Trader of the Lost Isle

By Dean Gordon

Trader of the Lost Isle, set in a tropical paradise, is a tribulation through the dangers of crossing the Mafia, with a dash of action and mystery.

When Nickerson Courte wants to open a trading post on the Caribbean island of Antigua, he has no clue that all merchandise there is Mafia controlled. And when his incorrigible curiosity leads him to witness the gruesome murder of the Island’s only Constable, the Mafia wants his blood. Add to this a colorful and friendly Taxi Driver, Nick’s feisty wife Delia, corrupt officials, prostitutes, the drunken madness of Carnival, boat chases, arms traffickers, and FBI agents... well. This could be a Steve Martin’s movie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Gordon
• Release date: Sep 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301318711

Dean Gordon

This Canadian author has braved the gales of the North Atlantic, felt the chills of the Far North, experienced the height of the Rockies, the depth of the Grand Canyon, the blistering heat of the Arizona desert, the sweltering jungles of Central America, and the cooling Trade winds of the Caribbean... a reflection of the author's writings.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The slats of the aluminum jalousie shutter vibrated under the onslaught of the ever-blowing trade wind, sending shrill whispers of discord along Saint John’s Market Street. Alone, with the cathedral at his back, squinting into the noonday sun, Nickerson Courte limped, favoring his sore toe, on the narrow crumbling sidewalk. He stepped over the open sewer and onto a worn-out ribbon of hot asphalt that snaked down to the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. Today the wind did a fair job of swishing away sewer stench.

Nick stopped and blinked at his feet. God that left foot hurt. He’d gone snorkeling in Antiguan waters, gashed a toe on coral, and had been unable to wear shoes for over a week. Rubber-soled thongs proved no match for this city’s obstacle course. The jagged gash throbbed and the continual ooze had attracted a following of flies. The taxi had dropped him off at the head of the near-vacant street where he expected to find a ship chandler and pick up a replacement cleat for his yacht that lay at anchor at English Harbour.

Mid block a jalousie’s metallic screech had an eerie, foreboding resonance, a sound his wife deplored. She claimed the window covering portrayed evil and impending doom. Delia made a point of avoiding Market Street for that reason. Though dubious of the validity of her premonition, Nick would have a second look at the shop with the fragile shutter and put her deepest fears to rest.

A door slammed, and one by one, doors and shutters along the street began to close. Shucks. Nick paused, stretched to his six-foot-two and rested both hands on the belt-line of white and blue seersucker shorts, floral shirttail flapping in the wind. What a bummer! High noon and every establishment including the chandler in the city locked up shop for a lazy hour… or two… or three. One hell of a way to operate a business, Nick grumbled. Only an aggressive entrepreneur would reopen at one.

A sudden change in pitch of the jalousie caught Nick’s attention. A glint of sun told him that someone had adjusted the fins. Antigua’s nearness to the equator allowed the north building exteriors to be bathed in sunshine during the midday hours of summer.

Except for the one jalousie, all openings were fitted with solid wooden shutters, held in place with hand fashioned wrought iron hinges and hook-and-eye fasteners. Why the oddball window covering on the shop in the middle of the block? Could it be a whorehouse? With ‘home-delivery’ or the availability of ‘hookers-to-go’, why have a house of prostitution?

From the direction of Queens Park came the distant beat of drums and the Carnival week celebrations. That would account for the absence of locals and tourists on Market and other outlying streets away from the main attraction. Only, one sidewalk vendor remained. An old lady sitting on the narrow walkway, her back propped against a storefront wall. Head shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat, she had tucked her legs under the billowing orange and purple skirt, keeping her feet from dangling in the sewer. Five shrunken limes and three greenish-yellow oranges lay spread out on a tattered towel.

Buy limes for lemonade, Mistah. She clutched a lime in gnarled fingers and waved it in Nick’s direction.

Nick frowned, he would have declined such a purchase with a shake of his head, but she looked so old and frail, with pleading desperation in her wrinkled face, he didn’t have the heart to say no. Why had she not said limes for limeade? Was this a salesmanship ploy? Was she trying to tell him something? She looked frightened, with a sort of a nervous twitch, a glance this way and then that, but avoiding a direct look at the nearby jalousie.

