cutter.
“ Two of my men will take your father’s boat to Puerto La Cruz, and we’ll go on to Trinidad.”
“ Trinidad,” Broxton said, trying to sound shocked, “Can’t we go back to Caracas?”
“ Trinidad is only a few hours away. Caracas would take us till tomorrow at this time.”
“ Are the hospitals there any good?” Broxton asked. It wasn’t hard for him to sound worried and concerned.
“ Not as good as ours, but much better than none at all,” the captain said, obviously proud.
“ Can you radio ahead and have an ambulance waiting?” Broxton asked.
“ It’s being done,” the captain said.
Four hours later a Trinidad and Tobago customs officer and the crew of the Venezuelan cutter watched as two medical technicians hustled Ramsingh into a waiting ambulance. They were two miles down Western Main Road on the way to Port of Spain with the siren blazing when Ramsingh sat up.
The medic tending Ramsingh in the back of the ambulance dropped his jaw and Broxton fought a smile when Ramsingh spoke. “Driver, turn off the siren and take us to the Red House.”
“ Holy shit! It’s the prime minister,” the attending medic said.
The driver looked in the mirror and saw that it was true. “Yes, sir, the Red House, at your service. Sure you want the siren off?”
“ Yes off,” Ramsingh said. “We don’t want any attention drawn to us.”
“ Yes, sir, siren off,” the driver said. He turned it off and drove to downtown Port of Spain.
Outside the Red House Ramsingh told the driver to take Broxton by the American Ambassador’s residence where he was supposed to get his clothes, and then, he said, “Bring my new head of security back straight away.”
Chapter Sixteen
The sun was winking over the horizon. Dew still covered the grass. A slight breeze rustled through Woodward park, and though it did little to cool the Caribbean heat, Broxton still shivered. If he was going to kill a prime minister, this would be the perfect spot. The park was in the center of the city, ringed on the north by the Red House, the colonial style buildings of Parliament, built by the British before independence-the south, by Fredrick Street, the main shopping street of Port of Spain, always teeming with people hustling in and out of the many department stores-the east, by the modern Department of Justice building, which stood in stark contrast to the old public library next door-and the west by the Gothic St. Ann’s Cathedral, a thousand and one places for a man with a rifle, a security man’s nightmare.
He sat on an empty bench and watched the workmen setting up the stage in the old gazebo. Others were connecting up the giant speakers that would pour out the calypso beat from noon to midnight. Twelve hours of live music, guaranteed to make the old, the infirm, and even the recent dead get up and dance.
A scrawny pigeon eyed Broxton from a safe distance, then took a few tentative steps in his direction. Broxton remained motionless, wondering how close the bird would come. It stopped about three paces away and waited, but Broxton had no food for it. One of the workmen started in his direction, stringing speaker wire, and the bird took flight.
“ You coming to the festival today?” Broxton asked.
“ Wish I could, but I gots ta work, got five kids, all boys,” the man smiled, proud, showing off a gold front tooth.
“ Gonna be a lot of people?”
“ More ‘an I can count.”
“ The park’s kind of small.”
“ You know it. Gonna be peoples here stuffed tighter ’an a maxi taxi at rush hour.”
“ Lots of people,” Broxton repeated as the man shuffled on, stringing his wire. He gazed around the park and tried to imagine how it would be after the festival started, the crowd struggling in the noonday heat to get closer to the bands on stage. The Gazebo was in the southeastern corner of the park, surrounded by shade trees. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about the crowd behind Ramsingh. The park was fenced and the high backed stage prevented anyone from moving in behind the bands.
“ Hey, mister, coffee?” The voice was deep and friendly. Broxton turned toward it. The man was standing behind a food cart, perched in front of the fountain in the center of the park. Broxton waved and ambled in his direction, taking his time, taking in the morning. Enjoying himself. Enjoying the polite way everybody deferred to him. Yesterday he was a tourist. Today he was in charge of the prime minister’s security.
He’d expected flack from the police when Ramsingh proposed it, but he’d received nothing but cooperation. Even Cliffard Rampersad, the police chief, was open and cooperative.
“ How you take it?” the vender said.
“ Black, and a bag of those honey roasted nuts.” Broxton reached into his pocket for some change.
“ No charge for the secret agent man,” the vender said.
“ I’m no secret agent man.”
“ Gots ta be, otherwise they never bring you out of nowhere and put you over Chief Rampersad. He a proud man an’ he can be a mean man.”
“ How’d you find out?”
“ Lord man, nothing happens in Trinidad don’t everybody know if they want.” The vender stretched his arm across the park toward the stage. “If someone gonna shoot at Mr. Ramsingh today you gonna have a hard time of it.”
“ How does word get out so fast?” Broxton asked.
“ My sister works for Republic Bank,” the smiling vender said.
“ So?”
“ So she works with a woman whose husband’s a big lawyer an’ he knows Mr. Rampersad. In Trinidad everybody knows somebody. Nothing stays quiet too long.”
“ So how would you do it if you were the shooter?”
“ Best if you forget about that and spend your efforts trying to make Mr. Ramsingh stay home today. Jus’ let the music play and save the politics for another time.”
Broxton thanked the man and made his way back to his bench and sat with his coffee and nuts. Some young people were already starting to filter into the park and the music wasn’t going to start for another six hours. They were laughing and talking. Having fun on a Saturday morning. He watched while they spread a blanket, five girls and four boys, about fifteen or sixteen years old. A few minutes later more youngsters came and the friendly banter started. If he’d had any illusions about the size of the crowd they were dispelled. The park was going to be packed.
He set the coffee by his side and opened the nuts. They were hot, sweet, and reminded him of Paris. He was fishing in the bag for a second bite when he noticed the scrawny pigeon walking toward him. The bird reminded him of Paris too, only the French birds were healthier, fatter, with feathers bright in the afternoon sun. They ate better. Paris was teaming with outdoor cafes and the French ate a lot of bread. When the birds couldn’t get their fill from friendly tourists they happily picked up the local’s crumbs. This bird seldom got a meal from a tourist and in Trinidad times were hard, even for the pigeons.
“ You’d like Paris, my friend,” he said, squeezing the nuts together in his hand, crushing them. Then he tossed them to the bird and watched while it gobbled them from the ground.
Five hours later he was again reminded of Paris as the first of the bands was setting up under the Gazebo. Tammy Drake was opening the show with a few words and a song. He’d seen her perform when she opened for Bob Dylan there in 1980. He’d been nineteen, on vacation and captivated by the young Trinidadian performer. She’d done a mixture of country, rock, and blues that had the audience standing, dancing, stomping and clapping.
The songs were different when he saw her last week, but the timeless appeal of that seventeen-year-old sensation he’d seen in Paris hadn’t diminished. She’d held him enthralled in the Normandy’s ballroom with the soft
