THE FLIGHT OUT to Haiti was held up for an hour while it waited on a homeward-bound con and his two armed guards.
Inside it was packed to near capacity. Haitians—mostly men—heading home with bags of food, soap, and clothes, and boxes and boxes of cheap electrical goods—TVs, radios, video recorders, fans, microwaves, computers, boom boxes, which they’d half-or quarter-jammed into the overhead luggage compartments.
The stewardesses weren’t complaining. They appeared to be used to it. They picked their way past the brand-name obstacles with straight-backed poise and stuck-on professional smiles, always managing to squeeze through without creasing their bearing, no matter how tight the space.
Max could tell the visiting expats apart from the natives. The former were tricked out in standard ghetto garb—gold chains, earrings, and bracelets; more on their backs and feet than they had in the bank—while the latter were dressed conservatively—cheap but smart slacks and short-sleeved shirts for the men, midweek church dresses for the women.
The atmosphere was lively, seemingly unaffected by the delay. The conversations rolled out loud and clear, Kreyol’s dueling rhythms bouncing back and forth off each other and from all corners of the plane. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. The voices—deep and guttural—collectively drowned out the in-cabin preflight Muzak and all three pilot announcements.
“Most of those people live in houses with no electricity,” said the woman sitting next to Max, in the window seat. “They’re buying those things as ornaments, status symbols—like we’d buy a sculpture or a painting.”
She told him her name was Wendy Abbott. She had lived in Haiti for the past thirty-five years with her husband, Paul. They ran an elementary school in the mountains overlooking Port-au-Prince. It catered to both the rich and the poor. They always made a profit, because very few of the poor believed in education, let alone knew what it was for. Many of their pupils either went on to the Union School, where they were taught the American curriculum, or to the more expensive and prestigious Lycée Français, which prepared them for the French baccalauréat.
Max introduced himself and left it at his name.
The con came on board, led in by his two escorts in a loud clunk-chink clunk-chink of thick chains. Max read him: heavy-duty denim pants, no belt, loose white T-shirt, blue-and-white headscarf, no gold, no ice—low-ranking gangbanger, probably caught selling rocks or coming back from his first kill, reeking of chronic and gun smoke. Strictly small-time, hadn’t even left the second rung of the ghetto ladder. He was still in his prison clothes, because he’d outgrown his court ones working out in the yard. He puffed his chest out and kept his cellblock face on, but Max could see his eyes running to panic once he’d taken in the crowd on the plane and absorbed his first big whiff of freedom without parole. He’d probably expected to die in prison.
“I wonder if he knows what an insult he is to his heritage?—returning to Haiti as his forefathers arrived—in chains,” Wendy said, looking at the con.
“I shouldn’t think he gives a shit, ma’am,” Max replied.
Up until then the con had kept his gaze locked in some vague middle distance, not focusing on anyone or anything in particular, but he must have felt Max and Wendy’s stare, because he looked their way. Wendy dropped her gaze almost as soon as she made eye contact with the prisoner, but Max went eyeball-to-eyeball with him. The con recognized his own kind, smiled very faintly, and nodded to Max. Max acknowledged the greeting with an involuntary nod of his own.
None of that would have happened in prison, a black con bonding with a white one—unless he was buying or selling something, most usually dope or sex. Once you were locked up, you stuck to your own kind and didn’t mix and mingle. It was like that and no other way. The tribes were always at war. Whites were the first to get gang-raped, punked-out, and shanked by blacks and Latinos, who saw them as symbols of the judicial system that was stacked against them from the day they were born. If you were smart, you unlearned any liberal views you had and got in touch with your prejudice as soon as the cell door slammed behind you. That prejudice—the hatred and fear—kept you alert and alive.
The guards sat the con down and took their places either side of him.
The plane left Miami International ten minutes later.
Shaped like a lobster’s pincer with most of the top claw chewed off, from the air Haiti looked completely out of place after the dense, luscious green of Cuba and all the other smaller islands they’d flown over. Arid and acidic, the country’s rust-on-rust-colored landscape seemed utterly bereft of grass and foliage. When the plane circled over the edges of the bordering Dominican Republic, you could clearly see where the two nations divided—the land split as definitely as on any map: a bone-dry wasteland with an abundant oasis next door.