Digging deep into a side-pocket of his shorts, Nick retrieved his billfold. While opening it, an evil gust of wind tore at the leather flap. Feeling the pull, his grip tightened but somehow his driver’s license escaped. As if in slow motion he could see it flipping over and over, fluttering down and down headed towards the sewer. Within inches of the swirling slime, and as if pulled by some mystical force it changed direction and landed into the old lady’s lap. Her one-tooth smile widened as she picked up the plastic card and handed it back.

Hardly believing, he examined the license. Nickerson T. Courte, blue eyes, 6’-2", brown hair, 170 lbs. Date of birth 11/03/1933. Then the shocker… Expires 07/07/1991, this is the sixth of July?

The old lady nodded.

Not that Nick presently needed the card to operate an automobile, but an expired driver license could be a stumbling block when applying for replacement of his American passport, that had been stolen from the Jabberwocky Hotel’s penthouse. Fate? Or perhaps Delia’s premonition had risen to a higher level than just the whistling jalousie. Had it been divine intervention that had drawn Nick to this place in the road and the old lady, to discover the expired license? At any rate, she’d done him a big favor. He’d go directly to the American Embassy, with the fading hope that teatime might not last all afternoon. In no way did he want to jeopardize his lifelong dream of establishing a trading post on a tropical isle.

Nick flipped out a couple of five-dollar bills. You keep the limes.

No. Her smile reverted to terror as she tugged on the sleeve of Nick’s short-sleeve shirt and pulled him toward her. Shielding her mouth, she whispered… Dey take half. She trembled and glanced toward the gaping slits of the jalousie.

Who’s they? Nick rolled his eyes toward the window covering without noticeably moving his head.

Dey Mafia.

* * *

Angelo DiVasco stood in Sugar Mill House, his back warmed by the noonday sun. He pointed an accusing finger at the group as a whole. Don’t any of you spineless bastards have the guts to kill a cop? He glowered at the three nephews and one mulatto sitting across from him, their eyes squinting in the shaft of light pouring through un-shuttered glass, their images mirrored in the travertine desktop.

Without waiting for an answer, Angelo turned on the heels of his glossy brown alligator shoes, cinched up the belt of his tailored tan slacks and smoothed out the pleats. He took a deep breath, expanding his chest to match the button-popping belly of a spotlessly white cotton short-sleeved shirt. This morning he filled every inch of his five and a half foot frame and felt like a man who owned the world… and he did… or at least most of what he could see through the lofty windows of Sugar Mill House. Before again facing his Mafia Family, he reached up and plucked a brown dog hair from the hem of his sleeve.

CHAPTER TWO

Nick gasped. What kind of a monster would spy through the cracks in order to grab a fifty percent kickback from a poverty stricken old lady? He had underestimated the brutal aggression of the underworld. If that’s the way they play, he’d give her a dollar now and somehow figure out how to slip her a few bucks later.

She accepted the dollar and flashed a brazen smile as if she’d outsmarted Antonio Granelli or Bugsy Sigel. Dear old soul. Under the thumb of the aggression, and yet she had the compassion and decency to hold back and not let a tourist be taken in by the heavy foot of the Mob.

Discouraged at having the ship chandler shut the door in his face, Nick turned on his heel. He headed down to Guinness McMurphy’s Boat-Works, along the beach on the far side of the farmer’s market. He’d previously seen the sign, hand-painted on an upturned section of fiberglass hull, sitting amid a clutter of marine relics in front of a flamingo colored mobile home. Nick reasoned that the home-operated business might not adhere to the noontime closing. Could he find a secondhand cleat in that pile of junk?

The beach lay so flat that the outgoing tide had bared a wide strip of hard-packed sand. Antigua boasts to have three hundred and sixty-five snow-white beaches, but this expanse of sand looked far from pristine. Both sewage and the spillage from the shipping at Deep-water Harbour on the far side of the bay had contributed to pollution of both land and sea. Above that high water mark, the sand lay soft and powdery.

Without thinking, Nick plunged his sore foot into that fluffy mass. He cringed at the thought of cleansing the granules from his lacerated toe. On the other-hand, the talcum-like dusting might dry up the puss, or even protect the sore with a crust, like the breading on Kentucky Fried chicken.

Gritting his teeth, Nick trudged through ankle deep sifting sand toward Saint John’s open-air market. The facility consisted of one square slab of concrete surrounded by a bed of sand. The market had no need for noontime closing, because everything of value had already been sold or stolen by mid morning.

