Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [49]
Syto shrugged. “Sometimes, I guess. Sometimes they just leave it there.”
“They leave it there? They just dump it on the beach and hope their guys show up?”
“Well, on the rocks over at Bois Rouge. Up inside the cove.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yeah, sometimes in the mornings. I’ll go over there for chèvrèt and see the sacks up on the rocks.”
“Hell, man, why didn’t you pick them up?” Lulu was padding along the gunnel like a big cat; in a moment he had the tiller and was sheeting in the sail, the mast creaking as it cupped the wind.
“Lulu, wait a second.”
Lulu swung the boat around and aimed for Bois Rouge.
“Lulu, wait.” Syto’s fear had more to do with breaking safe, numbing habits than rousing the ire of some ruthless gang. “Lulu, come on. What are we supposed to do if we get the stuff?”
“You have to ask? We’re going to give it to the cops, of course.”
Bois Rouge was a narrow teardrop bay with a rind of beach packed into the heel, rock clusters flaring across the sand like the rusted-out hulks of old wrecks. They found three duffel bags draped across the rocks, a hundred kilos in each, each kilo triple-wrapped in thick, clear plastic. The brothers loaded up the bags and sailed for Marigot; by mid-morning they’d landed on the mushy beach, hired a couple of kids with a wobble-wheeled bouret and carted the bags to the police station, the former pus yellow barracks of the Haitian Army redone in searing white with snappy royal blue trim. These were the new civilian, postinvasion police, recruited and trained by the Americans to be the guardians of the dawning democratic era, and as the brothers waited in an outer office Syto reflected that, yes, there was definitely a different feel about the place. It wasn’t just the paint job, the matching desks and chairs, the glossy validation of fax machines and computers. The old police used to shuffle and slouch around like a bunch of punks—until they wanted you, and then they moved pretty quick—but this crew carried themselves with the same crisp air as the people over at the tax office.
And yet here was Michelet running the place, Michelet with his oblong, strangely blunted head, like a coffee bean squeezed between your thumb and forefinger. A man of medium height, with brisk, officious eyes and the cinematic mustache he’d worn in the army, the pencil-thin wisp like an advertisement for how well the world should think of him. As a soldier he hadn’t been known as one of the high-profile rapists or torturers, though he’d slap the odd chicken thief around now and then. He’d been clean enough for the Americans to recycle into the police, a professional who could brace up the situation long enough for the blans to pound their chests and leave.
“Well?” he said, stepping into the room, raising his chin at the scruffy fishermen. “Well? What is it?”
Lulu laughed, wasting a little more of Michelet’s time. “We heard you on the radio,” he said to Michelet. Several policemen had gathered around. “About the go-fasts, you know? We heard you telling everybody you wanted vigilance. Well,” he kicked his bare foot against the sacks, “here’s your vigilance.”
Michelet frowned, then nodded at the duffel bags. The youngest cop fell to his knees and cinched open one of the bags. He looked inside, pulled back for a brief, hysterical giggle, and looked again.
“It’s cocaine.”
“Bullshit,” said Michelet, but he dropped to his knees and peered into the bag, lifted out a kilo with both hands. “Where did you find this?” he barked at the brothers.
“At Bois Rouge,” Lulu answered. Syto just watched. He remembered Michelet; the chef, of course, would not remember Syto. “On the rocks over at Bois Rouge. We saw the go-fast leaving and we went in and took it.”
Michelet attacked the other two bags, wrestling each