James Hall - Miami Noir

There were two Bahamians taking them; one was the driver and the other was to make sure the cargo didn’t try to take the boat. Jacques was told to sit low next to the other three, and not to talk or raise his head to look around. He sat then, listened to the lapping water and the few murmurs between the Bahamians. He leaned his head back against the fiberglass and noticed there were no visible stars or moon that night, or evident wind. The other three were looking back and forth at each other in distress and Jacques wanted to tell them not too worry, that it was a good night to cross.

There was intermittent laughter from the beginnings of a party a few piers down, where none of the Haitians could see, and the smugglers looked from their map. The second smuggler then told the four Haitians to go underneath through the hatch between the two front seats, and so the four crawled through the small opening. Inside there was one dim overhead light that flickered occasionally, a fiberglass counter to the side of the entrance (with a hole where a small sink had been removed), an empty fiberglass floor space that sloped up the sides, and a two-foot-high plywood platform (stained with the quilted pattern of a mattress) that occupied the front half of the cabin, contouring the long V-shaped bow to a point. It smelled strongly like mold, vomit, and gasoline, and Bahy made a whimper noise as they sat on the curved floor against the walls.

“It is not that bad,” Paul told her. He looked at Jacques, who sat next to Emania across from him. “I am Paul.”

Jacques introduced himself and they began talking in Kreyol. Jacques learned Bahy had a wealthy cousin in Weston who had sent them $6,000 in the Bahamas to pay the smugglers. Once they reached Florida, they were to use a pay phone to call him collect and let him know where to pick them up. They had never been to the United States before but were excited for their new lives. Paul was planning on becoming an immigration attorney (he was an attorney in Cap-Haitian) to help other Haitians that arrived, and Bahy wanted to finish high school and then study to be a nurse.

Before Jacques could talk to Emania, the second smuggler poked through the hatchway and said, “We are leaving now.” Then he closed the door. They heard the engine start, then rumble and spit as they pushed from the slip. The overhead light flickered, then shut off, and they drifted into the darkness where they hoped the United States was.

For the next three hours they bounced on the sloped floor as the boat smacked one wave after another at high speed. Jacques watched young Emania’s shadow as she carefully moved from her spot next to him to the top of the platform where she had enough room to kneel on all fours, hoping she could adjust her body to absorb the shocks more effectively. Bahy rubbed Emania’s leg as they bounced, and the plywood snapped against the platform with each rebound from her weight, making it sound like there were firecrackers exploding inside. Jacques knew she must be sick and waited for her to vomit.

After an hour, the second smuggler opened the hatch and flashed a light in, then directed it on her. “Is she cool?” he yelled over the sound of the motor.

“Yes,” Paul said back.

“She better not retch, mon.”

Paul stared at the silhouette of the man. The man stayed a few more moments, then backed out and closed the door.

Jacques began to fear that if she vomited they would try to throw her over, and tried to prepare himself for it. He created the scene in his mind while watching Emania: the driver grabbing her from under her arms while the other grabbed her legs, avoiding her kicks. Jacques dug for the courage then, so when they tried to take her he would not freeze in dismay, and would step forward to defend her. Emania never vomited though, or at least not that Jacques could tell.

They reached the coast of Florida in early-morning darkness. The four felt the driver slow the boat and their bodies began to relax some after hours of impacting the waves. Then they heard the sound of sand scraping the bottom and the boat jerked to a stop, sending their torsos forward in unison.

“We must be on the beach,” Paul said. The engine was shut off and the hatch opened. The second smuggler, talking above the cursing of the driver, told the four to come up top. Once there, Jacques saw they were not on the beach, but had run aground on a sandbar a hundred yards offshore.

“Get in the water,” the man said.

Paul’s eyes widened. Bahy put her trembling hand to her heart and shaped her mouth like she was going to make a noise, but nothing came.

“We are not on land yet,” Jacques said. “We paid for you to take us to the shore.”

“We need you to lighten the weight and help shove the boat off. We’re stuck.”

“We will not do it,” Paul said.

“Didn’t you hear me, we’re stuck! We’re all going to get caught!”

“You get out then too,” Paul said.

The driver turned around, shoved the second man out of his way, then rushed up to Paul and seized his arm. He put a pistol to Paul’s forehead, moving his wet face and fierce eyes closer, his gun hand shaking. “Get the fuck off the boat,” he said, tapping the barrel on Paul’s head six times, one for each word that had strained through his clenched teeth.

Paul stared to the man’s side, unable to make eye contact. Jacques looked on, pressing his lips together tight in anger. The man breathed hard through his nose, then stepped back from Paul and waved with the gun for all of them to go in the water. Jacques put his legs over the side and hopped in first, finding the sandbar was about two feet below the surface. He helped Emania into the waves carefully, then helped ease Bahy in while Paul held her by her arms from the boat and whispered encouragement. She was so scared she claimed she couldn’t use her legs.

“I cannot feel them, Paul. What’s holding me up?”

Paul hopped in and the two Haitian men were able to shove the boat afloat again. As it drifted, Jacques jumped to it and clung onto the side to keep it from moving too far, but the second man kicked his fingers off and pointed the pistol at him as the driver started the engine.

They were left alone waist deep in the darkness, listening to the motor grow quieter behind the sound of the crashing surf. They turned and could see the lights of the hotels along the beach across the expanse, and the sky beginning its first shade of dark blue, then hugged themselves and shook from the cold.

“My wife, she cannot swim,” Paul said to Jacques.

“You don’t know that,” Bahy said. “I’ve never tried.”

Paul kept his eyes on Jacques. Jacques met his glance, but didn’t know what Paul wanted him to do. He looked at the distant beach.

“We shouldn’t try now anyway. I see someone running,” Jacques said.

“What?” Bahy was panicked, and pulled Emania close. “They are running to get the police!”

“No, no. They are running for exercise,” Jacques said.

“What? Who runs for exercise? Paul, what kind of place are you taking me to?”

“Hush up.”

“Do not tell me to hush up.”

“We should go on after that runner, before too many people are on the beach,” Jacques said.

“She cannot swim,” Paul said. His eyes were wide now. He tried to keep his balance against the waves.

Jacques looked at Paul for a few moments. “After I go, please give me at least a half hour before you yell for help.”

“No!” Bahy said. “I am not going back to Haiti.”

“Hush up.” Jacques’s and Paul’s eyes stayed on each other. Then Paul looked at the water. “We will.”

Jacques nodded. Bahy held on to Paul’s arm, darting her eyes between them.

Emania swayed with the water a few feet behind. She pointed to the beach and said, “Look!”