The Navidad Incident (37 page)

Angelina's in a real fix. She knows the breach carries no specific penalties, but seriously, what other recourse does she have than to explain the situation and let them decide what to do? A new shipment is due in three days' time, a mere two-night lapse. Would they possibly make do with some other bourbon? Forget it. She fully understands their insistence on the real thing; she's not about to swindle them by pouring five-year-old into square bottles. No-have is no-have. Anyway, it'll be interesting to see how they deal with this calamity. That's the spirit—grace under pressure.

Angelina finds the two of them outside, cleaning the terrace. Ketch is hosing down the flagstones while Joel scrubs with a bristle broom. The two mugs of beer on the nearby white metal table, however, are for no ordinary workmen.

“I got something to tell you. Come on in when you finish,” she calls out to them.

“Sure thing. What is it? We getting a raise?” jokes Joel.

“No, we're getting the axe,” counters Ketch.

“Fair enough. We're just hired hands,” says Joel, with a good stiff shove of the broom.

“So cut us right off at the wrist,” says Ketch, his thumb over the nozzle to concentrate a harder spray. A tiny rainbow arches through the sparkling droplets.

“Don't talk nonsense, come as soon as you're done,” she says, leaving them to it.

Ten minutes later, the pair present themselves before her, hanging their heads in playful shame, a glint of mischief showing in their eyes.

“Forgive us.”

“It won't happen again.”

“Please have mercy on us.”

“We're sorry.”

“Sit down, this is serious,” says Angelina, putting a lid on their jokes. “We have a problem.”

Their expressions shade toward curiosity.

“We're out of your liquor. Not a drop of twelve-year-old I.W. Harper in the house.”

They're dumbstruck. Ketch slowly shakes his head in disbelief.

“I don't know how it happen. I always lay in a good stock, right? I's sure we had a half dozen bottles. Last night's crowd musta drunk it all.”

“They saw us drinking and ordered the same thing.”

“And they out-drank us too.”

“They didn't buy any sex, they just sat around talking till morning.”

“We didn't know they finished everything off.”

“My mistake. It completely slip my mind, but it's too late to be sorry. Next shipment arrive in three days, so there's nothing for tonight or tomorrow. I rack my brains, but what's gone is gone. What do we do?”

She throws the question open. Let them decide. No need to involve Matías, not yet.

“We didn't see this coming,” says Joel.

“This
is
serious,” mutters Ketch, as if faced with a natural disaster.

At least they don't seem to blame her. For them, the situation is simply inconceivable.

“How about some other liquor … ?”

“No can do.” They both shake their heads.

“We're addicted.”

The three of them fall silent. Angelina's said all that she has to say; Ketch and Joel have nothing to add. The silence is painful. Their machinery turns on a continuous fueling of twelve-year-old I.W. Harper. When that runs out, the gears stop. Angelina stares at the flowers on the table between them and waits. There's nothing else to do.

Suddenly something changes, the air stirs slightly. She looks up to see the pair of them, not sullen anymore, but peering behind her. They actually seem to be smiling. She turns around. Standing there is the maid from Melchor, the one who used to be María, but since going to the Presidential Villa has now become Améliana. Where did she come from?

“These two won't be drinking here anymore,” says the Melchor girl. Not “they mustn't drink here,” not “they can't drink here,” she's merely stating a fact. As if her words were final. Angelina has no idea what makes her think she can say this, but for a second it strikes her that, yes, maybe it is the best solution.

“You two are coming with me, to the Melchor Council of Elders,” says the girl in the same decisive tone. “The Elders are waiting. There's something they want to ask you. About what you did a year ago. About the contract.”

Angelina catches her breath. She can't speak. Nobody should know about the contract but the four people named in it.
How can this girl … ?
But before she can open her mouth, Ketch and Joel have stood up. Looking somehow expectant, their faces say they know the time has come, they'll go along gladly, they'll leave this place. She has to stop them somehow—but the greatest hold, the strongest tether to tie them here, the most potent attraction is gone: there's no more Harper's magic elixir.

María—Améliana, the seventh Yuuka—moves to leave. Ketch and Joel follow. Angelina rises on shaky legs and takes a few faltering steps after them. Nothing she can say will make them stay. The Council of Elders has found them out. Matías is done for. If she could somehow will them to drop dead on the spot, he just might stand a chance. But they don't die; they just keep walking.

