Free Kingston Noir by Colin Channer Page B

grabbed the piece of plumbing and tore downstairs to the bar to deal with that fucking boy. She could see through the glass wall that the lights were off. The chairs turned down. The place was closed. She pounded on the wooden door. Tried the lock. Leaned in with her shoulder. That fucker!
    A watchman in a uniform appeared. He looked about twenty or so.
    Bar not open yet, miss, not until this evening, bout five.
    What about Ralph? she said.
    Ralph, miss?
    I’m going to kill him, she said. As there is a God. He took two hundred of my good, good money.
    The watchman started to grin and then he stopped himself and straightened up his face.
    Ralph is a sweet boy, miss. Women grab onto him. You have to watch yourself. He make plenty woman cry.
    She looked at the watchman for a second. Finally she caught on. She put the pipe behind her.
    When is he working again? You know?
    Thursday, miss.
    It was now Monday. Three whole fucking days she had to wait. Three! Who had that kind of money to waste on a hotel? Who had that kind of time? She kissed her teeth sharply and hurried back upstairs. She had to think quick.
    She brewed coffee in the one-cup maker on top of the minibar. She brewed it bitter and strong and drank it quick, standing by the window, curtains smothering the light from outside. Then she made a second cup. And while this one cooled she carved out a new plan. When she began to drink again, she was calmer and she slurped noisily from the cup.
    After she’d gotten out of prison, the first thing Mita did was to track down her ex-husband Errol. This had taken her nearly six weeks. When she finally got hold of his number, she called him. By then he’d already moved back to Jamaica with Moira, their only child.
    I’m coming to get her, she’d said. For that was all she wanted: to see her girl. I haven’t seen her in six years, she said, and six years is a damn long time.
    He’d paused for so long she thought he’d hung up.
    Finally he’d said to her, Over my dead body.
    She couldn’t believe her ears. After all she’d gone through. After all that fucker had done to her. Then it will be over your dead body, asshole, she’d said in return, and hung up.
    It had taken her a month to gather up the money to make the trip.
    After she was finished with her second cup, Mita showered, changed her clothes, put the pipe inside her purse. She went downstairs and got a cab.
    Valentine Castle Avenue, she told the driver.
    You mean off Red Hills Road? His eyes searched her face in the rearview mirror.
    She glared at him. Yes, she said softly. How the hell was she to know?
    The drive was slow in the white Corolla, bumper-to-bumper. This was never the way she thought she’d visit her husband’s country. But this was life. She listened to the horns blare incessantly around her and watched as the dust from the construction sites pillowed up over the whole world turning it white. On the radio, callers were complaining to a man named Mr. Thwaites.
    Last time she’d seen her daughter she was four. Long skinny legs like her father, big shiny forehead like her. What would she look like now, at ten years old? Would she even recognize her? That thought brought a pain to her stomach. But it didn’t matter. They’d come to know each other. In time.
    Just up from the big clock tower, at a traffic light in Half Way Tree, a swarm of vendors mobbed the car, rattling the door handles, pressing their faces against the glass. Mita drew her arms tight against her sides. Double-checked that she’d locked the doors.
    The driver gestured roughly at the crowd. Shouted. Cursed. Ordered them to move, but they didn’t care. A boy no more than seven had already started to wash and scrub the windshield. She locked eyes with him for a second then turned away. What if she couldn’t get her girl? What if this whole trip was a waste of time? What if she didn’t even get a chance to see her child?
    Thirty minutes later she was easing out of the taxi by the