Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02 (11 page)

“So why tell me?”

“I don’t know. I just felt like telling someone. Monk’s gone, you were his friend.”

I sipped my tea.

“You don’t approve, do you?” said Ali.

“It doesn’t really matter whether I approve or disapprove.
You’re an adult. So was Monk. Adults make their own choices. And live with them.”

“That means you don’t approve.”

“He was old enough to be your father, Ali. Sorry, but something about that is just a little off for me.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. She wiped them back and looked at the floor.

“I loved him,” she said softly. “We talked about leaving here, going off somewhere together, just the two of us.”

“Sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

She looked up at me.

“No, you aren’t,” she said. “You’re just saying that.”

I finished my tea in a hurry. When I was done, Ali didn’t ask if I wanted any more.

I showed up at Darcy Whitehall’s house just before eleven. He was waiting for me at a table on the deck, freshly showered, rosy-cheeked and vigorous. He wore a black silk bathrobe with some kind of Oriental design. I’d never sat down and eaten breakfast with someone whom I would describe as dashing. Darcy Whitehall was.

I wasn’t. I had changed out of the running clothes and was now wearing a pair of Monk’s pants and one of Monk’s shirts. They hung on me as if they had been handed down and I was still growing into them.

A waiter served us ackee and saltfish. It’s the national dish of Jamaica, and for good reason. The yellow clumps of ackee resembled scrambled eggs, but had a sweet nuttiness that tangoed seductively with the saltfish. I was trying to take tiny bites and pace myself. Wasn’t working.

Below us, things were just beginning to stir. Beach attendants hauled out Jet Skis and Hobie Cats. A small legion of men, the fluff crew, raked corduroy strips in the sand. Here and there, guests were making their way toward the beachside dining pavilion. Some were already in the pool. Another long day of debauchery had just begun.

A waiter refilled my cup with coffee. I drank some.

“Good stuff,” I said. “Blue Mountain?”

Darcy Whitehall shook his head.

“No, Peet’s. Major Dickensen’s Blend. I have it shipped from California. I find our Blue Mountain a bit thin for my taste.”

“Glad to hear you say that. I thought it was just me.”

“Of course, being the proud Jamaican that I am, I insist that we serve Blue Mountain in our restaurants and sell it at our gift shop. Guests buy it by the caseful. Thirty dollars U.S. a bag.”

“Whatever the market will bear.”

“Exactly.” He sat back in his chair and let out air. “Only these days, I’m afraid it is I who can no longer bear the market.”

I didn’t know where he was going with that, so I let it hang. There was one more corn muffin left in the breadbasket. I took it.

Whitehall said, “Had I known twenty years ago what I know today, I would have done some things a little differently.”

“You and me both,” I said. “I would have been a punter.”

It didn’t register with Whitehall. He was lost in his own reverie, a bittersweet one by the look on his face.

“When it all started out, it was so daring, so provocative. It was almost as if we were on a grand and noble mission. Imagine—a resort where you could lose all inhibition, play out any sexual fantasy you wished. We were creating something new, breaking the mold, flaunting the conventional. Now, it seems, the conventional has caught up with us.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “Where I come from, they don’t have naked flume rides on every block. And last I checked, Disney kinda frowned on it if you bonked your seatmate coming down the homestretch of Splash Mountain.”

Whitehall smiled.

“I suppose what I mean is that Libido’s success, its expansion to other islands, has diluted the experience. As a business model, it has succeeded beyond my wildest expectation. But as a source of enduring pride? Believe me, Mr. Chasteen, I never set out to be the figurehead of a nonstop fuckfest.”

“But there is the money.”

“Yes,” he said. “There’s that.”

The waiter appeared with more coffee. We both took refills.
When he was gone, Whitehall said: “So, what’s your opinion of Alan?”

Before I could answer, Whitehall said: “Forgive me. That’s a horrible question to ask. Puts you in an awkward position, me being his father and all.”

“Not at all,” I said. “You have every right to be proud of him. He’s quite an impressive young man.”

“You’re familiar with his work for the homeless?”

