Voodoo Eyes (12 page)

‘What’s your business here?’ he asked.

‘I was working for Prescott. He didn’t tell me he was leaving.’

‘He owe you?’

‘Yes,’ said Max. ‘He owe
you?’

‘No.’

‘He leave a forwarding address?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have a home address for him? Landline?’

‘Just his cell and email. Only I can’t give those out. Even if you were a cop, you’d need a warrant.’

‘How did you meet him?’ Max asked.

‘Same way I meet all potential customers. He called me, made an appointment, looked around the premises, paid his deposit right there and then. Easiest sale I ever did. I mean, I didn’t even have to spiel the place.’

‘Cash or cheque?’

‘We’re not a cash business, Mr Mingus,’ said Souza, affronted.

‘What bank was the cheque drawn on?’

‘I can’t remember that. And I’m under no obligation to tell you either.’

‘Of course you’re not,’ said Max. He didn’t want to lose him, didn’t want to get kicked out.

But …

Christ – was this guy a prick.

The fun I would have had with your petty bureaucratic ass, Max thought with a hint of nostalgia. His mind went back to his cop days, and he imagined bracing this idiot, shaking the information loose with implied threats. He’d never had to get rough with these white-collar jerks. They took one look at him and saw everything they had to lose – past, present and future – flashing by, and they gave up the goods. Of course, he couldn’t do that now. He’d get locked up for assault and this little asshole would sue him. But a badge made a difference.

‘Did he come to see you alone?’

‘Yeah,’ Souza said, impatiently manipulating the clipboard, keen to get along and tot up the contents of the office for a fire sale.

‘You ask for references?’

‘Benjamin Franklin’s good enough for me. Look, the cheque cleared. Space doesn’t come cheap here.’

‘How much?’

‘This? $250,000 for the year. And he paid in advance.’

That was a lot of money to spend on a scam, Max thought. But what was the scam? Paying him to waste his time? Was Prescott using him as an alibi for something?

‘Is that normal? Paying it all upfront?’

‘No. It isn’t. In fact, it’s the first time that’s happened to me. And I hope it won’t be the last.’

‘It occur to you this guy could’ve been a criminal?’

‘I thought like that every time, I’d be out of a job,’ he said.

Typical Miami business logic. Back when the cocainistos had invested their money, they put it in property. No one cared. Most of the skyline, Midtown to Downtown, had been built on coke and baptised in blood. No matter how glamorous and alluring it looked at night, dressed up in its twinkling lights and neon washes and spotlights, Max couldn’t help but think of gigantic tombstones whenever he saw it.

‘Did you ever visit? You know, to check up?’

‘Yes, as a courtesy, two weeks after they moved in.’

‘Who was here?’

‘Mr Prescott, obviously, a visitor, and the receptionist.’

‘The receptionist who looked like jailbait?’

Souza blushed and nodded.

‘See any of these people here?’ Max gave him a couple of stills of Fabiana and Cortland.

Souza looked at them. Fabiana didn’t register, but he frowned at the chauffeur’s picture. Looked closer. Frown eased.

‘The guy was here,’ he said. ‘He was the visitor.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘No.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Sitting in reception.’

‘What did you and Prescott talk about?’

‘“Is everything OK? Lights working? Water running? Toilet flushing?” That kind of thing. He answered yes to everything. Like I said, he paid upfront, in full.’

‘What did he tell you he did?’

‘He said he was an architect.’

Max chuckled and shook his head.

‘He wasn’t?’

‘He told me he was a cosmetic dentist.’

‘Is he some kind of criminal?’

‘Maybe,’ said Max. ‘I don’t know. Say, you mind if I have a look around? I’ll only be a few minutes.’

‘Be my guest.’

Max went into Prescott’s office. It was almost as before, except that the desk was bare. The laptop and phone were gone. He checked the desk drawers and filing cabinet. All empty. Nothing.

Back in reception he star-69’d the phone. No outbound calls made.

He checked the answering machine. He heard the four messages he’d left for Prescott.

‘I don’t … get it,’ said Souza, flustered, bewildered. His skin had lost its glow and there was perspiration on his upper lip. He’d seen the empty offices. ‘Who was he?’

