Contraband – Chapter 1
The creeping fog wrapped around the Hiace, restricting it to a crawl. Vince
drove with care, but Rohan and Paul kept their eyes on the road. In the
grayish-white mist, Paul saw Sergeant Singh's face. If that greedy shit
carries out his threat, we'll all go straight to jail. He pushed the
vision aside. We should be safe for now.
He inhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders, determined to shrug off the
anxiety dogging him. Intuition told him he was courting disaster by making
this trip.
During unguarded moments, Paul wished for a simple life, but unlike most of
Xantrope's citizens, he took risks. On this tiny island close to Jamaica,
crime was rare, giving Xantrope the reputation of being the most peaceful
country in the Caribbean. The inhabitants, a diverse blend of Indigenous and
Asian Indians, Negroes, white Europeans and Chinese had co-existed for
hundreds of years, farming the land as their ancestors had before them.
But things and times change, Paul thought, and cursed the fixation that
drove him to continue putting his freedom at risk. He avoided his grim
thoughts by studying the shuttered houses dotting the countryside. Some
of them haven't been repaired since the last hurricane.
They crested the next strip of road and he scanned the valley below. The
rising sun lit shrubs placed like punctuation marks on the pasturelands. A
metallic flash drew his attention. Narrowing his eyes, Paul made out a
police car, half-concealed behind a clump of bushes. His lips twisted in
amusement. They were up to their regular tricks, trying to trap speeding
motorists. He kept his eyes on the group of four officers standing around
the cruiser as the van approached the spot check. It was then he saw a
second car and felt Rohan's body tense beside him. "Just take it easy. Sarge
is in the group. Everything's under control."
The men grunted an acknowledgment and Paul absently noted the hum of the
radio. He thought the old reggae tune fitting...police and thieves in the
street...
A policeman stepped into the road and signaled them to stop. Paul ignored
the thumping in his chest, muttering under his breath. "What the heck does
he think he's doing?"
Rohan fidgeted and clutched his stomach. "Oh, God!"
“Try and hold it together, Rohan, and don’t you dare puke on me!”
Apart from poverty and incarceration, Paul couldn't imagine anything much
worse than wearing vomit. He willed Rohan to sit still and stop licking his
lips.
Paul made a mental note to replace him. He kept Rohan employed because he
had more children than was sensible. However, Paul was not foolish enough to
jeopardize his entire operation out of sympathy for one individual. The time
for sentimentality was long past.
Vince parked the van on the soft shoulder, waiting for the man who sauntered
up to the driver's side. All three were acquainted with him, but Paul gave
no indication that he had ever seen him before. Vince and Rohan followed his
lead.
The officer's shoulders filled the window and came close to blotting out the
sky behind him. Paul studied Sarge's pockmarked skin and the hair falling
over his eyes. In turn, Sarge exposed oversized teeth in a mocking grin,
forcing Paul to hide the involuntary smile about to lift his lips. Sarge's
teeth always reminded him of Chiclets.
In the hush before the man spoke, Paul registered the line of blackbirds
calling from the nearby light wires. Did the cluster of officers behind them
have any knowledge of his connection with Sarge? Paul flicked a glance
toward the policeman, conceding he now had the advantage.
Sergeant Jonas Singh spoke in a sugar-coated voice. "Good morning,
gentlemen. We're conductin' a routine spot check. Documents, please."
Vince opened the glove compartment and took out a plastic pouch. He
extracted the insurance certificate and title for the vehicle with a
trembling hand, and pulled his driver's license out of his wallet before
passing everything to the officer. Sarge examined the license, then stared
at Vince. He did not hand the ID back to him. Next, he perused the papers.
After a long interval, he spoke. "Any guns, drugs?"
"No offica! We don' have nothin' like dat in 'ere!" Vince said, on a
half-laugh.
Paul stayed motionless as Vince lost his grip of the Queen's English, along
with his composure. Vince raised a hand and let it fall to grasp the
steering wheel, neglecting to wipe away the moisture from his forehead that
threatened to seep into his eyes. Between them, Rohan sweated relentlessly.