María pauses at the threshold as the heavy, carved oak doors fan open from the outside, then moves on into the bright sunlight with Ketch and Joel behind her. Not for all the girls' love and friendship and admiration will they be back. No more fixing things or cutting the grass or polishing the balcony railings. Ketch, the encyclopedic jazz aficionado. Joel, the bartending maven who shuns cocktails. Their secret society of two, teased out in unverifiable histories. Their corner table and nightly bottle of I.W. Harper. Their gay half-flirting with the girls, their winning offhand manner. What will the place be without them?

Angelina follows as far as the entrance to the salon and leans on the door handle, squinting into the glare. Outside are seven youths; they've come to meet these three. She's seen them somewhere before. Ah yes, last night: the seven lads who stayed so late, seven innocents who seduced the girls without bedding a single one, seven spies who siphoned off the last drop of Ketch and Joel's precious bourbon.

Clinging to the doorway, Angelina watches the seven guardians encircle the young Yuuka and the two hired guns, then escort them away, until finally they are out of sight. They've gone to the port, where a boat will take them off toward Melchor and the downfall of the President of the Republic of Navidad, His Excellency Matías Guili.

The Melchor Island Council of Elders does not meet at regular intervals. Only when some issue arises and several of the Elders call for a meeting do they all assemble in that sacred lodge or “long house” known as the
abai
. The Council is comprised entirely of respected males over seventy years of age; there are no women members, though in special situations the Council may consult the Yoi'i Yuuka. The Elders have the authority to arbitrate in the affairs of the community, but when spiritual issues that supersede their secular wisdom occur, they bow to the chief priestess. Some questions are discussed for days, but never is any formal vote taken. With no particular mechanism for reaching conclusions, all the Elders remain inside the abai for the duration—except to relieve themselves—while their families keep them supplied with food.

When Ketch and Joel arrive under the guard of the seven youths, the Council is already assembled and waiting in the abai. The lodge is framed in heavy timbers and roofed with pandanus thatch—a building style traditional in the South Seas, though much bigger and longer than the average house. From a distance, it resembles an overturned canoe. Inside there is only one large room, dimly lit by small openings along the base of the walls, with banana leaf seating mats on the earthen floor.

Ketch and Joel duck through the low doorway and are brought before the dozen or so men sitting in a circle. The youths see that the two Americans are seated, then leave.

“Thank you for coming long way,” says one old man to Ketch's right, speaking in rusty but understandable English. The other Elders look on silently. Their expressions are difficult to read in the dark interior, especially against the backlight from the low openings, but there is no perceptible air of hostility.

“Other day, we receive paper,” says the old man. The others probably can't understand much English, but he doesn't bother to translate into the Melchor dialect or even standard Gagigula. What's being said seems to have already been discussed. “Because this paper, we talking about one man who hold our islands, our life in his hands. Your two names also on paper, so we thinking we hear what you say, so we call you here.”

His tone is calm but firm. Apparently, the intention is not to accuse Ketch or Joel; the person being tried here is President Matías Guili. The two remain silent, waiting to see what happens next.

“We want you tell us your own words. Is this paper real contract? Was agreement carried out? We thinking maybe yes, but want to make sure before we pass judgment.”

The English-speaking Elder pauses for some indication that the two foreigners fully comprehend the situation. Joel raises a finger to ask the old man to wait a moment, then speaks with Ketch at tongue-twisting speed. As ever, these two do all their thinking together. While they confer, neither the interpreter nor the other Elders show the least impatience or start pressing them to reach a decision.

Joel now turns to the Elder. “We understand perfectly. We will try to answer your questions the best we can. But first, there's one thing we need to know.” Joel enunciates clearly for the benefit of their interlocutor. The old man nods his understanding of each phrase, before raising his hand to signal for a break in which to translate it all into Melchorian. The other Elders listen quietly, an expression of wise acknowledgment on their faces, then turn back expectantly toward Joel.

“Generally speaking, it's difficult to assess a crime from a written agreement. How do you deal with promises to perform illegal acts that don't happen? They can't be treated like those actually performed, can they? Just from the document you have, there's no clear proof that we did anything criminal, so we would urge you to rule it out as evidence.”

