Review
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“A wild, thrilling ride.” —Ebony
“There’s a cinematic vibe here with James Bond fantastic escapes
mixed with Game of Thrones Red Wedding–type gore as blood
flows…Anticipate demand.”—Library Journal
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About the Author
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Eric Jerome Dickey is the New York Times bestselling author
of more than twenty novels, including Decadence, An Accidental
Affair, and Tempted by Trouble. He is also the author of a
six-issue miniseries of graphic novels for Marvel Entertainment,
Inc., featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof.***
Copyright © 2014 by Eric Jerome Dickey
ONE
Rituals Coffee House at City Gate, South Quay, Port of Spain,
directly behind Independence Square
Fast food joints were all over. This was the main transportation
hub on the island for buses and maxi taxis. It was seven o’clock
the next morning in the land of steel pan, calypso, soca,
chutney, and limbo, on a ainous island renamed by
Christopher Columbus. I’d come to town before sunrise to check
out the area near the former Trinidad Government Railway
headquarters.
By the time the sun had pulled itself from the sea, I had plotted
three exits in case shit went wrong and I was forced to flee
through an area that had thousands of visitors each day—that plus
the thousands of locals. I walked each route three times, each
time at a normal pace.
Then I left the keys in the van’s ignition, driver’s-side door
, a Minnie Mouse sunshade in the front window. A loaded
was under the front seat, easy to reach if I came back
running.
I dressed like a University of the West Indies student, wore a
T-shirt from the St. Augustine campus, jean shorts, sexy sandals,
my hair short and light brown. I went for young, but mature and
intellectual. Anxious, I sat listening to the rapidly changing
conversations of a group of women on the way to Port of Spain
General Hospital. One wore a tee that read kamla have no jack to
change she tyre. I listened to conversations, captured the rhythm
of the tongue, picked up variations of the accent, pretty much
mastered the singsong aspect, created a passable Trini accent,
Chaguanas or Port of Spain, minus the proper idioms. Many had an
interesting blend, a unique exoticness not seen in North America.
Despite the beauty of the people and the long lines for lattes,
unrest was all around me. The newspaper spoke in volumes. Another
social explosion was about to happen. Economy in decline.
Frustration. Poverty. Political fallouts. IMF and World Bank
called everything but the devil. Not enough to pay for housing.
Not enough money to live. Barbados stealing their flying fish.
School book prices high and salaries low. Teachers protesting.
Nurses protesting. had their crimes. Army had their
crimes. People losing their pensions.
And the band played on.
King Killer showed up by eight. I left my table, stood next to
him as I ordered a second latte. Sat a table away from him. Sat
facing him. Leg bouncing. Cleavage popping. Local paper open,
pretending to read about killings, crimes, and drugs coming in
from South America. The ta didn’t notice me. He wore tie
clips, pocket squares, French cuffs. Charcoal-gray suit perfectly
tailored, his shoes in brown hues. I watched the handsome
18-karat-gold wedding ring–wearing thug and saw that he eyed
professional women. Inside of thirty minutes, he befriended five
women as they came to get coffee or iced drinks—befriended them,
took their cards, and exchanged fuck-you-later smiles with each
as they left to rush to work. All had been well-dressed women.
None had looked over twenty-five. I nodded. I understood. He was
about status. He was attracted to women with smooth skin and
young eggs.
The next morning I dressed like an executive: fitted, sleeveless
dress, low heels, silver watch, bracelets, earrings, sat
properly, was there when he arrived, a copy of the local paper on
my bistro table as I sipped iced green tea and read, pretending
to be interested in an article where the president of the St.
Lucia Craft and Dry Goods Vendors Association was calling for
heavy security ahead of the cruise season, in a bid to prevent
tourist muggings in the city. Next page said that a major think
tank based in Washington, DC, said that Caribbean360 had reported
that gangs were stronger than the government here in Trinidad and
Tobago. Now maybe the LKs were on the road to attempting a coup
like the one that had happened in Trinidad and Tobago in 1990 by
a small maverick Islamic group called Jamaat al Muslimeen, led by
Yasin Abu Bakr. The moment had arrived. I inhaled, put the paper
down, felt his hardcore energy. King Killer noticed me. We made
eye contact. He grinned and nodded. I nodded in return, no grin.
