“No. I’ve used him as a snitch in the past, but today he ran from us. Don’t know why.”
“Hmm. Well, it was Gil back then who set up the buy, did all the legwork down in Colombia. But I didn’t bust either him or Red. My bosses were after the yacht’s owner, the bigger fish. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I protected Red. Hell, you know what I’m talking about, right, Mike? The guy had a wife and kids back in the States, it was his first time getting into something like that.”
“Sure, I know what you’re saying,” Mike said.
My elbows were propped up on the bar, and I rested my forehead against the heels of my hands. I began to shake my head. “No way. I don’t buy it.” I lifted my head and turned to face Joe. “Red did not knowingly get on a boat that was smuggling drugs up from Colombia.” I swung my head back and forth, looking first at Mike, then Joe. Neither would look at me.
No one said anything for several seconds. Mike’s hand rested on my shoulder, massaging the flesh in a little circling motion. I wanted to reach over and smack his hand away.
Finally, Joe said, “Listen, honey, I know you don’t want to think of your daddy—”
I stood up. I wanted to break something. I wanted him to stop calling me “honey.”
“Red didn’t know,” I said. “He couldn’t have.” I could hear that my voice sounded whiny, and it made me even angrier. I slid off my stool and stomped out of the room.
Celeste was standing in the hall, just outside the doorway. As I passed her I asked, “Bathroom?” She motioned for me to follow her.
I sat down on the closed toilet lid and gave myself about three minutes to just let my emotions go. It wasn’t long enough to turn my eyes and face all red and puffy, but it was just enough of a little pffft, like a pressure cooker’s jiggle, to make sure I wouldn’t blow when I went back into that room with those guys. They were undoubtedly talking about me right now—some “poor kid” scenario, where they were painting themselves as the big tough cops who knew how bad folks could be.
But Red was different, and they weren’t used to people like Red. He was a man whose morality was absolute. He would not bend, nor did he ever struggle over a moral issue, much to the chagrin of his teenage daughter. Red would never have willingly smuggled drugs—not even to finish Gorda. That was a truth. I felt it in my gut. I was not sure whether Joe was floating this tale out of ignorance or deceit, but I intended to find out.
After splashing some cold water on my face and relishing the soft, Egyptian cotton towels, I unlocked the door and ventured out. The men’s voices and loud laughter carried from their end of the hall, but I turned in the opposite direction. I decided to explore a little before returning to the boys’ club.
I saw three doors down the hall. The guest bedroom was located diagonally across from the bathroom. The furnishings were expensive and tasteful, but the room had all the personality of a model home. The next door led to the master bedroom, a huge room, nearly twenty by twenty, with French doors that opened onto the pool deck. When I came to the last door, I nearly collided with Celeste.
“Oh, pardon,” she said, looking startled and then lowering her eyes.
“No, I should be saying that.”
Over her shoulder I saw a room that was small and spartan, containing a twin bed, a dresser with a small mirror, and a single chair. Unlike the other two rooms, this one had personal items, a lovely brush-and-comb set on the dresser, a hand-stitched quilt on the bed, a small bright painting on the wall.
“Really, I’m sorry. I was just being nosy. I wanted to have a look at the house. Is this your room?”
She nodded and lowered her eyes.
I pointed back down the hall. “I kinda got in an argument with those guys back there. Do you mind if I just sit here for a while? I could use some female company.”
She smiled and stepped into the room, offering me the chair. After we’d settled ourselves, neither of us quite knew what to say. I could sense her awkwardness. After a while, she began to hum a tune.
“That sounds very pretty. What is it?”
“Oh, it’s a song we used to sing in Haiti. To make children go to sleep.”
“Can you sing it for me?”
She smiled shyly and began to sing softly, but in a strong and pleasant voice.
Dodo ti pitit manman’l
Do-o-do-o-do ti pitit manman’l
Si li pas dodo
Krab la va manje’l
Her voice cracked, and she stopped singing. She stood suddenly, then crossed the room and stared out the window.
“You miss Haiti, don’t you?” She did not move to respond to my question, so I tried a different one. “How long have you worked for Joe?”
“Five years,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. “That’s when you came from Haiti?”
She nodded and spoke without turning around. “Mister D’Angelo brought me over, and he sent me to school to learn English.”
“Your English is very good.”
She turned around and smiled, then crossed to the bed and sat next to me. “Thank you,” she said. “I cannot read yet, but I will learn.” She sat with her head down, her fingers tracing the floral design on her dress. I had never seen such a beautiful woman behave so modestly. Was it possible, I wondered, she didn’t know how lovely she was?
“So you met him in Haiti?”
She nodded without looking up.
“What was he doing there?”
“He was a drug policeman. There were lots of drugs in Haiti. He help the Haitian people.”
“Hmmm. I’ve met so many Haitian people lately. I didn’t realize there were so many Haitians in Florida.”
She smiled. “Yes, this is true. Haitians are in the supermarket, restaurants, shopping malls. Every year more and more. It is because it is so bad at home.”
“Do you still have family there?”
She frowned and appeared to struggle with her reply. “No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “All dead.”
“I’m so sorry.” I looked at the top of her bowed head. She looked so young to have known such loss. “How old are you, Celeste?”
“I am twenty-three.”
“Joe brought you here when you were only eighteen?” She looked up quickly. “Yes. I love my country, Haiti, but it was bad there for me. There are many beautiful things in Haiti, many wonderful people. But this is my new country. There is nothing in Haiti for me now.”
Joe appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing back here?” There was something in his voice, some undercurrent of threat that made me feel like a kid who had been caught rifling through her parents’ belongings.
“We were just visiting.” I patted Celeste’s hand. “It was nice talking to you.”
Joe walked us out to the dock, where Mike untied the dinghy line while I prepared to climb down the dock. “Seychelle, I want you to know—” Joe said.
“Joe, stop.” I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “I came here looking for some answers about my dad, about who he was. And you know what? I found out that I’ve known that all along. I’ve always known who Red was. Nothing you say can change that.”
“I’m glad. I hope you understand that I would never intentionally say or do anything to hurt you. Are we still friends?” I nodded once and he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
Mike and I didn’t talk much on the ride back. As we cruised through the heart of the city, the late evening sunlight was turning the downtown buildings into golden towers. I sat up on the bow of the inflatable and tried to enjoy the beauty of the river, but my mind kept spinning images: Red, Gil, and Joe dockside in Cartagena; Perry waiting for someone in Flossie’s Bar; Gil’s photo on Perry’s Italian tow; new cell phones and radios. Joe had given me one version of what had happened down there over twenty years before. I needed to hear Gil’s version.