Aground on St. Thomas (28 page)

Washington, DC

Relieved of Duty

“FRIDAY! HOW DID
that woman get on the radio?! Don’t your men have her under surveillance there at the Governor’s Mansion?”

The attorney general hollered his frustration into the speakerphone. The assistant director of the FBI sat in a chair in front of the AG’s desk, looking miserable, as together they listened to Friday’s latest report from St. Thomas.

“She’s still in the mansion, sir. Locked herself inside one of the upper bedrooms and barricaded the door. The house phones were disconnected. I don’t know where she got the cell phone she used to call KRAT, but I suspect the Bishop slipped it to her the previous evening.”

The attorney general reached for his bottle of pink tablets while his counterpart from the FBI took over the conversation.

“What’s all this about the Governor being murdered?” the assistant director demanded plaintively. “We have to immediately deny any involvement in this.”

“We’ve been unable to locate him, sir. I can’t say if he’s alive or dead. Just that we didn’t kill him.”

“That’s not terribly helpful, Friday.”

“We’re doing the best we can, sir.”

The attorney general swallowed his antacid tablet without chewing it. “We’re working the Bishop angle here in DC. I think that’s the only chance we have of finding a way out of this mess. Stay close to your phone, Friday. We’ll be in touch.”

The assistant director leaned toward the speaker console. “And, Friday . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please relieve Agent Hightower of his duties.”

There was no hesitation in his response.

“With pleasure, sir.”

The Brokered Deal

SENATOR SANCHEZ WALKED
beside her uncle as they traversed the steep steps on the hillside above the post office. She held her hand near his elbow, ready to brace him if he stumbled, but the old man’s footing was as sure as ever. Sanchez, still wearing the borrowed T-shirt, shorts, and oversized sandals, was more at risk of slipping than her uncle.

Midway up the stairs, the pair passed the feral rooster, who gave Abe a conspiring nod, as if commending the wily politician’s plan. The bird was far more confident in the outcome than Sanchez. She had at first balked at his idea and had only agreed to accompany him because she didn’t want him to make the attempt alone.

Minutes later, they reached the one-way street at the top of the steps. On the opposite curb stood the coral pink fronting of Hotel 1829.

The bartender buzzed them through the front gate. They were the first to arrive for the morning’s impromptu gathering—which is what Abe had intended.

Given the guests he had invited, he wanted to make sure he and Sanchez had seats against the front wall with easy access to the exit.

•

IN ITS LONG
history, Hotel 1829 had witnessed important meetings among politicians, Danish landowners, and other island power brokers. The establishment had hosted tête-à-têtes between governors, premiers, ambassadors, and presidents.

But never had it seen a caucus quite like this one.

Abe chose his spot on the large wooden table inside the bar. Then he rotated the marble game board so that the two participants would be seated in the appropriate player positions.

Backgammon was a two-person game. He was just there to referee.

Knowing the players’ preferences, he preordered their drinks.

An iced tea for the Bishop.

A hot tea for the Fixer.

And a lemonade for himself.

Senator Sanchez opted for a glass of water.

The bartender prepared the requested drinks and set them on the table before excusing himself. He tugged on his graying ponytail as he departed through the veranda gate.

Where Abe was concerned, some proceedings were best left unobserved.

•

THE FIXER ANNOUNCED
his presence by ringing the buzzer at the front gate. Abe nodded for Sanchez to trigger the door’s release inside the small office attached to the bar.

The thin man walked quietly across the length of the veranda and stepped inside the hotel. He nodded at Abe and took his seat next to the cup and saucer.

Sanchez shifted her feet, anticipating the arrival of the next participant.

A swishing brown cassock appeared from the bar’s courtyard entrance. The Bishop swept into the room, quickly assessed the settings around the table, and took his seat next to the iced tea. He acknowledged Sanchez but focused his attention on the Fixer.

The Bishop picked up the iced tea, his ruby ring clinking against the glass. He took a casual sip, but his eyes never left his opponent.

Abe cleared his throat. “Thank you both for coming. Shall we begin?” He placed a pair of dice in front of each man. “Each of you roll one die, and we’ll see who goes first.”

The Bishop tapped a finger against his numbered cube. “Is this really how we’re going to settle this?”

Abe continued with his preamble as if he hadn’t heard the comment.

“I believe you’re both familiar with the principles of the game. You’re each assigned fifteen checkers. They have already been arranged in their starting positions. You can move them around the board according to the numbers rolled on your dice. The objective is to be the first man to remove all of your own checkers from the board.”

Warily, the Bishop rolled his die. Silently, the Fixer did the same. Abe leaned over the table, comparing the two numbers.

“Right, then. The gentleman in the green shirt will go first.”

The Fixer slid two checkers across the marble board as Abe wrapped up his instructions.

