Black Cat Weekly #95

Chapter 7-3

“Look at what you’re losing, Clean Willie.”

She followed the sound of the house band to the bar. It was a hotel’s typical attempt to make it look like an authentic Haitian bar. She didn’t know what that was, and neither did the hotel judging by the décor. It felt more tiki bar than anything, but it opened up onto the private beach and she liked that.

The place was busy. Just about everybody staying at the hotel was here experiencing the staged Haitian nightlife. She guessed most of them wouldn’t venture outside the resort. Not that there was much worth venturing out for.

She took a seat at the bar, and a bartender with a silky French accent welcomed her.

“Rum and Coke.”

“Want to see a menu?”

Barbara had drunk a lot but hadn’t eaten since before the flight. “Sure.”

As she looked over the menu while she drank, a Haitian appeared at her shoulder. He smiled at her and she smiled back. A character weakness of hers at times like these. At well over six feet with smooth, chiseled features, he looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue.

Vogue“Is anyone sitting there?” he said in an American accent.

“No.”

He thanked her and sat on the stool next to her. His sheer size filled his space and encroached into hers. Her shoulder rubbed against his arm.

“Nice to meet a fellow American. I’ve been stumbling over my nonexistent French all day.”

The bartender came over, and he asked for a Crémasse in perfect French. He laughed when he noticed her staring at him.

“Impressive.”

He laughed. “My parents are from here, so French was what we spoke at home.”

“Here visiting family?”

“No,” he said, the bright smile fading. “Both my parents have passed, and I came to see where I came from.”

“And it’s not quite what you were expecting.”

“This place is hardly an island paradise”—he indicated to their surroundings—“unless you can afford it.”

“I’m sorry the trip isn’t turning out to be what you hoped.”

“Yeah, well.”

The bartender delivered the Crémasse, which looked like a White Russian.

“What is that?”

He held it up. “This is the Haitian national drink—creamed coconut, sweetened condensed milk, and a shot of rum. Don’t tell me you haven’t had one of these?”

“No.”

“Have mine,” he said and asked the bartender for another.

Barbara tried the drink. It was sweet, but the rum gave it a bite. Her preference was rum and Coke, but when in Haiti, do as the hot Haitian sitting next to you does.

“I’m Charles,” he said raising his glass to her.

“Linda,” she said.

“You know why I’m here. What brought you to Haiti?”

“My husband.”

Charles’s expression froze while his stare went to her ring finger. She realized she hadn’t taken off her wedding ring.

“He betrayed me.” She twisted the ring off and dropped it on the bar. “It’s over now.”

Charles went into reflective bullshit along the lines of there are more fish in the sea, but she zoned him out. Her focus was on her ring finger. It was pale and wasted away from over a decade of wearing the ring. Her hand felt lighter without it, significantly more than the scant weight of the ring. Her marriage had weight. It kept her grounded. It kept her sharp. Now that it was over, she felt cut adrift. Alone and lost. A tear welled up, and she palmed it away before it could embarrass her by rolling down her face. She wouldn’t give Will the satisfaction.

She interrupted Charles mid-eulogy. “You like me?”

“I do.”

“Cool. You want to get out of here?”

His face lit up. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him from his stool.

“What about your ring?” he asked.

“It’s no good to me now.”

Barbara dragged him through the bar and onto the beach. A handful of couples stood at the water’s edge staring the moon and its distorted image on the water. She pulled him down the beach away from the people, the hotel, and even the moonlight. Only the music from the band reached them.

Charles jerked her to a stop. “Slow down, girl.”

Swaying to the music, she slipped her hands around his waist. He picked up her vibe and swayed with her. She pressed her body against his. He didn’t pull away.

“Am I a rebound?”

Barbara laughed.

“Just because you’ve got some s**t with your man don’t think you can put me between you.”

“He and I are finished. Tonight made me realize I don’t have to keep on doing what I’ve always done. I can do whatever I like with whomever I like... and I like you.”

Charles smiled.

“So you want to f**k?”

