South of Cancer, North of Capricorn

By DB Martin

Beautiful Charlotte Amalie can take your breath away and it literally does to victims of a racist serial killer and the vigilante who seeks him. The warm blue water of the islands is the facade behind which boils centuries of hate and mistrust among the confluenced people who inhabit the fair shores. Slavery's final hateful act is to not allow the past to be forgotten. It rushes constantly to the reptilian portion of everyman's brain and brings civilization back to its beginnings in the slash of a blade or the flash of an explosion.

Kodi is singled out because his lover is of another race and from that ill-founded beginning there comes enough death and hate to rival equally dark periods of history. When next the reader disembarks from his cruise ship, he/she will see in those staring eyes and dark alleys, scenes one had hoped were forever washed from human experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 17, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469117416

DB Martin

DB Martin was born in Akron, Ohio in 1953. The last of 4 children to southern immigrants coming north after WWII for factory work. He attended Coventry HS in the suburb of Portage Lakes, Ohio. A 1971 graduate, he continued his education at the University of Akron. He graduated 1976,1981 with BS,MS. He taught school and coached sports for Coventry HS until the summer of 1981 at which time he moved to a small island off of the coast of South Carolina named Hilton Head. It was at this time his life changed drastically from the blue collar upbringing of a factory town to the strange goings on in the isolated areas of the South. Since that time he has studied Spanish, French, and Italian all over the world. He lived two years in Charlotte Amalie, USVI during the Gulf War and has spent most summers traveling throughout western europe, central america, and the caribbean.

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South of Cancer, North of Capricorn

DB Martin

Copyright © 2001 by DB Martin.

Library of Congress Number:              2001116848

ISBN #:                  Softcover              0-7388-9987-9

ISBN #:                  Ebook                  978-1-4691-1741-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

To my wife of 23 years, Stephanie. Thank you for everything. To all of the people who helped from librarians and fellow authors to longtime friends, thank you. I will leave you all with one piece of advice: read a good book.

Until the colour of a man’s skin is of no more significance than the colour of his eyes, there’ll be war.

Haile Selassie

CHAPTER I

Total darkness is described as the absence of light. The hearts of some people are said to be murky. To have an unlit soul makes the existence of le diable feasible.

The small, wooden homemade boat with the telltale stacked Evinrude 200hp motor made its way into Pillsbury Sound at Red Hook. It was painted in the ANC colors of green, black, and red, but the majority was black which assisted it in its monthly midnight runs.

Through the ship channel to Dog Island it bounced; the only evidence of its whereabouts being the engine noise and hull sounds. However, these were hard to pinpoint as the echoes glanced off the surrounding facades of the islands. At the wheel was Daniel ‘Dead Dred’ George, so called because he had been one of four men shot by the Jamaicans at Magens Bay one sunny afternoon. Left for dead by the assailants and afraid to move for fear of announcing his survival, he lay slumped at the side of the road in the ruby, red blood of his companions. Passersby called the victims dead dreds because all were sporting the familiar island coif and they were apparently departed.

When finally he had decided he could move, the moniker stuck. He was now a local hero of sorts who could walk the narrow passages of Charlotte Amalie all day and never spend a penny. Shopkeepers, hawkers, and bartenders all counted him as a good luck charm, a sign that all was well and the supply of ganja from the Blue Mountains was plentiful.

Everybody knew he was a smuggler, not big time, just enough to keep him in his lifestyle. It wasn’t like he was trafficking in cocaine. Snow could get somebody killed, but hemp was much safer than alcohol, America’s drug of choice.

Dred always chuckled to himself about America’s hangup with marijuana. Many more crimes, especially violent ones, were committed under the influence of alcohol than grass. This was allowing for per capita consumption; in other words, 100 alcohol users were much more likely to break the law violently than 100 potheads. Heck, a head case won’t get off of the sofa long enough to hit his wife. What’s the worst thing a stoney ever did, order a pizza and not have the money? The prisons were filling with non-violent smokers while vicious pedophiles were being given early release. Oh well, as long as they leave me alone, he thought.

The twin engine plane came in low over the houses on Cabrita Point, shaking the walls and causing the glass in the sliding door to sing a cappella. The long, brown legs stirred in bed and then the body. The eyes flashed open and watched the Anole lizard chase the giant cockroach across the ceiling; the predator enjoying its midnight snack.

Good ol’ Dred. He’s out making a pickup, same as usual, on the new moon. Pitch black outside. As these thoughts ricocheted quickly around her head, the accompanying sound of Daniel’s engine restarting came across the water. Briefly, the plane cut power; there were sounds of objects hitting the water; and then the aircraft’s engines revved to climb out of the inlet.