At this moment the market had only two customers, a pair of greedy pelicans tugging on a six-foot length of intestine, like young lovers sucking on a string of spaghetti, drawing closer in hopes of a playful kiss. Left over from the day’s early cow-kill, remained the stench of blood, guts, and hooves. Swarms of flies had likewise sensed the offal, and descended upon a grizzly pool of dark red blood.

Hearing a rustle in a clump of sea grape at the base of a cocoanut palm, Nick turned to see a land crab emerge. Upon spotting Nick, the dinner-plate sized creature stopped, reared up on jointed knees, its claws held high… puffed up, ugly and fearless, as if to discourage all predators, big and small. Nick stomped his good foot in the sand. The crab stood its ground, defiantly flexing its pointed claws in Nick’s direction. Hey big boy, don’t let me stop you. Get in there and help the pelicans clean up the blood and guts. The sea grape leaves began to flutter and Nick knew the crab and its family would have a gourmet feast.

Within a stone’s throw of the market, sprays of bougainvillea in varying shades of crimson, orange and purple arched out into the street. Neglect is the chief ingredient for Bougainvillea splendor. That in itself told Nick that the owner of the Boat-Works had lazy work habits. The sign on the gate confirmed his theory. Closed until tomorrow.

Shit! Nick ran a comb straight back through windswept hair, then painfully retraced his steps to Market Street. As he hobbled back across the sewer, he saw a straw hat floating on the current. The face of the old lady replayed in his head. Why would she let go of a valued possession? His deliberations were interrupted by the squeal of brakes.

Hey Boss, right on time.

On time my ass! But, to Gungho, an hour one way or another meant on time.

Jump in. Where to?

The American Embassy. Move it.

Ain’t no use. Gungho wiped the sweat from his face.

How come?

Dey at de cricket field all afternoon. Big game.

Shit! Surely not the ambassador? Nick felt trapped. Just to make sure, let’s go see.

Gungho stepped on the gas. The old Plymouth, pistons hammering, barked a cloud of thick black smoke and chugged up the grade.

Whoa! Nick’s, eyes fixed on the sidewalk where the old lady had been sitting. Is that blood? Bright red! Fresh, soon it would be black with flies. The lady had vanished and left her tattered towel soaked in a pool of crimson.

Gungho forged straight ahead shaking his head. Can’t stop on da hill, Boss, ain’t got no mergency brake.

But his face took on a scared-shitless expression that made Nick wonder... what is going on in this crazy island?

Driving on the left hand side of the road in a right hand drive vehicle always made Nick cringe, but driving in Gungho’s American-made Plymouth with the steering wheel on the left proved sheer madness, and worse than that at Saint John’s’ only roundabout.

Nick gritted his teeth and groped for nonexistent seatbelts. He compared it to being force-fed into a meat-chopper, and not knowing at what point, ejection would occur.

Gungho failed to spin off at the first, the second and the third exit. What in hell? With only three roads leading in, or out, of this infernal merry-go-round. Has the man gone mad?

Shit! Forgot me Union dues. Gungho peeled off and parked on Market Street, as did the black Cadillac that followed. Gungho paled, or was it just the scared look on the black man’s face that Nick interpreted as turning to a lighter shade of black?

Gungho stepped out, wiped sweaty hands on tan slacks and strode back to the Cad. Nick sidled over so he could focus through the rearview mirror. He thought collecting union dues with a lug wrench had gone out of style after Bobby Kennedy nailed Hoffa.

Horns began to blow. The Cadillac had parked in the center of the pavement as if its driver owned the street. He probably did. Where in Hell are the police? In the medley of confusion, pressed for time, and in no condition to help Gungho, Nick jumped from the seat and fled in search of another cab. Out of puff, and with no taxi in sight, he stopped to rest, bewildered by all the secrecy. Even Gungho, a man he trusted, had failed to elaborate on the Mafia.

Still prying, Nick approached an intelligent looking man who wore tan slacks, glossy brown alligator loafers, snow-white shirt and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Probably a lawyer or a politician, or diplomat, or perhaps a Cardinal dressed in drag.

What’s going on around this town? Nick paused, waiting for the man to turn around so he could see the face.

The stranger gave one fleeting glance over his shoulder, but so brief that Nick had no time to examine the features. Piss on it. The man growled.

