Rough Diamonds and Head Hunters

By Peter Lambert

Donny Moore, a New Yorker with Barbadian roots and an ex-Marine makes a chance reunion with fellow Columbia NYC alumni, the stunning Marie Haughton. Marie has done well for herself, now the CEO of a five-star hotel and casino in Barbados - the Caribbean playground of the rich and famous. She invites Donny to party with her friends Opal Cadette, a recently-crowned Miss New York/Caribbean beauty queen and Glenda Travis, a wily director of the beauty pageant.

When Marie is shot and Glenda goes missing in Barbados, Donny the last person to see Glenda alive becomes a prime suspect in her disappearance and a person of interest, especially for the American News Media. Donny tries to comfort Opal, a stranger to Barbados, but with more tricks than a magician, the crafty Opal deceives him. Suddenly he’s out of his depth and entangled in a web of diamond smuggling and international drug-running villains. Scheming drug-runners make him an UZI target, and a depraved diamond smuggler, plans to carve him up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483417868

Book preview

Chapter 1

D onny Moore sat in the shade, at a small rectangular table overlooking the sandy south-coast beach in Barbados. Eager tourists jostled nearby for empty tables. Others scurried in anticipation to join the buffet lines.

A short man ran furiously along the beach, the sun at his back. Donny wondered what form of exercise would cause the man to run so frantically. Running with the urgency of a man whose life depended on it.

Donny overheard a snippet.

Jacob, why is that man running so feverishly?

How would I know Colleen?

Could it be some sort of chase or crime in progress?

Try to relax dear, we’re on vacation, in Barbados.

Sound advice Donny thought.

His attention was seized by two well-toned ladies, strolling provocatively along the beautiful beach. Pleasingly-proportioned beach babes flaunting scant bikini outfits.

A scene to die for, he mused.

In the distance, the foam-flecked waves were collapsing gently and wearily in an azure Caribbean Sea - after the long transatlantic passage. At intervals less than a minute, an extrovert would outdo the rest, spreading an expanse of white, foamy water over the coral reef. Drifting pelicans made large, lazy circles waiting for their vigilance to be rewarded.

The stoic pelicans were the largest birds in Barbados. There were no vultures.

Totally out of place, as unexpected as the village drunk at communion, the unmistakable staccato plop-plop-plop of an UZI disturbed the tranquil scene.

Holy shit! The man at the nearest table shrieked.

Exercise was the least of the frantic short-man’s worries. Running, was his only concern. His life depended on it.

Sunbathers, eye-catching beach strollers, assorted vendors and rubbernecks, their quietude shattered, screamed and dived for cover, creating an instant sandstorm.

Fifty yards behind his quarry, the shooter came into view. Donny hit the ground and peered over the table. Even from a distance of a pitcher’s throw, it was obvious the shooter had uneven, protruding teeth.

Panting heavily but not winded, he shouted.

Son of a vitch!

A boy calmly sauntered along the beach. About twelve years old. Oblivious to the commotion.

Walking directly in the wake of the running short-man.

The shooter didn’t seem to notice or to care. Firing without a pause!

It was a crazy thing to do.

Donny didn’t know why he did, and he probably wouldn’t do it again. He left his cover, raced past the screaming sunbathers, and pulled the imperiled boy to dry sand and safety. For the second time, he had run headlong into harm’s way to rescue a stranger. The consequence for him this time would be more important though not as tragic as the first.

To conjure his escape, the desperate short-man took the only route available. An awkward dive, some clumsy strokes, and he disappeared.

The gritty short-man reappeared on a dinghy holding a lifeline he detached from a fishing boat moored just offshore. Exposed he started the dinghy. Quickly it picked up speed.

In full-automatic mode the shooter was losing accuracy and range. Wading waist deep into the surf he fired nonstop. His quarry was zigzagging out to sea.

Plop-plop-plop triplets made pretty little sprays.

Occasionally there was a ping-ping variation of the sequence, when the metal engine-casing on the dinghy was hit.

With relief buoyed by a mocking single-digit wave and wispy white smoke, the fortunate short-man gave it full throttle.

A tall, hardened, buck-tooted man, weary and wet the shooter waded back to the beach. Outmaneuvered and bested, his target out of range, he looked around warily.