Hard to get.
After he ordered, he stood over me, got my attention again, and
said, “Good morning.”
I looked up, saw him, said, “G’day.”
“How is your morning so far?”
“My morning feels out of sorts, to be honest. I’m over here
feeling like it’s midnight and past my bedtime, maybe because
back home it is midnight, and don’t you look alert and as happy
as Larry.”
“You have an interesting accent.”
“So do you. Wee cracker of a day, isn’t it?”
“Thought you might have been an English rose at best, Red legs at
worst.”
“Red legs” was a derogatory name for the poor whites in the
islands.
I said, “New Zealand.”
“A Kiwi. I’m intrigued. Here on business or have you moved to my
island?”
“Here on business.”
“For how long?”
“Will only be here a couple of days. Pardon the yawn. I need more
coffee.”
“Jet lag?”
“The sixteen-hour time difference is killing me. It’s morning
here, but it’s late night at home. By the time I am in a meeting
at three this afternoon, it will be a wee bit after sunrise back
home, so that will mean that I have stayed up all night again,
and I’m usually in bed by nine, ten at the latest.”
“Waiting on someone?”
“Not at all. My colleagues went ahead of me to the office.”
“Mind if I join you?”
Not until then did I shrug and give him a curious smile, left it
up to him to pursue me.
His jacket had a bulge from the weight of his . His pant leg
caught over the backup he had strapped to his ankle. Hot day.
Didn’t take his suit coat off. Baby face with the eyes of death.
He was Trini but didn’t speak with a strong Trini dialect. He
sounded almost British. He had been trained to suppress or erase
his accent the way Hollywood erased the accents of many.
He sat and said, “Pardon my rudeness. My name is Neziah. Neziah
De Lewis.”
“Neziah De Lewis. That is a beautiful name. It sounds royal.”
“It does, especially the way you say it with your accent.”
“My name is Samantha Greymouth, but most people call me Sam.”
“Sam it is. I will call you Sam.”
“Sounds beautiful the way you say my name, Neziah.”
“Likewise, Sam. The way you say my name makes it sound brand new
and original.”
I told him that I was in Trinidad on behalf of Australia and New
Zealand Banking Group Limited.
He told me the name of his Trinidadian-based companies. I told
him I had never heard of them.
Then he said, “Have you heard of Mrs. Karleen Ramjit?”
“No, afraid not.”
“She is my sister. You remind me of her. You have the same
powerful energy.”
“Flirting with a woman that reminds you of your sister, Neziah,
is that a good thing?”
“My twin sister is remarkable.”
“You’re a twin?”
“All women should be like Karleen.”
“Women don’t want to own the same dress as another woman. Being
like another woman, that’s simply out of the question.”
He smiled. I smiled.
The newspaper in front of me caught his eye, pulled his words
toward politics, the conversation starter, and maybe his way of
testing my values, gauging my intelligence, seeing if I was
worthy of adultery.
He said, “Too many of my people live day to day in unhappiness.”
“I read most of the paper. Sounds like some sort of oppression.”
“It is. Poverty is oppression. Oppression is worse than
slaughter.”
“Is it that bad? The sea. The sun. The sand. So lovely here.”
“Oppression is why we kill one another in the streets.”
“All over the world, or are you only speaking of here?”
“Eastern Port of Spain was labeled one of the most dangerous
places on the planet. That was in a report. Criminal gangs.
Gangster-style killings. The s are not going away. We’re close
to South America. Easier to get a than a plate of food in
some areas.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Our country is wealthy, but there is corruption. That aspect of
our island is out of control. A purification process is
necessary.”
I asked, “What does that mean? What is a purification process?”
“What it means, Sam, is that we will one day take charge on
behalf of the people. My sister leads us. We have a plan.”
“An elitist intervention?”
“No. With the people. We will one day lead the people away from
the s and the drugs. The violence among the poor will end.”
“Sounds very ambitious. You make it sound very spiritual.”
“Part of the journey will be spiritual. Some have become too
cynical, and that has to be rectified. We are here to kill the
dragon.”
“The dragon?”
“A metaphorical dragon.”
“I assumed.”
“We want to change what is wrong and lead others toward what is
right.”
