Dani went back to her place at the window and peered out. The crowd was quiet now, everybody was settled in, waiting for the unveiling of the statue, the speech and then the cricketeer. Dani remembered her father taking her to see Bobby Kennedy in downtown Long Beach when she was a little girl. He was running for president and everywhere he went he was mobbed. Men, women and children offered him a sea of hands, all wanting to be touched. Magic had touched Bobby at that time, that magical and tragic year. She remembered her father holding her up and she remembered shivering when the electric energy flowed from his hand and tingled through her. These Trinidadians felt the way about George Chandee that Americans felt about Bobby in 1968.
But Bobby was good, she mused. George is not. If ever evil sparked out of the eyes of a man, George Chandee was that man. For a few instants she thought about what she was going to do. In the grand scheme of things it made no difference, but this was the first time that she was going to put a man like George in power. Always before, her hits had been political, even the one in the United States. Maybe the successors to power in those third world nations weren’t always suited to the task, maybe they were fundamentalists, leftists, or idealists, maybe they wanted to stop a civil war, or maybe they wanted to start one, but in the past those that paid her always had an agenda that they felt justified murder. George’s only agenda, if it could be called that, was to amass as much money as possible, in as short a time as possible.
And if she thought about it, she had to admit that Ramsingh was unlike any man she’d ever hit. He wasn’t a fanatic, he wasn’t leading his people in a bloody war, wasn’t lining his pockets, wasn’t forcing them into slavery, didn’t have death squads, abysmal tax rates or even an insufferable personality. He was just a good man who would have been a fine prime minister about fifty years ago. But he was out of his league in a world of drug smugglers who were richer than God and still wanted more. They wanted his country and no power on earth was going to keep it from them.
She pictured his face, the craggy eyes, bulbous nose, crooked grin and that thick shock of gray hair. She’d never had to do a friend before. He was a man to her. A good and kind, but terribly incompetent man. For a second she was having second thoughts, but she banished them. Ramsingh was going to die in a few minutes and she was going to be the instrument of his death. That’s just the way it was.
She heard applause outside and lifted the blinds an inch. She looked down upon the square, and balled a fist in irritation. George had taken the podium and was waving to the crowd. Damn him, that wasn’t in the script, but it was just like him. He wanted to be on the stage when Ramsingh was hit. He wanted blood on his shirt, like Jackie in the limo. He wanted to rage against the assassin. He wasn’t satisfied with the charisma of a Kennedy, he wanted the power of a messiah.
She watched as George held his hands above his head, trying to quiet the crowd. He was clearly enjoying the applause. He beamed his best false smile and the crowd went wild. Mothers were holding up infants and she was again reminded of Bobby. Young girls screamed and swooned like he was a rock star. Young boys applauded. He was their idol, he was from them, one of them that made it.
“ I want to introduce a friend of us all. A true son of Trinidad and Tobago. A man who has given up much to serve his country. A true national hero. Let’s give a warm Trinidadian round of applause for my best friend and your best friend, Prime Minister Ramish Ramsingh.” George was screaming into the microphone, caressing it like it was part of him. “Ram is always here for us, let’s always be there for him,” he wailed, almost singing the words and the audience burst into a screaming round of clapping and foot stomping applause for a man they didn’t like, a man they all wanted to step aside. George could make them do anything.
Then to her horror Ramsingh stepped up to the podium and waved to the crowd. What the fuck was George doing? She wasn’t ready. He knew she was going to pull the trigger at five. Why was he bringing up Ram now? Why was he forcing her hand? Did he know she was going to implicate Rampersad or was he just stupid? She thought about it for a second. No, he couldn’t know. He didn’t know where she’d be shooting from. He was just being himself, trying to shake her up, trying to maintain control, trying to force her hand, even if only by fifteen minutes. Maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t. She had to hit him before he said anything about the treaty with the United States, that was the deal, but she didn’t have to pull the trigger a second before. She’d wait and watch George sweat.
Maria spun around the corner, took one look at the cars ringing the Savannah, saw a gap between the traffic and stomped on the accelerator, shooting between three lanes of cars. “Hold on,” she said, and Broxton threw his good arm against the dash, bracing himself. The protesting sound of squealing brakes shot through to his soul, but nobody came close to her as she flew between bumpers and fenders. “Going to cut across,” she said, and she gunned the rented Toyota and jumped the curb.
