Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,86
be passing by.
“Why you think I be home on a Thursday ’stead of working?” she asked after answering her cell phone.
When I told her why I hoped she was home, Ransom said, “That not his real name, why you have truck wid that bad man? His real name, it Sylvester—like in the Rocky movies his uneducated mama probably loved, but who knows?” After a thoughtful pause, she then asked, “You say Kondo’s in a rental boat? A man wid his money, what the hell he doin’ in a damn rental boat? Think he lives in Kingston, but he got a place in Naples, too. A bad boy like Kondo, he’d have him a fast boat.”
“You’ve met him?” I asked.
My stubborn cousin replied, “Tell me how much Tomlinson owe that midget ’fore I tell you another damn thing.”
“Ransom,” I said patiently, “this might be important.”
She sighed, but gave in. “Even a dumb Haitian know an island woman not put up wid his bullshit, so, no, Kondo, he avoid me. But the money people—at parties, at the clubs, I’m sayin’—they treat him like somethin’ special. You know what does. Sells ’em herb, then a Santeria blessing if they pay four, five hundred cash to buy a damn dirty pigeon that Kondo call a dove. Or cast an assault obeah on some business enemy—these smart people, I’m talking about, good-looking, wid cars and houses. I hear them at parties whisperin’, thinkin’ they very cool to have they own Haitian voodoo man can invite for drinks when they in Jamaica, Saint Martin—that boy get around. You know what else he do . . . ?”
As I listened to Ransom talk, I slipped outside to the porch and peeked around a corner at the yacht Seduci. The Brazilian was there, sitting with coffee on the flybridge. He, too, was following the progress of the rental boat, but was only vaguely interested. If he had wanted details, there were binoculars next to him.
I retreated behind the corner, asking, “Have you told Tomlinson any of this?”
In her mellow, singsong way of speaking, my cousin replied, “Mary, Mary, you quite contrary today—Marion. Why waste time speaking reason to a scarecrow who think wid his dick, not his brain?”
I knew better than to reply, Because you’re still in love with him? so postponed more details, saying, “I’ll be away this weekend, but how about dinner next week?”
“Don’t you bring that damn Tomlinson. He better off standin’ in some cornfield. Not speaking wid that particular person never again.”
“Just us,” I assured her. “I’ll leave him behind, and you promise not to bring one of your brownnosing boyfriends.”
For some reason, Ransom thought that was hilarious. “Brownnosing, ho-ho-ho, oh lordy, the words come out your mouth! So quick ’n’ clever, I love you, brudder!”
Not clever at all because the joke was accidental, which I didn’t figure out until watching the Brazilian again, who still hadn’t reached for his binoculars.
Fascinating, Diemer might have commented because I still couldn’t fit the man into a schematic that made any sense. True, unexplained elements noted within a similar time frame aren’t necessarily related, but I had witnessed, with my own eyes, the Brazilian’s talent for black ops and burglary. His skills were too finely tuned to risk inactivity, plus he thrived on the adrenaline rush—why waste time on anything but a working vacation?
He wouldn’t. Yet, a Caribbean dope dealer would be of no concern to Diemer or his wealthy clients. Neither I nor Tomlinson were his targets, I was convinced. And it was unlikely a man of his experience would’ve risked burgling Cressa’s home in advance of executing someone who could be linked to the place. So why the hell was the Brazilian in Dinkin’s Bay?
I stepped out from behind the corner and picked up the dog’s water bucket. Diemer failed to notice, so I emptied the bucket over the railing just to see how he reacted. As I did it, he looked up, focused, and then acknowledged me with a slight bow—a European touch that I returned via a friendly salute.
Maybe he won’t be such a bad partner after all, I was thinking.
—
DIEMER HAD BEEN RIGHT about the burglary—so far. I had no idea what he’d stolen in that shoulder pack, and was still disturbed by his treatment of a woman he wanted to seduce, but I couldn’t fault his expertise. Cressa Arturo, according to Tomlinson, had been actress enough to feign surprise when told that Deano had been arrested and his partner had fled,