Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

At Godineau, the sleek little boat shot out from under the canopy of mangrove branches like an arrow pointing toward open sea. The only glints in the moonlit ocean were the helmets that crowned the two men seated like robots in the narrow cabin of the speedboat. Painted black, equipped with two powerful 100HP Johnson engines specially assembled and mechanically assisted with turbo jets, the vessel was fast and undetectable as it roared to a destination only eighty miles away — a secret bay of the mainland where, unseen and with engines muffled, the men would pilot the craft upriver along banks whose trees cast an aura of gloom over the compound on the Venezuelan coast.

Balbosa, Manickchand, another Spaniard, Vasquez — who was as cunning as a forest quenk — and a Trini Indian of skill and courage had made countless trips into this dark camouflaged cave within the interior of the compound. Tonight they removed the lids that concealed the boat’s cabin cupboards and lifted plastic bags tied with red ribbons, then hoisted the cargo onto the trays of one-ton four-wheel drive Mazdas equipped with tools, hooded lamps, and extra tanks of gas necessary for perilous journeys through the jungle.

Expeditions from Trinidad by speedboat to the mainland took place at night. It was the cloth king of indisputable wealth and authority, Sabagal, who commanded this unlawful business that had made him a kingpin operator of devious courage, a figure of charm and power.

The strength of Sabagal’s dominion was in his dexterous voyages and skills deemed inherited from his father who had peddled blue dock jeans, colorful scarves, and head ties across the country roads in bygone days. His father had never worried that villagers were slow to pay for goods, or cared about the pain he experienced as ferocious pot hounds gnawed at his heels when he entered the yards through the mud traces of the country villages. His frequent visits had paid off over the years until he was able to purchase an Austin 8 that took him further inland, into secluded districts where he clothed the people with his cheap, colorful fabric.

Like his father, Sabagal also sold haberdashery of pots and pans, window curtains, miscellaneous kitchen implements, brass bowls, small mirrors, lamps — anything that attracted naïve housewives who spent time talking, laughing, touching, then eventually buying Sabagal’s goods. Sabagal would check his money, using rubber bands to hold his notes together. There would be a song in his heart.

Eventually Sabagal hired salesmen, bought two more vans, and as his business prospered, his wealth increased. He acquired properties in the city, at Bay Shore, Otaheite, along Trinidad’s central coast, and at Maracaibo, El Tigre, Santano, and Margarita. He sold a larger variety of clothes and other silken fineries which yielded immense profits. His name became well-known across the land, but his lust for power and wealth overcame him. Greed thickened his blood to craftier ventures, which became devilishly uncontrollable and all-consuming.

Lured by mainland drug dealers into the high woods of that vast countryside that bordered the shores of roaring waves, Sabagal found himself surrounded by hefty men, bearded like ancient prophets. Unsmiling and grave, they emerged from a cave where bats whirred with grievous squeals and over-flapping wings. On skids on the higher terraces of the grotto were bags and boxes of cocaine and other drug-related pouches and vials of liquids. Here in this secret lair was the stored bank of wealth, guarded by thieves and hoodlums.

Further into the cold dark corners of the cave were boxes of loot from vessels traversing the ocean — cartons loaded with electronic equipment, whiskey, radios, stoves, refrigerators, and heaps of massive bundles stamped with foreign markings in foreign languages. Sabagal was stunned by the vastness of this store of contraband that amounted to a countless sum. He stood between four men armed with Uzi machine guns who also carried radios and cell phones. He had come to see the evidence. He was satisfied. He opened his carry-on case and Vasquez brought the papers to be signed.

Sabagal realized that more lucrative drug deals involved higher risks. He was soon entangled in liaisons with unknown men of extraordinary wealth. He took his chances.

But tonight he was surrounded by his own men — Balbosa, Manickchand, and Teemul the Trini Indian — who had quietly entered the inner cavern with Vasquez, along with a band of haughty figures, their weapons hoisted overhead, their foreheads banded, their eyes clouded by the dark undertones of evil. The unsmiling strangers, together with his own men, seized Sabagal. The ruffians’ coarse calloused hands were too abusive for Sabagal, who stood surprised at the sudden violence.

“What wrong with you?” Wordlessly, they grabbed his shoulders and tied his hands behind his back. “Aye, what you doing?” he protested.

A hand slapped his face. He felt a stunning blow on his neck and his eyes dimmed. He pushed and twisted, stumbled over rocks, but they kept him pinned. They seized him around his waist and grabbed his collar. Each time he resisted, they punched his stomach, slapped his face and ears. His heart beat rapidly. Balbosa had betrayed him. He had tricked him into coming to this mainland cave. He had promised new deals with strange underworld figures, these Spaniards with warahoon guards who stood with their sharpened blades of steel pinned on their waistbands. Sabagal had been kidnapped.

Despite his outcries and struggling, they ignored him and dragged him to a wall of unhewn rock. They lashed his wrists together and tied him to the wall, hands high overhead. They removed his boots, dropped his pants, and Sabagal stood on cold ground, a figure of desolate hope. They brought him papers to sign, promissory notes, pages of information quantifying his enormous wealth in cash and real estate which they had scrawled on his notepad. They twisted his thumbs, lowered his hand, and proffered him a pen to sign, but he refused. Slaps rained on his head, and they struck his shins with a steel rod. He resisted, prayed and yelled, cursed in the darkness as the men continued to torture him. The lashes on his feet brought more pain. He screamed in agony as they bent his fingers back. Then a finger snapped. He began to breathe heavily, then he became unconscious. He hung limp and wet, eyes closed.

Suddenly terrifying growls, painful groans erupted around him and he awoke. Primordial beasts with red unblinking almond eyes surrounded him. Gray monstrous animals — bears? wolves? mountain beasts? or denizens of the cave? He cringed at the long white fangs and the slabbering tongues of blood. But where were his enemies, the mute band of terrorists who had tortured him? Confronted by this disastrous sight, body and mind once more collapsed to nothingness.

Hours later, days, or was it a week? He had lost all sense of time. He remembered people from whom he had taken money and not delivered garments and household articles. What about the old woman whose cash he had confiscated? Bundled one-hundred-dollar bills tied with vines. The couple who had saved all their cane-cutting money accumulated for years. And the papers, the land transaction deeds he had secretly convinced illiterate people to sign. The stolen jewelry, the numerous frauds and crooked deals all flashed before him. Until now he had not realized to how much his evil deeds had amounted.

He was hungry and thirsty. The men were prodding him. He opened his eyes and snapped to his senses — they were unshackling him. He crumpled before them. The proffered bowl of food and frosty drink was tempting. Mumbling, pleading, he stretched out his hand, but each time he reached for the bowl, Vasquez presented the pen. “Sign and you will get all you want to eat.”