“ Look out,” Broxton said, and Maria spun the wheel, barely avoiding a pair of evening joggers. Then she was past the jogging path and churning up dust as she steered the car across the vast park.
“ Are you going around the cricket game?” Broxton asked.
“ Going right through,” she said. She was charging toward the game without a thought about the brakes. Broxton saw one of the players point. The bowler turned to look. He yelled and the players started to scatter as the Toyota ripped through the field, kicking dust and throwing rocks from the rear wheels as the players shouted at them when they flew through.
Seeing the players in their white uniforms reminded Broxton of the attorney general, George Chandee, and that niggling thought that if something happened to Ramsingh, Chandee would be the next prime minister. He remembered Chandee’s hard look on the plane, his flash of temper, and the look in his eyes when Ramsingh called him on it. He hadn’t liked Chandee from the get go and he wondered why the man was so popular.
Maria slammed the car into low and slid into a left turn.
“ What are you doing?”
“ I just remembered the road around the Savannah is one way. If I cut straight across we’ll be facing the wrong direction, we’d have to go all the way back around.” She stopped talking and gripped the wheel, hands tense as she sat rigid in the seat. She was approaching another cricket game in progress. This time the players were children and they weren’t bedecked in white uniforms. Maria laid on the horn, and some of the kids turned to look, but unlike the adults, they didn’t scatter. She jerked to the right to avoid a grungy kid with a defiant look on his young face, and then she was shooting, like a well batted ball, headed straight for the bowler, a wide eyed youth too frightened to move.
She turned the wheel a fraction, and they sped by the young bowler, showering him with dust. “Hey,” the batsman yelled as the car gobbled ground in his direction, and he swung the bat as he dodged the rampaging car, connecting with the front window as he was jumping back. Spider webs flashed across Broxton’s sight, but the safety glass didn’t break. Then the Toyota bowled over the stump and the sound of the bumper colliding with the wood was like an explosion inside the car, but Maria kept her foot on the floor as she headed for the stands.
They were empty now, but Broxton could imagine them full and wondered what they were for.
“ Carnival bands go through here. Hundred thousand people, big laughing party. Only ghosts in the stands now,” she said as she threaded the car through the bleachers toward the ramp. Broxton tried to imagine the stands full of gaily dressed people as Carnival marchers paraded before them in their scanty, bright costumes. He’d heard so much about the ultimate party, but he never imagined he’d be taking the revelers’ route in a speeding car, witnessed only by phantoms.
Then the Toyota was climbing the giant concrete ramp between the stands, putting on a show for no one, as the speed steadily climbed, till they topped the incline and they were speeding over the long stage built to handle over a thousand marching, romping, stomping people at a time.
“ The ramp at the end is gone,” she said.
“ That’s not good,” Broxton said as he realized what she was saying. The cement stage was about five feet high and as long as a football field, but they’d cut away the ramp on the end, probably to enlarge it, but the why didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was that the end ramp was gone.
“ Don’t stop,” he said.
“ Right,” she said, and she kept her foot to the floor as they sailed over the end.
“ Hail Mary!” he screamed.
“ Yeah!” she screamed back. They were airborne and the engine was howling in protest, then they slammed into the ground, front tires first, then the spinning rear tires. The car bounced and jerked left, but she whipped it back to the right and kept it pointed toward the Savannah ring road.
“ Good driving,” he said.
“ Miracle the tires didn’t blow,” she said.
“ Almost there,” he said.
“ Hold on!” she shouted, spinning the car to the left as they slid across the jogging path and then over the curb. She aimed between two cars on the ring road and for an instant Broxton thought she was going to make it into the traffic okay, but the driver of a beige pickup saw the car about to cut him off and accelerated. Broxton braced himself for the crunch as the Toyota’s rear end smashed into the front fender of the pickup, sending it spinning into an accident in the adjacent lane. Horns honked and people shouted from both the jogging path and moving cars, but Maria didn’t stop. Instead she stepped on the gas and took the first exit off the ring road and headed for downtown Port of Spain.
