HE WASN’T GREETED with much enthusiasm at Mr. Mann’s. The old man’s difficulty in following Johnny’s explanation of why he was in Nayamkopong now, at the end of May and without a car, seemed deliberate. And he seemed almost not to believe him when Johnny said that the reason he was staying on in Jamaica without his wife and children was because he had promised Colonel Bowra that he’d transport the Nyamkopong colonel and his entourage across the island to Gordon Hall for the celebration there on August first.
That’s a full two months off, the old man observed. He was seated outside his house on the top step of the stoop, with Johnny seated next to him, his suitcase and typewriter on the ground below where he’d dropped them a few moments before.
Things had changed. Mr. Mann was now Colonel Mann. Colonel Phelps’ widow had moved in with Colonel Phelps’ cousin, the man who drove the Ford van back and forth between Maggotty and Nyamkopong. A rich man, Mr. Mann told Johnny. And a widow-maker, he added in a sly voice.
Johnny looked quickly at the old man. Really? A widowmaker?
Mr. Mann changed the subject. Put your bags inside my house for tonight, he said. You can sleep here, and tomorrow, if you want to stay on here in the village, I’ll find you an empty house you can rent. Ordinarily, the old man assured Johnny, he’d have him stay here in his own home for as long as he’d like to stay in the village, but when he was made the Colonel, two of his daughters had come up from Kingston to live with him, and now his house was crowded. They think, because you’re Colonel, you’re a rich man, he said, sighing.
Johnny tried nudging Mr. Mann back to the subject of Phelps’ widow and cousin. He told the old man that he’d heard Terron’s version of how and why Phelps had died, but it didn’t quite make sense to him. Terron’s version was that the gun belonging to the Rasta youth Benjie had done the killing all right, but that Benjie himself was innocent.
The gun was in his bed. He tried to use it on the police and they shot him for it.
That’s not what I heard, Johnny said in a low voice.
Well, you hear all kinds of things, Mr. Mann said, brightening. Things about lost guns and reappearing guns, about obi and science, and I even heard one story that was about you, my son. But I didn’t once believe it. Not for a minute.
Me?
Yes, you. The widow Phelps put it out. She said that you and the Colonel from Gordon Hall killed her husband, but then they found Benjie with his gun, so she forgot about you and the Colonel from Gordon Hall. For her, one story was as good as another. One story served her purposes as well as any other.
And what were her purposes?
To marry the bus driver. Who, as I have already mentioned, is a rich man. She’d been his outside woman for several years, he explained to Johnny, and then, the night before the January sixth celebration, she learned that her husband, as the Maroon Colonel, was arranging through Sergeant Kemp to have the bus driver’s license revoked and given to a friend of Kemp who lived in Whitehall. She realized if that happened, her boy friend would no longer be a rich man. She argued bitterly with her husband, but after a while he lost patience with her and beat her up. So she ran to the bus driver and told him everything. He was the one who hired Benjie, Mr. Mann said, and Benjie was the one who shot Phelps. It was early in the morning, and Phelps went out to the privy, where Benjie was waiting for him. And he shot him with his pants down, Mr. Mann chuckled. Afterward, according to Mr. Mann, the boy had run back to the House of Dread and pretended to sleep, until the police came. Then he had panicked and pulled out his gun, which is what got him shot. Simple, he said, smiling. No obeah. No mysteries. Simple.
Why didn’t Kemp arrest the bus driver and Phelps’ wife? Johnny wondered. Then his friend in Whitehall could get the license for the bus service between Nyamkopong and Maggotty. Besides, if what you say is true…
Of course it’s true!
… then they’re as guilty as Benjie was.
Well, my son, you can know things in this world and not be able to prove them in a court of law. Some things you must leave to the judgment of a Higher Court. Besides, the bus driver has lots of money. The police won’t bother him now, not with Benjie dead. It’s more profitable this way. Every once in a while Sergeant Kemp goes by and says things to Phelps’ cousin and widow, things that make them nervous, so they take care of him and he goes away. Why would he arrest them? Mr. Mann asked, laughing as if in admiration of Kemp’s intelligence. That Kemp is no monkey, he’s a fox, he said.
You’re reminding me of a man I knew in Port Antonio, Johnny said evenly. His name was Evan Smith, and he thought Errol Flynn was a fox.
Oh yes, yes, yes. Errol Flynn. The old man pondered the name for a few seconds. Yes, well, he was a fox. A fox in the henhouse, as the saying goes, heh, heh, heh. Then, abruptly, he got up and instructed Johnny to carry his suitcase and typewriter into the house and place them in the room behind his bedroom, the alcove back there with the cot where Mr. Mann himself had slept last April when Johnny had stayed in his house for a week. The old man apologized for the inconvenience, explaining that because so many people lived in his house, now that he was Colonel, he was unable to receive guests adequately. The government ought to build us a hotel, he said, or at least a guest house. He himself, however, was going to move into Colonel Phelps’ house soon, just he and his wife Devina, and leave this old place for his children and grandchildren. He’d already arranged with Phelps’ widow to rent it to him. For a pittance, he said, winking. A pittance.
Johnny slept on the narrow cot in back of Mr. Mann’s own bedroom, where now, or at least for this one night, Mr. Mann’s two daughters from Kingston and their babies slept. In the morning, after a breakfast of oranges and hard-boiled eggs, Mr. Mann informed Johnny that he could use Rubber’s house for as long as he wished to stay in Nyamkopong. Forever, if you like. He told him where the house was located, a one-room cabin like Terron’s that was alongside the road about two hundred yards beyond the Colonel’s old house.
I know where it is, Johnny said. I was here when Kemp and his boys dragged Rubber out to the road and hauled him off to Maggotty. Where’s Rubber now? he asked the old man. He’s not still in jail, is he?
Oh yes. Certainly.
Why?
Well … you never know. With these Rasta youths, I mean. He probably did some serious robbing. But don’t you worry, the old man assured him. You can use his house as long as you want to. I’m the Colonel, and it’s my decision, he proclaimed. He could keep Rubber in jail forever, he bragged.
Johnny’s mouth was open, as if he were about to shout. But he remained silent, except to thank Mr. Mann for his hospitality. Then he grabbed his suitcase and typewriter and walked straight for Rubber’s house. As he passed Terron’s cabin, he stepped in, greeted Terron’s woman, and was told, vaguely, that Terron had gone away and wouldn’t be back for a few days. He thanked her, said he’d stay in town until Terron came back from wherever he was, and then went on to Rubber’s.