We've become careless, Paul thought, because we've not been stopped for at
least a year. He hoped Vince got hold of himself quickly. His breakdown was
pointless, since Sarge knew what they carried inside the van.
Paul surveyed the unending landscape, fighting to keep his relaxed pose,
while his brain worked overtime. He recognized the power the policeman held
over him, but had room to maneuver. If Sarge was exposed as a dirty cop,
he'd be thrown out of the force and also lose his pension; jail time would
be certain. But Sarge moved sooner than Paul expected.
He made a bad error when he neglected to alter his delivery schedule
immediately. Sergeant Singh knew his routine as well as he did, since he'd
provided safe passage through police roadblocks during their year-long
association. Sarge knew when Paul moved produce, including yam, sweet potato
and cocoa, to the Farmer's Co-Operative Warehouse for export and when
marijuana, still illegal on the island, was included for shipment to the
United States.
Being a cautious man, Paul had prepared for the day he might find himself in
trouble with the law. If the police held them, Vince would claim ownership
of the goods and Paul had to pay for legal representation. He'd also
compensate Vince for his incarceration, if that ever happened, as the
charges for possession and sale of marijuana did not attract heavy fines or
lengthy prison sentences. However, both Paul and the policeman knew who
masterminded the operation. As he recalled the officer's sharkish grin
during their meeting on the previous evening, Paul maintained his peaceful
expression. Inside, his gut roiled.
Sarge had chosen payback instead of negotiation. Paul was shafted.
The officer cleared his throat. "I'm going to have to ask you to come to the
station with me."
Paul turned his head to look at Sarge. His eyes held a glint of triumph, but
Paul refused to give him the satisfaction of begging. That was the motive
for confiscating the documents and requesting a station visit.
They followed Sarge's marked car, in which he traveled alone. Before they
entered the sprawling one-story building, he handed the papers to Vince,
along with his driver's license. In a gruff voice, he ordered Vince and
Rohan to sit in the area near the front entrance and motioned for Paul to
follow him. Paul recognized the ploy as the first step in a game of cat and
mouse he had no intention of playing.
He walked through the door Sarge opened for him and inside the closed room,
the two men faced each other. At 6'4", Paul towered over the Sergeant, a
squat man at 5'5". The room was empty, except for a scarred wooden table and
two metal chairs. Paul grimaced at the musty odor creeping into his
nostrils. He imagined it was from lack of use or the smell of other people
Sarge had terrorized into submission. Well, that sure as hell won't be my
lot!
After a stretch of unyielding silence, Sarge stepped back and waved Paul to
one of the seats. Paul sat, folded his arms and waited, aware that his
appearance bothered Sarge. As far back as he could remember his unusual
looks disturbed people around him. His skin was the colour of a pecan nut
and his thick hair, which he kept neatly trimmed, fell somewhere between
kinky and straight. His nose was just shy of being narrow and his thin lips
carried a hint of fullness at the bottom.
But it was the color of his irises that made him different. They tended to
shift according to his mood and on the island, eyes like his were viewed
with awe and suspicion. The islanders believed those born with grey eyes had
supernatural powers. In addition, they made a startling contrast to his wiry
hair and swarthy skin.
Paul used his physical attributes to his advantage only when necessary and
thought nothing of intimidating his opponents. He knew the effect an intense
stare from him had on most people and had perfected it. When Sarge emerged
from his reverie, Paul cocked an eyebrow at him.
"See how easy I can wreck your business?" Sarge strutted around the room
before stopping to face him again. "What you think would have happened if I
made them search the van?"
Paul's gaze did not waver, but he was irritated with Sarge for wasting his
time.
Sarge squinted at him. "I can still order a search, you know."
Paul tamped down his annoyance and watched a slow flush travel up the
policeman's neck. Sarge turned his head away for a few seconds, but Paul
sensed what the officer was about to do before he did it. He was prepared
when Sarge’s palm slammed against the table.
Paul quirked his lips at the attempt to startle him and waited for a few
beats before speaking so softly that Sarge had to tip forward to hear him.
"If you were going to arrest me, you would have done so already. Talk your
talk and let me go about my business."
