“Chandee’s car,” he said, turning toward his wife.
“ Does everybody in Trinidad know that car?” Broxton asked.
“ Probably,” Freddy said, “Trinidad’s a small place and Chandee’s a popular man, and ain’t too many people own a green BMW with AG 1 on the license plate.”
“ Popular with some,” the woman said.
“ He’s a son-of-a-bitch is what he is,” Freddy said. “How’d you get his car?”
“ They stole it,” the woman said, laughing, then she held a hand out toward Maria, “My name’s Bertha, but most people call me Little Bee, or just Bee.”
“ I’m Maria and that’s Broxton.”
“ What happened to your hair, boy?” Freddy said. “You got cancer?”
“ No,” Maria said, “he wears it that way on purpose.”
“ Stupid,” Freddy said and Maria laughed. Broxton didn’t think it was funny.
“ You come in and get out of those clothes and tell me all about it,” Bee said, and thirty minutes later Maria was wearing a spare change of clothes from her flight bag and Broxton was wearing a pair of Levi Dockers and a bright Hawaiian shirt with a busy floral pattern full of yellows and greens. He liked the shirt and he liked Freddy and Bee.
“ The shoes are a little tight,” Broxton said.
“ Beggars can’t afford to choose what they wear,” Freddy said.
“ That’s the truth,” Broxton said. Then he asked, “How come you don’t like George Chandee?”
“ He threw a big money cricket game and I lost a bundle.”
“ Now, Freddy, you don’t know that.”
“ I do, woman. I used to play, dammit. I know the game. He claimed he was sick, but I know better.”
“ And you better keep your mouth shut about it or you’ll be in a world of trouble.”
“ Hush, woman, it was years ago.”
“ Can’t trust anybody that would throw a game,” Broxton said.
“ Exactly,” Freddy said.
“ And they made him attorney general?”
“ It’s not like the whole world knows he did it, but I know.”
“ Freddy,” his wife said.
“ I know I what know,” Freddy said.
“ I only talked to him for a few seconds and I know I don’t like him,” Broxton said.
“ You going to take his car when you leave?” Freddy asked.
“ Not if I can help it.”
“ You need a ride somewhere?”
“ I have to get to the American Embassy.”
“ What for, you gonna file a complaint?”
“ He works there,” Maria said.
“ You don’t say? I had a party at my house two weeks ago and I invited the American ambassador. I know most the people at the Embassy.” Broxton watched as Freddy puffed up. He was sitting, but if he’d been standing he’d have been strutting. “I take them out on my fishing boat, usually one weekend a month,” he continued. “We go out to Scotland Bay, it’s a lot of fun. You’ll have to come along next time.”
“ I’d like that,” Broxton said.
“ Freddy thinks he’s just so important. The ambassador never came to the party.”
“ But I invited him.”
“ Yes you did. You invited him. You also invited the prime minister.”
“ One of these days, woman.”
“ Hush up, Freddy.”
“ Where’s the little lady going?” Freddy said.
“ I’d like to go to the Hilton,” Maria said.
“ You take the man to the embassy,” Bee said. “I’ll see to lady.”
“ Fair enough,” Freddy said, and after a few minutes of goodbyes Broxton found himself on the way to the Embassy in Freddy’s small Mini. Once there he promised to have dinner with Freddy and Bee a week from Saturday. He’d been assured that several important people were going to be there and he promised that he wouldn’t miss it. Then he was out of the car and headed into the embassy as the sun was going down.
Chapter Seven
Dani Street raised her wrist so that the porch light lit up the face of her Rolex. It was the maid’s day off and she had two hours before her father came home, plenty of time. She was leaning against the porch swing, long legs barely covered in a bright, very short summer dress. The ambassador would be shocked, she thought, but the ambassador wasn’t home.
She looked past the circular driveway and out across the Queen’s Park Savannah, the tree-lined park that dominated the center of Port of Spain, on the other side of the street. Although it was just after dark, the lights around the park were on, keeping the night alive, and safe. A young couple was jogging along the Savannah, followed by a pair of frolicking German shepherd puppies. Off to her right a man was selling hot dogs and lemonade. Boys were playing cricket in the park. Lovers were strolling, holding hands. A young Rasta man was sitting, playing the guitar, his case open at his side, and every now and then a passerby would drop some coins into it.
It was a typical Friday night at the Savannah. Cool tropical breezes fanned a myriad assortment of trees after a hot and humid day. People were bustling, the night was alive. The sounds of the Rasta’s deep voice drifted across to her. She started to lose herself in his song of love and love lost, when her reverie was interrupted by the black Mercedes rolling up the circular drive.
She looked at the watch again. An hour-and-fifty-five minutes till her father bustled in the front door. The ambassador was always punctual, something that was close to impossible in Trinidad, but it was his punctuality that unnerved the Trinidadian political and social set and gave him his edge. The world, even Trinidad, marched to his drummer. He’d even taught the prime minister a thing or two about being on time.
The Mercedes stopped in front of the porch. She silently watched as Kevin exited the car. He closed the door with a soft push, barely enough to latch it, and even that slight movement made his biceps ripple. He looked over at her and smiled, then he moved toward the back of the car, running his hands lovingly along the top as he made his way. The car was only two weeks old.
“ I brought a case of that Venezuelan rum your father likes so much,” he said, opening the trunk.
“ He’ll be home soon.” She flicked the long blonde hair from her face. “What took you?”
“ We got in late. I’d still be at the airport sweating customs, but I whisked right through with Chandee and the prime minister.” He looked at his watch. “We have plenty of time,” he said, echoing her earlier thought.
“ How did it go?” she asked.
“ Good as gold, picked it up on the stop over in Caracas. Carried it in my shoulder bag the whole way, no problem.”
“ You have a sample?” she said, backing through the doorway.
“ Of course.”
She turned and he followed her into the house.
“ You want me to set this in the kitchen?” he asked. He was holding the case of rum as if it was feather light. He had a good body, the result of six days a week in the gym at Starlight Plaza.
“ Sure.” She led him through high-ceilinged rooms, first through the entryway, then a sitting room, then the formal dining room.
“ The table, is it new?” he asked of a massive oak table surrounded by nine chairs, four on each side and one at the head.
“ Yes,” she said, without turning around.
“ Nothing but the best for old Warren,” he said.
