”
Patrick was at the entrance by the time she had worked her way downstairs. He looked at the kitbag in her hand and said nothing.
“Ng is with him, and the woman,” he said as they left the hotel.
“The woman is good,” Ava said.
They parked half a block from the restaurant and slumped down in the red Toyota truck. They didn’t have to wait long. The Land Rover rumbled into the street and Ng parked it directly in front of the restaurant and jumped out. Seto took a bit longer and then stood by the back door, holding his hand out for the woman as she descended.
“How can they eat here every night?” Patrick asked.
“It’s a Hong Kong thing,” she said. “People there have incredibly small apartments, and getting outside is part of daily life. The fact that they also love to eat gives them the perfect excuse. There must be more restaurants per capita in Hong Kong than any other place on earth. And when they find a restaurant they like, they keep going to it.”
“I should try this place sometime,” he said.
“There will be two menus: one for Chinese, the other for… well, for non-Chinese.”
“In that case I’ll pass.” Patrick looked around. “We can get out of the truck now if you want; they can’t see us from inside. There’s a roti shop over there that isn’t bad. From the window we have a good view of the restaurant.”
As they were about to get out of the truck a black Nissan sedan pulled alongside. The tinted window on the passenger’s side slid down slowly and a black man with grey hair eased his head out towards them.
“Park near Eckie’s,” Patrick said to him. “They should be about an hour in the restaurant. Wait until Seto goes into the club before making a move on Ng. There’s a woman with them. If she goes into the club we’ll look after her. If she doesn’t, you’ll have to get her. Separate her from Ng. We’ll need her with us.”
The man nodded and rolled the window back up.
“They’re a good team — experienced,” he said to her as the Nissan left to position itself near Eckie’s. “The Captain has given you some quality.”
For what I’m paying, I should hope so, she thought.
The roti shack had three tables, all of them empty. They sat by the window, keeping the China World entrance in their line of sight. He ordered chicken curry and roti. She asked for plain fried rice and a ginger beer.
“Tell me,” Ava said, “how does a man like Captain Robbins get into a position of such power in a country like this?”
“Do you mean how does a white man get into a position of such power in a country where ninety-five percent of the population is either black or Indian?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what I mean.”
Patrick bit his lower lip. It was question he could answer if he chose; he just had to decide whether he wanted to or not.
“The Captain was a policeman in Barbados. He came here as part of a Caribbean exchange program. That’s one thing people don’t understand about Guyana. Geographically it’s in South America and we’ve got Vene-zuela and Brazil as neighbours, but culturally, socially, linguistically, we’re part of the Caribbean. I mean, there are always Guyanese on the West Indies cricket team.
“At that time the Brits had already left, the blacks and East Indians were jockeying for power, transferring their hatred for the Brits to one another, and the Americans were sticking their noses — and putting their money — into the politics here. It was quite a mess. The Americans were looking for someone neutral, someone they could trust to be a pipeline for straight information, someone who could act as an honest broker between the blacks and Indians. There weren’t many candidates. According to the Captain, he was about it. That’s how it started.”
“But to make it last as long as he has…”
“He did that himself. He didn’t need the Americans to support him. You have to understand, he’s about the only person in Guyana whom all the groups can support — because he’s neutral, because colour doesn’t matter to him. They trust him.”
“And fear him?”
He ignored her question. “Those politicians — black and brown — they like to hear themselves talk. The Captain is always the quietest person in the room. He tells me, ‘Patrick, listen, just listen. You’ll be surprised how much you can learn.’ Then there are the generals in our so-called army and the inspector general of the police, all of them with titles and uniforms and medals. You saw how the Captain dresses: blue jeans and plain shirts. That’s his way. He doesn’t need to play dress-up, he doesn’t need to impress anyone. He’s been in charge for more than twenty years; he doesn’t need a fancy title. But you know, when he walks into a room with all those generals wearing all their medals, they’re the ones who stand at attention. And they stay that way until he sits. I’m biased, I know that. He’s like family to me. But I’m man enough to recognize a bigger man.”
“I was told that he knows everyone’s secrets, that he knows where all the bodies are buried, that the politicians are completely beholden to him,” said Ava.
“Would you expect anything less?” Patrick said. “The politicians are window dressing, no more than that. The Captain keeps them on a leash. I don’t ask how he does it; no one in Guyana does. We’re just happy that he’s here, keeping them under control. If it means he has to put a bit of fear into them, we’re the better off for it.”
“I wasn’t being critical, just curious,” she said.
Their food arrived. She picked at the rice. Patrick ate his chicken, dabbing the roti into the curry. When it was gone, he ordered another. “One more thing about the Captain,” he said between bites, “is that he is really smart. I don’t mean book-smart — though he is that too — I mean people-smart. He can figure out anyone in ten minutes.”
“What did he say about me?” she prodded.
“That you aren’t what you appear to be, but by the time most people figure that out it’s too late for them.”
She shifted her attention from the plate to look at Patrick. His eyes were locked on the front entrance of China World. She didn’t ask any more questions.
(26)
It had been dark when they’d arrived, their side of the town being designated powerless for the evening. However, most of the stores and restaurants on the block were lit up. She could only imagine what it would be like walking the side streets on a moonless night. No wonder the crime rate was through the roof.
The name CHINA WORLD flickered in the window of the restaurant. The Chinese characters below the English lettering translated as “heavenly food.” She couldn’t remember ever seeing a Chinese restaurant whose English and Chinese names meant the same thing. Before she could file that thought away, Seto stood framed in the window. He was talking to a short Chinese man in an apron.
“I think he’s about to leave,” she said.
Patrick called a number from his cellphone. “Wake up, boys,” he said.