“ Ten till five,” he said.
“ We’ll make it,” she said, but the traffic was heavy and they were already slowing down.
He was afraid that she was wrong.
Dani slipped long fingers through the blinds and eased the window up about six inches. There was a touch of a breeze and they rippled slightly, but not enough for anybody below to notice. She lifted a hand to the dangling cord to bring them up, but decided to wait. She could raise them, sight in on Ram and pull the trigger all in less than fifteen seconds. She’d wait till after his opening and his customary few jokes. Usually he spent as much as five or ten minutes trying to warm up his audience, and lately, because of his sinking popularity, sometimes longer.
She watched as he raised his hands, asking the crowd to quiet down enough so he could be heard. The applause was for Chandee, but Ramsingh was basking in it like it belonged to him, while Chandee stood just behind the prime minister and to his right, gently clapping, as if he was leading the ovation.
“ Ladies and gentlemen, Trinidadian’s all,” Ramsingh tried to start, but even with the mike he wasn’t able to project himself above the din. He smiled, looked from left to right and lowered his hands. There was nothing he could do but ride it out. He wasn’t a big man, but standing at the podium, with the breeze rippling through his silver hair, and the sun at his back casting long shadows, he looked larger than life.
Chandee stopped his applause, apparently realizing that he was keeping the crowd going, but they didn’t stop with him. He started shifting from side to side. Ram was bathing the crowed with confidence, while the hero, the cricketeer, squirmed like a five-year-old in church.
George, she thought, always so confident on stage. The perfect snake oil salesmen, slick enough to sell taxes to the poor. Calm down, you’re giving yourself away. But Chandee couldn’t read her thoughts. She watched as he clasped his hands together in front of himself, almost like he was praying. She smiled as she looked down on him. He was afraid she’d shoot him. She liked thinking about it, but she wouldn’t do it. There was too much money riding on this, and it was all about the money. She’d be richer than her wildest dreams.
Part of her said, shoot now, get it over with, but another part enjoyed seeing the sweat around Chandee’s hairline. He’d wanted to push her into shooting early, wanted to play a little power game with her. She looked at her watch. Eight minutes till five. She’d wait. Let George shiver in the fear of his own making. If it looked like Ram was going to announce the drug treaty she’d do him early, but if not, she wouldn’t pull the trigger till five.
Then she saw Michael Martel pushing his way through the crowd, headed for the Caribbean Bank building, the building she was in, probably going to his office, the office she was in. She picked up the gun. Damn you, Daddy, you were supposed to keep him busy. She reached out and took the cord with slippery fingers and eased up the blinds a few inches. Then she slipped the barrel out the window, resting the stock on the window sill and she sighted in.
“ Seven minutes,” Broxton said.
“ We’ll make it,” she said.
The traffic was poking along and Broxton felt his nerves crawling through his skin. They were so close and so far, there was no way. In seven minutes she was going to pull the trigger and Ramsingh would fall. “Hurry,” he said, “please, hurry.” Ramsingh was more than a job, he was his friend, and more than anything he didn’t want to fail him.
“ We’ll make it.” She jerked the wheel to the left, punched the horn and stomped on the gas.
“ Shit,” Broxton said as the car shot over to the other side of the street, charging into the oncoming traffic. She kept one hand on the wheel, the other on the horn as she bobbed and weaved her way through the approaching cars leaving Port of Spain. Broxton wondered why the traffic going into the city was so dense. The rush hour traffic should all be going the other way. Then he saw the accident up ahead.
“ There,” he said.
“ I see it.” She maneuvered the car so that she was racing down the center line, forcing the oncoming cars to turn out of her way. A policeman standing by the wrecked cars blew his whistle and pointed at her, then at the curb, indicating that she should pull over. Instead she swerved to the right to avoid the oncoming traffic and pointed the car at the whistle-blowing cop.
“ Look out,” Broxton said.
“ He’ll move,” she said as the policeman jumped out of the way. They both felt the slicing sound of metal scraping against metal as the Toyota brushed one of the damaged cars. Then she was back on her side of the road with a clear path toward downtown Port of Spain.