From the rear, Nick could see the man’s elbows bend, as if fumbling at his fly, heard the zip-down ritual, and saw the urine puddle and trickle down from one limestone step to another. The man had left his mark on a holy place, like a dog’s baptism of a fire hydrant. When the man started climbing the stairs, Nick considered the possibility that it really could be a Cardinal, about to enter the House of the Lord. More likely, the man searched for dry footing. Without looking back, he gave Nick the big finger.

CHAPTER THREE

The view from Sugar Mill House had given Angelo a sense of wellbeing, an overflowing with the intoxication of wealth and power. He turned from the window and stared at his motley Family. Despite their blundering performances, he’d already managed the takeover of a good chunk of the island’s commerce. Unfortunately he was saddled with three dumb nephews.

For over twenty years, Angelo’s twin brother had been the lynchpin of the mob. Following a deadly shootout in New Jersey, brother Alonzo had gurgled through his blood-choked throat. Take care of my sons.

Angelo DiVasco, along with his wife and three Nephews, had narrowly escaped the crackdown by the Federal Strike Force against Organized Crime and Racketeering. The move to Antigua had cost the DiVasco Family big bucks.

Christened Michael, the youngest DiVasco, the runt of the litter, sat on the left, his dark brown eyes bulging through thick-lens magnification. Although he’d answer to Mike, everyone called him Runt. Today, as he had all Carnival week, he wore US army camouflage coveralls with the legs hacked off at the ankles to prevent stumbling. The baggy costume with its cavernous pockets gave Runt the edge for weapon concealment.

Slewfoot DiVasco sat, legs twitching, on the adjacent hard-backed chair. He was two years older and had acquired the nickname because of his inability to climb stairs without tripping. Once he learned to grab the railing while going up, he became a master, now as sure footed as a goat. He wore the same US army carnival costume, but on his gangling frame the pant-legs barely covered his knees.

Pewee DiVasco, despite the name, was a huge hulk of a man who could not go through a doorway without stooping. If not for his belt, the buttons of his camouflage suit would pop. Angelo thought of him as a pee-brain, not because of his diminished mental abilities, but because Pewee couldn’t hear a trickle of water without wetting his pants.

The three Sicilians had little in common, except black hair, olive complexion, shitty-brown eyes, and Roman noses.

Under a blood-sealed ritual, Bwana, the Mulatto, had been the first non-blood relative to join the Family. He scooted his chair farther away from Pewee and the stench of the man’s urine. Barefoot, he wore a white tank top, tattered khaki shorts and sat on the hard wooden chair, right leg crossed upon the left knee.

Sugar Mill House had been built, not on the ground, but atop and overhanging a sixteenth century windmill that had long lost its sails and sugar crushing machinery. It stood like a giant mushroom, an iron stairway spiraling on the outside of the ancient stone stalk and up through the floor of the cantilevered house. Each steel stair tread had been imbedded so solid into the masonry that the slightest footstep would cause it to vibrate like a tuning fork.

Angelo listened, perturbed that the fifth chair sat empty. Tonga was the last member to join the Family. He deplored tardiness, but in Tonga’s case, she had more smarts than all the others, and with her high-profile hookers, a much more lucrative business than his musclemen could provide.

Nervously pacing the floor, Angelo paused, reached down and snapped a leash on Lucifer and opened the cage for his pit bull.

When the first stair step vibrated, Lucifer perked his ears and growled, confirming that Tonga was on her way up. The dog had an uncanny ability to recognize a black person a mile away and would instigate a killing attack if not controlled. At first, it had been the same with the mulatto, but Bwana had learned to make up with the dog by slipping him a treat.

Note by note, octave by octave the footsteps rose. The distinct knocks on the door told Angelo that the sixth member of the Family had arrived. He pressed a button on his desk and the door swung open.

Call off dat God Damned dog or I’ll shoot da son-of-a-bitch. Tonga clutched her red purse and pranced into the room, clad only in a red and yellow polka dot bikini. Her black eyes danced in orbs of white, contrasting against an ebony movie star face. She smiled through a curl of shaded lip-gloss.

You’re late. Angelo tightened up the leash to let the woman pass.

A white prick tried to cut up one of da gals. Tonga made her way to the empty chair beside Bwana. I broke both his arms and tossed him in da alley. He ain’t nevah commin back.

