Aground on St. Thomas (23 page)

Downtown Charlotte Amalie

Managed Mayhem

THE STORM DUMPED
its allotment on St. Thomas and moved west toward San Juan. The night sky cleared, and the city’s human residents fell into a quiet slumber, even as a myriad of insect, avian, and lizard species swung into high gear. Coiquis sang out their coital requests, mosquitoes frolicked in puddles, and iguanas rummaged through the arboreal canopy for food.

The respite was short-lived. Not long after the rains subsided, a force of a different nature arrived on the soggy streets of Charlotte Amalie. Nova and his Crucian cronies, bolstered by the locals who had met them at the beach, began their assault on downtown.

Their faces covered with black cotton ski masks, the gangsters prowled the main shopping district. Armed with baseball bats and spray paint canisters, they ransacked the alleyways, smashing windows through their protective iron-bar cages.

Spray paint ran down the wet bricks, the anti-American messages blurred but easily readable.

Following the instructions of Nova’s original employers, the destruction was designed to look random, a spontaneous response to the federal invasion, a reflection of outraged public sentiment—and a warning that the islanders’ resistance was primed to escalate.

In actuality, the attack had been carefully planned. Nova and his men had a specific list of stores to vandalize.

The addresses and the type of destruction had been detailed by the Fixer—the spared stores corresponding to the shopkeepers who were the Governor’s known allies and financial backers, the hits falling on his political enemies and anyone who had shown apathy in the last campaign.

It was a fast operation, over and done in a matter of minutes.

The police were intentionally slow to respond. Wary of being caught in gang-related crossfire, they were well practiced in delay tactics.

By the time the National Guard troops were rousted from their bunks on the navy ship and began the sleepy one-mile jog to the downtown shops, Nova and his goons had disappeared into the blackness of the night.

A Cassocked Bundle

A TANGLE OF
Guard troops, FBI agents, and police converged on the site of the alleyway vandalism. Meanwhile, a pickup containing the perpetrators rumbled up the one-way street leading into Government Hill.

Nova and his crew had one more task to complete before the night was over.

After speeding past Hotel 1829, the truck screeched to a halt outside the parsonage. Nova climbed out the front passenger seat. Two more thugs hopped from the bed.

“Drive around the block. Be back here in five minutes.” Nova thumped the side panel with the palm of his hand, and the truck zoomed off, its rear end bouncing over a speed bump as it barreled past Government House.

Nova proceeded much more quietly up the parsonage’s uneven steps.

The security gate had been left unlocked. It fell open at his touch.

Joined by his two lackeys, he moved stealthily across the front courtyard and into the main building. The trio reached the second floor and crept down the hallway to a room with access to the balcony overlooking the street.

A man dressed in a brown cassock lay on a cot in the sparsely furnished space. The hood had been pulled down over his face, obscuring any distinguishing features.

Nova bent over the bed and confirmed, somewhat disappointedly, that his predecessor had already done the job of taking the life.

With a dissatisfied grunt, he motioned for help lifting the body. His Crucian cronies hefted the head and feet. Between the three of them, they were able to carry the dead weight back down the stairs and out the front door.

At the security gate, Nova held up a cautioning hand. He peeked out onto the road, looking for their getaway vehicle.

Seconds later, the pickup rounded the far corner.

Nova’s hard whisper called back to the courtyard.

“Bring him out. Go, go.”

Additional muscle power jumped out of the truck to help dump the stiff figure into the bed.

The dim streetlight briefly illuminated the body transfer, providing a confirming glimpse to the interested observers strolling through the garden outside the mansion on the opposite hill.

Nova returned to the front passenger seat as the rest of the gang piled into the rear.

The truck drove off, one passenger heavier than when it had first arrived.

AS THE PICKUP
once more bottomed out on the speed bump, a large man in a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers emerged from a wardrobe inside the second-floor room from which the body had been removed.

Taking care to avoid the streetlamps, the Governor sneaked outside and into the night.

So Many Ways to Say Good-bye

THE MOJITO MAN
awoke to a sunrise view overlooking Charlotte Amalie from his Blackbeard’s lawn chair.

The bartender had found the hotel guest passed out by the concrete wall the night before. He had scooped him up and carefully positioned him on the makeshift bed, far enough beneath the pavilion to be protected from the rain. A maid had brought out sheets and a soft pillow, tucking him in like a small child.

The staff had also set up a mosquito coil on the ground nearby. It had burned itself out a few hours earlier. A tiny metal stand and a circular trail of ashes were all that was left.