“ Almost there,” she said.
“ Maxi,” he said, and she swerved to miss the mini van full of people, running the light on Park Street. “Another!” he shouted. She slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop and allowing the maxi to pass in front of her, then she was back on the accelerator only blocks from the Brian Lara Promenade.
Dani watched as Martel stopped and talked to a shapely woman. Ram had started his speech and she was torn between listening to him, watching Martel, and keeping an eye on the clock. Earl would be expecting her to shoot at five straight up and she wanted to stick to the plan. Martel turned away from the woman, but she grabbed his arm, still talking. He looked pained, like he didn’t want anything to do with her. She was yelling to be heard above the applauding crowd, peppering her speech with rapid gestures. She was mad about something.
Dani checked her watch. Five to five.
“ Five minutes,” Broxton said.
“ End of the line,” she said.
Broxton looked up from the clock. There was a blockade across the street and police cars were parked in front of it, but there were no policemen in sight. They must all be with Ramsingh, he thought. He hoped they were watching the crowd and not the prime minister, but he remembered when Reagan was shot and how the Secret Service men had been looking the wrong way, watching their chief instead of scanning for potential assassins, and he shuddered. The Trini police force was no Secret Service.
She pulled up behind the blue and whites and he was out the door and running before she brought the car to a complete stop. She grabbed her purse and was only a second behind him. Neither of them had bothered to close their doors.
He heard Ramsingh’s voice booming through the square before he saw him on the podium. The crowd was huge but well mannered. “Police emergency,” he said, pushing into the throng. “Move aside.” It was the calypso concert all over again, only this time the giant man wasn’t breaking trail for him.
“ Emergency, emergency, please step aside,” it was Maria’s voice behind him. “Police emergency, please step aside.” Her voice carried the authority that his lacked and people started to move.
“ Move, move,” he said, squirming through the living, breathing crowd. He was sucking air like a race horse straining for the home stretch, struggling like a salmon swimming upstream, pushing people aside with his bad arm, oblivious to the pain, adrenaline sparking through him, giving him the energy of the Gods. He sliced through the throng like a heavyweight through school children.
Dani looked at her watch. Two minutes. Martel was pulling away from the grabbing woman, heading toward the stairs. She kept her eyes on his bald spot, the evening sun gleaming off it.
“ And it’s with the unswerving support of men like George Chandee that we have been able to get this far,” Ramsingh was saying, “And with his help and others like him, we’ll be able to lower this horrible fifteen percent VAT. A value added tax is wrong. It hits the the hardest. I’d like to drop it immediately, but unfortunately I can’t, but what I can do is lower it to ten percent, starting tomorrow and I can promise you that before the next election, not after, I will replace it completely with a graduated income tax that will hit all of the people of our country fairly. And if the rich and the well to do don’t like it, they are going to have a fight the likes of which they’ve never seen before.”
What was he saying? This was not the anti-drug, pro-American speech George had told her to expect. Ram was singing her song, echoing the words she’d used against him so often. She couldn’t believe it. He’d finally seen the light. Maybe he was a man for the future after all.
She moved the sight away from Ramsingh, toward Chandee, thought of the money, then moved it back. What difference could he make anyway? They would never let him get away with it. He’d be run out of parliament by the end of the month.
She relaxed her trigger finger and looked toward Martel’s shiny bald spot. The woman had him in her grip again and he was visibly agitated, struggling to get out of her grasp.
She saw movement in the crowd. “Damn you, Broxton,” she muttered. He was seconds from the stage, charging through the crowd like a mad bull.
Martel finally succeeded in pushing the woman away and she lost sight of him as he entered the building.
She put her eye back to the sight. Ramsingh and the money, she asked herself, or Chandee and the future? She had all the time in the world. Money or honor? Her finger tightened around the trigger.
The two policemen on the steps going up the podium had their eyes on Ramsingh with their backs to the crowd. Broxton burst through them, knocking them aside. Now there was nothing between him and Ramsingh, except George Chandee.
“ Ram!” he screamed. He slammed into Chandee, sending the attorney general careening into Ramsingh and knocking the prime minister aside as gunfire exploded in the square and blood exploded above Chandee’s heart.