His smile turned into a grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Pushing her into the tree line edging the beach, he kissed her every step of the way. She bumped her head against a tree as he pressed his body against hers, and she felt a rush of heat throughout her body. He lifted her dress and tugged her panties down, then spun her around. She braced herself against the tree as he entered her from behind.

Barbara grinned as he pounded her again and again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this spontaneous. With Clean Willie, everything was calculated and planned. It had been her way of life for so long, but now the bond was broken and she could go with the flow. This underlined her liberation. Tonight had been about getting wrecked. Instead she was being plowed up against a tree. Freedom was feeling pretty damn good.

When Charles was finished, they carried the party to her room. They showed off, pulling out all their various party pieces to impress each other. Raw and sated, sleep took them before neighbors on either side of her room could complain.

Barbara awoke to the sound of her cell phone ringing. Its shrill tone dragged its fingers down her hangover. The other side of the bed was empty. Charles was nowhere to be seen. That was fine by her. There were plenty of Charleses to go around. Grabbing the phone, she mumbled something down the line.

“It’s me.” It was the Haitian.

“What do you want?”

“Clean Willie is ’ere.”

Her heart rate quickened. “Where?”

Barbara strode down the beach while doing her best to appear normal. Her racing heart rate did nothing for the hangover occupying her skull. She released a long breath to uncoil the anxiety knotted in her chest. Her hand went to the g*n in her purse hanging off her shoulder. She was getting close.

It turned out she didn’t have far to go to find Clean Willie. He was staying one resort over from hers. The Haitian had left a duplicate room card key in an envelope at the front desk. She’d decided to hit him there and then. If she gave herself the luxury of time and clarity, she’d cut and run. That was where the hangover played to her advantage. It made clear thought impossible.

Hitting him now made sense too. It wasn’t even eight a.m., so witnesses were scarce. She’d only seen one guest and a smattering of hotel staff so far. Also Clean Willie wasn’t a morning person. Her plan was simple—go to his room, let herself in, grab a pillow, use it as a silencer, and put a bullet through her scumbag of a husband’s skull.

His hotel came into view. It wasn’t all that different from her own. She entered the place via the pool entrance and followed the signs to the lobby, then took an elevator to the third floor. Luck played on her side. Maids weren’t working this floor yet.

Barbara stopped in front of his room. Her fingers tightened around the g*n and the trigger as she slipped the card key into the slot. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her breaths came hard. She eased the door open.

She didn’t think, just acted. She slipped inside the room and closed the door, then marched toward the mess of bedclothes with the g*n outstretched. Within two steps, it was obvious Clean Willie wasn’t there.

The tension within her burst, turning to panic. She rushed to the bathroom, but he wasn’t there either. The closet was also empty.

A flood of relief overwhelmed her. She dropped onto the corner of the bed, the g*n slipping from her grasp. She was shaking. Her mind had been psyched up to kill her husband, and that unresolved intensity took it out on her body.

“s**t,” she murmured. She’d have to do this all over again. She dropped her head in her hands.

As stressful as this dry run had been, it proved one thing—she could do this. She’d simply come back in dead of night, and she’d be more prepared next time. She could manufacture a silencer using a plastic bottle and cotton balls. She picked up the revolver, dropped it back into her purse, and let herself out of the room.

Heading back across the beach, a twisted thought entered her head. Something that could derail everything. What if the Feds had Will? As their stoolpigeon, he would likely be their star witness. If so, there was no way they’d let him leave the country without them coming along too. There was no way she could get past them. Some Haitian Divorce this was turning out to be.

With her mind on Will, her reactions were slow. She sensed him before she saw him walking toward her. They both came to a stop in front of each other.

He smiled. She didn’t. She was working all the angles. He was alone. No FBI babysitters in sight. No tourists nearby. To do this here would be messy and fraught with issues, but this wasn’t the States. She could do him now, here on the beach. Her hand went to her purse and found the g*n.

“I’m glad they didn’t catch you, baby.”