Joel chooses his words carefully. A twelve-year-old I.W. Harper fog has lifted for the first time in a year, and he knows it's up to him now to see them safely across this legal lagoon. Ketch pays close attention, ready to correct any mistake.

“For the moment, we are free of any guilt. But answering your questions about what we did or did not do, with no lawyer present, will put us at great risk. Legally speaking, testimony is not the same thing as a piece of paper. Yet it seems our actions are not the issue here, correct? So, providing you guarantee us immunity, we swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.”

The English-speaking Elder conveys the gist of these remarks to his companions, which provokes various responses, all spoken in even tones. No one raises his voice or becomes emotional. Finally, the Elder seated furthest back, a bald-headed man with an air of obvious authority, makes a pronouncement. All the Elders listen attentively and nod their heads, then turn to face Ketch and Joel again.

The translation comes back: “We understand what you say. This is not court of law. To be honest, we not know how our country's laws apply to foreigners. Rest assured, we do nothing to you, this Council not punish you for your crime. Once we finish talking, you free to leave this building or leave this country as you wish. Maybe Council suggest you leave country, but we cannot force you. Please to say what there is to say.”

Ketch and Joel proceed to discuss what they've just heard. Ketch takes a small notepad out of his breast pocket, jots down a few key points and tears off the page for his partner. Joel strains to read it in the dim light and nods. He queries Ketch on a few details, until after a minute the two of them have settled on a basic position.

“We'll tell you anything you want to know,” announces Joel. As soon as this is translated for them, the Elders murmur with satisfaction.

“Thank you. Let us begin. Paper we have looks to be agreement between you and our President Matías Guili. It say you kill former President Bonhomme Tamang, and in return you get to stay at place called Angelina's, where they give you supply of I.W. Harper liquor.”

The two men listen without comment.

“And did you carry out your part of agreement?”

“We did,” says Joel.

Again the Elders buzz among themselves.

“Please tell us more detail.”

“We came to this country a little over a year ago, while sailing across the Pacific on an international goodwill organization's schooner. To be specific, we arrived at Baltasár City. It seemed like a nice place, so we decided to stay on for a while.”

Ketch hands him another note, which Joel quickly skims before going on.

“In the beginning, we stayed at the Navidad Teikoku Hotel. Very fancy with all the trimmings, but not to our taste. Oh, the place was grand—too grand. All style and no creature comforts, the food wasn't up to snuff either. Mind you, there's such a thing as plain and simple first-class cooking, but the food at the Teikoku was nowhere in that league. The fatal blow, however, came when the hotel bar didn't have our aforementioned favorite twelve-year-old I.W. Harper. We had a couple of bottles to tide us over when we disembarked, but only enough to last a few days. At the hotel, no more was to be had for love or money. How were we to know that Mr. Harper was a stranger to these islands?”

The Elders hear out Joel's rambling account, then listen to the translation but are none the wiser. How can these foreigners be so attached to this one drink?

“So we looked all over town, but there wasn't a drop anywhere. Navidad's an undeveloped country when it comes to liquor, though we could see how its other charms more than made up for it,” says Joel out of courtesy to his listeners. “Sadly for us, however, we need that dram of happiness. We were dismayed. To think that such a lovely place with such attractive people and such wonderful food—outside hotel fare, that is—was missing out on such a good thing. We asked and asked until someone finally told us that one establishment might have this rare beverage—and that was Angelina's.”

The Elders hear the name and all nod at once, as if they understand without translation.

“That evening, we went in search of the fabled house of dubious repute, and sure enough, the very item was right there behind the bar. The young ladies there who lend their services to men were of less interest to us. We were happy just to sit and sip, and gaze into each other's eyes.”

The Elders hear out the translation and again nod their heads. By now they seem to accept the two strangers' strange idea of happiness.

“When we learned we could stay there, we moved all our belongings out of the hotel. Madame Angelina reassured us that hers was probably the only house in this corner of the Pacific to keep twelve-year-old I.W. Harper in steady supply. And there was another happy discovery—a vast collection of jazz records. That very evening, for the first time, we met the recently unelected former President Matías Guili.”

As soon as Joel mentions the name, the Elders lean closer.