The last courtesy had been an unnecessary precaution.

After years of tests and transfusions, the cancer patient’s veins were almost impossible to harvest. His pasty skin emitted the scent of coming death; his blood was tainted with enough narcotic to dissuade even the hungriest of insect foragers.

Gumming his dry mouth, he staggered to his feet and wandered toward the lawn. He mumbled his familiar and always first request of the day.

“Mojito. Can someone get me a mojito, please . . .”

Then he stopped, midappeal, startled by the image of the dueling pirates near the top of the stairs that led down the hill.

“You,” he said, pointing to the pirate on the left. “You were talking to this guy.” He shifted his finger to the right. “And then you talked back.”

Staggering unsteadily, he swung his arm back to the first pirate.

“What happened next?”

His hollowed face contorted as he tried to recall the sequence of events. He could have sworn there’d been a struggle, but the details eluded him.

“Must have been a good time if I can’t remember it,” he concluded with a shrug. He glanced across the pavilion, searching for the bartender.

“Mojito?” he called out frailly.

He listened, hopefully shifting his head sideways. All he heard was the drone of an insect hovering near his shoulder, its pinpricking proboscis wavering with indecision.

He nearly fell over in his attempt to swat at the bug.

“I said mojito—not mosquito!”

•

BLACKBEARD’S MORNING STAFF
brought out a breakfast menu, but their guest had little appetite for food. At the maid’s motherly urging, he finally agreed to an omelet and a side of roast potatoes.

While the order was relayed to the kitchen, he slurped on a mimosa—again, not a mojito, he reflected, but an acceptable substitution. He swirled his straw, stirring the tablet he’d dropped into the orange juice and champagne mixture.

He leaned back in his chair as the cold slurry seeped into his system, anticipating the medication’s numbing effect. But the dose was either too little or too late to offset the sudden surge of body-raking spasms that swept over him.

His bony hands gripped the armrests, the knuckles bulging white through his translucent skin.

How much longer? he thought as he willed himself through the pain. The cancer was slowly eating at him, gnawing him away from the inside out. His bones ached, his joints throbbed, and his chest constricted.

He began to ponder ways to bring about a quicker end.

If he could muster the strength, a running jump and tumble off the steep edge of Blackbeard’s cliff would probably do the trick.

He dismissed this option as requiring too much effort. Plus, the fall might bring about more physical discomfort without accomplishing the main goal. In his view, he had already endured enough.

The idea of jumping led him to a second suicidal plan. He could climb Blackbeard’s Tower and leap off the top into the shallow end of the swimming pool. If the impact of the fall didn’t kill him, it would be easy enough to drown in the water.

He frowned, contemplating the energy that would be required to reach the top of the tower and clamber over the rampart.

Hmm. The drugs were kicking in. The tension in his body began to loosen, but the train of thought continued—as a morbid fascination if no longer a subject of actual intent.

The mosquito buzzed his ear, still trying to work up the nerve to taste the man’s narcotic-laced blood.

Death by exsanguination, he mused, imagining the bloodletting of a thousand tiny bite-mark incisions.

“Sorry, insects,” he muttered thickly. “The doctors beat you to it.”

He squinted at one of the iron swords forged into the hands of the dueling pirates.

Death by impalement.

He tilted his head, trying to envision the angle that would be needed to achieve this feat. Again, he concluded, too much work—and too great a risk of failure leading to extended suffering.

The sun inched a few degrees higher, spreading its rays across his chair. After just one day in the tropics, his pale skin had started to freckle. He had never been one to tan, only redden.

Death by sunburn.

This brought about another shuddering thought of pain.

Bravery wasn’t high on his list of his strengths.

He took another sip from the mimosa. The orange juice was sweet and pulpy, but the champagne wasn’t quite strong enough to mask the pill’s aftertaste. He puckered his lips, swallowing the sour residue.

Death by alcoholic overdose.

Now we’re talking, he thought glibly.

This was the preferred method, the one he had in fact already chosen, by default or deliberate action. This is the way he anticipated his life would end. The world would become a blissful blur and then gently fade away.

When the time came, arrangements had been made for his burial in an island cemetery. He had already picked out his plot number and tombstone.

The marker had been engraved with his name.

Beneath the identifying details, he’d instructed the stonemason to carve an image of a mojito cocktail glass with a slice of lime wedged onto the rim and a sprig of mint sticking out the top.