Sheldon turned to Carl who had said nothing. “You would come with us?”
“I know people who do that kind of work,” Carl replied slowly. “I don’t want to be on that run nah, Sheldon.”
“Who side you on? Your old bandit friends or decent people?” Sheldon demanded.
“Call the police. That is the best plan. If they want to kill, they will kill, police or not,” Carl reasoned.
Balo was livid. “No police, no police! I will go alone if I have to!”
Sheldon followed Balo into the car. He sat in front and looked at Carl as Balo started the engine. Reluctantly, Carl got up, walked to the car, and got in.
“I gave you some time. You make a new plan yet? This is the last time I calling you on this.”
“I already made the hit and I expect the rest of my payment, just like the last time. You gave me a name and I killed the man. And I took serious risk to leave him where he would be seen so close to my home.”
“That’s the only thing you got right.”
“I was even in the crowd after he was found this morning.”
“You’ll get paid when you complete the job.”
“My job complete. He was driving a red car just as you said. I even did as you suggested and made a call about a kidnap to throw them off the scent for a while.”
“You got the right name, but the wrong man,” Sheldon’s boss barked into the phone.
“To get the right man will mean a new job and new pay,” Marlon insisted.
“Don’t cross me, boy. But I can compromise. I’ll make a partial. Meet me at the usual in twenty minutes.”
Marlon hung up his mobile phone. He locked the apartment door, and as he started downstairs, Effie approached.
“Marlon, if you don’t have all the money now, just give me some. I see customers coming all the time. You must have it.” She collected some of the profits from the drugs she had given him to sell.
Effie and Marlon walked out of his building. Marlon was talking on his phone again. A car slowed just as they reached the pavement. The front passenger window rolled down and shots rang out. Marlon grabbed Effie and used her as a shield. She slumped in his arms, bleeding from the neck. He let her go and ran back to the building, collecting three bullets in his back.
Didn’t expect to get two birds with one shot. Hope she made good use of the money and coke she robbed me, the driver of car number PVM 2025 thought as he pulled away. He had been surprised to see Effie and felt a tinge of regret, if only for a moment. Sheldon’s boss did not like to be challenged. He knew Marlon would be nearing their meeting place and was right on target for perfect aim. Getting Effie in the bargain was almost unreal to him.
As Balo’s car turned onto Prince Street, a piercing scream cut through the air. Before the apartment building, Ms. Noble threw herself on Marlon’s body. “He was a good boy!” she cried, beating her arms on the paved yard. “He was a loving son. Why? Why?” Then Carl saw Effie lying on the pavement and sprang from the car. He knelt and cradled her head, weeping uncontrollably. He felt cheated of his chance to reform Effie. It was too late now to ask Marlon about the kidnapping. Carl had recognized Marlon’s voice on the ransom message.
“Three for the day,” one onlooker from the gathering crowd observed. Instinctively, Balo inquired about the other. A third corpse had been found dead leaning over the Dry River. He and Sheldon sped to the Forensic Science Centre, where that body had been sent. The pathologist opened a large metal drawer and rolled out Reshi’s bloody body. Balo’s hand tightened around the gun in his pocket before he fainted.
Gita Pinky Manachandi
by Tiphanie Yanique
Chaguaramas
The children’s coffins are from West Africa. He imports them. They are in shapes that a child’s body would be happy to lie in — living or dead. One is shaped like a sneaker. It sits in the middle of the room as though a giant lost it in a stroll through the building. It is white and has a Nike swoosh on the side. The laces are made of cloth, but the rest of it is made of wood. There is also a lollipop one, the candy part painted in blue and green and yellow swirls, the stick — where the child’s legs would go — painted an authentic bone-white. Corban’s favorite is the airplane coffin. It has only one wing. It’s a tiny replica of the BWIA Tri-Star in the military museum further down the peninsula. Many years ago the coffin was commissioned by a family who didn’t need it when their son recovered. It’s a coffin for a one-armed child. He likes it because he knows no one will ever buy it.
The store is never crowded, so often, when the proprietor, Anexus Corban, and his friend, Father Simon Peter, are there together, they can talk as candidly as two men with unforgivable secrets. Simon is not from the island. He’s from a little hot country he cannot forget. The coffins here remind him of home. Simon Peter sits at the stool reserved for him. “How is business, Corban?” The answer is always the same. “Well, you know, Father.” He doesn’t say this flippantly. Corban is Catholic and believes priests are magic men — they are clairvoyant, they are conjurers and soothsayers. “You bring me luck. Without you, this place would be looking to close down.” And Father Simon always says the same thing: “My friend, don’t worry. When the good Lord takes people, He likes it if they bring some art with them.” But before they can go through this usual routine, two girls in school uniforms walk in.
“School project,” the blonde one says as she waves her notebook at Corban. He knows they are lying. He knows that even though he is running an honest and important business, for some his shop is just a curiosity. Like everyone, the girls are attracted to the children’s coffins, but the dark-haired one slinks away to the Mexican coffins that are closer to the counter, where there is less light.
Corban comes from behind the counter where he displays folded silk shrouds that look like nightgowns and tiny prayer books from every God-fearing religion he knows. He asks the girls if they need some help.
“We’re picking our coffins,” says the brown girl.
The other opens her eyes at her and interjects, “For a history project.”
From the ties of their uniforms, Corban can tell they are seniors from the International School.
Father Simon is annoyed at them. They do not go to a Catholic school. They are not supporting the shop. They are an interruption from his favorite part of the day. He tries to overcome this. “What is the topic of the assignment?”
“Death,” the fair one says.
“The history of death?” asks Father Simon with what sounds like disbelief.
“The history of mourning,” the brown-skinned one says. She is thinking that this place is like a museum of death. No, no, a gallery of mourning. She sees a simple wooden coffin, the kind that devout Syrians sometimes get buried in because it is all pine. It’s all natural and will go back into the land without harm. The girl likes this idea in theory, but the coffin looks very sad to her. She cannot picture anyone she loves in it.
Her name is Gita Manachandi. When her parents gave her that name they expected it would stay put until she married, when it would turn to her husband to rename her — last and first name both. A brand-new name for her rebirth into wifedom. But Gita did not stay put and she did not always go by her given name. And she was certain she would never go by any husband-given name either. It was not that she did not like the name Gita. It was just that early on, her best friend had begun calling her Pinky because of a mistake, as is the case with the birth of so many nicknames. Perhaps Gita too was a mistake. She became Pinky in the second grade when her family moved to the island and Leslie Dockers asked her her name and she said it timidly, sucking on her little finger. Leslie couldn’t make out the name but from then on called her Pinky. And that was that. In the classroom and in her home she was Gita. In the playground and in the street she was Pinky.