The Fer-de-Lance Contract, page 2
“Quite right, too,” said the old English lady. “The beggars will not take care. Is that a flame-of-the-forest tree there beside the bar, young man?”
“One of them, ma’am,” I said politely. “There are two kinds. I suspect you saw yours in India.”
“Indeed I did.”
“That was what they call here the flamboyant. The one over there has the same name, but it is the African tulip tree.”
She nodded acceptance of this arboreal fact, and when my drink came I knocked it down straight again. Sat leaning back on one elbow and rattling the ice cubes around in the glass. The stately black gentleman entered the water with his dark wife and children, and they disported themselves near us with splashing glee.
I watched them with admiration. Phase Three was almost on us. When I did not erupt again, the hum of conversation arose and was almost back to normal when I twisted toward the old English woman on one elbow.
“Isn’t that a happy-looking group?” I inquired. “Reminds me of a Georgia baptism. If they only had a couple of watermelons, we’d have a happy bunch of niggers there …”
My tone had been pitched conversationally, but perhaps a trifle high. The decibel count around the pool fell off to nothing, and the dignified black man bathing with his brood looked angrily toward me. He started wading toward the ladder, and his wife, her dark face concerned under the bathing cap of purple rubber flowers, put her hand on his arm. He shook it off and began climbing out of the pool.
Without warning, a young Negro man in a business suit materialized at my side, and said that Mr. Rupert Davies-Bishop, who was a prominent Antigua doctor, had been offended by my conversation. Would I take more care, please?
“Why?” I asked lazily. “Is he the head nigger around here?”
Even the old English lady clucked at that. Davies-Bishop came out of the pool like leviathan deserting the deep, strode by me, and in passing jerked the little metal table out from under my cigarettes and other impedimenta. He had taken four more steps before I lunged up and put him back in the pool.
A violent ballet then developed. The waiters converged en masse, and one by one, I slipped their outstretched hands and flipped them into the water, hoping the poor bastards could swim. One of the yachtsmen, an enormous, shaggy-haired type, felt civil-minded, and him I faked out of his faded tennis shoes, kicked him in the crotch, butted him under the chin, and heaved him in to join the others.
Several of them were now trying to get back out of the pool and at me again, so I ran along its edge stamping on their fingers and kicking them in the face. It was hard work at the shallow end, where they could stand up, but easier in deep water. In the middle of this gavotte, the white man in the business suit who had been watching from the lobby materialized at my elbow as I whirled. He began to admonish me loudly so I grabbed the front of his chic tropic coat and whirled him into the water.
When I had gone on another hand-stomping expedition, I was warned by a shrill cry of warning from the old English lady. I turned to face a contingent from the kitchen, three blacks, one with a meat cleaver. He swung it with deadly intent, too, but I danced out of range, butted him into the water, and cuffed his assistants in beside him. Three of the thieving cab drivers came charging across the lobby, and I was delighted to see that one of them was the lout who had cheated me last night.
His face was contorted with fury, so I relaxed and spread my hands in supplication. The force of his charge carried him straight into me, so I sidestepped and put a vicious whip-block on him. The next two got straight gut punches, and one of them fell to his knees and began to vomit. The other one was still flailing away, so I yanked him around and punted him into the pool so hard I thought my foot was broken.
That done, I surveyed the pool again. The shaggy-haired yachtsman, having done his bit for racial equality, was getting out on the other side. His wife was shouting at him from the shade of the colonnaded table. The rest of them were standing in the pool staring at me, some in swimming trunks and others in saturated clothes. One of the angry waiters tried to crawl out of the side near me, so I stamped on his fingers and kicked him in the face.
When I went back to put on my stylish blue terry cloth jacket, and load its pockets with my cigarettes, lighter, and holder, the ancient English woman nodded with satisfaction.
“Good show,” she said. “But I imagine the constabulary will be here soon.”
“I expect so,” I answered, and went back to my room.