Max hadn’t slept much the night before. He’d been in Joe’s office, first photocopying the old files on Solomon Boukman and The SNBC, then looking up the former gang members on the database.
Although he’d founded The SNBC, Boukman was a delegator. He had had twelve deputies, all fiercely loyal to him and every bit as ruthless and cold-blooded. Of these, six were now dead—two executed by the State of Florida, one executed by the State of Texas, two shot and killed by police, one murdered in prison—one was serving twenty-five to life in maximum security, and the remaining four had been deported to Haiti between March 1995 and May 1996.
Rudy Crèvecoeur, Jean Desgrottes, Salazar Faustin, and Don Moïse had been the most fearsome of Boukman’s subordinates. They were the enforcers, the ones who watched over the gang, made sure no one was stealing or snitching or shooting off their mouths where they shouldn’t. Moïse, Crèvecoeur, and Desgrottes had also been directly responsible for kidnapping the children Boukman sacrificed in his ritual ceremonies.
Salazar Faustin was in charge of The SNBC’s Florida drug operation. He was a former Tonton Macoute—one of Duvalier’s private militia—who had used his connections in Haiti to set up a highly efficient cocaine-smuggling network in Miami. The drugs were bought direct from the Bolivian manufacturers and then flown into Haiti on two-seater passenger planes, which landed on a secret airstrip in the north of the country. The pilot was changed and the plane was refueled and flown on to Miami. U.S. customs didn’t bother to check the plane, because they thought it was only coming from Haiti, a non-drug-growing zone. Once in Miami, the cocaine was taken to the Sunset Marquee, a cheap hotel in South Beach, which Faustin owned and ran with his mother, Marie-Félize. In the basement, the cocaine was cut with glucose and distributed to The SNBC’s street dealers, who sold it all over Florida.
Both Salazar and Marie-Félize Faustin received life sentences for drug trafficking. They were deported on the same day—August 8, 1995—tearfully reuniting at the airport.
They landed at two-forty-five in the afternoon. Airport staff in navy-blue overalls wheeled a white ladder up to the plane doors. They’d have to walk across the tarmac to the airport building, an unimposing and untidy rectangular structure with cracked and flaking whitewashed walls, a flight tower sticking out of it to the right, three empty flagpoles in the middle, and WELCOME TO PORT-AU-PRINCE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT painted across the bottom front, above the entrances, in crude, black block capitals.
The pilot asked the passengers to wait for the prisoner to leave the plane first.
The door opened. The guards, both now wearing sunglasses, stood up with the con and led him out of the aircraft.
When Max stepped off the plane, he was surprised by the heat that smothered him in a dense, airless blanket. Not even the slight breeze that was blowing could dislodge or loosen it. The hottest days in Florida seemed cool in comparison.
He followed Wendy down the steps, heavy carryall in hand, breathing in air that seemed like steam, popping sweat through every pore.
Walking side by side, they followed the passengers as they made their way to the terminal. Wendy noticed the red flush in Max’s face and the damp film across his brow.
“You’re lucky you didn’t come in the summer,” she said. “That’s like going to hell in a fur coat.”
There were dozens of troops around the runway area—U.S. Marines in short-sleeves, loading up trucks with crates and boxes, relaxed and unhurried, taking their time. The island was theirs for as long as they wanted it.
Ahead of them, Max could see the marshals handing the con over to three shotgun-toting Haitians in civilian clothes. One of the marshals was crouched down, unlocking the shackles around the prisoner’s ankles. From where he was standing, it could have passed for something quite considerate, perhaps the marshal tying his charge’s shoelaces before handing him over.
Once the chains and cuffs were off, the marshals boarded a waiting U.S. military jeep and were driven off toward the plane. The three Haitians, meanwhile, talked to the con, who was massaging his wrists and then his ankles. When he was finished, they walked him off to a side door at the farthest end of the terminal.
Music came from the terminal. A five-piece band was performing near the entrance, playing a midtempo Kreyol song. Max didn’t understand any of the words but he picked up on a sadness at the heart of what might otherwise have passed him by as a sweet, inconsequential tune.
