Northern Lights. Amateur scientists. At least they would be if they weren’t so damned high all the time. They come down here two or three at a time. Mostly they don’t look like you, they’re fatter and their eyes are half closed. But let’s say you two have kept yourself up better than most. Except they don’t hang out here. They go straight to Orange Hill, like wine connoisseurs in Napa doing taste tests. And believe me, they’re equally annoying. So what are you, then? You look like cops. Or DEA, but why the hell would the DEA be buying ounces on the Hip Strip?”
“We’re not DEA. We’re not cops. We’re looking for someone. Nobody fancy. Nobody like Dudus”—Christopher Coke, a dealer who had run an infamous gang with the unlikely name of the Shower Posse.
“That’s good. Seeing as he’s in Kingston”—the Jamaican capital. “And seeing as you wouldn’t get within a mile of him. Let me tell you about Jamaica. Seventeen hundred murders reported last year, not counting a couple hundred bodies that never turn up. Dumped in de sea to feed de fishees, mon. Four times as many murders as New York City, and New York has three times as many people as Jamaica.”
The dealer stopped talking as a woman splashed down the waterslide and into the bay with a pleased scream. “Watch this. Her top’s going to come off. Yep.”
Shouts of “Tits!” erupted from the deck. “Tits! Tits! Tits!” The woman happily raised her polka-dotted bikini in the air as the crowd cheered.
“The whole country is a warehouse for coke and pot. From here you go west to New Orleans, east to the Bahamas and Florida. The politicians are owned by the gangs lock, stock, and barrel. They don’t even try to hide it. The cops just play along. Don’t let the dreads and the Marley songs fool you. This place is Haiti with better beaches.”
“So how do you get by?” Wells found himself intrigued.
“These frat boys? They’d pay by credit card if they could. They like a friendly face. And by friendly I mean white.”
“And you keep the locals happy.”
“I take care of the people who take care of me. In and out of this bar. I understand my place in the ecosystem. I don’t have aspirations. And understand, please, that whether it’s white or green, it’s so pure that I can step on it two, three times and still make my customers happy. In fact, I have to, or they’d wind up OD’ing. And trust me, you don’t want to see the inside of a Jamaican hospital, any more than a Jamaican jail.”
Around them the deck was filling up.
“It’s getting busy,” the dealer said. “I appreciate the chance to chat, but I gotta go.”
“How do we prove we’re not cops? Get high with you?”
“I believe you. You’re not cops. But you’re trouble. Whatever you want, it’s trouble.”
The sun touched the edge of the horizon. A long collective sigh went up from the crowd beside them.
“Gonna be a beautiful night,” the dealer said. “Do me a favor. Get lost. I see you and your boy hanging around, I’m gonna talk to my friends. You don’t want that. These dudes, they won’t care even if you do have a badge. They do sick stuff when they’re stoned. Most people get relaxed when they smoke, but these guys, they just dissociate. They won’t even hear you screaming.”
“We’ll be going, then.”
The dealer nodded. Two minutes later, Wells and Gaffan were on the street.
“So? He know where Robinson is?”
“He didn’t say, but I have a feeling he might.”
“And he’ll help us?”
“He doesn’t think so. But we’re gonna change his mind.”
CHAPTER 2
MANAMA
THE SIRENS FROM THE STREET COULDN’T HIDE THE WOMEN SCREAM ing from inside the bar, their high voices begging in a language Omar couldn’t understand. What had he done? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He was in a tunnel with death on both ends, and the only way out was the rifle in his hand.
Fakir peeked through the front door, stepped inside, fired a
“We’re not DEA. We’re not cops. We’re looking for someone. Nobody fancy. Nobody like Dudus”—Christopher Coke, a dealer who had run an infamous gang with the unlikely name of the Shower Posse.
“That’s good. Seeing as he’s in Kingston”—the Jamaican capital. “And seeing as you wouldn’t get within a mile of him. Let me tell you about Jamaica. Seventeen hundred murders reported last year, not counting a couple hundred bodies that never turn up. Dumped in de sea to feed de fishees, mon. Four times as many murders as New York City, and New York has three times as many people as Jamaica.”
The dealer stopped talking as a woman splashed down the waterslide and into the bay with a pleased scream. “Watch this. Her top’s going to come off. Yep.”
Shouts of “Tits!” erupted from the deck. “Tits! Tits! Tits!” The woman happily raised her polka-dotted bikini in the air as the crowd cheered.
“The whole country is a warehouse for coke and pot. From here you go west to New Orleans, east to the Bahamas and Florida. The politicians are owned by the gangs lock, stock, and barrel. They don’t even try to hide it. The cops just play along. Don’t let the dreads and the Marley songs fool you. This place is Haiti with better beaches.”
“So how do you get by?” Wells found himself intrigued.
“These frat boys? They’d pay by credit card if they could. They like a friendly face. And by friendly I mean white.”
“And you keep the locals happy.”
“I take care of the people who take care of me. In and out of this bar. I understand my place in the ecosystem. I don’t have aspirations. And understand, please, that whether it’s white or green, it’s so pure that I can step on it two, three times and still make my customers happy. In fact, I have to, or they’d wind up OD’ing. And trust me, you don’t want to see the inside of a Jamaican hospital, any more than a Jamaican jail.”
Around them the deck was filling up.
“It’s getting busy,” the dealer said. “I appreciate the chance to chat, but I gotta go.”
“How do we prove we’re not cops? Get high with you?”
“I believe you. You’re not cops. But you’re trouble. Whatever you want, it’s trouble.”
The sun touched the edge of the horizon. A long collective sigh went up from the crowd beside them.
“Gonna be a beautiful night,” the dealer said. “Do me a favor. Get lost. I see you and your boy hanging around, I’m gonna talk to my friends. You don’t want that. These dudes, they won’t care even if you do have a badge. They do sick stuff when they’re stoned. Most people get relaxed when they smoke, but these guys, they just dissociate. They won’t even hear you screaming.”
“We’ll be going, then.”
The dealer nodded. Two minutes later, Wells and Gaffan were on the street.
“So? He know where Robinson is?”
“He didn’t say, but I have a feeling he might.”
“And he’ll help us?”
“He doesn’t think so. But we’re gonna change his mind.”
CHAPTER 2
MANAMA
THE SIRENS FROM THE STREET COULDN’T HIDE THE WOMEN SCREAM ing from inside the bar, their high voices begging in a language Omar couldn’t understand. What had he done? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He was in a tunnel with death on both ends, and the only way out was the rifle in his hand.
Fakir peeked through the front door, stepped inside, fired a
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