“A little bit,” I said. “He’s made quite an impact, improved a lot of lives.”

“Which will continue on a greater scale when he’s elected to parliament. I fully believe he could be prime minister one day. Alan’s marked for great things, and I will do everything within my power to see that he achieves his dreams.”

“What about Ali?”

Whitehall made a face. Not quite a scowl, more like a grimace. Whatever, it wasn’t pleasant.

“Still trying to find herself,” he said. “Flits from one thing to the next. A bit too much like her mother, perhaps.”

“Tell me about her mother.”

It took Whitehall a moment to get the words out.

“She’s dead,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright. No reason why you should.”

He didn’t offer any details, and I didn’t feel like it was my place to pry. Whitehall sat back in his chair.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d appreciate it if you could help Otee keep watch over Alan for the next few days. Tomorrow, he’s supposed to head up to Benton Town to make a speech, and I am most concerned about his well-being.”

“Fine by me. But who’ll be keeping watch over you?”

“Oh, I have no intention of going anywhere for the foreseeable future. I have plenty of work that needs to get done here in my office,” Whitehall said. “Resort security will be just fine. I hardly think whoever is behind all this intends to storm the place and drag me away.”

I finished off my coffee. The waiter immediately appeared and took the cup.

“So,” I said. “Who
is
behind all this?”

Whitehall crossed his legs and smoothed out his silk robe.

“I told you last night, I really have no idea.”

“Yeah, I know you told me that. No offense, but I really don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie about it?”

“I’m not saying you’re lying. I just don’t think you’re being totally forthcoming,” I said. “If I’m going to stick around and help you out, then you’ll need to lay everything on the table.”

A gold cigarette case sat on the deck rail. Whitehall opened it, took out a cigarette, and tapped it on the case.

“Who is Martha Brae?” I said.

“Martha Brae?”

I nodded. Whitehall smiled.

“It’s not a who, actually, it’s a town,” Whitehall said. “Little place in the hills above Falmouth. It’s the name of a river, too. They do raft trips down it for the tourists, that sort of thing. We run excursions there from the resort. Why do you ask?”

“Saw the name mentioned in some of Monk’s things,” I said. “Thought it might mean something.”

“Means nothing to me. I don’t know anyone who lives in Martha Brae.”

He pulled a box of matches from his robe and lit the cigarette. He sat there smoking it.

“I’m down to five a day,” he said. “Been trying to break the habit.”

“What is Equinox Investments?” I said.

It got a reaction out of Whitehall, but he recovered quickly. He took a drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly.

“Another habit I’ve tried to break,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “What do you know about Equinox?”

“Only what I’ve read,” I said.

Wasn’t a complete lie.

“It was mentioned in Monk’s things as well?”

I nodded.

Whitehall sat there smoking his cigarette, brooding. A
minute passed. A banananquit flew onto the deck rail, then flitted to the table and began pecking at the sugar. Whitehall waved it away.

He stood up from the table.

“I really need to get to work,” he said. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Thought I’d head into Mo Bay, drop by the airport, see if they’ve found out anything more than they knew yesterday.”

“You want Otee to drive you?”

“No, I’ll be alright on my own.”

“Fine then, I’ll arrange a car,” said Whitehall, stepping away. “Check back with me when you return.”

I went back to the cottage, hoping to get through to Barbara before I drove into Mo Bay. I tried her cell phone. No answer. I called Orb Communications and was eventually connected with her assistant, Steffie Plank.

“Barbara’s in Berlin,” Steffie said.

“Berlin?”

“Yes, you know, as in Germany. As in decadent hub of European avant-gardism. As in Aaron the Baron’s headquarters for impending world domination.”

Steffie is bright and talented, destined for great things, and Barbara lives in fear that she will jump ship for the heady nexus of the New York publishing world. That’s why Orb Communications was paying her tuition in the M.B.A. program at Rollins College. It wasn’t as if Steffie really needed an advanced degree. Barbara was just hoping it would make her stick around a little longer.

“I didn’t know Barbara was going to Berlin.”

