As they were about to get out of the truck a black Nissan sedan pulled alongside. The tinted window on the passenger’s side slid down slowly and a black man with grey hair eased his head out towards them.
“Park near Eckie’s,” Patrick said to him. “They should be about an hour in the restaurant. Wait until Seto goes into the club before making a move on Ng. There’s a woman with them. If she goes into the club we’ll look after her. If she doesn’t, you’ll have to get her. Separate her from Ng. We’ll need her with us.”
The man nodded and rolled the window back up.
“They’re a good team — experienced,” he said to her as the Nissan left to position itself near Eckie’s. “The Captain has given you some quality.”
For what I’m paying, I should hope so, she thought.
The roti shack had three tables, all of them empty. They sat by the window, keeping the China World entrance in their line of sight. He ordered chicken curry and roti. She asked for plain fried rice and a ginger beer.
“Tell me,” Ava said, “how does a man like Captain Robbins get into a position of such power in a country like this?”
“Do you mean how does a white man get into a position of such power in a country where ninety-five percent of the population is either black or Indian?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what I mean.”
Patrick bit his lower lip. It was question he could answer if he chose; he just had to decide whether he wanted to or not.
“The Captain was a policeman in Barbados. He came here as part of a Caribbean exchange program. That’s one thing people don’t understand about Guyana. Geographically it’s in South America and we’ve got Vene-zuela and Brazil as neighbours, but culturally, socially, linguistically, we’re part of the Caribbean. I mean, there are always Guyanese on the West Indies cricket team.
“At that time the Brits had already left, the blacks and East Indians were jockeying for power, transferring their hatred for the Brits to one another, and the Americans were sticking their noses — and putting their money — into the politics here. It was quite a mess. The Americans were looking for someone neutral, someone they could trust to be a pipeline for straight information, someone who could act as an honest broker between the blacks and Indians. There weren’t many candidates. According to the Captain, he was about it. That’s how it started.”
“But to make it last as long as he has…”
“He did that himself. He didn’t need the Americans to support him. You have to understand, he’s about the only person in Guyana whom all the groups can support — because he’s neutral, because colour doesn’t matter to him. They trust him.”
“And fear him?”
He ignored her question. “Those politicians — black and brown — they like to hear themselves talk. The Captain is always the quietest person in the room. He tells me, ‘Patrick, listen, just listen. You’ll be surprised how much you can learn.’ Then there are the generals in our so-called army and the inspector general of the police, all of them with titles and uniforms and medals. You saw how the Captain dresses: blue jeans and plain shirts. That’s his way. He doesn’t need to play dress-up, he doesn’t need to impress anyone. He’s been in charge for more than twenty years; he doesn’t need a fancy title. But you know, when he walks into a room with all those generals wearing all their medals, they’re the ones who stand at attention. And they stay that way until he sits. I’m biased, I know that. He’s like family to me. But I’m man enough to recognize a bigger man.”
“I was told that he knows everyone’s secrets, that he knows where all the bodies are buried, that the politicians are completely beholden to him,” said Ava.
“Would you expect anything less?” Patrick said. “The politicians are window dressing, no more than that. The Captain keeps them on a leash. I don’t ask how he does it; no one in Guyana does. We’re just happy that he’s here, keeping them under control. If it means he has to put a bit of fear into them, we’re the better off for it.”
“I wasn’t being critical, just curious,” she said.
Their food arrived. She picked at the rice. Patrick ate his chicken, dabbing the roti into the curry. When it was gone, he ordered another. “One more thing about the Captain,” he said between bites, “is that he is really smart. I don’t mean book-smart — though he is that too — I mean people-smart. He can figure out anyone in ten minutes.”
“What did he say about me?” she prodded.
“That you aren’t what you appear to be, but by the time most people figure that out it’s too late for them.”
She shifted her attention from the plate to look at Patrick. His eyes were locked on the front entrance of China World. She didn’t ask any more questions.
(26)
It had been dark when they’d arrived, their side of the town being designated powerless for the evening. However, most of the stores and restaurants on the block were lit up. She could only imagine what it would be like walking the side streets on a moonless night. No wonder the crime rate was through the roof.
The name CHINA WORLD flickered in the window of the restaurant. The Chinese characters below the English lettering translated as “heavenly food.” She couldn’t remember ever seeing a Chinese restaurant whose English and Chinese names meant the same thing. Before she could file that thought away, Seto stood framed in the window. He was talking to a short Chinese man in an apron.
“I think he’s about to leave,” she said.
Patrick called a number from his cellphone. “Wake up, boys,” he said.
“See the small guy in the apron?” he said to Ava. “He’s one of our leading drug dealers; does most of the imports. He’s also a friend of a friend. Until now it didn’t occur to me that he might be involved with Seto and Ng. After all this is over I’ll have to ask.”
The trio exited the restaurant and climbed back into the Land Rover. Ava held her breath.
They followed the car as it lumbered two blocks and parked at Eckie’s. Seto and the woman climbed down. Ava saw him say something to Ng, who was still in the Land Rover. The black Nissan was four spots farther along.
Patrick used his cellphone again. “Give them about ten minutes inside and then get Ng,” he said. He reached over and opened the glove compartment. Ava saw a semi-automatic in an shoulder holster and several pairs of handcuffs. “We’ll need two sets, I imagine,” he said as he put on the holster.
“I want to tape their eyes and his mouth before we get them in the truck,” she said.
“Just his?”
“Someone has to tell us the entry codes for the gate, and I’m sure the house is protected as well.”
He nodded. “There’s an alleyway behind the club with an exit leading to it. I’ll park the truck there. There’s no point in drawing more attention to ourselves than necessary.”
They sat with their eyes fixed on the Nissan. At exactly the ten-minute mark the doors opened and two very large men, one the man with grey hair, emerged. They wore black jeans and black T-shirts. Ava glanced sideways at Patrick — he was dressed the same way. Two nights before, both he and Robert had been in black. They’re cops, she thought.
She watched as the one with grey hair tapped on the driver’s-side window of the Land Rover. It rolled down. The cop flashed some ID and motioned for Ng to step out.
Ng didn’t move. She saw the cop’s neck muscles stiffen as he stepped back. He screamed, “Fuck you, you Asian piece of shit,” as he raised a boot and kicked the car door.
Ng stuck his head out the window and said something. The cop pulled his gun and aimed at him. The door swung open and Ng jumped to the ground. Again she could see him talking, and she could imagine what he was saying. She was sure the word friend was being dropped.
The Captain’s men outweighed Ng by at least a hundred pounds each, and when one of them grabbed him by the collar and ran him towards the club’s wall, he hit it with a thud. In the light cast by the flashing Eckie’s sign, she could see blood on Ng’s forehead and under his nose. She tried to muster some sympathy for him but came up short.