Hurricane (12 page)

“
We sure can. We have scuba gear on board and full tanks. You could go down and plug the leak.”

“
Not me,” Victor said. “I don’t dive. Never have.”

“
Then I’ll do it,” Julie said.

“
Mom, I can do it. I’m the swimmer.”

“
Have you ever done scuba?”

“
No, but I snorkel.”

“
It’s settled,” Julie said, “I go. Meiko, you and Victor can cut up a towel in thin strips while I get the gear. And soak them in Vaseline, that should help bind them together and help keep the water out.”

Fifteen minutes later Julie tied a line around her waist. Meiko held the other end. Victor stood aside, watching.

“
All right, I’m ready,” Julie said, and they followed her to the swim ladder. Getting over the life lines was awkward. She’d never gone down the swim ladder with a tank on her back, and she’d never done it at night, and never in the open sea with the boat rocking with the waves.

But she made it without stumbling or slipping. She shivered when her foot touched the water. She had the rags in a pouch tied to the weight belt. She checked to make sure they were secure.

“
Good luck, Mom,” Meiko said.

“
Back in a flash,” Julie said, with more bravado than she felt. Then she slipped into the black water. She shivered again, but this time not from the cold. She sucked on the regulator, and drew a deep breath and held it, then she exhaled and dropped below the boat, into the dark.

Chapter Seven

Broxton felt fuzzy headed. The movie flew by in a haze of cheers and boos. When Trinis went to see a film they were absorbed by it and Broxton was caught up along with them, shouting encouragement to the good guys, cat calling during the love scenes and hissing the villains. And before he knew it the movie was over and he was on the street again.

He wandered up toward the Savannah, following a group of young people, two boys and two girls. The teenagers were still talking about the movie, imitating the characters, rehashing the lines, reliving the climax. They’d had a good time at the show and they were still sharing it.

And Broxton felt the afterglow. He’d smoked marijuana a few times in college, but he’d never enjoyed it, preferring Jack Daniels and water instead. Tonight, despite the mess he was in, he’d had fun. He’d been carried away by the film and for a few hours all of his cares were gone. It was easy to see why a man with a low paying job, several kids, piles of bills and a dead end future would go to the movies and smoke a joint on the weekend.

He stopped and looked at the sky, taking in the stars, like a child seeing the heavens for the first time. The teenagers kept walking and talking away. Their happy voices carried to him on the cool night breeze.

“
Can you help us out here,” said a not so happy voice. Broxton was jolted out of his reverie and his attention was riveted on the scene ahead. Two men were confronting the kids, asking for money. The one speaking was spitting his words through a filthy beard and matted dreadlocks.

“
We don’t got nothing,” one of the young boys said.

“
Bet you do,” Dreadlocks said.

“
Honest,” the young boy said.

“
You got some money for us or you gonna be fucking sorry,” Dreadlocks said, and Broxton had the picture. Two men. Late twenties or early thirties. Unkempt. Street people. He moved closer. The men had their backs to him. The children were too frightened to notice.

“
All we had was enough to go to the movies,” the boy said, and Dreadlocks grabbed one of the girls by the arm, to keep them from running away, Broxton thought. The girl was too frightened to scream, but her wide eyes caught Broxton as he moved up behind the men.

“
Listen, boy, you give over what you got or you be sorry.” Crackheads, Broxton thought. The underbelly of the snake, the reason why he went to work everyday.

“
Let the girl go,” Broxton said.

Dreadlocks stiffened, but the other man spun around to face Broxton. He had a knife in his right hand and a glint in his bloodshot eyes. He was tall, six-six, half a foot taller than Broxton, but he was crack thin. Crack thin and crack crazy.

“
You wanna mind your own business?” the man with the knife said.

“
No,” Broxton answered.

“
You gonna pay you don’t,” Knifeman said. Brave words, but the knife was shaking in the man’s bony hand.

“
One way or another, everybody has to pay,” Broxton said, moving closer, keeping his eyes on the blade. Instinctively he lowered himself into a crouch, turning sideways to the man, making himself a smaller target. He wasn’t a natural like others he’d known, but he knew how to fight. Everybody did in the barrio, and if you were one of the few Anglo kids and your father was a cop, you had to fight just to keep your place in line at the school cafeteria, and Broxton liked to eat.

Knifeman came in quick, leading with the blade, holding it like a sword. The shakes were cocaine induced, like his courage. Broxton stepped aside, but the man was faster than he anticipated and Broxton felt the cold tip of hot steel slice across his stomach as he brought the back of his right hand down on the man’s wrist.

First, the snapping sound of breaking bone.

Second, the clattering of the knife on the sidewalk.

Third, the scream.

Broxton hit him in the mouth, cutting off the scream and cutting his fist on breaking teeth. Knifeman left the ground, arms flaying, bleeding, and landed on his back, his head making a sickening thud when it hit the concrete.

“
You can’t do that,” Dreadlocks said.

“
Let the girl go,” Broxton said.

“
I don’t think so.”

“
Let her go and you can walk away.”

Dreadlocks was silent for a few seconds, weighing Broxton’s words. The girl looked frightened, but she wasn’t struggling and the other three teenagers, to their credit, hadn’t run off. The four kids all looked to Broxton with hope in their eyes.

“
You a bad ass?” Dreadlocks asked.

Broxton kept his eyes locked on him, but ignored the question as he ran his hand through the slice in his shirt and touched tender skin. He studied the blood on his hand and winced. The cut was starting to hurt.

“
I axed you a question.”

Broxton bent and picked up the knife.

“
I axed you a question.”

“
Yeah, you axed me a question.” Broxton deliberately pronounced the word the East Coast way, the way Dreadlocks did. “You axed me a question and I’m gonna axe your head off with your buddy’s knife if you don’t let the girl go.”

