“I told you,” the young man whined. “You were having trouble. I tried
to help.”
“You bet your ass I had trouble! And not only with Customs. Where did
my luggage go? Our luggage? Who took it?”
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t!”
“Who told you to write that note?”
“No one told me! For God’s sake, you’re crazy!”
“Why did you put on that act last night?”
“What act?”
“You weren’t drunk-you were sober.”
“Oh, Christ Almighty, I wish you had my hangover.
Really—”
“Not good enough, Jimbo-mon. Let’s try again. Who told you to write
that note?”
“You won’t listen to me-”
“I’m listening. Why are you following me? Who told you to follow me
this morning?”
“By God, you’re insane!”
“By God, you’re fired!”
“No! … You can’t. Please.” Ferguson’s voice was frightened again, a
whisper.
“What did you say?” McAuliff placed his right hand against the wall,
over Ferguson’s frail shoulder. He leaned into the strange young man.
“I’d like to hear you’say that again. What can’t I do?”
“Please … don’t send me back. I beg you.” Ferguson was breathing
through his mouth; spots of saliva had formed on his thin lips. “Not
now.”
“Send you back? I don’t give a goddamn where you go!
I’m not your keeper, little boy.” Alex removed his hand from the wall
and yanked his jacket from under his left arm.
“You’re entitled to return-trip airfare. I’ll draw it for you this
afternoon, and pay for one more night at the Courtleigh.
After that, you’re on your own. Go wherever the hell you please. But
not with me; not with the survey.”
McAuliff turned and abruptly walked away. He entered the narrow
alleyway and took up his position in the line of laconic strollers. He
knew the stunned Ferguson would follow. It wasn’t long before he heard
him. The whining voice had the quality of controlled hysteria. Alex
did not stop or look back.
“McAuliff! Mr. McAuliff! Please!” The English tones echoed in the
narrow brick confines, creating a dissonant counterpoint to the tilting
hum of a dozen Jamaican conversations. “Please, wait…. Excuse me,
excuse me, please.
I’m sorry, let me pass, please. . .
“What you do, mon?! Don’t push me.”
The verbal objections did not deter Ferguson; the bodily obstructions
were somewhat more successful. Alex kept moving, hearing and sensing
the young man closing the gap slowly. It was eerily comic: a white man
chasing another white man in a dark, crowded passageway that was
exclusively-by civilized cautions-a native thoroughfare.
McAuliff was within feet of the exit to Duke Street when he felt
Ferguson’s hand gripping his arm.
“Please. We have to talk … not here.”
“Where?”
They emerged on the sidewalk. A long, horse-drawn wagon filled with
fruits and country vegetables was in front of them at the curb. The
sornbreroed owner was arguing with customers by a set of ancient scales;
several ragged children stole bananas from the rear of the vehicle.
Ferguson still held McAuliffs arm.
“Go to the Devon House. It’s a tourist-”
“I know.”
“There’s an outside restaurant.”
“When?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
The taxi drove into the long entrance of Devon House, a Georgian
monument to an era of English supremacy and white, European money.
Circular floral gardens fronted the spotless columns; rinsed graveled
paths wove patterns around an immense fountain. The small outdoor
restaurant was off to the side, the tables behind tall hedges, the
diners obscured from the front. There were only six tables, McAuliff
realized. A very small restaurant; a difficult place in which to follow
someone without being observed.
Perhaps Ferguson was not as inexperienced as he appeared to be.
“Well, hello, chap!”
Alex turned. James Ferguson had yelled from the central path to the
fountain; he now carried his camera and the cases and straps and meters
that went with it. “Hi,” said McAuliff, wondering what role the young
man intended to play now.
“I’ve got some wonderful shots. This place has quite a history, you
know.” Ferguson approached him, taking a second to snap Alex’s picture.
“This is ridiculous,” replied McAuliff quietly. “Who the hell are you
trying to fool?”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. Please cooperate.” And then Ferguson
returned to his play-acting, raising his voice and his camera
simultaneously. “Did you know that this old brick was the original
courtyard? It leads to the rear of the house, where the soldiers were
housed in rows of brick cubicles.”