Chapter 3
The Honorable George Faversham was presiding over the assizes in Georgetown, and I was hustled before him with dispatch by my private entourage of five black policemen. His Honor was an ample man the color of light coffee; his clean-cut features marked him nearly white. Clearly astonished, but maintaining his judicial mien, he stared down at me thoughtfully while the imposing list of charges was being read. When they were done, he leaned forward in his dark heavy-sleeved gown and addressed me.
“Sir, you seem to have created a scandal at Marmora Beach.”
“That I did, Judge,” I answered.
“Do you wish to make any statement in mitigation of your conduct, before I pass sentence upon you?”
“No, sir.”
“You have nothing to say?”
“Only that I regret not having had more time. If I had, I’d have put the rest of those boyos in the pool.”
“I see.” The dark eyes were fixed on me. “It is the judgment of this court that you be fined $200 Eastern Currency, and that you secure passage out of Antigua on the Federal Palm, departing this afternoon. Corporal!”
“Sah!” The black policeman at my right snapped to attention.
“You and your men will escort Mr. Miles to Bennett’s and wait while he procures a ticket on the Palm. You will then put him aboard the ship with his luggage. He is under deportation orders. And please inform Captain Agostini that he is to remain in his cabin, under guard, until the ship has cleared Antigua. Understood?”
“Sah!” The corporal nodded, and the judge rose to leave the bench.
“Your Honor,” I called, and he turned and stood looking down at me. “Would it be possible for me to stop off at a general store for a few minutes on the way to the ship?”
“Yes. But I warn you, Mr. Miles, that if you have any further altercations, on the streets or aboard the ship, I will sentence you to a year in jail.” He smiled slightly. “I don’t think you would be temperamentally suited to our prison, so please do not erupt again in Antigua.”
I nodded, and he swept out to his bare chambers, the hem of the heavy robe swinging. A man of considerable dignity, I thought as I signed a $100 traveler’s check and gave it to his bailiff. When I went back out on the street, the sunlight hit me like a blow. The corporal strode along beside me until we came to Bennett’s Travel Agency. There I bought a one-way passage to St. Sauteurs and nearly got into another hassle with the manager, who insisted that I must also buy a ticket from St. Sauteurs to the United States.
I explained to him that the law might require that I buy a continuing ticket from there, but that it was ridiculous that I be forced to buy a ticket returning me to my own country. The manager was pompous in his insistence, and I controlled my wrath by remembering Judge Faversham. So I wound up paying another $66 for a Liat Airline ticket from St. Sauteurs to St. Croix, in the American Virgins.
My police escort stood waiting while I shopped in a barnlike store for two bottles of Cutty Sark, two more of Mount Gay rum, some limes, and tinned biscuits. Our procession down the wharf to the gangplank of the Federal Palm was augmented by a pack of small black urchins who solicited me for various legitimate and immoral projects.
The Palm was a small cruise ship with a single blue funnel on her flying deck, and she was showing the corrosion of working tropic waters. The chief purser was a small, nearly white fellow, with a froggish face and the urbanity most such officers have when they deal with passengers. As he prepared to make out the ticket, I said that I wanted single occupancy of the cabin. He nodded and said that would be fifty percent more. While he was filling out the ticket, the police corporal stepped up beside me and repeated Judge Faversham’s orders about my being confined to my cabin until the ship had cleared.
“Oh?” For the first time, the chief purser actually saw me. A malcontent, eh? he was thinking. There was a smaller desk beyond his, but no assistant purser was in sight. His superior handed me the impressive ticket, made change for my traveler’s checks, and, stepping out into the companionway, called “Miss Ramjohn, please!”
A tall girl of principally East Indian ancestry came out of one of the cabins down the line and walked toward us. She was in her twenties, had classic features, long black hair, and the symmetry of a temple dancer just past ripeness. Her skin was ivory, with a hint of Negro blood. She said good morning to me and stood listening as the purser explained about my confinement. Further, that she was to do the guarding because his men were too busy for such nonsense.
“… and I’m sure,” he concluded, “that Mr. Miles has no mischief in mind. Had trouble here, did you, sir?”