“Struggle is a never-ending process, Neziah. I’ve seen that
around the world. Freedom is never really won. The battle never
ends.”
“We recognize that. You have to earn it with every generation.
You have to build momentum and keep that momentum going. We are
prepared to make sacrifices and do the hard work so our children
will not have to live in the poverty we know now, not have to
watch their sons and daughters and mothers and hers
slaughtered in the roads. People are afraid to leave home. You
become a prisoner in your own area. You live in violence and are
afraid to walk from Nelson Street to Duncan Street. Do that and
you’re robbed and found dead. Do the reverse, you’re in the
head, the murder posted on YouTube.”
“Wicked. Sounds like parts of America I’ve seen on television.”
“The Americas run from Canada to the end of Argentina.”
“I stand corrected. The United States. I have seen the television
show Cops, shows like that. The rest of the Americas is twice as
bad.”
“And it is the same in London and Russia and countless other
places on the globe. It says a lot about God’s faulty creation.”
“And New Zealand. Don’t you dare leave my island country out. I’m
also very proud to say we have drive-by shootings, stabbings,
murders, carjackings like the Americans, mainly in our Brisbane
area. So don’t exclude us from the global madness.”
He went silent.
I had fucked up.
Brisbane was in Australia, not in New Zealand.
I was ready for the killer of a king to call me on that, to sense
that all was wrong, kick over the table, pull his , and ask me
who I was.
With my fingers touching the inside my purse, I asked, “Are
we okay?”
“Just thinking. Our island had become the Caribbean’s murder
capital. That makes me unhappy. That makes me very unhappy.”
“Hear that?”
“What?”
“When I lean to the left, I can hear the people in the ramshackle
areas up in Kingston, Jamaica, laughing at the killings in the
ramshackle areas down here. No offense, but the Jamaicans want
their title back.”
He laughed.
I winked at him.
He asked, “Where were you born? You’ve heard my story. What’s
yours?”
“I was born in a place called Kawerau. Eastern Bay of Plenty. Was
born in the oldies’ caravan.”
“Oldies?”
“ ‘Oldies’ means parents. A caravan is what you call a mobile
home. Had a long drop out back.”
“Long drop?”
“Outdoor toilet. Had to dig a deep hole, put a barrel at the
bottom. We lived in our own type of oppression. I know poverty
very well.”
“You and your parents?”
“The oldies split before I was a teenager. My her left my
mother when I was ten, maybe when I was nine, went to Nuku’alofa,
Tonga.”
“What did he do there?”
“Got a great job. Started a new family.”
“How’d you get by?”
“My mum worked in a movie theater for a while, then eventually
became a frock tart and worked on Xena: Warrior Princess. She was
almost killed on the job.”
“Pardon me for staring at you with such respect.”
“Only if you pardon me for the same.”
He grinned and said, “Your arms are so toned. You’re fit.”
“Netball. Hiking. Aerobics. Biking. Keep away from too much
bread.”
“You have the body of a dancer, Sam. No kids?”
“None. Maybe next year. Or the year after. My husband tells me
that I need to be as fit as I can be before I decide to up the
duff and have a rug rat or two or three or four.”
He asked, “What’s your religion?”
“Are you asking me if I am a member of the unquestioning,
self-righteous faith against all rationalism and morality
characterized by a lack of critical thinking?”
“What religion rules New Zealand?”
“I was born Christian, but I really have no interest in
religion.”
“Religion is about moral guidance.”
“Rubbish, Neziah. The Crusades spread genocide, rape, slavery,
torture, murder, animal cruelty, and some of the most insanely
sadistic shit imaginable, and evil was justified by saying their
version of God commanded them to do it.”
“Every country, every society does horrible things, allows
horrible things, for the greater good.”
“Good point, but it makes me wonder.”
“What does it make you wonder, Sam?”
“Maybe what we see as good is just evil that has won.”
“Interesting perspective.”
“If evil did win, then it would call itself good, and call what
was seen as good the new evil.”
“What has won, Sam, what always wins is the work of doing what is
best for the people.”
“Talking about religion, in my opinion, is a gerbil on a wheel,
gets nowhere fast.”
“You’re right. I tend to play devil’s advocate. If you had taken
one side, I would have taken the other. That’s what I do. I love
intellectual stimulation. It arouses me. How moral are you, sexy
woman?”