“
You want me, come through her.”

“
Then you die,” Broxton said.

Dreadlocks cut into Broxton’s eyes with a long stare and saw that he meant it.

“
What about my friend?” he asked.

“
You don’t really care, do you?”

“
No,” he said and he relaxed his grip on the girl, thought for a second, and let her go, backing away. One step, two, three, then he turned and ran.

“
Is he dead?” one of the boys said, looking at Knifeman laid out on the sidewalk.

“
No, he’ll be okay.” Broxton didn’t know or care if he was telling the truth.

“
You hit him hard. That was real neat,” the other boy said.

“
We should move away from here, before the police come,” Broxton said.

“
But you’re the good guy.” This from the girl that had been held captive.

“
They don’t think so,” Broxton said and the four youngsters followed his gaze to the flashing blue light coming toward them.

“
Look away so they don’t see your white face,” one of the boys said. Broxton did as instructed. The two girls linked arms around him, one on each side. The boys moved in front and they slowly walked away from the man laid out on the sidewalk.

The police car sped by ignoring what appeared to be a group of kids leaving the movies and a passed out drunk. Neither unusual for Port of Spain on a Saturday night.

“
Are you hurt bad?” one of the girls asked. He hadn’t realized it till she asked, but he was holding on to them for support.

“
Don’t know,” he said, economizing both words and strength.

“
Can you walk?”

“
Think so.”

“
What do you want us to do?” One of the boys asked, he wasn’t sure which one.

“
I need to go to the Normandy Hotel. I have a friend. Waitress in the restaurant.”

“
Kind of far,” the same boy said.

‘
Shut up, Leon. We’re gonna help him,” the girl said.

“
Bleeding,” Broxton said.

“
Alex, take off your shirt. Julia give me that little knife you always got in your purse.”

“
Since when you the boss, Wendy?” Leon said.

“
Since now, cause I know what to do and you don’t,” she said. Julia was digging in a small purse. She came out with a Swiss Army knife.

“
I said I need your tee shirt, Alex,” Wendy said, and Broxton winced as the boy nodded and pulled it off.

“
What you doing?” Leon wanted to know.

“
I’m making a compress to push against the cut. It will stop the bleeding,” she said, as she cut the cotton shirt in two. Half she folded. “Here,” she said, handing it to Broxton. “Hold it tight against the wound. Not so much that it hurts, just enough to stop the flow of blood.”

“
Alex, take this and go over there and get it wet.” She handed the other half of the shirt to the boy and pointed to a water tap in front of a bakery. The bakery was closed, but the tap was dripping. She wiped Broxton’s brow with the damp cloth, then she ran the cool rag around his neck, under his shirt and along his shoulders. It gave him a quick chill.

“
Take a few easy breaths,” she told him, “and try to calm down.” She couldn’t have been any older than fourteen, but he obeyed, bringing the air in slowly and letting it out the same way, while she held his hand, giving him a gentle squeeze with each breath.

“
It’s quite a ways, think you can manage?” Wendy asked.

“
I’ll make it.”

“
Okay, you can lean on me.” Broxton wrapped his arm around her and they made their way through the dark streets toward the Savannah, the Normandy Hotel and a girl he’d met only a few hours ago.

Every step cut into the fire in his belly, like smoldering steel through ice. He bit into his lower lip to divert the pain and tightened his arm around Wendy’s waist. She didn’t seem to mind. He counted the driveways they passed, then he counted parked cars, then every step he took, but no amount of counting countered the pain and finally he gave into it, closed his eyes and passed out.

“
Wake up.” He felt the slap on his face. “We’re almost there.” It was Leon speaking, “Don’t quit now.”

He opened his eyes. He was still on his feet.

“
Only a few more blocks. You can do it,” Leon said. “First I didn’t think you could an’ I didn’t care, but you stuck your neck out for us, and you made it this far. You got guts. We gonna get you to your girl, but you gotta hold on just a little more.”

“
I can,” Broxton grunted.

“
Sure you can,” Wendy said, and they started up again. Step after step. Wendy’s arm was wrapped all the way around his waist. She was holding the compress tightly against his stomach. He must’ve dropped it when he passed out. “I know it hurts,” she said, “but it’s not bleeding so bad now, you’re going to be okay,” and her soft sweet voice soaked into him, giving him strength.

He matched her small strides, eyes closed, faith open, the fire in his belly consuming him. Two blocks, five minutes, an eternity.

“
There,” Leon said, and he opened his eyes.

“
Back table,” he said.

She saw them come in as she was making her way through the tables toward the bar. She ordered a bottle of Cabernet for a party dining on the balcony, but kept her eyes on him as the two girls helped him into a seat with his back to the wall. He smiled at her and nodded his head, she nodded back, met his eyes, held them, then returned the smile.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come, but he had nowhere else to go. He watched her as the bartender handed her the wine. Her smile was sincere, her eyes understanding, she saw he was hurt. She would help.

He leaned back about to close his eyes when he caught movement to his left. Two men, both white, were approaching from across the room. They moved with a purpose, like police. Both had close cropped hair, both were young, both strong. Not police. Marines. They were from the embassy and they were coming for him.

His first thought was that the running was over. He’d be safe with the Marines. He’d tell his story and they’d protect him. Whoever was after him might be able to maneuver the DEA and the local police, but nobody outside of the President of the United States was powerful enough to control the Marine Corps.

But his second thought belayed the first. Why were they here? Who sent them? Halfway across the room the marine on the right pulled a forty-five automatic from under his coat. He was bringing it up to fire. The marine on the left was following suit, a hair slower.