The waitress remembered the words later for the San Dominica police. She said that the young American left the restaurant around nine. That he'd gotten on a motorcycle outside.
The police told her that the American man had gone a little crazy on account of all the murders. they said they wanted him for questioning. Nothing serious.
Coastown, San Dominica
Almost simultaneously with the police mterview in the Trelawney restaurant, four men in expensive mw-silk suits-Park Avenue bankers, from the look of them-sat down to dinner on a handsome screened-in porch on the big estate in Coastown proper.
The four were San Dominica's prime minister, Joe Walthey; Great western Air Transport's Brooks Campbell; the Forlenza Family's Isadore Goldman; and Goldman's man on San Dominica, a beachboy type by the name of Duane Nicholson.
The meal that the four men were served began with Chincoteagues; then a Montrachet; stuffed lamb en ballon; bu@ celery; com. In the wings was a grand floating island.
All in all, a most delicious, civi@ feast.
On and off, the men watched the leggy nustress of Prime Minister Walthey swimming laps in the blue- bottomed pool that stretched out directly in front of the porch.
On and off, Izzie Goldman tried to explain the facts of life and death to the other three. A thin, liver-spotted hand floated out in front of the gangster as he spoke.
'I'm seventy-four years old,' he said quietly, so that they all had to concentrate on his words. 'I don't understand why you ask me all these schoolboy questions about the Roses.' Goldman sighed. 'Why can't you let them do their work? Pay the money and forget about it.'
'Because they're a liability,' Brooks Campbell said to him. 'Because I have my orders from way, way up the ladder. '
The old man took a bird bite of his lamb. 'They're too smart to carry tales.' He talked and chewed. 'I don't understand why everybody is trying so hard to make another Bay of Pigs catastrophe here. ' @
'This is hardly the liberation of Cuba.' Campbell pointed a finger at the old man. 'And besides, I think Rose has gone crazy. We never saw any plans like this. A few murders, yes. Massacres, no.
The prime minister of San Dominica brushed a fly away from his wine. Joseph Walthey, 'Jose,' was a short, stocky black. Forty-one years old. A demagogue and potentially a dictator. The black man had a neat pencil mustache, a big thumb of a nose, a very bumpy, pocked complexion.
'Just for the sake of... dinner talk'-he spoke with a soft, diplomatic lilt-'why won't you answer a few of our questions, Mr. Goldman? What possible harm could come from ridding the world of these two murderers, for example?' The old man sank even farther into his big rattan chair. His gray suit coat bunched terribly around a pink-and-brown silk tie. Pink flamingos were crushed all over the tie.
The prime minister's girlfriend dived into the pool again, and Izzie Goldman heard an insane old song start up in his mind.
Hubba hubba, ding ding
Baby, you got everything
What a face, what a figger!
What a shame that you're a
nigger!
Vaude-ville-bring it back! Please! Quick!
'Above and beyond everything else that was wrong here '-he glanced across the table at Brooks Carnpbell-'I don't think you'll catch them. Let them go back to France, Mr. Campbell. Prime Minister. Let it end after tomorrow. Trust me on this.
to his immediate left, Duane Nicholson sat flicking ashes from his cigarette into his empty dinner plate.
'No. We want the Roses dead,' Brooks Carnp- bell repeated. 'That's our position.'
Isadore Goldman stared at the beachboy Nicholson before making his next statement on the matter. 'The people who put their cigarettes in their plates,' the old man finally said, 'should have to eat out of their ashtrays.'
And those were absolutely Isadore Goldman's last words on the fiasco.
Trelawney, San Dominica
A little after nine, Peter Macdonald hid the BMW motorcycle in thick brush, then walked inside the Trelawney bus station.
The station was one small, dim room that smelled as if an army had stopped to urinate and delouse there.
Peter examined a schedule for buses going across the island to Port Gerry. At Port Gerry, he thought he had a way to get off San Dominica safely. A way to get some help. Maybe. The question was whether to travel anonymously by bus or quickly by bike.
None of the hang-arounds. inside the station seemed to be noticing him, he believed. That was good, at least.
He sat down on one of the long gray benches. Saw a newspaper headline crumpled up under another seat. DOUBLE MURDERS! DRED ON THE MOVE.
Almost 9:15 now... starting to miss Jane like hell. Remembering what it was like to be lonely.
He began to read a six-foot-high-by-ten-footwide community blackboard. A child's handwriting, it looked