She was a dancer, downtown in Charlotte Amalie on Wimmelskafts Gade. Dancer being a relative term. More accurately, her job description might be described as mutual masturbation. She was employed at the Centurion Club. She made good money. It was better than waiting tables at Hooter’s at Bayside in Miami. Fewer hours, more money, her body wasn’t as tired, and she met a few handsome men from time to time who didn’t mind spreading the green on a Caribbean queen.

Her stage name was Mahogany, and this was the most accurate description of her skin tone. A dark, rich, brown with just the slightest touch of a shade of rose. Small breasted for her line of work, she made more money than the other girls because of her unique ability to grab a man through his pants not using the usual body parts generally associated with that action. The other girls even had a name for it, the Mahogany maneuver, and it allowed her to live comfortably in a beautiful home on the cliff at Cabrita Point.

Her real name reflected her mixed heritage. Brigitte Thornsberry was her name on the birth certificate. Her father was Jamaican and her mother was Martiniquoise, just another blending of cultures and names in South Florida.

The body next to her tumbled to its back. He was older than she by twenty years, but she didn’t mind. Of European extraction, his body was tanned from the tropical sun so much his skin was nearly as dark as hers. An ex-professional athlete, he was the exception as he had maintained his habits of training and diet. In fact, she mused, this was the best body she’d been with since she was a teenager when physiques were still God-given and not earned.

His name was Kodiak but to everyone Kodi was the call. He was shorter than average for males much less football players, and so his career had been the length of one contract. On training squads, returning kickoffs and punts, his right knee had become intimate with the helmet of a 250 pound reserve linebacker at fifteen mph. The collision was ugly and the pain the same. Done. Out. No real job skills, Kodi had drifted to the islands with what money he had saved in investments. He was smart enough not to spend his capital and had lived reasonably well until he had met Brigitte. Not that Brigitte was unreasonable, it was just that sickening feeling that he wasn’t in control of the situation. He had always been in charge so this sensation was unsettling to him.

Hey, baby. What ‘cha doin’? Kodi had lived many places and had associated with people of diverse cultures. He sounded at this point as if he were from New Orleans.

Listening to Dred and t’e boys pickup t’e laundry. T’ey makin’ t’e money. In t’e club every week, scatterin’ t’ose new Ben Franklins. Never seen so much. Got half t’e girls doin’ t’em private. Nobody say anyt’ing cause everybody gettin’ some. Goin’ crash someday. Brigitte’s father’s accent was very prevalent for a woman raised in the States.

You, too? Why don’t you throw me out and take up with a young, rich beau? You don’t need this old body. Kodi wanted her to feel free to choose. He needed her to stay by choice and not by intimidation. She was driving the train; he was only a passenger.

Kodi, why you always say t’at? Huh? You want to get you a new slave girl? Brigitte loved to tweak Kodiak’s liberal sensibilities.

A new one? No. Maybe another one to help with the chores. Kodi could give as well as he took.

A big smile crossed Brigitte’s face, the kind of leer that Mahogany used at her work. She was trying to be sexy, but Kodi hated the feeling that he was being treated like another mark at the club.

The sex was always good. For a man his age, Kodi was willing and ready. He knew what he was doing, too. Brigitte still found it difficult to believe she had gone so long before Kodiak without a man who thought of her needs as much as his own. Kodi was pleased, too. He knew some days she had had enough of the probing hands and beer-breath solicitations of the unpolished. But participate she would, perhaps performing better as it was her way. Maybe it wasn’t love, more like friendship with satisfying sex. Whatever the sociologists would call it, the two were happy for now.

Their skins co-mingled without effort like coffee and milk. The sweat evaporating in the cool air of Christmas in St. Thomas. Strangely, Kodiak loved a woman to smell more like an animal than a flower. That was not to say he preferred unwashed and malodorous to clean and fresh, but there was something to be said for the natural pheromones of the female as your bodies became one in motion and closeness.

CHAPTER II

Daniel George made his way down to the open market near Back St. There among the stalls, fish staring blankly skyward, he met his local distributors. Keko, Jump man, Sister Jo and Rummy; their names were extensions of their lives. The monikers had passed from the stage of being pseudonyms to acquiring reality for all intents and purposes. None of them conducted business in any manner but cash. They had no driver’s licenses or bank accounts. No fingerprints on file anywhere. If they were arrested, even the police would be forced to use the familiar A.K.A. but without a previous reference. They lived with roommates so no leases were signed. This is how Daniel had designed it, his cellular network of disbursement, and it had worked well. Everyone was untraceable. He liked it.

Michel Beaudreaux was a north coast Frenchy who was living in a well kept home in the hills above one of the most picturesque beaches in the world, Magens Bay. The wide expanse of sand curved for nearly one mile from point to point, creating a crescent of white against the beautiful blue of the Caribbean.