‘I don’t know yet. But he had a lot of money to fool the two of us. This could be nothing – some harmless eccentric with more money and time than sense and purpose.’

‘But you don’t believe that?’

‘No.’

Yet what did he believe? The whole thing had been about role playing – Fabiana, the younger trophy wife fucking the chauffeur; Prescott, the wealthy older cuckold who hires a private eye to catch them in the act. It was a classic, worn-at-the-heel scenario. Like a bad movie. Or a
porn
movie. What if that was Prescott’s intention, shooting his own porno, only with a real private detective either in it or somehow involved?
Gonzo shit,
he’d said he wanted. Maybe Fabiana wasn’t even Prescott’s wife, but a porn actress.

‘What do you suggest I do?’ Souza asked.

‘Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong. But you could let me know his bank details.’

Max handed him his card. Souza studied it.

‘How do I know you’re a real private detective, Mr Mingus?’

‘You don’t.’

13

Lamar Swope was stood behind the counter of his bookstore talking to a pretty woman when Max walked in. She was smiling, hanging on his every word with a sparkle in her eyes.

‘When Napoleon invaded Egypt in 1798, he came across the Great Sphinx of Giza,’ Lamar was explaining, holding a coffee table book open in front of them both. ‘See how the Sphinx in this painting has distinct black features? The theory goes that when Napoleon saw the huge black face looking down at him, and the great pyramid of Khafre behind it, he realised that black people had built it. He couldn’t handle the thought of that because back then black people were thought of as fit only for slavery or slaughter. So he had his soldiers blast the Sphinx’s face off.’

Max smiled to himself. He knew that was a bullshit theory, sometimes also posited on the British and the Arabs. Scientific tests had shown that the Sphinx lost its nose – and beard – some four hundred years before Napoleon. The only debate was whether it had been caused by wind or water. He’d read about Egyptian history when in prison, after Sandra had begun planning a round-the-world trip for them both after he got out. Egypt had been on their itinerary.

Lamar acknowledged Max with a quick upward tilt of the chin. Max cast another glance at the woman, whose hips spilled over the edges of a stool she was practically driving into the ground. Every breath she took stretched her dark-blue Obama T-shirt critically close to bursting point.

Max searched through the bookshelves for something about Vanetta Brown. The single other customer in the store, a man with long grey dreadlocks and purple sunglasses, was leafing through a book about Tookie Williams, shaking his locks and tutting disapprovingly at every page. He looked up and caught Max’s eye.

‘I don’t get this store,’ he growled. ‘I come in here looking for something on W. E. B. DuBois and Lamar don’t have nuttin’. Instead he got
five
different books about this scumbag. And what did he do? He founded the Crips. The Crips’ve kilt mo’ black people than the KKK and the poh-lice put together. And this guy, this writer? Talks about him like he a
heee-row!’

‘Maybe the reason those books are there is that no one’s buying them. People feel the same way you do.’

‘Nah man.’ The dread put the book back. ‘Reason this crap be here instead of somethin’ ’bout a real hero is ’cause Lamar gotta
eat!’

The dread walked off, nodded to Lamar, who nodded back without breaking his flow of conversation.

‘People say Napoleon’s downfall was brought about by his failure to conquer Russia, but he also got his ass kicked by Toussaint L’Ouverture in Haiti. That probably hurt more. Here’s this guy, meant to be a
military genius,
and he goes and gets out-thought and outfought by an escaped slave in his own colony. Imagine how that played back home?’

‘That’s just amazin’, baby, you knowin’ so much,’ the woman sighed.

‘I do my best.’ Lamar excused himself.

He came over to Max, took him by the arm and walked him over to another part of the store.

‘You see White Flight?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I did.’

‘How is he?’

‘He won’t be able to talk again, but he’ll live.’

‘Some life,’ Lamar said. ‘What can I do for you today?’

‘Have you heard of Vanetta Brown?’

‘Of course. Saw her speak a couple of times in Overtown,’ he said.

‘What was that like?’

‘Inspiring. Kind of the way Barack is now, only angrier – way angrier. But then times were different.’

‘Sure.’

‘You know what surprised me though, when I saw her? It wasn’t all just black people. White people were there too. Not big numbers, but enough to make you notice. Decent, committed people. Not like those typical hypocrites you get nowadays either – you know, act all liberal, tell you they feel your pain, talk all that hip hop jive, then when their cars get jacked and their daughters start steppin’ out with Mister Tibbs, they put on the white sheets and want to bring back segregation.’

