Dying for Revenge (37 page)

The Punjabi girl said, “These are brand-new SR9s. Seventeen plus one.”

That meant nine-millimeters, seventeen in the magazine, one in the tube. Eighteen shots. Manufactured by Ruger, one of the premium gun manufacturers in the history of violence.

She told the Punjabi girl, “Haven’t used an SR9.”

“Feels good in the hand. Reliable. You have small hands, so you will love it. Ambidextrous magazine latch. Low-profile slide stop. Reversible rubber back strap.”

“What’s the weight?”

“Under two, empty.”

“Trigger pull?”

“Six and a half.”

“I can deal with the two-pound weight, but six and a half on trigger pull—”

“Actually, it weighs less than two. Empty.”

“That’s fine, but considering what I’m going to need it for, I’d like it a bit lighter on the trigger pull.”

“After you go through a few magazines you’ll get used to it.”

“Don’t have that kind of time.”

“This was all I had available. Last-minute order. The request was for something reliable, easy to conceal. These SR9s fit the order. They sell for five but I’m letting them go for half that. Need the cash. Fees at the university are kicking my butt. And the gas prices, that’s cutting into my war chest. Caught me on a good day, so be thankful. Need the fast cash. Trust me, it’s a good pistol.”

“Suppressors?”

“In the box. I made them myself.”

“Bootleg silencers.”

“Nothing I do is ever bootleg. Been in this business for five years. My shit works.”

“You use plastic?”

“Steel. Fits half the barrel, doesn’t interfere with aiming. I do my own drilling. Test each one myself. No sharp edges left to cause inaccuracy. Feel free to test the suppressors.”

She nodded.

The Punjabi girl asked, “What happened to your driver-side mirror?”

She told her about the crowd, the music, the jumping, the street party, the madness.

The girl laughed. “That was a
J’ouvert
.”

“I thought they were about to destroy the car.”

“You have to keep away from those celebrations in your car.”

“I noticed.”

“That’s going to cost you big time.”

“I know.”

The Punjabi girl got in the passenger side of the car; her male friend backed out of their parking space and drove away, the sun high over their heads, speeding down Friars Hill Road, sipping smoothies.

 

Two hours later she was on Redcliffe at the Big Banana, a restaurant that stood out and caught her eye because of its non-Caribbean design and gray and blue colors, subdued colors compared to the rest of the other island businesses, seven silver ceiling fans spinning over her head, stylish, as if this eatery had been plucked up from the center of Times Square and dropped on Redcliffe and Thames.

She had a car filled with weapons. Soon this Gideon thing would be done.

Whenever the target made it to Antigua he would be a goat entering a wolf’s cave.

Lots of chatter blended in with the sounds coming from the cricket game on the plasmas anchored overhead. She sat outside on the patio, saw girls walking down the road, baby powder on their chests and neck. She looked around. Andy Warhol-style images of Brando, Gandhi, Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon, Che Guevara, Miles Davis, Mona Lisa, and a couple of faces she didn’t recognize were on the light gray walls. But there were enough oranges and blues and other colors that said this was a Caribbean spot, just not as flashy as most of the other businesses and restaurants.

Angst rose as she ate a fish burger and plantain, pineapple juice at her side.

She didn’t know what to do. The
J’ouvert
had destroyed half the fucking car, the driver’s-side mirror still hanging by the wires, a mirror she had to hold as she drove the narrow roads. The good thing was the island was single-lane traffic in two directions, downtown having one-way streets, so she didn’t have to worry about changing lanes, just staying in her lane and not panicking when drivers zoomed by.

Fucking mirror hanging and the fucking rental car scratched the fuck up.

That would cost her a grip, just knew she was going to get screwed on the price.

She cursed.

She looked up; the television was on CNN. Myanmar. Children dead. Bodies floating in rivers. The aftermath of a cyclone. The graphic images shown had caught her off guard and disturbed her, made tears come. She watched those horrific images and wiped tears from her eyes.

Dead children. Dead babies.

Not what she needed to see right now.

Everything felt magnified, all of her senses, all of her emotions.

Pills were in her hand. Pills she had bought to fix her little problem.

She had stared at the pills for over an hour now.

She whispered, “I’m sorry. Mommy is so sorry. Please forgive me.”

She took the pills. Washed them down with the last of her pineapple juice.

Wanted to cry.

Wanted to put her fingers down her throat and throw the pills back up.

Her cellular rang. It was Matthew. He was in town, at Planet Hollywood Barbers on High Street, next to Gentle Dental, across from Francis Trading, told her to pick him up some fresh clothing to wear.

Being the good wife, she had already picked up enough guns to take over this island; now she kept being his flunky and headed to Sunseakers, bought her husband shorts, shirts, Crocs, and sandals. Then she went to the Source Denim Company, bought Matthew two T-shirts, one from French Connection, black with white lettering, FCUK ME. Nothing for herself. Except the morning-after pills.

She gazed down Redcliffe, looked where the road sloped downhill toward Heritage Quay.

She looked down at the road and shivered. The aftereffects of the nightmare.

A baby as dark as asphalt coming out of her womb as Matthew looked on in horror.

That nightmare had been too real,
scared
her and
scarred
her; she knew that if that happened, as soon as the baby was born, Matthew would murder her on the spot, that baby an orphan before its first breath.

The rental car’s mirror destroyed, the right side scratched to the primer.

And now the pills were in her body, pills that had a 90 percent chance of working.

That meant a 10 percent chance of the pills not working.

They had to work, put to sleep what might be inside her. For the first time she felt like a murderer.

The morning after a wonderful night was a motherfucker.

Two days had gone by since she was with the boy on the beach.

She took the car and drove to the area where Matthew was, on High Street.