“Neither did Barbara. But Hockelmann showed up here in his jet, took a quick look at our place, then told Barbara he wanted to show her his,” Steffie said. “His place, that is. In Berlin.”

“Glad you clarified that,” I said. “I was getting a little worried.”

“Maybe you ought to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Steffie?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Steffie . . .”

“Let’s just say that Aaron Hockelmann is not nearly the ogre that the press makes him out to be. He’s kinda cute, actually.”

“Cute?”

“Well, in a bland, Aryan, all-business kind of way. He’s not awful. That’s all I’m saying.”

“So you think you could work for him?”

Steffie didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know. Part of me doesn’t want Barbara to sell the company. The other part of me thinks it could be pretty exciting,” Steffie said. “What has she said to you about it?”

“That’s she’s on the fence, not quite sure what to do.”

“Well, an impromptu trip to Berlin, a little glitter and razzle-dazzle, just might be the thing to help her make up her mind.”

“Just might,” I said. “So how come Barbara didn’t take you along with her?”

“You know, I was wondering the exact same thing,” Steffie said. “I think maybe it had something to do with the fact that she wanted a little one-on-one time with Mr. Hotty Hockelmann in the lushly appointed cabin of his private jet. Maybe she was thinking they could form their own European Union or something.”

“Funny, Stef.”

“I thought so.” She paused. “When are you going to make an honest woman out of her, Zack?”

I was wondering how long it would take before Steffie hijacked our conversation toward this particular topic. Barbara and I had been seeing each other and no one else for several years without entertaining any talk of marriage. I was OK with that, and I was pretty sure Barbara was, too. But it seemed to upset Steffie’s notion of the way things ought to be. Kids today. Jeez.

“Barbara’s already an honest woman,” I told her. “And I’m surprised that an otherwise enlightened and progressive individual such as yourself would trifle in such backwards, sexist terminology.”

“Cut the crap, Zack. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I do.”

“The exact words she longs to hear.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Why? Have you asked her?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“So when are you going to?”

“When am I going to what?”

“Ask her to marry you, dammit.”

“Is this something that Barbara and you have sat around and discussed?”

“No, not in so many words. Not at all, actually. But I don’t have to talk to her about it. I know how she feels about you, Zack. We all do. It’s written all over her,” said Steffie. “Besides, it’s not as if the two of you are getting any younger.”

“Appreciate you reminding me of that,” I said. “Feel like I’ve aged twenty years since yesterday.”

We talked about what had happened at the airport. And when I was done, I asked Steffie: “Did Barbara know about it before she left for Berlin?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. It didn’t come on CNN until after 5
P.M.
and she left a couple of hours before that. She and Hockelmann were probably out over the Atlantic by then. Sipping cocktails. In the lushly appointed cabin of his private jet. Just the two of them . . .”

“I gotta go, Stef.”

“Ask her, Zack,” she said.

The car Darcy Whitehall arranged for me turned out to be a big black Mercedes, just like his, only minus the monogrammed initials on the doors.

I opened the sunroof, opened all the windows, turned the air conditioner on high, and put the Mercedes on the A1 for Mo Bay. I found a radio station that was playing roots reggae, not the dancehall crap, and turned it up loud. The sky was blue, the Caribbean was, too, and a couple of times I almost forgot exactly why I was in Jamaica and why I shouldn’t be slapping the seat in time with the music and having a good time.

Seeing the airport brought it all back to me. Flights had resumed, but the parking lot remained off-limits, with armed troops still manning the perimeter. Cars and trucks were parked helter-skelter along the main access road, which was bumper-to-bumper. Would-be passengers were making the long haul to the terminal with their luggage. Horns were honking, tempers were short.

A couple of strip malls near the airport had capitalized on the moment by renting parking spots for about twenty bucks. I paid for a space, left the Mercedes, and made the fifteen-minute trek to a checkpoint by the main entrance where only ticketed
passengers, employees, and those with official airport business were permitted to pass through.

“I’m part of the investigation,” I told one of the soldiers.