They were old musicians, thin and stooped men in identical Miami dime-store beach shirts with palm-trees-in-the-sunset motifs; a bongo player, a bass guitarist, a keyboard player, a lead guitarist, and a singer, all plugged into a stack of amps set against the terminal wall. Max saw how some people were swaying in time as they walked, and he heard others in front of him and behind him, singing along.
“It’s called ‘Haïti, Ma Chérie.’ It’s an exile’s lament,” Wendy explained, as they passed by the band and were at the entrance, which was split into two doorways—Haitian citizens and non-Haitians.
“This is where we part, Max,” Wendy said. “I’ve got dual nationality. Saves on long lines and paperwork.”
They shook hands.
“Oh—watch out for the luggage carousel,” she said, as she got into line at passport control. “It’s the same one they’ve had ever since 1965.”
Max got his passport stamped red and moved into the arrivals section, which he found was in the same cavernous room as departures, customs, ticket collection and purchasing, car rentals, tourist information, the entrance, and the exit. The place was heaving with people—old and young, male and female—toing and froing, pushing and shoving, all shouting at the tops of their voices. He saw a chicken darting through the crowd, slaloming past legs, clucking maniacally, flapping its wings, and shitting on the floor. A man chased after it, bent over, arms outstretched, knocking down anyone who didn’t move out of his way.
Max had called Carver before he’d boarded. He’d told him the flight number and its time of arrival. Carver said someone would be waiting for him at the airport. Max looked around in vain for a stranger holding up a sign with his name.
Then he heard a commotion coming from his left. A large crowd, four or five bodies deep, was gathered at the end of the arrivals area, everyone jostling and pushing their way forward, everyone shouting, everyone volatile. Max spotted their focus of attention—the luggage carousel.
He had to pick up his suitcase.
He made his way over to the rabble, trying to gingerly sidestep people at first but, when he found he wasn’t getting any closer to the carousel, he did as the Haitians did and prodded, pushed, elbowed, and shoulder-bashed his way through the crowd, stopping only once so as not to step on the chicken and its owner.
He got to the front of the crowd and moved down until he had a clear view of the carousel. It wasn’t working, and looked like it hadn’t in years. Its chrome sides were held together by rivets, many burst or half-bursting, leaving sharp, ragged corners twisting outwards prohibitively. The conveyor belt, once black rubber, was mostly worn down to the steel plates, bar odd areas where scraps of its original rubber coating stubbornly clung to it, like fossilized chewing gum. The plates themselves had long warped out of any clear geometric shape.
The carousel was the highlight of an area with high, grubby-white walls, a dark marble floor, and wide, rickety-looking fans that barely stirred the air or relieved the accumulated heat, as much as they threatened to come crashing down and decapitate the people below.
When Max looked closer, he realized that the conveyor belt was in fact moving and luggage was coming around, although its progress was so intensely slow, the cases were appearing at a surreptitious creep, inch by inch, a moment at a time.
There were a lot more people standing around the carousel than had been on his flight. The majority of them had come to steal the luggage. Max quickly began to sort the legitimate passengers out from the thieves. The thieves snatched at each and every case that came within reach. The real owners would then try to grab or wrestle their property back. The thieves would put up a struggle for a while, then give up and push their way back to the carousel to try their luck with more luggage. It was a free-for-all. There was no airport security around.
Max decided he wasn’t going to start off his stay in Haiti by punching someone out—no matter how justified his actions. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was as close as possible to where the cases emerged.
His black Samsonite came out after an eternity. He got his hands on it and crudely pushed his way through the throng.
Once out and away from the mass, Max noticed the chicken again. Its master had fastened a noose-shaped lead around its neck and was tugging the bird away toward the exit.
“Mr. Mingus?” a woman asked behind him.
Max turned around. He noticed her mouth first—wide, plump lips, white teeth.
“I’m Chantale Duplaix. Mr. Carver sent me to collect you,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Hello, I’m Max,” he said, shaking her hand, which was small and delicate-looking, but her skin was hard and rough and she packed a tight grip.
Chantale was very beautiful and Max couldn’t help smiling. Light brown skin with a few freckles about her nose and cheeks, large honey-brown eyes, and straight, shoulder-length black hair. She was slightly shorter than he, in her heels. She wore a dark blue, knee-length skirt and a loose short-sleeved blouse, with the top button undone over a thin gold chain. She looked to be in her midtwenties.
