Devils in Exile

Specialists

The two Jamaicans deplaned at T. F. Green Airport in Warwick, Rhode Island, met their driver at the luggage carousel, and claimed their leather travel bags. They watched the driver set their bags into the trunk next to an identical third leather travel bag before climbing into the backseat. They were large men, the driver having to push his seat forward to accommodate the knees of the one sitting behind him.

They stopped at a restaurant on Atwells Avenue for an order of kingfish, fried plantains, and bottles of Bedroom Bully, an herbal tonic said to promote sexual energy, and consumed the meal on the drive up to Boston.

Ernesto Lockerty ran his drug-dom out of the second floor of an old piano factory near Malone Park in Chelsea. He was a half-Italian, half-Irish product of the neighborhood, who had consolidated power through a combination of bare-knuckled intimidation and Machiavellian savvy. While many street dealers in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts were aware of the higher mandatory minimum penalty for Possession with Intent to Distribute within one thousand feet of a school, few were aware that this “school zone violation” included a hundred-foot radius around any park or playground. Lockerty’s hallmark move was to draw his competition into zone-violation busts, sending them away for the minimum two-year first-offense felony stretch — whereupon Lockerty’s people moved in to assume control of the newly vacated territory.

The Jamaicans, named Mr. Leroy and Mr. Moodle, carried the heavy third travel bag to the outer entrance of Lockerty’s warehouse office, where they were expected. Lockerty’s doorman made a friendly but firm attempt to frisk Mr. Leroy and found a grenade thrust into his hand, the striker lever compressed. The safety pin hung from the elongated nail of Mr. Leroy’s left pinkie.

They pushed the doorman into the wide room. Lockerty did not rise from behind his table. A second man, named Fale, a brush cut in an old suit, looked at Lockerty to see if he should do something.

Lockerty remained still, alert. He said, “What the hell-o is this?”

Leroy stood the booby-trapped doorman in the center of the room and said to him, “You wan’ end this anytime, jus’ leggo, mon. We all blow.”

Moodle set the travel bag down at his feet. Behind Lockerty hung shades as thick as mover’s blankets, covering big windows set into the brick wall. Fale gripped his armrests, but followed Lockerty’s lead.

Lockerty said, “What’s the gimmick? I called you here.”

“Like to make bonny first impression is all. You de big bout, yah?”

“Uh...”

“You Lockerty, you de top dog.”

Fale turned to Lockerty. “Is this the guys?”

Moodle focused on Fale. “Whas’ yer dance, mon? Feelin’ feisty?”

“I just... I never seen...”

“Seen what, mon?”

Fale stammered it out: “You guys’re white.”

“Never seen white Jamaicans before, bra?” Moodle looked at Leroy, who was twiddling the keys of the only piano in the room, badly in need of tuning. “Alla time, we hear dis. You wan’ dread bwoys comin’ in smokin’ ganja, dat it? You wan’ Tosh and Marley inna here. Be my personal pleasure reeducatin’ you bumbaklaat fools.”

“Hold on, hold on,” said Lockerty. “I think we’re all here for the same thing.”

Leroy came back to the travel bag. “Sure, dat. So give up what you know ’bout deese bandulus, sight?”

Lockerty shook his head after a moment, unable to understand. “About what?”

“Deese bandits, seen?”

“The bandits.” Lockerty looked at Fale. “The bandits. Tell them what you saw.”

Fale did. He was one of the sellers who had got ripped off in the Hyde Park auto shop job.

The Jamaicans asked no questions, as though listening to court testimony.

“Cho!” exulted Moodle, then sucked his teeth. “Dey knew fucken everyting.”

Lockerty nodded enthusiastically. “They’re like fuckin’... like fuckin’ devils, they are.”

“An’ you lagga heads keep a-goin’ on. Trustin’ de beast now.”

“The...?”

“Da bumbaklaat police.”

Lockerty was not used to being insulted, especially in his own crib. “Look. I am the one losing money here.”

“You lose, every man lose.”

“I put out a very healthy price on these clowns’ heads. But nobody knows shit. Now, your boss wanted more involvement, to secure his investment, and so I welcome you here in that spirit.”

“We got no boss, mon. We specialists, seen? We up onna con tract. Tek care dis problem you havin’. Make everyting cook and curry again, sight? We here to help.”

“Okay. Yes.” Lockerty thinking, These two white Rastas couldn’t find the corner store. “How?”

“Ah, dat.”

Moodle went into the bag on the floor, coming out with a knife with a short, hooked blade like something from a fisherman’s kit. He sprang forth without any warning and, with tremendous force, struck Fale in the side of the head, upending his chair and knocking the man to the floor. Moodle knelt on top of Fale and went at him with the knife. Lockerty jumped to his feet, but Leroy’s outstretched hand and tsk-tsk face held him in place.

Lockerty yelled, “What in the name of hell are you—!”

“Dis how you deal wit it, blood!” said Moodle, yelling over Fale’s horrified screams. “You show what failure mean! Is crucial!”

Lockerty saw a spray of blood hit the floor. He looked at his doorman, who stared in horror, the live grenade in his hand.

“This is my office!” Lockerty howled.

“You tink you workin’ for you, but you work for de don. And de don — he not happy.”

Leroy knelt down, removing a white, medical-looking box from the duffel. “You tink you can handle deese bandulus?”

“Yes!” Lockerty yelled over Fale’s cries, thinking an affirmative answer might stop them. “Yes!”

“You wrong, mon. But we help you. Stop deese bag-o-wires. Do dis right.”

Moodle stood, leaving Fale rolling on the floor, holding his bleeding face. The high-pitched moan coming out of Fale’s mouth was an aria of insanity.

Moodle carried something small in his hand, like a baby onion with a bloody tail, over to Leroy. Leroy lifted the cover off the box, which breathed steam. Dry ice.

Into the box, Moodle deposited Fale’s eyeball.

“We earn a bonus, every eye we brin’ back.” Leroy closed the box, a drip of red stuck to the styrofoam exterior. “Every eye.” Moodle turned back to Lockerty, the bloody fish knife still in his hand. “Feelin’ us now?”

Lockerty stared at the white Jamaicans, two psychos he had invited into his office and his life. “Jesus Christ.”

“Perk up, mon. Now we get us deese bloodclaat bandulus, sight? We got us a box to fill.”