“I’m fascinated.”
“It’s well past elevenses, old man,” continued an enthusiastic, loud
Ferguson. “What say to a pint? Or a rum punch?
Perhaps a spot of lunch.”
There were only two other separate couples within the small courtyard
restaurant. The men’s straw hats and bulging walking shorts
complemented the women’s Thinestoned sunglasses; they were tourists,
obviously unimpressed with Kingston’s Devon House. They would soon be
talking with each other, thought McAuliff, making happier plans to
return to the bar of the cruise ship or, at least, to a free-port strip.
They were not interested in Ferguson or himself, and that was all that
mattered.
The Jamaican rum punches were delivered by a bored waiter in a dirty
white jacket. He did not hum or move with any rhythmic punctuation,
observed Alex. The Devon House restaurant was a place of inactivity.
Kingston was not Montego Bay.
“I’ll tell you exactly what happened,” said Ferguson suddenly, very
nervously; his voice once more a panicked whisper. “And it’s everything
I know. I worked for the Craft Foundation, you knew all about that.
Right?”
“Obviously,” answered McAuliff. “I made it a condition of your
employment that you stay away from Craft. You agreed.”
“I didn’t have a choice. When we got off the plane, you and Alison
stayed behind; Whitehall and the Jensens went on ahead to the luggage
pickup. I was taking some infrared photographs of the airport…. I
was in between, you might say. I walked through the arrival gate, and
the first person I saw was Craft himself, the son, of course, not the
old fellow. The son runs the Foundation now. I tried to avoid him. I
had every reason to; after all, he sacked me. But I couldn’t. And I
was amazed-he was positively effusive.
Filled with apologies; what outstanding work I had done how he
personally had come to the airport to meet me when he heard I was with
the survey.” Ferguson swallowed a portion of his punch, darting his eyes
around the brick courtyard. He seemed to have reached a block, as if
uncertain how to continue.
pop,– “Go on,” said Alex. “All you’ve described is an unexpected
welcome wagon.”
“You’ve got to understand. it was all so strange-as you say,
unexpected. And as he was talking, this chap in uniform comes through
the gate and asks me if I’m Ferguson. I yes and he tells me you’ll be
delayed, you’re tied up; say that you want me to have your bags sent on
to the hotel. I should write a note to that effect so British Air will
release them. Craft offered to help, of course. It all seemed so
minor, quite plausible, really, and everything happened so fast. I
wrote the note and this chap said he’d take care of it.
Craft tipped him. Generously, I believe.”
“What kind of uniform was it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think. Uniforms all look alike when you’re out
of your own country.”
“Go on.
“Craft asked me for a drink. I said I really couldn’t. But he was
adamant, and I didn’t care to cause a scene, and you were delayed. You
do see why I agreed, don’t you?”
“Go on.”
“We went to the lounge upstairs … the one that looks out over the
field. It’s got a name. . .
“Observation.”
“What?”
“It’s called the Observation Lounge. Please go on.”
“Yes. Well, I was concerned. I mean, I told him there were my own
suitcases and Whitehall, the Jensens. And you, of course. I didn’t
want you wondering where I was …
especially under the circumstances.” Ferguson drank again; McAuliff held
his temper and spoke simply.
“I think you’d better get to the point, Jimbo-mon.”
“I hope that name doesn’t stick. It was a bad evening.”
“It will be a worse afternoon if you don’t go on.”
“Yes … Craft told me you’d be in Customs for another hour and the
chap in uniform would tell the others I was taking pictures; I was to go
on to the Courtleigh. I mean, it was strange. Then he changed the
subject–completely. He talked about the Foundation. He said they were
close to a major breakthrough in the baracoa fibers; that much of the
progress was due to my work. And, for reasons ranging from the legal to
the moral, they wanted me to come back to Craft. I was actually to be
given a percentage of the market development. Do you realize what that
could mean?”
“If this is what you had to tell me, you can join them today.”