“Sorry about the trouble you had with your bag. We were going to come help you, but you did OK,” she said.
“Don’t you people have security here?” Max said.
“We did. But you people took our guns away,” she said, her eyes darkening, voice toughening. Max could imagine her losing her temper and flattening all before her.
“Your army disarmed us,” Chantale explained. “What they failed to realize is that the only authority Haitians respect is an armed authority.”
Max didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know enough about the political situation to counter and comment, but he knew vast proportions of the outside world hated America for meddling in other countries. He knew then how hard the job ahead would be, if Chantale was meant to be on his side.
“But never mind about that,” Chantale said, flashing him a bright-white smile. There was, he noticed, a small, oval beauty mark to the right of her mouth, right on the demarcation line between her face and her bottom lip. “Welcome to Haiti.”
Max bowed his head, hoping the gesture didn’t come over as sarcastic. He promoted Chantale to late-twenties. There was maturity and self-control in her, a certain smooth diplomacy that only comes from experience.
She led him through customs—two tables where everyone was being made to open their bags for inspection. All along there had been two tall men standing in the background, watching. Mustaches, sunglasses, and distinct gun-bulges on their sides, under their overhanging shirts. They followed Max.
Chantale smiled at the customs officials, who smiled back and waved her through, stares following her until she was out of range. Max couldn’t help himself. He checked her out from behind. He saw what they did and let out a silent whistle. Broad shoulders, straight back, elegant neck. Slender ankles, very athletic curves to her calves: she looked after herself—running, no doubt, and working out with weights. Her ass was perfect—high, pert, round, and firm.
They walked out of the airport and crossed the road to where two navy blue Toyota Land Cruisers were parked one behind the other. Chantale got into the first car and opened the trunk for Max to put his bags in. The men got into the car behind.
Max sat in the front seat next to her. She turned on the air-conditioning. He broke out into a heavy sweat as his body fought to acclimatize after the heat of the airport.
He looked at the airport entrance through his window and saw the con he’d been on the plane with, standing near the entrance, rubbing his wrists and taking in his surroundings, looking left and right. The man looked lost and vulnerable, sorely missing his cell, the safety of familiarity. A woman sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of a pair of battered, ruptured sneakers was talking to him. He shrugged his shoulders and held up his empty palms in a sign of helplessness. There was worry in his face, a dawning fear. If only the punks and the hardmen could see him now, cornered by the free world, life calling his bluff. Max entertained the notion of playing good Samaritan and giving the con a lift into town, but he let it slide. Wrong association. He’d been to prison but he didn’t consider himself a criminal.
Chantale seemed to read his mind.
“He’ll get picked up,” she said. “They’ll send a car for him, like we did for you.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Depends which bit of porch talk you eavesdrop. Some people say there’s an expat criminal collective operating here, like a union. Whenever someone comes in from a U.S. prison, they get picked up and assimilated into the gang. Other people say there’s no such thing, that it’s all really Vincent Paul.”
“Vincent Paul?”
“Le Roi de Cité Soleil—the King of Cité Soleil. Cité Soleil is the biggest slum in the country. It’s next to Port-au-Prince. They say he who rules Cité Soleil rules Haiti. All the changes of government have started there—including the fall of Jean-Claude Duvalier.”
“Was Paul behind that?”
“People say all sorts of things. They talk a lot here. Sometimes it’s all they do. Talking’s like a national pastime, what with the economy being the way it is. No jobs. Not enough to do. More time than purpose. You’ll notice,” Chantale said, shaking her head.
“How do I get to meet Vincent Paul?”
“He’ll come to you if it gets to that,” Chantale said.
“Do you think it will?” Max asked, thinking of Beeson. Had Chantale collected Beeson from the airport? Did she know what had happened to him?
“Who’s to say? Maybe he’s behind it, maybe he isn’t. He isn’t the only person who hates the Carver family. They have a lot of enemies.”
“Do you hate them?”
“No,” Chantale said, laughing and locking eyes with Max. She had beautiful, doelike eyes and a telling laugh—loud, raucous, vulgar, smoky, knowing, and irresistibly filthy; the laugh of someone who got drunk, stoned, and fucked complete strangers.
They drove off.