Sarge gave him a sour imitation of a smile. "Don't get ahead of you'self,
Mister Weekes. It's not too late for an arrest."
"What would you tell them?" Paul inclined his head toward the front of the
station. "We're exchanging telephone numbers or catching up on gossip? As it
is, you're going to have a hard time explaining why we're here now."
The officer bared his teeth. The combination of his glossy eyes and big
teeth made him look like an enraged mouse. Paul suppressed a chuckle and
warned himself not to annoy Sarge any further for he had an unpredictable
temper.
“Just watch you'self, you damn hoodlum." Sarge straightened, adjusted the
gold braid on his uniform and sauntered away. "I'm goin' to be generous and
give you some more time to think about our, ah, arrangement."
The door opened and an officer popped his head inside. "Sarge, someone's
here to see you."
"Comin' in a minute," he said.
He turned glittering eyes back to Paul when the door closed. Then, he walked
forward to spread his hands on the table. "You'll be hearin' from me soon."
Paul eased to his feet, flicked an imaginary speck off the sleeve of his
white shirt and imitated the policeman's stance. A flicker of the eyes
betrayed Sarge's discomfort, but he held his position. Paul stared him down.
"If you think I'm going to give you a dollar more than you're getting now,
you're out of your greedy little mind."
Sarge's gaze shifted to where Paul's thick eyebrows met in a faint line. He
eased back from the table and snapped. "We'll see about that. You're free to
go. For now."
Vince and Rohan leaned against the wall, heads back, chins pointing toward
the roof. At the sound of Paul's footsteps, they turned in his direction.
Though their faces betrayed relief, neither of them spoke until they were
outside.
"What him want?" Vince asked, cocking his head toward the building.
"He's gettin' greedy," Paul said.
Vince snickered. "I hope you tell him once and for all, where to get off."
Paul laughed, but he understood the magnitude of the problems Sargeant Singh
could cause. Paul glanced at his watch, hoping their contact was still in
place at the warehouse. The delay had cost them precious time.
They crunched about on the gravel, waiting until the heat was just bearable
before getting into the van. Vince would have to burn rubber to prevent them
making a useless trip.
* * *
At the vast warehouse, they joined the line of creeping vehicles waiting to
unload their produce. Vince backed the van into Dock 3 and both he and Rohan
got out to oversee the removal of the crates, while Paul dealt with the
paper work.
"What's up Weekes?" The agri-officer greeted Paul with a handshake. His face
creased into a gap-toothed smile.
"Not much. All is well?"
Shipley wiped a hand over his mouth in a back and forth motion and slid the
other down the front of his uniform shirt to rest at his side, with his
fingers twitching. "Yes, except you're late and I'm almost at the end of my
shift."
In the time they had been associated, Paul was never late. He offered the
briefest of explanations. "I got held up."
He handed Shipley the completed declaration forms for the foodstuff,
acknowledging the hold up could have been disastrous. The management rotated
the officers often, their way of keeping them honest in a climate of
increasing illicit trading. That was the thought behind the shorter and
sometimes random shift changes. Had they arrived any later, Shipley might
have been off duty and the trip wasted.
"How many crates this week?" Shipley asked, sitting down to write.
"Sixty."
Shipley's head bobbed in slow motion as he labored over the form. Paul's
attention wandered to the neighboring dock, where a stocky man haggled with
a warehouse worker about overloaded crates in his shipment.
"Contents?" Shipley asked with his pen poised over the sheet.
Paul sighed. "Yams."
He had little patience for this part of the procedure. He had prepared the
required documents, but Shipley always observed the formalities while
completing the paperwork on his side, as though being officious would make
the marijuana he allowed through customs any less illegal.
After what felt like an hour, Shipley got up for a cursory inspection of the
crates, which should have been thorough, as stipulated by his employer. All
farmers were required to pack their goods for export in labeled crates.
Paul's produce boxes were stenciled ‘PLW Farms'.
The crane loaded with half the shipment was on its way, moving deeper into
the warehouse when Shipley's supervisor strolled on to the bay. "Shift
change inspection!"
Oh, shit! Paul sighed and ran a hand over his hair. What the hell
else can go wrong?