Black Cat Weekly #95

Chapter 7-2

Their journey ended on a narrow dirt road. Stucco-sided homes without a single architectural feature rose up on both sides to exaggerate the claustrophobic street.

Maurice pointed at a run-down bar on a street corner. “That’s the place you want. Don’t go in the front. You want that door on the side.”

Barbara reached for her wallet.

“I will wait here.”

“Won’t be necessary,” she said pulling out a twenty.

“It will. You will want a friend when you come out.”

“And you’re my friend?”

“In Haiti, I am.”

She smiled. She guessed she was flattered by how Maurice perceived her. He saw her as some desperate American rich b***h looking for a way to get out from under—not a ruthless con artist. She should be flattered by that. She held out the twenty.

“That’s a gift for my friend. See you in a while.”

Maurice offered no smile in return but took the money.

The door Maurice had pointed out wasn’t locked, so she let herself in. An unlit stairwell greeted her. Before she reached the top, a wiry guy tall enough to be in the NBA emerged from the darkness holding a .45.

“You’re in the wrong place, b***h. f**k off.” His accent turned the word b***h into beech.

bitchbeechUnfazed by either the g*n or the slur, she said, “I’m here to see the Haitian.”

He laughed. “We are all Haitian here, beech.”

You listen to too much hip-hop. “Yeah, but you aren’t the Haitian.”

You listen to too much hip-hoptheA voice from the shadows said, “Let her up. She’s Papa’s girl.”

One thing she wasn’t was Papa’s girl, but she let it slide. Mr. NBA held back a curtain that stood in for a proper door.

The room on the upper floor stank. It was a heady cocktail of booze, w**d, sweat, decay, and men who didn’t give a s**t. Just her type. The Haitian rose from a leather club chair against the far wall with a mini-fridge humming loudly on one side and a gaming console on the other. A TV sitting on a coffee table covered in empty beer bottles was in front.

Children in men’s clothing. Again, just her type.

Children in men’s clothingThe Haitian was a cute, baby-faced guy in his thirties, although he carried too much weight around his waist. That weight would catch up with those good looks one of these days. He offered a hand to her and they shook.

“You are Barbara, yes?”

He spoke with a faint French accent that made her wonder if he’d spent time in the States.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Enchanté. Do you ’ave everything I need?”

She removed an envelope with pictures and information on Clean Willie. The Haitian took the envelope and walked it over to a desk by a shuttered window. He sat on the corner of the desk and gave the contents scant examination before tossing it to Mr. NBA.

“The money?” he asked with far more interest.

She pulled twenty-five grand from her purse. The Haitian’s face lit up as she dropped the neatly packed bundles on the desk. He tossed one to Mr. NBA, who sniffed it like it was a Michelin-star meal. There was no hiding what was of interest to these guys.

Putting the money aside, the Haitian said, “So what is it you want?”

Fun and games, really? She’d been hoping for a smooth transaction. “You know what I want.”

Fun and games, really?“I do, but you ’ave to say it.”

“What for?”

“The contract. There’s no paper, so you ’ave say it.”

She’d jumped through bigger hoops. “I want a Haitian Divorce.”

“Again.”

She sighed. “I want a Haitian Divorce.”

“Again.”

“I want a Haitian Divorce.”

The Haitian grinned. “Now we ’ave a contract.”

She wasn’t sure if this guy was screwing with her, but she remembered some factoids about having to say, “I divorce you” three times before getting your divorce decree. She guessed the Haitian was a stickler for tradition.

“When can I expect it done?”

The Haitian and Mr. NBA looked at each other and laughed.

“You really do not know ’ow this works, do you?” the Haitian said.

She couldn’t believe she’d screwed up. Papa had f****d her over. She knew she couldn’t trust that slimy son of a b***h. Well, f**k these guys. She was out of here. She reached for her money and didn’t even get close.

Mr. NBA shot out one of his stick-thin arms and latched it around her throat before pressing the .45 against her temple. She grabbed his wrist to pull it away, but there was real strength in his wiry frame. He spat French at her as he marched her backward across the room until she connected with the sofa and he tumbled on top of her. Maurice’s warning to her echoed loud in her mind. She should’ve listened to her cabbie.

The Haitian opened a desk drawer and pulled out a .38 revolver half wrapped in a dirty rag. He balanced it on his palm. “Let her alone, Emmanuel. I think she ’as got the message.”

Mr. NBA released Barbara and got to his feet. He stood close with his finger tight on the trigger of his .45.

The Haitian crossed over to her with the revolver still balanced on his palm. “Let me educate you on a Haitian Divorce, the kind of Haitian Divorce I deal in.”