He hated the majority of people with whom he shared the island. They were African, stained somehow by God. He was as lily white as a native islander could be, pure in his European heritage. The fact that his speech patterns were identical to those of his darker cohabitants was lost in the pool of malice which coursed through his head. He was of typical Gallic build, small and lithe, reminiscent of the fishermen of Marseille. Home to sailors, boatmen, smugglers, and thieves, the southern city of Marseille was in violent contrast to the boutiques of Paris. And so it was with Michel Beaudreaux and his fellow Frenchies in St. Thomas. Rastafari they were not. Constant antagonists would be closer in describing the relationship between the two groups.

Like many Frenchmen of his ilk, Michel carried a small dirk, ready at a moment’s whim, to slice an ear or stick an eye of one so foolish as to offend him. Michel was savoring the imported vin ordinaire from France. Although shipped across the ocean, the wine was less than 10$ for three liters due to the lack of sin tax on St. Thomas. Michel chuckled. If the Feds levied a tax on sin in St. Thomas, the entire US budget deficit would be erased.

Like most evil thoughts, this one had been simmering a long time. The alcohol didn’t cause it; it brought it closer to his frontal lobe. Michel fingered the hilt of the knife. The heft of the blade always was reassuring. He would do this for society.

Janet Zerguthooten was an anomaly. Beautiful in a rugged way, she worked vice for the St. Thomas police. Working undercover shit squad in Charlotte Amalie was a bad joke. No perps were caught in the act. Only victims of victimless crimes got arrested. White men who were thinking and believing everything they read about the Caribbean. Confused between fact and fiction.

The local violators were all acquaintances of the vice squad; some were related to boot. Marijuana sales were tolerated with hardly a nod. Prostitution flourished, fed by copious supplies of eager girls from down island looking to survive and horny men whose wives and girlfriends considered sex to be work.

The prostitutes complained to friends about all of the freebies demanded by the police. The old hands, literally, went along gracefully with the accepted way of doing business. Sometimes the new girls didn’t get it, refusing to service the 5ive-O. They would soon be arrested; spending time and money on lawyers and fines. After a few treatments, an arrest would occur and either the girl or the officer would make an offer. A few minutes at the Old Mill was less of an expense in time or money. If the girl were lucky, the cop would leave behind some ‘evidence’ for the prostitute to sell or use. Everybody was happy.

Janet Zehrguthooten did not understand this manner of doing business. She did her job well and diligently. The daughter of a minister and a school teacher, she got into police work with the mistaken belief she could make a difference in someone’s life.

She was confused, puzzled and angered when so many of her pinches were let go at the police station. She didn’t get the joke when the ho’s laughed about the good time they had at ‘headquarters’. Why didn’t the duty sergeants, captains, or prosecutors seem to care? They were, of course, regular benefactors of the lax legal system and its relationship with prostitutes. Fait accompli.

When Janet complained too often or too loudly she was quietly promoted to Inspector-in-charge, Vice. The irony was obvious. Everyone in St. Thomas knew her and her family. There is no such thing as undercover in the islands. End of problem.

Janet was out in Bovoni, near the race track, hoping to nip a couple of hookers who liked to work the winners on a Sunday evening. A confidential informant had given her this tip recently. However, he had also given the same information and the fact that he had spoken to Janet to every girl on the street. The perps all knew and the johns would find out from the taxi men. Janet was wasting her time.

Standing near the road cut to the track, she was hoping to be mistaken for a new working girl in town. She didn’t want the marks, although she had already been propositioned three times by drunks. She was looking for some girl talk.

Up sauntered another hapless fool. A Frenchy. For as much as they hated Africans, they sure used the services of black prostitutes. Some kind of psycho-sexual slave-master thing, she decided.

He was very inebriated. He wouldn’t have been functional even if she was a working girl. The smell of Cruzan rum emanated from his clothing. He stumbled toward her, and she turned her shoulders and face 45 degrees away from his bearing. She hoped he would pass her by in his probable blackout. Instead, he tripped, grabbed her shoulders to steady himself, and looked her in the eyes. The eyes tell so much. Simultaneously, she felt a small insect bite through her clothing on her buttocks. Distracted by the drunk, Janet carried on; the tiny nibble of a tropical anthropod not being cause for a second thought in the islands.

The lush staggered away while an eerie feeling bathed the officer in strangeness. When the Frenchy’s eyes caught hers, everything about him seemed as a drunk would be except for the pupils. The orbs were crystal clear and piercing. He had looked through her if only for a second. Perhaps a manifestation of his state of unawareness. Janet went back to trying to hook hookers. The drunk dragged himself to a nearby car and drove away. Janet shook her head in disgust.