Did he pay?

He paid. She mocked and wiggled her long black legs into a more comfortable position, five Hundred bucks.

Angelo pressed another button. The impenetrable stronghold on top of the conical stone base rotated clockwise on the same circle of steel track that had, three centuries ago, allowed the windmill sails to face into the wind, five, ten or fifteen degrees. At thirty-six degrees the turning stopped. In the process, access from the outside had been completely cut off, as would have any intruder at the top of the staircase… a horizontal guillotine. From the outside world, this stairway provided the only entrance to Sugar Mill House. Only Angelo and a handful of his blackmailed board members were allowed to use, or even knew of the internal elevator. The hydraulic lift was so close to the pivot point that it didn’t interfere with the rotation of Sugar Mill House.

His leash as tight as a fiddle-string, Lucifer growled, as if possessed about sinking his teeth into Tonga.

Angelo held tight, stooped and snapped the chain around the leg of his desk. He sat down, swiveled around to face the Family, thumped the heel of his hand on the desk and shifted his stare to Tonga. As I told these wimpy bastards…

A chair grated and Slewfoot jumped to his feet. "Hey Boss, I’ll bump off that bastard cop and wrap his pesky shotgun around his black neck.

Sit down. Angelo barked. You had your chance. Promises, promises, the nosy cop still walks, and here we are, still holding the shitty end of the stick, just because you bungled the job.

Why don’t you get rid of the gun? Tonga snapped.

We tried that. The cagy son-of-a-bitch had another shotgun flown in from Colombia. I fear that his dealings with Colombia might disrupt our established trade routes in and out of Antigua. Angelo clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to reveal the real truth... gun smuggling from Israel to the cocaine cartel in Colombia.

Constable Challenger is one of my best customers. Tonga kicked off her sandals and propped her bare feet on the rung of the chair.

You and your fuckin’ business, Angelo sneered. The survival of the Family comes first. Getting rid of the cop and his shotgun will leave the Family with the only cache of weaponry on the island. Since no one has been able to pull the trigger, I’ll do the job myself.

Angelo assigned the members to their specific duties. Slewfoot and Pewee would break into the museum at Shirley Heights and make off with two relic uniforms and muskets. The others would meet at Kensington Gardens at twelve o’clock noon.

Because of Carnival, no one is going to question the reenactment of Horatio Nelson. Angelo pointed a finger at Slewfoot and Pewee. This time you’re going to impersonate England’s finest fighters of the 17th century… red tunics and all. The muskets haven’t been fired for several hundred years. Don’t worry, the custodian has had them cleaned oiled and loaded, any questions?

You mean I get only one shot? Slewfoot shoved his hands deep into his pockets and squirmed in his chair.

Hell no! The antique muskets are only a diversion to keep the crowd away from Kensington Garden. Carry whatever firepower you want. Just hide it.

Angelo would have the two soldiers march down the hill to Kensington Garden, shouldering their muskets. The madness of Carnival would allow the rest of the Family to usher the diners out into the street. The tourists would be elated at the pomp and ceremony of facing an antique musket in the hands of an English Redcoat.

Looking at Tonga, Angelo admired her legs. You trot down to the Garden precisely at twelve. When the Redcoats arrive, you start a Conga line and lead everyone out into the street. He turned to Bwana. Make sure to escort the steel band out as well. Tell the chef and the kitchen help to take a break and join in the festivities. Fortify each with a bottle of cheap rum and send them on their merry way.

What about the shotgun toting Constable? Runt snorted.

Leave that to me. You clear everyone out and lock the doors. I don’t want no fuckin’ witnesses, up and at it.

Lucifer tugged on his leash and gave a low throaty growl as the descending footsteps faded on the metallic echoing staircase.

Angelo returned to the desk, reached down and unsnapped the leash from Lucifer’s brass-studded collar. The pit-bull scrambled to Tonga’s empty chair, sniffed, picked up the scent, and with nose to the floor, followed her footprints back to the door at the head of the stairs. The cur paused, sat down and gave a muffled growl as if to say, good riddance of that black she-bitch.