“Move your checkers according to the numbers shown on the dice, but you cannot both occupy the same point on the board—just as, it seems, your clients cannot both occupy the Governor’s Mansion.” He looked at the man in the brown cassock. “Your turn, sir.”

The Bishop dropped his dice into the marble cup and gave them a gentle shake.

“The Governor has already been removed from the mansion.” He looked across the backgammon board as he released the dice. “Permanently.”

The Fixer lifted his teacup with his left hand, revealing the red gash on his wrist. “I assure you the Governor is very much alive—and about to make his own public announcement on recent events.”

Sanchez glanced at her uncle. Abe had yet to touch his lemonade.

“I see.” The Bishop rolled his dice and then stroked his neatly trimmed goatee. “That leaves us at a bit of an impasse.” He moved his requisite two checkers and set the dice cup in the middle of the board.

Abe strummed his fingers on the table’s edge. “Of course, either one alone is weaker than the two acting together, however fractious their union.”

The Fixer grabbed the cup and shook it, letting the dice clatter against the sides for several seconds before letting them tumble onto the board.

“The Governor doesn’t feel the differences are irreconcilable.”

He looked across at the Bishop, who, in turn, shifted his gaze to Abe.

“And the attorney general?”

Abe finally took a slurp of lemonade. “I believe I can resolve that aspect.” He set down the glass and smacked his lips. “If we’re all in agreement, there’s just one more matter to discuss.”

He tilted his head toward his niece.

“My commission for brokering the deal.”

•

ABE COLLECTED THE
dice and checkers as the Bishop and the Fixer stood to leave.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I have conferred with the First Lady,” the Bishop said solemnly.

As he turned for the doorway leading out onto the veranda, there was a disturbance in the refrigerated bathroom attached to the opposite end of the bar.

The flushing whoosh of water was followed by a feeble voice that echoed off the inner tile floor.

“Mojito? Bartender, can you bring me another mojito? I can’t bear to leave this nice cold place.”

Funeral Plans

IT TOOK THE
author far longer than she’d anticipated to make the return trip back up to Government Hill from Emancipation Park.

She’d been detained for almost forty-five minutes by a surly FBI agent with a bulky gorilla build who reeked of stale rum. The agent had ordered several apologetic National Guard troops to corral her while he demanded to see her camera’s digital storage card.

It wasn’t until a second agent arrived on the scene—a harried man with a horsey face—that she was finally released with her camera and digital photos intact.

She returned to Hotel 1829 to find a curious assortment of individuals walking out its front gate. It appeared a meeting of some sort had just broken up, and the participants were departing.

There was the elderly uncle and niece who she’d seen eating breakfast outside the diner earlier that morning. They were followed by the man in the brown cassock who had taken the author’s flight from Miami. In her head, she reluctantly called him the Bishop, although she was more convinced than ever that that was not his religious affiliation.

Lastly, the author passed the flat-faced man in the golf shirt and chinos. He held the gate open for her and smiled, ever so slightly, as she stepped through.

The author hurried across the veranda, reaching into her backpack for her notebook and pen. She was so eager to take notes on this odd assortment of characters that she forgot to watch out for her thirsty travel companion.

The bartender looked up from his counter as she stepped inside. A moment too late, she caught his warning expression—and the glass of muddled mint leaves at his station.

•

“HELLO, LOVE.”

The author closed her eyes, wincing at the voice that called out from the bench along the wall next to the door. She turned as the Mojito Man pulled his frail figure up into a seated position.

He gripped the edge of the backgammon table, trying to stand. Instinctively, she lunged forward to keep him from falling.

She felt his weak arms wrap around her shoulders for an indulgent hug.

“Nothing like the healing powers of a woman.”

The bartender finished preparing the mojito and set it on the counter.

“Here you go, sir.”

The man’s attention shifted from the author to the drink.

“Help me, over, can you?” he asked, nearly breathless from the effort it had taken to stand.

She eased him onto a bar stool, and his mouth found the straw. After a long slurp, he seemed to recover a bit of his energy.

“Have you been inside that bathroom?” He pointed to the door at the end of the bar. “You could chill a corpse in there. I told ’em that’s where they should stick me when I’m gone. You know, before the hearse comes to pick me up.”

With a sigh, the woman slid onto the adjacent stool. The bartender smiled and began making a frozen daiquiri.

“Mango?” he suggested with a pump of his mustache.

“That’ll be fine.”

Her neighbor swiveled in his chair to look at her.

“Will you go to my funeral?” His bloodshot eyes pleaded pathetically. “No one else will be there.”

The bar fell silent. The author pressed her lips together, knowing she would regret answering the question, whichever way she responded.

Finally, she nodded the affirmative, making a promise she knew she didn’t intend to keep.