Ken Douglas - Scorpion

“ He’s not going to turn,” Maria said, still calm, but he heard the coffin-like stiffness in her voice as he tightened his hands on the wheel. Any sane man would pull aside, pull over, and pull out his wallet and hope that his California driver’s license would identify him as enough of a tourist to be let off with a stern warning, but the memory of the men back at the bridge was still sending shivers up his spine that turned into sparks at the base of his neck.

“ Oh my God. This is it,” she said. The edge was gone from her voice and he admired her for not screaming and not panicking. Then, at the last possible instant, he pulled the wheel a few inches to the right and the police car flew by, close enough to touch.

“ Do you ever know how to get a girl’s blood pumping,” she said.

He saw a turn-off ahead and he stomped on the brakes, sending the car into a slide, laying rubber all over the road as he flew through a long circular exit behind a soccer stadium. He worked the gears through the turn and he was down to second as they shot out of the exit and into the evening traffic. After a few blocks he turned onto a side road, making several turns until he was confused and lost. Finally he pulled up to the curb and parked in front of a small white house covered with frilly gingerbread lattice work.

“ We’re here,” he said.

“ Where?” she said.

“ I don’t know,” he said, opening his door and stepping out of the car.

“ What are you doing? Where are you going?” she asked.

“ This looks like a nice house.” He leaned back into the car. “And I’ll bet nice folks live here. I’m going to ask them for directions to the Hilton.”

She started to say something, but he turned away from her and started up a flower-lined walkway toward a shaded front porch. A black woman of indeterminate age was swaying in a porch swing, sipping something tall that looked cold, and she was eyeing Broxton coming up her walk like a hen eyeing the fox.

“ Evening, ma’am,” Broxton said, slipping on his father’s Irish smile and his mother’s southern accent.

“ Good night, son,” she said and Broxton stopped, frowned and turned back to the car. “Where you going, boy?”

Broxton turned back toward her, confused.

“ I wasn’t dismissing you. ‘Good night’ is a greeting here. You know like, ‘good morning’ and ‘good afternoon’. You say ‘good evening’, we say ‘good night’.” Her eyes were smiling at him. “Now tell me why you’re covered in filth on such a fine, clean evening and why you’re driving George Chandee’s car.”

“ George Chandee, the attorney general?” Broxton said.

“ The very one. That’s his slick car that your lady is sliding out of right now.”

“ I didn’t know that,” Broxton said. Why had Chandee been following him? Maybe he didn’t believe Broxton’s story. Maybe he wasn’t following him at all. Maybe it was only coincidence that he’d been in the same place at the same time, but whatever the reason, it was a good thing he’d been behind him and that he’d left the car open with the keys in it when he did.

“ How’s that?” she said.

“ He stole it,” Maria said, coming up the walkway.

“ Stole it?” the woman said. “You stole Chandee’s car? The chief law enforcement officer in Trinidad?”

Broxton saw the smile splitting her face and grinned. “I guess so,” he said.

“ Well, la de da, here I’m sitting on my porch swing and a man with brass balls comes a walking right up to me. Lord I wish I was twenty years younger.”

“ I do too,” Broxton said.

“ You’re in trouble boy, Mr. Chandee is not a forgiving man.”

“ We’ve met,” Broxton said. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“ You stole his car. I can tell you right now he hates your guts, pardon my French. And I’ll tell you something else. You need help and you need it now, right now.”

“ Can you help us?” Maria said.

“ I can and I will. You come on up here, darling.”

Maria brushed past Broxton and made her way up the steps. The woman stood and from the effort it took her to push herself out of the porch swing, Broxton could tell that she wasn’t well. She coughed, then reached out and opened her front door. “Freddy, you get on out here. We got some company.” Her voice rang true with the authority of command and when a tall, light-skinned man framed himself in the doorway it was easy to see who was in charge of the household.

“ What you want, woman?” He sounded tough, but the love he had for the frail woman was pouring out of his eyes. Then he turned and saw Broxton and Maria. “Lord if they aren’t a sight.” Then his eyes moved on past them. “Chandee’s car,” he said, turning toward his wife.

“ Does everybody in Trinidad know that car?” Broxton asked.

“ Probably,” Freddy said, “Trinidad’s a small place and Chandee’s a popular man, and ain’t too many people own a green BMW with AG 1 on the license plate.”

“ Popular with some,” the woman said.

“ He’s a son-of-a-bitch is what he is,” Freddy said. “How’d you get his car?”

“ They stole it,” the woman said, laughing, then she held a hand out toward Maria, “My name’s Bertha, but most people call me Little Bee, or just Bee.”

“ I’m Maria and that’s Broxton.”

“ What happened to your hair, boy?” Freddy said. “You got cancer?”

“ No,” Maria said, “he wears it that way on purpose.”

“ Stupid,” Freddy said and Maria laughed. Broxton didn’t think it was funny.

“ You come in and get out of those clothes and tell me all about it,” Bee said, and thirty minutes later Maria was wearing a spare change of clothes from her flight bag and Broxton was wearing a pair of Levi Dockers and a bright Hawaiian shirt with a busy floral pattern full of yellows and greens. He liked the shirt and he liked Freddy and Bee.

“ The shoes are a little tight,” Broxton said.

“ Beggars can’t afford to choose what they wear,” Freddy said.

“ That’s the truth,” Broxton said. Then he asked, “How come you don’t like George Chandee?”

“ He threw a big money cricket game and I lost a bundle.”

“ Now, Freddy, you don’t know that.”

“ I do, woman. I used to play, dammit. I know the game. He claimed he was sick, but I know better.”

“ And you better keep your mouth shut about it or you’ll be in a world of trouble.”

“ Hush, woman, it was years ago.”

“ Can’t trust anybody that would throw a game,” Broxton said.

“ Exactly,” Freddy said.

“ And they made him attorney general?”

“ It’s not like the whole world knows he did it, but I know.”

“ Freddy,” his wife said.

“ I know I what know,” Freddy said.

“ I only talked to him for a few seconds and I know I don’t like him,” Broxton said.

“ You going to take his car when you leave?” Freddy asked.

“ Not if I can help it.”

“ You need a ride somewhere?”

“ I have to get to the American Embassy.”

“ What for, you gonna file a complaint?”

“ He works there,” Maria said.

“ You don’t say? I had a party at my house two weeks ago and I invited the American ambassador. I know most the people at the Embassy.” Broxton watched as Freddy puffed up. He was sitting, but if he’d been standing he’d have been strutting. “I take them out on my fishing boat, usually one weekend a month,” he continued. “We go out to Scotland Bay, it’s a lot of fun. You’ll have to come along next time.”

“ I’d like that,” Broxton said.

“ Freddy thinks he’s just so important. The ambassador never came to the party.”