“A fight,” I explained, and he nodded and waved the police escort toward the gangplank. “Good show,” the purser went on, “I hope you bashed them about properly.”
“Had several in the air for a while,” I admitted, and he laughed and left me in custody of Miss Ramjohn. I followed her down to my cabin, much admiring her undulations, and supervised the stowing of my luggage and parcels when they were brought along by two black seamen.
The cabin was small, but well-appointed; its air conditioning conduit was pouring cool air over the two bunks, high and low, and the one chair, mirror, and lavatory. When the seamen had withdrawn, Miss Ramjohn closed the cabin door and stood with her back to it, facing me. She smelled clean, with a faint fragrance of gardenias, and I was aware of the full breasts barely contained by her low-necked white blouse.
“Look,” I said, washing my face and hands and looking at her in the mirror, “I’m not a murderer, Miss Ramjohn. Or at least not an Antiguan murderer, and I’ll sit here in my own private chair quiet as a mouse until we’re at sea. Deal?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the tall girl. “My surveillance is a condition of your passage, you see. I must follow orders.”
“All right. So be it. But I’m not going to let my life be altered by your presence. Will you take the chair?”
“No, I’m quite comfortable,” the Eurasian girl said, so I shucked off my shirt, stepped out of my trousers, and hung them up. Miss Ramjohn stared at the top of the bulkhead closet and did not change expression. Using a glass from the little cabinet and tap water, I had a drink of rum and offered her one. She refused gracefully, saying that she did not drink or smoke. After clucking my sympathy at this state of affairs, I had another drink, stretched out on the lower bunk, and surveyed her.
“What’s your first name?” I inquired. “I mean, after all, two people who are this close … I can’t call you Miss Ramjohn all the way to St. Sauteurs.”
“Clame,” she said. The dark eyes flickered down over me, recumbent on the bunk and wearing only jockey shorts.
“Nobody’s named Clarrie.”
“For Claribelle.”
Outside in the blasting heat of the wharf, winches were rattling and whining, lowering pallets of cargo into the aft hold. I could hear the humming of yellow Hyster forklift trucks, and the chanting and cursing of the stevedores. For twenty minutes I watched Clarrie and she stared over my head. Finally, I decided I might never get another chance of exactly this kind so I swung my bare legs out of the bunk. Had another drink, and taking Clarrie by both shoulders, kissed her. Gently and insistently. Her skin was cool; the gardenia fragrance stronger.
She made no gesture to push me away, nor did she assist. She endured the caress pressed against the door. I released her and stepped back.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Trinidad,” she replied.
“Oh? That’s the jump-up land, isn’t it?”
For the first time she smiled. It wasn’t much, but she had at least reacted, so I took her blouse off. The dark eyes swept down, startled, as I freed the three pearl buttons and drew the blouse down her arms. She wore no brassiere; had no need for any, because her dark-nippled breasts were perfectly shaped.
Her head had lifted again. When I began to kiss her breasts the aroused nipples hardened. I was watching her face; she shifted slightly on her feet, and the full mouth quivered. While I worked on her, silently, hurrying feet and fading voices passed along the companion-way outside. When her breathing quickened, I unzipped the short skirt, let it fall, and worked her over down below.
This time, when I kissed her mouth again, the ivory hands with the dark nails tightened on my neck and drew me to her. We stood clasped together, and I ran my hands down the sweet curve of her flanks. She moaned, grinding against me, and I eased her around and into the bottom bunk. Stretched out there, with the glistening black hair fanned across the pillow, she was every man’s dream of a wanton.
I had her three times in driving silence, and we were resting wordlessly when someone tapped on the cabin door. Called her name. Rising to one elbow, my dusky captor said in a high, clear English accent that everything was fine. That she’d be along directly …
I doubted that, and it turned out I was right.
Chapter 4
If the preceding events seem to you footling employment for a grown man, I’m not sure you’d be wrong. But it is what I do, and have done for fifteen years. My real name is Joseph Liam Gall and I am a counterintelligence agent, operating on individual contract for the action division of a large U.S. agency. In short, I am a nullifier, a minor strong-arm on the outermost periphery of American policy.