A mean sadist, he discharged a few more rounds. Frightened onlookers screamed in jarring unison.

The shooter resumed his westward run.

Scattered beach-chairs, umbrellas, towels, bags, Hawaiian Tropic sunscreen, sunshades, magazines, and even a copy of the New York Times – it was a goldmine for an aspiring artist.

Grabbing her wayward son by the arm, the mother pulled him to the table occupied by the ‘holy shit’ man.

Hotel security arrived, to project a show of force.

Waves of hotel staff descended on the beach. Cleaning overturned tables and chairs. Collecting spilled food and drinks. Retrieving scattered personal items.

Nothing of the sort ever occurs on this beach. Not in all my fifteen years here. No sir! A most unusual incident.

"Jacob, we could have lost our Rocky."

Yes dear.

Chapter 2

S uggestive, coarse lyrics rode the rough rhythm.

‘Bad ass music, bad ass, rass music,’ the shouts from the locked-down cells went up in agreement, as the growling sexually charged bass notes of the hit song Umbrella pulsated through the night.

Oliver Mc Dowell counted them carefully. Sixty-five days inside, twenty-five to go. No longer in denial mode.

Nobody cared anyway. Apart from the futility, he was now aware few inmates could admit guilt. Admission led to a lonely place. The next stop after admission was the singular journey to acceptance of responsibility.

The Vincentian in the cell next-door was pleading for a phone call. His arrival earlier that morning was not anticipated. It was assumed he was a softie – a minor criminal. His name was Ballentine but he was already nicknamed Vincy.

I need to make a phonecall, he whispered, for the umpteenth time, his earlier requests having been ignored.

Oliver decided now was the time to respond. Standing at the front of the cell, where he could see any activity in the hallway, Oliver put his head close to the wall separating the cells and asked quietly.

Who do you need to call?

Can you get me a phone? Vincy replied.

Oliver chuckled. He would have to spend some time explaining to Vincy how the system worked.

Do you have any money? Oliver asked.

Twenty dollars.

For five bucks, I can tell you how to get a phone.

Five bucks for a call?

No, five bucks to advise you. The call will probably cost ten maybe even fifteen. Oliver could sense Vincy’s hesitation. It will depend on the type of call. Some calls the guards can hear. Those are cheap calls. The calls the guard cannot hear are expensive calls.

The music was the best positive distraction. It spoke to each man individually delivering whatever sensual message he wanted to hear.

The messenger was Rihanna. In the absence of explicit sexual images no one packaged better material for the sexually starved, fertile imagination. Listening to her music was an opportunity for a selective recall of sharp sexual images.

Don’t go to the back of the woodwork shop, a trustee advised him, the day he arrived.

Thanks, was all he said in reply.

Something, told him not to ask or comment further.

Sure enough, two days later he was propositioned. Party in the workshop at 3 p.m., the code is blue. Drinks, Rihanna videos and blue movies. If yuh shy, is not fuh yuh.

For men on the outside, watching Rihanna’s videos was a casual diversion. For the horny men incarcerated at Her Majesty’s Prison Dodds, in the parish of St. Phillip, Barbados it was an opportunity for selection, storage and retrieval of images. Sexual arousal and gratification, it didn’t matter how. When Rihanna was playing on the speaker system there was no time more opportune than lock-down.

Apart from the calming benefit for the institution and the release of sexual tension for the men, the music served another vital purpose. Prisoners who had cell phones could use them with virtually no possibility of detection.

Chapter 3

J uly sun fierce and hot, gathering the shadow of the almond tree around its base, it exposed the small rectangular table and Donny’s poor choice of seating.

The burning rays jolted his memory. He needed to call his relatives, especially his cousin Sam.

Sam was a self-employed water-sports operator and entrepreneur always available for some good fun. The first night Donny arrived in Barbados they had combed the bars.

Donneey, what’s up man? Sam greeted him at the arrivals area with a hug. How was the flight?

All’s well cuz - great flight. Good to see you. How you doing? Donny replied.

Great buddy. I could tell it was you from the strut - long before I saw your face. Let’s put your luggage in my car. We can cross the street for a drink, Sam suggested.

There was no pretense with Sam. Donny admired his honesty. He wasn’t fond of diplomats and detested self-righteous pretenders.

