The way it was… remembrances by L. E. Taylor
THE DINNER OF NIGHT TWO at our no-name Caribbean hideaway outside Negril was identical to the night before. The menu items were different but the over-spiced mystery food (chicken I think, maybe driftwood) tasted exactly the same as last night’s prawns. And the wine, again, was at room temperature. If you were dining in a sauna.
The incessant racket of reggae well down the beach lent perspective to an otherwise dull night in the tropics. Delores and I had retired to our doorless suite of one room, plus half-bath and half-closet. The ceiling fan thum-thrummed, stirring heavy air, still redolent of angry curry vapors. (We were over the kitchen.) She clicked on the light bulb and flipped open a magazine.
Urgent footfalls on the outdoor stairway startled us. “Douse the light,” I said. We heard a hard padding commotion just outside on our deck; panicky huffing and wheezing, then a pounding on the louvered screen door. Adrenaline spiked my instincts. Hushed, excited mumbling of two people, now. I pulled back the curtain. In the darkness I recognized the plump white faces of the young couple form the room next door.
“We were on the beach,” he said, “walking back from the party and a guy came up and grabbed her. We got away and he ran after us. Please let us in.”
“Was he armed?” I asked.
“A knife, I think.”
“Get in here,” I said. I searched around for a weapon, a club. Nothing. I spoke to the women: “You two get back there in the dark and be quiet.” I ushered them to an alcove next to the no-shower bathroom. I rummaged around and came up with a wire coat hanger.
“You,” I said to the fat kid, “What’s your name?”
“How big is this guy?”
“About your size.”
Good. I stared at the floor. “Okay… Gil,” I said, “The most important thing we have to do is keep that sonofabitch out of here.” I was uncurling the coat hanger and wrapping it around one hand. “When he comes through that door, I’ll be behind him, over there.” I wrapped the loose end of the wire hanger around my other hand. “He’ll come in and he’ll see you. I’ll grab him around the neck with this and run him out the door and over the side.” Gil stared at me in the deep-shadowed room. “Uh, Gil…? You. Stand. Right. There. Got it? Gil.?”
Footfalls thundered up from the outdoor stairway and urgent mumbling. More than one guy. Damn. “Let’s go, Gil,” I said and plunged through the beaded doorway.
No one. But lots of noise down below. I looked over the rail. A white clad black man in a baseball cap looked up and shouted to me, “This way. Come down, mon. It’s safe! Come down!”
The four of us rushed onto the deck and down the rude wooden stairs. The guy in the baseball cap hustled us across a dimly lit yard and we climbed into a pre-war caramel-coloured Hillman-Minx, maybe an Austen. The engine was running. The driver, another black man, said nothing. We exited the grounds and the comical clown car raced through an inky night. In a few minutes we arrived at a lighted village square, actually a circle with a fountain in the center. We slowed to a crawl. Windows down for air, we passed a throng of loitering sullen Africans. Their eyes burned hostile and red in the half light of the village center.
The police station was nothing more than a mobile home on legs, like a contractor’s hut. In the darkness, we climbed three or four steps, pulled open the steel door and entered a grim sanctuary lit green by overhead fluorescent tubes.
The narrow room was barren except for two items: an antique oaken standup desk with a massive domes-day book splayed open upon it, and a gleaming ebony giant of a man resplendent in a crisp, British colonial constable’s uniform. Indifferent to us, he stood at his post, carefully writing entries on the mouldy pages of the old log-book.
The starched white jacket sported gold buttons up the front to a closed high collar. The Sam Brown belt that crossed the man’s impressive chest was of black leather and its holster housed an oversized .45 mm automatic. His black Bermuda-length shorts had a broad red stripe on each side, and just below the knees, white stockings traveled down to a pair of thick-soled patent leather size-twenty brogans. The shiny black bill of an officer’s scarlet cap shaded this imposing creature’s eyes. He stood intent upon his task. I wondered how far back into the mists of history the book’s entries went… Blackbeard? Fourteen-ninety-two?
The man was apparently the entire Police Department of Negril, Jamaica. Okay by me. They could do worse.
The cola-nut cop spoke not a word, but continued his report or whatever he was inscribing. Abruptly, he whispered to the driver who had whisked us away from our paradise. I took the driver to be some sort of auxiliary security bloke.
Finally, the policeman’s attention turned to his American guests. We were addressed individually for our names, please, and asked to recount our description of the incident. The place was an oven. The ebony Mounty seemed cool, impervious to the heat. The rest of us glistened a sickly green in the factory light.
It all took about twenty minutes, give or take five hours, then we shuffled out.
Back at the oasis, we were met at the car by a second white-shirted black rent-a-cop. He spoke in whispers to our driver. I asked, “Did they catch the guy?” The second security guy melted into the night.
“He’s no problem anymore,” replied the driver.
“Did they arrest him?”
“No problem anymore.” He turned and walked to the dwarf car. As he got in, I noticed a pistol grip protruding from his back waistband. Delores and I glanced at each other. The fellow pulled the car door closed. He started the engine, backed a few feet toward us and stopped. His elbow rested on the open window and he flashed us a quick look. “No problem anymore.”
[To be continued...]
Next, Part Two: Fight or Flight.