Looking back over my antic and often violent progress through the past decade and a half, I cannot truthfully say that my actions have affected history for very long, but like a good relief pitcher I have sometimes bought a little time for our more august representatives. I am highly paid, hold the hidden rank and perks of a Marine brigadier general (having been an officer in that service in War Two and Korea), and when not on assignment live in a huge clapboard castle in the Ozarks.
I restored the rococo mansion myself, and installed a greenhouse, mushroom culture room, and dojo gym in the basement. On the west slope I had dammed a thirty-foot icy waterfall to create a small lagoon, bordered by an Edo period Japanese garden complete with teahouse and a grotto; inside it I had built a sauna hut. The whole hilltop of my secluded estate was covered by a tall stand of virgin pines, and wind, rain, and snow harped through them in season. Until recently, there had also been three white tigers roaming my hundred-odd, high-fenced acres.
I had bought these unusual animals from the Maharaja of Rewa, who had bred the blue-eyed beasts to a true type, and when shipping them he had sent a shikari, or hunter, along to instruct me in their care. One of my principal joys had been watching the three snowy carnivores feed by moonlight in my garden, before the black bamboos, on horsemeat I had set out for them. So far as I knew, the Washington, D.C., Zoo had the only others in the United States.
Even Eden can be blasted. On my most recent assignment before this one in the Caribbean, I had gone undercover to infiltrate the most dangerous Black Power movement in the country. The Republic of New Africa. This group was a well-financed guerrilla army operating seventeen training cadres in the American South. They were buying land in counties which had a predominantly Negro population, raiding National Guard armories, and dispatching assassination squads to dispatch white bigots.
With my skin darkened by chemicals and wearing an Afro soul-brother wig, I got myself sentenced to a term in Arkansas’s notorious Tucker Farm prison. Escaped from there with black inmate help, and got a job training black troopers at a major guerrilla installation at the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia. While I was there, I went on two trips with the killer squads and was highly rated by Ahmed 4, the commander of the hidden camp.
Ahmed 4 was a tall man with ivory skin and the bearing of an Ashanti prince. He was completely dedicated to his dream of black supremacy, not equality, and he remains one of the few men I have feared in my lifetime. I was only a heartbeat away from death when he found out I was a plant, and had he not thought I could provide information, he would have killed me on the spot.
I broke out of his barracks lockup, and in crossing the eerie swamp blew up his communications powerhouse. He sent a squad of his troopers to attack my Ozark retreat, and I was driven from the house and took refuge in the cavern behind the waterfall. There had been a girl visiting me, a lady lawyer from Houston, dispatched from a major firm there to offer me a job, and she was killed.
The wooden mansion had been riddled by machine gun fire, and was partially burned. I had escaped, but was wounded, and four days later had been found wandering in the woods several miles away. Incoherent and dazed, with septicemia setting in as a result of abdominal gunshot wounds. I was lucky it was not peritonitis. After several months in Bethesda’s Naval Hospital, outside Washington, I was released as fit.
Back home, I employed a construction firm in Springfield, Missouri, to repair the bullet and fire damage to the Ozarks hilltop house. To renovate the fourteen-foot ceilings and stained glass windows, and replace the charred rosewood panels. That job would take several months, and my contract in the hot islands of the lower Caribbean would use up most of that time.
Chapter 5
Upon closer inspection, the Federal Palm turned out to be even more of a rust bucket than I had first thought. After we had cleared St. John’s harbor, Miss Ramjohn dressed and went about her other chores, cool and unruffled, and I toured the ship. Her brightwork was unpolished, her lifeboat frames rusting, and it was obvious that she was only an undistinguished ferryboat, coasting north from Trinidad to Jamaica, and back again. Passing her sister ship, the Federal Maple, en route. None of her ports was very far away, so she tied up most of every day and cleared just before dark.