Weeks before, when his arrival was discussed, it was taken for granted that Sam would collect him at the Grantley Adams International Airport on arrival. He did not anticipate it would take five hours to get from the airport to the hotel.

Sure, of course, he said. One drink, right?

A laughing Sam, who seemed to greet someone new every few yards, led the way.

One drink turned into three and one bar into four. Sam’s tour included additional stops at the Oistins Street Party and two bars at Nelson Street in the capital city of Bridgetown.

A surprisingly good female saxophone player entertained the patrons at one of the Nelson Street bars against a backdrop of Digicel advertising signs.

The Digicel vs. LIME telecoms war was raging unabated.

Sam met a young woman plying her wares by night, on the street encircling the racetrack, at the historic Garrison area on the outskirts of Bridgetown – a recently designated UNESCO Heritage Site.

One of her day-job colleagues, a Jet Ski operator was missing. His failure to pay on time for marijuana taken on credit was his undoing - that was the rumor. It was a source of rising concern in the community, especially among water-sports operators.

Sweetie yuh hear anything further bout David? Sam asked.

Donny wondered who Sam was speaking to.

A slow, shy shuffle like a spirit, she appeared from the shadow of the trees, dressed in a sheer, pink teddy and frilly panties. Flip-flops on her feet.

In a business where time was money, she dressed to go.

Well, only rumors dat he was having an argument wid an Englishman the evening before he disappeared.

You wouldn’t happen to have a description or any useful information to identify the Englishman? Sam asked.

Okay buddy, I could ask some questions for yuh, if you need to know, she replied with a sly smile.

From his shirt pocket, Sam pulled out a fifty dollar Bajan note and showed it to her. Her smile grew wider.

As a downpayment for the questions, take this Barrow. I have two Grantleys for the answers; if you get them right.

Pictures of Grantley Adams and Errol Barrow the first Premier and the first Prime Minister of Barbados, graced the hundred and fifty dollar bills.

For two hundred, you should get answers, she replied, as she slipped the note inside her teddy. Tell yuh buddy to come back by heself sometime, she added, retreating into the shadows with a cackle.

Sam chuckled as he continued the tour started around 8 p.m. It was now after midnight.

Sweetie sells souvenirs on the beach by day and works as a hooker by night. Her real name is Shelia, but everyone knows her as Sweetbread or Sweetie for short. As you probably remember sweetbread, especially with a soft coconut filling, is a popular delicacy in Bim.

I guess it’s her favorite snack?

You would think so, but not really. That’s what her abusive boyfriend was eating when she cut his vital thread fifteen years ago.

Vital thread eh.

Sweetbread is also a local derisive term for a meek and mild pushover.

Sweet Shelia indeed!

David Gilkes is a distant cousin and a jetski operator. He’s not been seen for two days. Foul play is suspected," Sam said.

Unusual for Bim.

Yes it is. We’re beginning to see some strange crimes. Drug related I guess.

I hope it can be cleaned up quickly, Donny said.

We don’t like the changes, but they’re here and will be for a while.

The downside of development, I guess.

He still had great memories of those carefree summer vacations he had spent with Sam in Barbados, starting when he was eight.

Sorry to keep you out so late on your first night in Bim.

Thanks Sam. I had a great time hanging out with you. It’s been a while. I’ll hit the sack hard tonight.

I need to get some sleep myself. I have a catering contract to provide snacks and lunch for some visiting English cricketers. Preparation starts at 8 a.m., allowing us to set up just before the players take a break at midday. Being late is not an option.

It was good to catch up and re-live the old times, Donny said.

Was my pleasure. Great to hang out with you and tour the side of Bim we don’t usually show tourists. Your mom would be most upset if she knew the places I took her son tonight.

He would be seeing a lot more of those places, even worse.

Chapter 4

W ell bless my eyesight, the warm, female voice said. A long shadow fell across his table. From the corner of his eye he saw the tall, elegant woman approach. Her businesslike manner said ‘hotel employee’. He resisted the urge to stare.

Donny Moore, it’s you, isn’t it?

Rising he stared at her, trying to remember her name - after all the tutorials and the long study group hours. He disliked having to admit he couldn’t remember. Confession was best, but it seemed such a caddish thing to do.

She was greeting him enthusiastically.

Don’t tell me you can’t remember your classmate?