He sat down next to her. “I am what you call a facilitator. I provide an environment for your divorce, but when it comes to the divorce itself itself”—he smiled his smooth smile—“that is down to you, ma chérie.”

He held the g*n out to her. She took it, rag et al.

“The problem with you people,” the Haitian said, “is you think because we are poor people from a shithole country that we’ll do anything for your almighty dollar. You overestimate your importance and underestimate our desperation.”

“Then what am I getting for my money?”

“My expertise. Because this is a shithole country, things can ’appen ’ere that can’t in other countries. People ’ere are hungry. They want things from life that you take for granted, so they will do things for a little money. Your husband can ’ave a bullet between the eyes, but I can have a death certificate saying he died of a ’eart attack and his body was cremated as per ’is written request.”

“I don’t want anything official. I want him to simply disappear.”

The Haitian’s seductive smile reappeared. “I can make that ’appen... or never ’appen as it were. Reality is whatever I say it is. That’s what you are paying for, Barbara.”

It was all nicely pitched, but the Haitian had forgotten one important detail. “My husband is in the US.”

“Not for long. He knows you are ’ere. I will mislead ’im to get ’im ’ere, and I will give you ’is location so you can serve ’im a lead-filled divorce. Then you return to America a single woman... oui?”

Goddamn this asshole for his games. Goddamn Papa for bullshitting her. Goddamn Clean Willie for screwing her over. Goddamn this country for being an armpit that allowed itself to get reamed by the rest of the world for three hundred years.

She tightened her grip on the revolver. “Yes, I’ll be a free woman.”

Maurice stopped his taxi in front of her hotel, Le Merengue. She didn’t know where she was other than that the hotel was on the coast and the drive had been long. The place was idyllic, a postcard paradise come to life, but it was background noise to the g*n in her purse and what she had to do with it.

It took a moment to realize Maurice was talking to her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

“I said you don’t have to go through with it. I can take you back to the airport. You can fly home. Forget this.”

It sounded easy but it wasn’t. “I can’t.”

“Because of the money? f**k the money. Consider it the price of coming to your senses.”

“It’s not the money.” Her words sounded so faint and distant. She’d been looking down. She looked up, making eye contact with Maurice.

“Linda, be smart.”

She generally was, except in one respect—Clean Willie. Falling for that son of a b***h was the dumbest thing she’d ever done, and he would bring her down one way or the other. Maybe there was a way out of this, but she needed a sounding board.

“Come in with me. Talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll pay for your time.”

He shook his head. “I am not your friend, Linda. I won’t get involved. But I don’t want you to make a mistake. Leave before it’s too late.”

It was good advice. She pulled five twenties from her purse and handed them to Maurice. “Thank you.”

He took the money and retrieved her bag from the trunk. He drove off without another word. He’d made his pitch, and it was down to her to heed his warning. She turned around and entered the hotel.

Barbara broke the seals on the last two mini-bottles of rum and dumped them into her glass before covered them up with Coke. She’d cleaned out her hotel room minibar in the time it took to have a shower. She stirred her cocktail with her finger and rewrapped her towel around her body.

She stared at the g*n still sitting on the bed, where she’d left it after checking into her room. She didn’t want to touch it. She was far from squeamish when it came to guns, but the thought of killing Clean Willie turned her stomach. She shot back the drink, letting the alcohol singe her throat.

Tossing the glass on the bed, she picked up the g*n. The revolver was heavy and solid in her grip. As technology went, it wasn’t complicated. It was a simple device for a complicated purpose—taking a life.

She snapped open the cylinder and spun it. Each chamber was filled with a round. Only one bullet was needed for her Haitian Divorce.

Christ, she’d been stupid. She should’ve known it was never going to be simple.

Maurice had told her to go home. It wasn’t such a bad idea.

Barbara tossed the g*n on the bed before crashing onto the bed herself. A four-rum head rush overwhelmed her during the fall, but a thought solidified in her mind—why the hell was she feeling guilty? Will had sold her out. A lead-fueled Haitian Divorce to the back of the skull was more than he deserved for his snitching a*s. So what if she had to do the killing? She was the triggerman regardless if she fired the g*n or the Haitian did. Picking up the g*n, she realized it felt good in her grasp this time. She snapped the cylinder in place and aimed it at the ceiling, and Clean Willie was transposed there by her mind’s eye.

“With this g*n, I thee divorce.”

Night brought an onshore breeze that helped kill the heat and keep the humidity in check. Barbara put on a summer dress that was light and airy. Anything to help that breeze kiss her skin. She checked her appearance in the mirror. The dress was a little young for her, but she could still pull it off.