madman before.
Across the terrace, the Cuban sat on a small wicker rocking chair, saying nothing at all.
“That smell is something called soap. You’ve never smelled soap before, have you?”
A tall white man spoke from the doorway leading back into the house. His blond hair was all wet, slicked back close to the scalp, like something out of
Esquire
or
Gentlemen’s Quarterly.
He was wearing an expensively tailored cream gabardine suit. Appropriate accoutrements, perfectly matched. An inlaid ivory watch. An ivory ring. A black Gucci belt and Gucci loafers.
Damian Rose ran his hand back over his wet hair once again. Then he crossed the patio to the young, bearded revolutionary. As he walked, his jacket swung open, revealing a fancy belt holster and the Smith & Wesson.
“Colonel Dred.” Damian smiled like a Clint Eastwood character. “Your work is admired far off this island. In Europe, I’m talking about. In black America.”
The guerrilla soldier’s face softened for a split second that wasn’t lost on Rose. Then Dred dismissed the compliment with a wave of his hand. He spit on the terrace.
“Yo’ very well-train ape”—he indicated King fish Toone sitting across the terrace—“has offered me—what is it?—cash…. I don’t need dat. I have all kind cash from ganja sellin’.”
Rose’s soft blue eyes never left the much darker eyes of the San Dominican. “First of all, my ‘well-trained ape’ could rip off your coconuts in abaut five seconds’ time, Colonel. Secondly, whatever your problem is, we can find a solution.”
“He wants the guns used in this raid.” The Cuban spoke in Spanish from his seat across the terrace. “He has trouble buying guns.”
“For obvious reasons.” Damian turned back to Dred. “I don’t want to arm you that well, Colonel…. You may have the guns, however. We’ll give you two hundred fifty M-16’s. Plus handguns.”
“Fifty t’ousan’ rounds of ammunition. At least fifty machine guns,” Dred shouted. His three officers smiled and clapped their hands like Barnum and Bailey chimps.
The lips of the tall blond man parted in a slight smile. He slid his hands back over the wet hair again. He took out a pack of English cigarettes.
“I can’t give you the machine guns,” Damian said flatly.
Suddenly Monkey Dred was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs. His cornbraids shook like a hundred dancing black snakes. A U.S. Army ammunition belt around his waist jounced and jangled.
“Forty machine guns, den! Deliver at least one day before dat
massacree.”
Damian Rose picked up a camphor candle from a patio table. He lit his cigarette with it. The word
massacree
rolled over his tongue.
Massacree.
“One fifty-millimeter machine gun. For you!” Rose let the cigarette dangle. “But the other guns to be distributed
right now.
Plus a bonus of twenty-five thousand rounds of ammunition…. If I could offer you more, I would. It’s not my money, Colonel…. Our friends in Cuba know what you need, and what you don’t.”
A loud laugh came up from somewhere deep in the black man’s chest. “All right, den!” he shouted.
Damian Rose smiled. Friends in Cuba indeed… he’d won. Massacree!
He heaved the red jar and camphor candle far down the hillside toward the Caribbean. The lamp hit a distant, invisible rock. It broke with the pop of a light bulb.
Just after it hit, lights flashed on and off down on the water. A small motor boat started to come in toward shore.
Carrie.
“Your guns, Colonel,” Damian Rose announced. “Enough guns and ammunition to take over the entire island … if you’ll listen to just a bit of advice.”
As early as 6:00 A.M. on the sixth day, there were bold, unnerving machete murders in the two most expensive hotels in San Dominica’s two principal cities.
In Coastown, a young fashion photographer from Greenwich, Connecticut, was found floating facedown in a pretty courtyard swimming pool in the Princess Hotel. A
Across the terrace, the Cuban sat on a small wicker rocking chair, saying nothing at all.
“That smell is something called soap. You’ve never smelled soap before, have you?”
A tall white man spoke from the doorway leading back into the house. His blond hair was all wet, slicked back close to the scalp, like something out of
Esquire
or
Gentlemen’s Quarterly.
He was wearing an expensively tailored cream gabardine suit. Appropriate accoutrements, perfectly matched. An inlaid ivory watch. An ivory ring. A black Gucci belt and Gucci loafers.
Damian Rose ran his hand back over his wet hair once again. Then he crossed the patio to the young, bearded revolutionary. As he walked, his jacket swung open, revealing a fancy belt holster and the Smith & Wesson.
“Colonel Dred.” Damian smiled like a Clint Eastwood character. “Your work is admired far off this island. In Europe, I’m talking about. In black America.”
The guerrilla soldier’s face softened for a split second that wasn’t lost on Rose. Then Dred dismissed the compliment with a wave of his hand. He spit on the terrace.
“Yo’ very well-train ape”—he indicated King fish Toone sitting across the terrace—“has offered me—what is it?—cash…. I don’t need dat. I have all kind cash from ganja sellin’.”
Rose’s soft blue eyes never left the much darker eyes of the San Dominican. “First of all, my ‘well-trained ape’ could rip off your coconuts in abaut five seconds’ time, Colonel. Secondly, whatever your problem is, we can find a solution.”
“He wants the guns used in this raid.” The Cuban spoke in Spanish from his seat across the terrace. “He has trouble buying guns.”
“For obvious reasons.” Damian turned back to Dred. “I don’t want to arm you that well, Colonel…. You may have the guns, however. We’ll give you two hundred fifty M-16’s. Plus handguns.”
“Fifty t’ousan’ rounds of ammunition. At least fifty machine guns,” Dred shouted. His three officers smiled and clapped their hands like Barnum and Bailey chimps.
The lips of the tall blond man parted in a slight smile. He slid his hands back over the wet hair again. He took out a pack of English cigarettes.
“I can’t give you the machine guns,” Damian said flatly.
Suddenly Monkey Dred was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs. His cornbraids shook like a hundred dancing black snakes. A U.S. Army ammunition belt around his waist jounced and jangled.
“Forty machine guns, den! Deliver at least one day before dat
massacree.”
Damian Rose picked up a camphor candle from a patio table. He lit his cigarette with it. The word
massacree
rolled over his tongue.
Massacree.
“One fifty-millimeter machine gun. For you!” Rose let the cigarette dangle. “But the other guns to be distributed
right now.
Plus a bonus of twenty-five thousand rounds of ammunition…. If I could offer you more, I would. It’s not my money, Colonel…. Our friends in Cuba know what you need, and what you don’t.”
A loud laugh came up from somewhere deep in the black man’s chest. “All right, den!” he shouted.
Damian Rose smiled. Friends in Cuba indeed… he’d won. Massacree!
He heaved the red jar and camphor candle far down the hillside toward the Caribbean. The lamp hit a distant, invisible rock. It broke with the pop of a light bulb.
Just after it hit, lights flashed on and off down on the water. A small motor boat started to come in toward shore.
Carrie.
“Your guns, Colonel,” Damian Rose announced. “Enough guns and ammunition to take over the entire island … if you’ll listen to just a bit of advice.”
As early as 6:00 A.M. on the sixth day, there were bold, unnerving machete murders in the two most expensive hotels in San Dominica’s two principal cities.
In Coastown, a young fashion photographer from Greenwich, Connecticut, was found floating facedown in a pretty courtyard swimming pool in the Princess Hotel. A
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