Of course, I remember you Marie, he said, at the mention of the word classmate. Who could forget such a beautiful face? He added, for good measure.

A broad smile parted her lips.

I hope you’re my guest, you sycophant, she said.

Responding to Donny’s quizzical look she laughed then quickly added, I’m the CEO of the Princess, so you’re my guest. Well anyway I hope you are. Are you?

Having slipped before, Donny tried to make her excitement seem really contagious.

Oh yes, I am. I’ve been here for the past four days. I’ll be here until the day after tomorrow. I should congratulate you. You’ve obviously been making waves.

Thank you so much, she replied. Her voice chock-full of warm, unctuous tones of honey, cinnamon and nutmeg. I see you’ve not started breakfast. Why don’t you join me in the gazebo by the pool? We can spend some time catching-up on the years since we last saw each other. Unless of course …, she said, glancing around, you’re waiting on someone to join you. God I hope you’re not.

He accompanied her as she wended her way past the bar to the gazebo, stopping at one point to compliment some members of her staff who were setting up tables overturned in the melee caused by the shooter.

I hope you weren’t affected by the incident on the beach, she said, as they continued walking.

No, I was well protected by the table above me.

Things aren’t what they used to be, even in Barbados. I’m sure our security is on top of it.

Security got there some time after the shooter, he said.

It will be interesting to see what they report in their latest work of fiction.

Luckily, no one was hurt, so it probably doesn’t matter.

She was obviously a good General Manager, well-schooled in the art of making her guests feel at home.

In spite of his normal wariness, Donny felt a strong urge to extend the reunion.

Chapter 5

D onny Moore please meet two of my favorite guests, Opal Cadette and Glenda Travis, Marie said, as two beautiful ladies joined them. Opal is the recent winner of the annual New York/Caribbean Beauty Pageant and Glenda, her chaperone, is the director of the Pageant.

Donny shook the ladies’ hands in turn and was surprised at the firm squeeze he received from the petite Glenda.

This one needs to be watched carefully.

Did Marie tell you this is the sixth year of the Pageant? It’s been a great experience. We’re proud to say there has been no controversy and thankfully no bad publicity.

It seemed Glenda was saying it more as a cautionary reminder for Opal, than for Marie’s or Donny’s benefit.

No Glenda, Donny and I just met; I literally walked into him. He was sitting in the sun, a tourist, all alone and lost, down by the beach. We’ve barely spent some time greeting each other, she said, with a smile.

Delightful fresh fruit; freshly baked breads, cakes and pastries; a selection of mild and tart cheeses; preserves and jellies; a wide selection of meats; freshly squeezed juices; hot and cold beverages; and a magician pretending to be a chef, manned the omelet station. All served with an emphasis on presentation designed to impress the most discerning guest.

Both Opal and Glenda were New Yorkers and pleased to link with a fellow New Yorker, especially one having Barbadian or as Marie noted, Bajan roots.

Donny was finding the company of the ladies really enjoyable.

You know Donny it’s good of Marie and such great fortune for us to find a suitable male companion. You’re perfect to integrate our three girl group and provide protection, Glenda said.

Glad to be of service. I didn’t know you needed protection, he replied.

A wicked smile of anticipation lit up his face as he awaited the response.

You know ladies always do. Although if the truth be told, Marie added with a broad grin, there have been some walk-in candidates who turned up unexpectedly. Even a few who made enquiries by email and telephone. I suspect it’s related to Opal. We’ve never had such a strong response before.

No candidate so far has been particularly impressive, Glenda said.

Not a fellow, Marie said.

Yes, not a fellow, Opal echoed, to much laughter.

Tell him about Mr. BMW, suggested Opal.

Why don’t you tell him yourself? You’re eager to, Marie said.

"Well, if you insist. The morning after we arrived I got a call from a man whose name I can’t recall. It may have been Roger. He said he saw me on TV the night before and he needed to meet me. I explained it wouldn’t be possible because my schedule was packed.

To my surprise, Mister said he had a copy of my schedule from the Pageant Website, and it didn’t matter because he was waiting in the lobby, fully prepared to show me around Barbados in his BMW."

Opal paused for effect as Glenda and Marie laughed, I almost said yes.

A good storyteller she knew the tricks of the trade, the pause, the facial expression, the change in tone, and even the riveting glance.

Can you imagine my surprise? She