The hottest days in Florida seemed cool in comparison.
He followed Wendy down the steps, heavy carryall in hand, breathing in air that seemed like steam, popping sweat through every pore.
Walking side by side, they followed the passengers as they made their way to the terminal. Wendy noticed the red flush in Max's face and the damp film across his brow.
'You're lucky you didn't come in the summer,' she said. 'That's like going to hell in a fur coat.'
There were dozens of troops around the runway area?U.S. Marines in short-sleeves, loading up trucks with crates and boxes, relaxed and unhurried, taking their time. The island was theirs for as long as they wanted it.
Ahead of them, Max could see the marshals handing the con over to three shotgun-toting Haitians in civilian clothes. One of the marshals was crouched down, unlocking the shackles around the prisoner's ankles. From where he was standing, it could have passed for something quite considerate, perhaps the marshal tying his charge's shoelaces before handing him over.
Once the chains and cuffs were off, the marshals boarded a waiting U.S. military jeep and were driven off toward the plane. The three Haitians, meanwhile, talked to the con, who was massaging his wrists and then his ankles. When he was finished, they walked him off to a side door at the farthest end of the terminal.
Music came from the terminal. A five-piece band was performing near the entrance, playing a midtempo
They were old musicians, thin and stooped men in identical Miami dime-store beach shirts with palm-trees-in-the-sunset motifs; a bongo player, a bass guitarist, a keyboard player, a lead guitarist, and a singer, all plugged into a stack of amps set against the terminal wall. Max saw how some people were swaying in time as they walked, and he heard others in front of him and behind him, singing along.
'It's called
'This is where we part, Max,' Wendy said. 'I've got dual nationality. Saves on long lines and paperwork.'
They shook hands.
'Oh?watch out for the luggage carousel,' she said, as she got into line at passport control. 'It's the same one they've had ever since 1965.'
* * *
Max got his passport stamped red and moved into the arrivals section, which he found was in the same cavernous room as departures, customs, ticket collection and purchasing, car rentals, tourist information, the entrance, and the exit. The place was heaving with people?old and young, male and female?toing and froing, pushing and shoving, all shouting at the tops of their voices. He saw a chicken darting through the crowd, slaloming past legs, clucking maniacally, flapping its wings, and shitting on the floor. A man chased after it, bent over, arms outstretched, knocking down anyone who didn't move out of his way.
Max had called Carver before he'd boarded. He'd told him the flight number and its time of arrival. Carver said someone would be waiting for him at the airport. Max looked around in vain for a stranger holding up a sign with his name.
Then he heard a commotion coming from his left. A large crowd, four or five bodies deep, was gathered at the end of the arrivals area, everyone jostling and pushing their way forward, everyone shouting, everyone volatile. Max spotted their focus of attention?the luggage carousel.
He had to pick up his suitcase.
He made his way over to the rabble, trying to gingerly sidestep people at first but, when he found he wasn't getting any closer to the carousel, he did as the Haitians did and prodded, pushed, elbowed, and shoulder-bashed his way through the crowd, stopping only once so as not to step on the chicken and its owner.
He got to the front of the crowd and moved down until he had a clear view of the carousel. It wasn't working, and looked like it hadn't in years. Its chrome sides were held together by rivets, many burst or half-bursting, leaving sharp, ragged corners twisting outwards prohibitively. The conveyor belt, once black rubber, was mostly worn down to the steel plates, bar odd areas where scraps of its original rubber coating stubbornly clung to it, like fossilized chewing gum. The plates themselves had long warped out of any clear geometric shape.
The carousel was the highlight of an area with high, grubby-white walls, a dark marble floor, and wide, rickety-looking fans that barely stirred the air or relieved the accumulated heat, as much as they threatened to come crashing down and decapitate the people below.
When Max looked closer, he realized that the conveyor belt was in fact moving and luggage was coming around, although its progress was so intensely slow, the cases were appearing at a surreptitious creep, inch by inch, a moment at a time.
There were a lot more people standing around the carousel than had been on his flight. The majority of them had come to steal the luggage. Max quickly began to sort the legitimate passengers out from the thieves. The thieves snatched at each and every case that came within reach. The real owners would then try to grab or wrestle their property back. The thieves would put up a struggle for a while, then give up and push their way back to the carousel to try their luck with more luggage. It was a free-for-all. There was no airport security around.
Max decided he wasn't going to start off his stay in Haiti by punching someone out?no matter how justified his actions. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was as close as possible to where the cases emerged.
His black Samsonite came out after an eternity. He got his hands on it and crudely pushed his way through the throng.
Once out and away from the mass, Max noticed the chicken again. Its master had fastened a noose-shaped lead around its neck and was tugging the bird away toward the exit.
'Mr. Mingus?' a woman asked behind him.
Max turned around. He noticed her mouth first?wide, plump lips, white teeth.
'I'm Chantale Duplaix. Mr. Carver sent me to collect you,' she said, holding out her hand.
'Hello, I'm Max,' he said, shaking her hand, which was small and delicate-looking, but her skin was hard and rough and she packed a tight grip.
Chantale was very beautiful and Max couldn't help smiling. Light brown skin with a few freckles about her nose and cheeks, large honey-brown eyes, and straight, shoulder-length black hair. She was slightly shorter than he, in her heels. She wore a dark blue, knee-length skirt and a loose short-sleeved blouse, with the top button undone over a thin gold chain. She looked to be in her midtwenties.
'Sorry about the trouble you had with your bag. We were going to come help you, but you did OK,' she said.
'Don't you people have security here?' Max said.
'We did. But
'Your army disarmed us,' Chantale explained. 'What they failed to realize is that the only authority Haitians respect is an
Max didn't know what to say. He didn't know enough about the political situation to counter and comment, but he knew vast proportions of the outside world hated America for meddling in other countries. He knew then how hard the job ahead would be, if Chantale was meant to be on
'But never mind about that,' Chantale said, flashing him a bright-white smile. There was, he noticed, a small, oval beauty mark to the right of her mouth, right on the demarcation line between her face and her bottom lip. 'Welcome to Haiti.'
Max bowed his head, hoping the gesture didn't come over as sarcastic. He promoted Chantale to late-twenties. There was maturity and self-control in her, a certain smooth diplomacy that only comes from experience.
She led him through customs?two tables where everyone was being made to open their bags for inspection. All along there had been two tall men standing in the background, watching. Mustaches, sunglasses, and distinct gun-bulges on their sides, under their overhanging shirts. They followed Max.
Chantale smiled at the customs officials, who smiled back and waved her through, stares following her until she was out of range. Max couldn't help himself. He checked her out from behind. He saw what they did and let out a silent whistle. Broad shoulders, straight back, elegant neck. Slender ankles, very athletic curves to her calves: she looked after herself?running, no doubt, and working out with weights. Her ass was perfect?high, pert, round, and firm.
They walked out of the airport and crossed the road to where two navy blue Toyota Land Cruisers were parked one behind the other. Chantale got into the first car and opened the
