The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BÉNE HATED SPANISH TOWN. THOUGH FOR THREE HUNDRED years it had served as Jamaica’s capital, an architectural delight perched on the west bank of the Rio Cobre, it had evolved into a hard-edged, gang-infested urban center of nearly 200,000 impoverished people. He rarely visited since his business interests lay either to the east in Kingston, or into the mountains, or across the north shore. He was born and raised just outside Spanish Town, in a tough neighborhood his family had controlled until his father made the mistake of killing an American drug agent. The United States demanded justice, the Jamaican government finally obliged, but his father had the good sense to die in jail. His mother took his death hard. Since he was an only child—medically, she could have no more—she made him promise that he’d never follow in those footsteps. His mother was a spry seventy-one years old and, to this day, had no idea what Béne’s empire entailed. He hated lying to her but, thankfully, he owned a host of legitimate enterprises—coffee, hotels, mining—that he could point to with pride and assure her he was no criminal.

Which, to his way of thinking, he wasn’t.

In fact, he hated criminals.

True, he supplied prostitution, gambling, or pornography to a willing buyer. But his customers were grown adults and he made sure none of his products involved children in any way. He once shot a man in Montego Bay who refused to stop supplying young boys to tourists. And he’d shoot a few more if need be.

He might break society’s rules.

But he followed his own.

He rode in the rear seat of his Maybach 62 S, two of his men in front, both armed. The car cost him half a million U.S., but was worth every dollar. He loved the high-grade leather and the fact that the backseat reclined to nearly a flat position. He took advantage of that often with naps between destinations. The roof was his favorite. One push of a button and glass panels changed from opaque to clear.

They eased through a conglomeration of neighborhoods, the boundaries clear only to those who lived there.

And to him.

He knew these places.

Life spilled out from the stores and houses onto the streets, forming a sea of dark faces. His father had ruled here, but now a confederation of gangs, led by men who called themselves dons, fought with one another over control.

Why?

Probably because their lives offered little else in the way of satisfaction, which was sad. What he’d heard many times rang true. “Jamaica has a little of everything but not quite enough of anything.”

They eased through the congestion, the buildings old, two to three stories high, packed so close that even a breath of fresh air would have difficulty squeezing through. When they turned onto a side street, two men appeared in front and signaled with outstretched arms for the car to stop. Both had ropelike hair and wild beards. They flanked the vehicle, one on either side. Shirttails hung out and low—shielding weapons.

Béne shook his head and muttered, “Buguyagas.”

And that’s what he thought.

Nasty tramps.

He wound down the rear window and asked, “You need something?”

He intentionally avoided patois, which he knew would be their preferred way to speak. The man on his side of the car clearly did not know him and was about to speak, but the other one rushed around the hood and grasped his friend’s arm, signaling for the driver to go on.

“What is it?” Béne asked. “Neither of you can talk?”

Mumblings passed between them that he could not hear, then the two men ran off.

He shook his head.

What were they going to do? Rob him right here in the street?

“They lucky we don’t have time to shoot ’em. Go.”

He found the shanty where Felipe lived, its walls a collage of scrap lumber and rusted tin. Four individual rooms were padlocked from the outside. Barrels of rainwater lined the edges, which meant no plumbing, confirmed by a strong scent of urine. Goats roamed the front and sides.

“Bust it open,” he ordered, and his men kicked down the makeshift doors.

Inside the largest enclosure was a room about six meters square. There was a bed, television, stove, dresser, and laundry basket. Eighty percent of the people in Spanish Town and Kingston lived like this or worse.

His gaze found the bed and, just as Felipe had said, lying on the filthy floor was a stack of old documents. One of his men brought them to him. Another stood guard at the door. Guns were drawn. Their two greeters may have alerted the local don that Béne Rowe was in the neighborhood, so they might receive a visit.

A courtesy, for sure.

But still a visit.

“If anyone bothers us,” he said, “move them away.”

His men nodded.

He found the deed the man had described from 1671, written in Spanish or Portuguese, he wasn’t sure, the faded ink difficult to see. There were several other parchments, each sulfur-colored, brown at the edges and brittle, all in the same language. He was able to read a few words, as Spanish had been a language he’d learned.

He heard a commotion outside and turned as a woman with two small girls appeared at the doorway. His men had the good sense to conceal their guns. She was deeply black, wearing a dress of yellow, pink, and green. Her bare feet were stained with road dust.

“Who you?” she demanded.

“A friend.”

She stepped into the room, a defiant look on her face. “You broke in?”

“It was necessary.” He gestured with the documents he held. “I came for these.”

“Where’s Felipe?”

He shrugged. “Are you his wife?”

She nodded.

“His children?”

“One of ’em.”

That was the thing about killing. Somebody always suffered. But he could not allow anyone to play him for a fool. On this island reputation meant everything, and Felipe sealed his fate when he sold out.

A shame, though, that these three would also pay the price.

He reached into his pocket and found his money clip. He peeled off twenty $100 U.S. bills and tossed them on the bed.

“Wa’ that for?” she asked.

“I owe Felipe. His pay.”

She apprised him with a mix of anger and dependency, one he’d seen all too many times. This woman would never see Felipe again. The big-eyed child would never know her father. No one would ever know what had happened. Felipe would rot away in an abandoned cemetery high in the Blue Mountains.

But such was the fate of liars.

“We go now,” he said. “You take care.”

He headed for the door with his documents in hand.

“He not comin’ back, is he?” the woman asked, her words laced with worry and fear.

He decided to be honest. “Take the money on the bed. I’ll send some more. Be grateful and silent.”

Her rough face was drawn, her brown eyes bloodshot. This woman’s tough life had just gotten tougher.

“Ev’ry gal look for man to tek care o’ her. When she fine him she is woman and she is true.” Her voice had turned icy.

He knew what she meant. The men she attracted changed lovers as often as moods. She’d finally avoided that with Felipe.

But there was nothing he could do.

So he left.