“How moral are you, married man? How moral are you?”
“I asked you first, married woman who is visiting my island.”
“You’re looking at me like you want to visit my island.”
“How moral are you? Answer me. I asked you first.”
I said, “I have to be off to a meeting soon.”
“Same for me.”
“So, if there is a particular direction you want this to go, if
you have any hopes beyond us sharing a table while we sip coffee,
let’s hurry in that direction. I’m not much on small talk and
chitchat and taking the long route, not when a straight line is
always the best route.”
He smiled. “How long are you here?”
“Are you interested in making something happen?”
“I am. I am very interested.”
“My husband is far away. Maybe you should put your wife on hold
so you can hold me awhile.”
“I can come to your hotel after this event with my sister. An
afternoon of pleasure.”
“No. I don’t want any issues with my company. Illicit behavior is
frowned upon, plus I’ve only been there for six months. I don’t
want to be seen as the young, wild Kiwi on the job. If we have
sex, we have to fuck away from my hotel. Anywhere but the Hilton.
I’m at the upside-down Hilton, by the way. So if we fuck, we
can’t fuck there.”
“To the point. I like that. The way you say ‘fuck’ is erotic. It
arouses me.”
“Sure it’s not the coffee?”
“Personal question, Sam?”
“Sure.”
He asked, “When was the last time you had sex?”
“May I be honest?”
“Please.”
“I’d hate to come here on a business trip and not get to sample
anything outside of the doubles and curry chicken before I
returned to my island country. How boring would that be? This is
where I stand. I’m married, have to be respectful, have to be
discreet. My colleagues are also friends of my husband.
Understand? I can manage to slip away at night, but during the
day I have to maintain a certain look for my employer.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Only free tonight, Neziah. My colleagues are going to lime on
Ariapita Avenue tonight, are going to the Aria Lounge to watch a
launch for Genesis or W.I.L.D., but I told them I was too tired
to hit the streets and I’d in a bit. Work dinner with the
colleagues tomorrow night. Then I fly out the next morning.”
“I have an event tonight. It’s a busy day for our organization
and the people of Trinidad.”
“Oh well. If I’m ever this way again, or if you’re ever in New
Zealand, I hope to run across you.”
“You’d find someone else.”
“I could sit at the bar later, maybe, see what happens, who comes
in, who shows interest in a lonely Kiwi drinking chocolate
martinis.”
I toyed with my wedding ring, played the part of the Kiwi
visiting the island on business regarding holdings for a New
Zealand company, a woman who needed to let the Miley Cyrus in her
run free. He toyed with his wedding band. It was impressive.
German-made. Expensive.
He said, “I can come for you around eleven.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can cancel my date, which will be no problem, and arrange for
you to come along in her place.”
“Really?”
“I’d be honored to spend the evening with you, Sam.”
“How should I dress?”
“Wear something easy to remove.”
“Bring your frenchies.”
“Frenchies?”
“Condoms.”
King Killer left the coffee shop and I watched him get inside the
backseat of his private car and be driven away like royalty. I
stared at the man who had killed a king of the streets and paved
the way for his group. Handsome. Fuckable. A wave of guilt hit
me. I made sure King Killer was out of before I changed SIM
cards in my cellular and called the man I was in love with,
dialed Johnny Parker’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
I didn’t say anything. All I could do was inhale, exhale, miss
him like crazy. Missed him so much my head ached and my eyes
wanted to water.
He said, “Jennifer? Is this you, Jennifer?”
Last month, before this Trinidad assignment, I had an almost
normal life, had used the name Jennifer, a form of the Welsh
Gwenhwyfar, a name that meant “white fairy”—a little
self-deprecating humor. Johnny was my boyfriend. We’d spent most
nights together for four months. And had taken vacations
together. The last was from Florida to Denver. During our
helicopter tour of a ain range in Colorado, we saw several
snowboarders taking on the steep terrain of the couloir. The next
day we both had done the same. He was as daring and athletic as I
was. I had been living the perfect lie. Dates. Movies. Birthday
cards. Too bad his ex-wife had become a problem that had to be
dealt with.
I cleared my throat, turned on my Brooklyn accent, and said,
“Parker. I miss you, baby.”
Then I hung up.
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