She hated it when he called her baby. “You son of a b***h. You sold me out. Why?”

baby“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Bullshit. Anything to save your own a*s. It’s the Clean Willie way.”

“Babs, it wasn’t like that. They knew everything.”

More bullshit. How could he lie to her? Goddamn the man.

“Where are your FBI playmates?”

“I’m alone. I gave them the slip. Just like you.”

“Liar.”

“No, seriously. The FBI is big and slow. I’m quick and nimble like a cat. The bigger question is why are you here?”

“Duh, because you sold me out.”

“Haiti isn’t a non-extradition country, Babs.”

They were talking too much. Making too much noise. Drawing too much attention. Will was buying time. She needed to get this done.

“Just a stepping stone.”

He grinned. “You haven’t filed for a Haitian Divorce by any chance, have you?”

Before she could say no, he reached behind him, pulled out a pistol, and fired. There hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation. Will, her husband, her cohort for over fifteen years, had shot at her without a second thought. She was no different than any other problem in his life. When it had to go, it had to go. So be it. Divorce proceedings were now in motion. She fired back through her purse.

Both shots went wild. Will dove to the sand. She bolted for the tree line, wanting something solid between her and the next bullet.

“Sneaky minds think alike, eh, baby?” he yelled. “That’s why I love ya.”

She didn’t answer, instead pulling the heavy revolver free from the purse, now replete with a fresh bullet hole. It was ruined, but it wasn’t worthless. She hurled the bag away. Will took the bait and fired at the flying purse. She used that moment’s advantage to come out from behind the tree. On his knees, he was a big fat target. Like him, she didn’t hesitate and squeezed the trigger. She’d aimed for his head, but the bullet punched a hole in his shoulder. He yelled out and fell on his back.

She wouldn’t get a second chance. She charged toward him, her g*n arm outstretched. Clean Willie writhed on the sand. He tried to raise his arm, the pistol now loose in his grip. She squeezed out two shots, both hitting Will in the chest. He was finished.

“Our marriage is now dissolved, Clean Willie.”

She grabbed Will’s pistol and twisted it to wrench it from his grasp. But the weapon remained tight in his hand. Worse, it twisted back toward her. She caught a cruel smile breaking out across Will’s face before the g*n fired.

The bullet, such a tiny thing when you thought about it, felt like a cannonball. She tried to take a breath, but it got stuck. Staggering backward, she pressed her hand to the epicenter of the pain radiating throughout her body, just below her rib cage. The pain skyrocketed. It went from white hot to impossible to comprehend. She took another step back before collapsing. She dragged herself over to a downed tree and propped herself up.

Will was talking, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. The pain in her chest was speaking louder.

A commotion behind her caught her attention. The Haitian, Emmanuel, and Charles appeared. She looked at Charles, but he ignored her. She shook her head in confusion.

“Get everything off him,” the Haitian ordered, and Emmanuel and Charles descended upon Will like vultures.

The Haitian dropped to his knees at Barbara’s side.

“Is he dead?”

“He will be.” He patted her down. She yelled out in pain.

“I need a hospital.”

“No. No doctor for you. Where’s your purse?”

“Over there someplace. Are you screwing me?”

The Haitian laughed. “No. I’m honoring your deal, but I am honoring his deal too.”

No, this couldn’t be happening.

No, this couldn’t be happening.“You asked for a Haitian Divorce, but so did he. I always give my clients what they want.”

She couldn’t keep her head up any longer and rested it against the tree. As the Haitian stripped her of her necklace and bracelet, she looked up at the morning sun breaking through the clouds.

The Haitian leaned in. “Congratulations, this is your Haitian Divorce.”

USA Today-bestselling author Simon Wood is a California transplant from England. He’s a former racecar driver, a licensed pilot, an endurance cyclist, and an occasional PI. He shares his world with his American wife, Julie, and their menagerie of rescue animals. He’s the Anthony Award-winning author of a dozen thrillers, including Paying the Piper, Terminated, and The One That Got Away. He’s a regular contributor to Writer’s Digest and other writing magazines. Learn more at simonwood.net.

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