“That's right, the big man. On the spot, he came up with a proposal and promised us as much twelve-year-old I.W. Harper as we could drink every night. He had our number.”

On hearing this translated, the bald Head of the Elders speaks up via the interpreter. “If that all you want, why you come here? You can go somewhere else, some other country to drink. For what reason you not do so? Why you accept Guili's offer?”

Ketch hands Joel a note, as has become their usual modus operandi. Ketch sketches the general outlines, Joel fills in the figures of speech.

“Well, if you want the whole truth, there were extenuating circumstances. That is, we were in a corner. We needed to lie low for a year. That's also why we came by schooner instead of a normally scheduled airline flight, and why we didn't fly off to Japan or Hong Kong or Singapore when we learned there was none of our favorite liquor here. No, an inconspicuous easygoing place where, above all, we could have our favorite tipple, that's all we wanted. So in that sense, Angelina's was ideal. That and, well, we weren't exactly rolling in cash. The job we'd performed—the job that sent us into hiding—involved a rather complicated system of payment. Meanwhile the authorities in several countries had ganged up on us and frozen our bank accounts, so we needed somewhere to tide us over a difficult patch. Guili's offer was almost made-to-order, so we accepted.”

At this point, one of the group interrupts, and the English-speaking Elder interprets.

“Was reason you go into hiding because you work as hired killers?”

Ketch tosses off another hurried note.

“Yes, but please let's not go into the nitty-gritty details. Or at least, accept that it has nothing to do with you here. People drop out of sight for many different reasons.”

An evasive reply, but it seems to satisfy the inquirer.

“Well, then, as you no doubt already know, Guili's terms were quite simple: get rid of Bonhomme Tamang by some means that wouldn't look too suspicious. Which we accepted because, well, to answer the previous question, we are indeed ‘hit men'—specialists in the ways and means of killing.”

Immediately they're bombarded with questions, all asking the same thing: that first night at Angelina's, did the two of them meet Guili by chance?

“Pure coincidence. In our line of work, we don't advertise that we kill people, nor did we know he was looking for trained assassins. We're sworn to secrecy outside our organization, and Guili, for his part, gave only the most roundabout hints. We found ourselves playing a guessing game, aided and abetted by alcohol. It was only a matter of time before something like the truth spilled over.”

One Elder wants to know, did Angelina take part in these proceedings?

“No, I don't believe she suspected anything beforehand. Maybe she had some inkling, but nothing definite, not until everything was over and done with. Her only stake in the deal was to follow Guili's orders and keep us in I.W. Harper.”

“And actual murder method?” asks the eldest Elder.

“Now we're talking business.” Joel purses his lips, then turns to exchange a few words with Ketch as the Elders look on with curiosity.

“Much as we'd like just to leave things at ‘secret methods using special tools,' I don't suppose that will satisfy you, will it? So if we may beg your indulgence, we'd like you to promise us that not a word of what we're going to say will leak out. We wouldn't want our professional commitments to be compromised by giving too much away. As we see it, you only need to establish that: one, Bonhomme Tamang was murdered; and two, it was our consummate skill behind the attribution to ‘natural causes.' So, here's how we did it, on the condition that none of it leaves this building …”

The Elders talk it over and accept the terms.

“At 11:25 that morning, Bonhomme Tamang's right-hand man found the President slumped over his desk at the Presidential Villa, face down on his papers. Unfortunately, this executive secretary wasn't quite so on the ball as Jim Jameson. He called the National Hospital, but by the time the medics arrived, the President was dead—a heart attack was the call. The executive secretary attested that from eight that morning the President met with several people, then at 9:35 he went alone into his office to concentrate on his paperwork. Several others were waiting in the antechamber, but according to their independent testimonies, no one got to see the President for even a second. And of course, the office windows were locked; the room was sealed tight. It could only have been a heart attack.”

The Elders listen with interest. Ketch scribbles another note outlining the points for Joel to put into his own words—their methodical division of labor.

“So much for appearances. The inside story is quite different. Our task was to make sudden death look like organ failure, an assassination without assassins. Of course, it would've been much easier to take him out by sniper fire, but that would have cast suspicion on Guili, the man who stood to profit most from Tamang's death. And anyway, we weren't packing a rifle and sniper scope when we came ashore.”