‘Principles only count when they’re inconvenient,’ said Max.

‘Word!’ Lamar grinned. ‘Why do you want to know about Vanetta?’

‘Background.’

‘Background for what? That thing you’re lookin’ into?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Think she had something to do with it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Far as anyone knows, she’s in Cuba.’

‘I know. Let’s just say I’m tracking down a lead.’

‘Sounds like someone’s pullin’ on yours. Anyway, I do have a book on Vanetta here, if you’re interested,’ said Lamar.

‘Sure.’

‘Only … I ain’t strictly supposed to have it. So if I sell it to you, you ain’t gonna say nothin’ to your buddies on the force.’

‘I don’t have any buddies on the force. What’s so special about this book?’

‘It was published in Cuba.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Max. Half the people in Little Havana drank Cuban rum and smoked Cuban cigars. ‘How d’you get it?’

‘This Canadian brother I know. Runs a black bookstore in Montreal. He knows this publisher in Havana, a French guy called Antoine Pinel. He publishes books about the Panthers – autobiographies mostly. Cuban X-Press, his company’s called.’

Lamar went back to the counter and ducked down behind it. He re-emerged a few moments later with a hardback book by Kimora Harrison titled
Black Power in the Sunshine State.
On the cover was a photograph of Vanetta Brown making the power sign with the Freedom Tower in the background. The book was old, the edges of the pages tinted amber, and when Max flicked through it, the volume released a faintly musty smell.

‘You know anyone around here who was in the Black Jacobins – or knew her well?’ he asked.

‘Not any more. They’re either dead or gone, one way or another,’ said Lamar. ‘Tell you what everyone was agreed on though: she didn’t kill that cop.’

‘No?’ Max wasn’t surprised. Castro thought she was innocent too. ‘Who did?’

‘The Man.’ Lamar smiled sardonically. ‘The Man did it. The same Man does every bad thing to every good black person in America.’

14

Max settled down on his couch with a notebook and pen, and read
Black Power in the Sunshine State.

Vanetta Brown was born on February 17, 1936, in Overtown, Miami, to an affluent family. Her father, Medgar, was a doctor. Her mother, Nirva, was a secretary, originally from Haiti.

Vanetta was an only child. Before she turned twelve, she had visited Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Brazil with her parents.

Her mother was her formative influence, reminding her daughter never to forget that she was black
and
Haitian in America. Nirva also taught her about Toussaint L’Ouverture, the former slave who, by educating himself and learning military strategy, had overthrown French rule in Haiti and freed his people. At the age of thirteen, Vanetta read the key book about Toussaint and the Haitian revolution –
The Black Jacobins
by C. L. R. James.

On March 28, 1954, mother and daughter attended a civil rights rally in Overtown. Although peaceful, the march was broken up by cops using fire hoses and dogs. Nirva took a direct hit from a hose and cracked her head open on the sidewalk. She went into a coma and died ten days later. Medgar Brown never recovered from his wife’s death. He fell into a deep, alcohol-assisted depression and committed suicide in 1957.

In November 1955, Vanetta saw Fidel Castro speak at the Flagler Street Theatre in Miami. There she met Ezequiel Dascal, the son of Miami-based Cuban activists and prominent Castro fundraisers, Camilo and Lidia Dascal.

In February 1960, Vanetta married Ezequiel. Their daughter, Melody, was born that April.

In 1962 Vanetta and Ezequiel formed the Black Jacobins, originally as a charity to help newly arrived Haitian and Cuban immigrants in Miami. Based in a disused warehouse in Over-town they named Jacobin House, they provided food, shelter, legal advice and English lessons.

The Black Jacobins were politicised in 1963, following the bombing of a black church in Birmingham, Alabama, which killed four children. Vanetta Brown started giving speeches around Miami and actively recruiting new members. Unlike the Black Panthers, who advocated separatism, the Jacobins were a multiracial organisation, with significant numbers of Hispanics and whites in their ranks – this was in keeping with Toussaint L’Ouverture’s original vision of a free Haiti as a multicoloured, multicultured free republic.