Good dog. Angelo praised then pointed a commanding finger, Get back to your fuckin’ cage. The dog growled, dropped onto its haunches and bared its fangs. Move it. Angelo stomped a heel on the polished hardwood floor, the better to enforce his demand. The dog scurried into the security of its wire-meshed lair.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pissed with the events of the day, Nick’s gut rolled and his sore toe throbbed, to the far off beat of the frenzied Carnival celebrants. Nothing had gone right. His inner voice kept nagging, calm down, take it easy, do as the natives, take a break, a siesta, and relax!

The knot in Nick’s stomach exploded when he jammed his swollen toe against a concrete step that projected into the sidewalk. Christ. He sucked in, holding further outbursts, and then slumped to the step. Gritting his teeth, he massaged the perimeter of the blood soaked infection. He pressed hard, a vise-grip so intense that it shifted the point of severe pain away from the toe.

As the pain eased, Nick realized that hunger might be the cause of his churning stomach. Without getting into the crowded street, he slipped into Kensington Garden through the back door, right off the vile-smelling alley where Gungho had shown him the way. Once inside, Nick took a deep breath while waiting for his eyes to adjust from intense sunlight to the drabness of flame-scorched stainless steel and blackened utensils.

What the hell? Nick stopped in his tracks. A restaurant closed at noontime? Impossible! Kensington Garden had always been open for lunch. Not a soul. No cooks, no kitchen help, only the tantalizing smell of goat-water stew bubbling in a pot on a low-flame burner. At the far west end, the self-closing door fluttered as if the trade wind kept trying to enter from the dining plaza. Sheltered from the wind, the kitchen lay hot and humid. Nick swatted and re-swatted at a housefly that used his forehead as a landing pad.

Grabbing a Heineken from the cooler, Nick popped the cap and made his way to a rough-cut wall opening that allowed the employees access to the washrooms. He squeezed through into a hallway and on into the breeze-cooled palm-studded garden.

Nick stood on a quaint little two-table hideaway deck, tucked into a corner beside a vine-covered arbor. It looked out over the main garden, hemmed in from the street by a high stucco wall. A pair of massive doors pierced the wall and had always stood wide open to welcome Saint John’s diners. Today the portals remained closed, locked by two rusty iron bolts slid down into matching holes in the tile floor.

The dining room stood empty, chairs askew, un-bussed tables, as if an urgent catastrophe had driven everyone outside. Could the closure be some insane ritual of Carnival week? The arbor on his right gave Nick privacy, also prevented him from seeing the swinging door to the kitchen as well as a small portion of the garden.

Just to be sure that no one lurked behind the arbor, Nick intended to descend from the deck and peek behind the lush growth of vines. He’d forgotten about his sore toe, until that first downward step. E-gads! The pain returned with a vengeance. The strap of his thong had raised a blister.

Nick retreated to his favorite table, set down the beer and massaged his ailing foot.

The rustle of palm fronds provided background for the lilting strains of the steel drums floating over the wall from the street beyond. The revelry peaked, but through the clamor a calypso singer’s voice ground out a Harry Belafonte rendition of Shame and Scandal in the family.

A mama and a papa and a boy that is grown,

Who wanted to get married and have a wife of his own

He found a girl that was very nice,

Then went to his papa for some advice,

His papa said go… go man go,

The girl is your sister but your mama don’t know.

The noise from the street rose, blotting most of the lyrics. When the melee subsided, the song burst forth.

… he went to his mama for some advice,

His mama said go… go man go,

Your papa ain’t your papa, but your papa don’t know.

Still clutching the green neck, Nick took another swig of beer. Good, but a poor substitute for lunch. A clink-clink of china drew his attention to the next table. A sugar twit had settled on the sugar bowl. Persistent little creature, how could such a tiny bird expect to lift that lid?

On the street a shot rang out, and then another. How can this be, on an island where guns are forbidden? On the dead silence that followed, Nick heard voices within the garden. By the time he’d parted the Queen’s Wreath and peeked through the vines at the far end of the garden, there came a great applause from the street.

Around a table sat three people, a Mulatto wearing a straw hat, a shapely black lady in a red and yellow bikini, and a runt of a man in camouflage fatigues. He wore thick-lens spectacles. A fourth man, under a Panama hat and wearing a white tropical suit, stood with his back toward Nick. He wore shiny brown alligator shoes and nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Nick recognized the Mulatto as the pimp who often sat at the table against the ladies washroom wall, collecting dollars, his clientele… all men. For a buck, one cold get a peek through a knothole into the ladies washroom.

CHAPTER FIVE

Constable