More girls and boys in school uniforms, bank workers, taxi drivers, bootleggers, and vendors. Groups of overweight tourists appeared; shorts, pale legs and arms, most in sandals, carrying cameras and backpacks. Pale skin and expensive cameras. At least one cruise ship had docked. The world was busy.

In the distance she saw a large church. She stopped and stared, her throat tight.

A knot was in her heart. A guilt that might never end.

She walked toward the church. St. John’s Cathedral. A few blocks over on Newgate Street. It was a magnificent stone building with twin silvery towers, standing high above the heart of the town.

She went inside, faced the altar, the cross and what it symbolized. She took her grieving and fears, went to the pews, got on her knees, hand on stomach, begging for forgiveness.

 

She found the barbershop, easy to find actually, a guy set up outside selling bootleg gospel music and DVDs, the same movies that played a block away at the cinema. She stepped inside. Shotgun room with square fans anchored to the ceiling, air conditioners high up on the back wall, four barber chairs. Matthew was in the back chair, a Dominican giving him a razor shave while island girls sat on benches and braided customers’ hair, their workspace small, their work phenomenal, like art, like Blahniks. She asked how much to get her hair braided and one of the girls said the price was twenty E.C.

That was less than ten dollars U.S. One-fifth the price they charged in the States.

She got her hair braided. Then she had her eyebrows done by one of the barbers.

As she was getting her eyebrows done she listened to the men talk, their dialect thick and fast, filled with passion as they gossiped and ranted about some incident. She focused on their words and tried to decipher them. The word
Abracadabra
stood out. So did the words
murdered, butchered, killed
.

“Dem fine he dead, chop up lakka meat.”

“A so somebody butcher he?”

She looked at her husband. Matthew stared at her, coldness in his green eyes.

She noticed his shirt was light blue. Red specks on its front. The color of blood.

The girl who had braided her hair walked to her and asked, “You buy those shoes on Redcliffe?”

“In New York.”

“What kind of shoes are those?”

“Blahniks.”

The girl came over and looked at her Blahniks. Burgundy and topaz patent leather. Crisscross vamp. Slingback with adjustable buckle. Covered stiletto heel.

The girl was excited. “May I take a picture of your beautiful shoes with my camera phone?”

“Go right ahead.”

Her husband watched the woman photographing her shoes, displeased with the attention she was getting, not understanding how important the moment was to the woman who braided hair, as important as it was for her when she had touched her first pair of shoes by Manolo, the same reaction people had as they walked through the Louvre and stared at masterpieces they’d seen only in books.

The camera flashed six times in a row, all shoe shots, flashed as if a celebrity was in the room.

After her hair was braided, she left with her husband, held his hand as he carried the bags, strolled on the street’s mild incline, headed back toward the island’s lone cinema and the sounds that came from the construction of a new parking garage. She passed another group of girls, tight jean shorts and sandals, all with baby powder on their necks and chests, smiled at them and walked the incline, tried not to show how low her energy was, didn’t want any criticism from Matthew. She weaved around droves of people, schools out in the early afternoon. Hundreds of kids walked the roads, some in gray uniforms. She did her best to keep to the inside so she could avoid the sewage grates, grates wide enough for her foot to slip inside, with the man she married, not feeling comfortable with him, not at all, knew she was slowing him down.

She said, “You went back and had words with the man I was dancing with.”

Her husband didn’t confirm, didn’t deny. “The focus is on Gideon. Get focused.”

She said, “That’s the way they dance down here, Matthew.”

No response.

The sun kissed her skin; the heat created a river of sweat.

He asked, “Any problem with the pickup?”

“No problem.”

“I heard you were late and the pickup almost didn’t happen.”

“Detroit called you.”

“The girl called Detroit and Detroit called me.”

She took a sharp breath. Didn’t want to tell him that she had been lost.

She said, “Sort of had an accident in the rental car.”

“An accident?”

“I didn’t cause it.”

“You’ve had the goddamn rental car what, three hours?”

As they headed up High Street, her husband saw the damage to the rental car and once again his jaw tightened.

Didn’t ask her if she was okay, just saw the damage and shook his head.

She tried to explain what had happened, how it wasn’t her fault, but he didn’t give a shit.

He snapped, told her to hand him the keys, his voice rough, islanders looking at them, her embarrassment high.

He took the hanging mirror, yanked the wiring loose, and threw it in the backseat.

That was when he saw the long, deep scratch running down the driver’s side.

She said, “It was a hit-and-run. This truck. Asshole kept going.”

Her husband cursed, climbed in, and started the car as she got in, took off before she had her seat belt on, never said a word. He zoomed up Independence Avenue, took a different route, and turned up the narrow Vivian Richards Street, connected with All Saints Road, then drove too fast for her to feel safe, zipped in and out of traffic, passed cars, trucks, vans, kicked up debris, drove like he was reenacting a chase scene in
The French Connection
.

“Answer my questions.”

“Matthew. That was not necessary.”

“Was what you did necessary?”

“What the fuck did I do?”

“I’m not stupid. You fucked him.”

“I did not have sex with the man.”

“You said you
fucked
him,
sucked
him, and
swallowed
the evidence.”

“I’d just met him.”

“You think I’m an idiot?”

She looked away. “We were dancing, that’s all. Dancing just like everybody else.”

She closed her eyes; the rental car bounced over speed bumps; they were in a school zone.

He asked, “Is that who you were with when I made it to Antigua?”

“Of course not.”

“You still haven’t made it clear to me where you were the night I arrived.”

“Matthew, please. You disappeared for two goddamn days.”

“What if you hadn’t seen me at Abracadabra? I walk in with the men I’m working with, men I’ve got in my pocket so far as respect is concerned, then one of them taps my shoulder and points, ‘Hey, ain’t that your wife over there?’ You know how the fuck that made me look? Do you have any idea?”