Dancing in the Baron's Shadow Read Free Page B

have his license plate number. A description of his vehicle. He cursed under his breath. The little Datsun was now as incriminating as a murder weapon.
    He looked around anxiously to make sure no one was watching. A streetlight cast a white glow over the driveway. Just above the rear bumper, his eye caught a bullet hole in the body of his Datsun. He inserted his finger in it and fought off another chill. He would have to do something about this. His friend Faton knew someone at the vehicle registration office who could get him a new license plate, but bodywork, like everything else, was costly. Raymond scratched the anxiety crawling under his sideburns like a colony of ants.
    He glanced at the big gingerbread house. An old rocking chairtrembled on the veranda, back and forth. But there was no breeze. The doors and window shutters were lacquered in a glossy, peeling gray that revealed termite bites in the mahogany. The windows opened onto a brightly lit interior with a wooden staircase and a wall of sepia-toned family portraits. Raymond suddenly smelled a familiar waft of tobacco burning in the warm evening air. Now a woman appeared in the rocking chair, her shape becoming more distinct in the dark as she nodded, the embers of her cigarette glittering red like a lonesome koukouy, or firefly, suspended in midair.
    He steeled himself. Perhaps he could get away with pretending he didn’t see her. Perhaps he could walk past the veranda with his head held high, and she would let him go home without saying a word. He scurried up the driveway toward the back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement and heard a depressing scratch of the throat. Then a voice cut through the night.
    â€œI see you, L’Eveillé!”
    He froze, his eyes cutting through the evening light.
    â€œI’ll call the police.”

TWO
    N icolas L’Eveillé stood between his friends Georges Phenicié and Jean Faustin. They were peering over a stack of typewritten pages Nicolas had just freed from the confines of a rubber band.
    He could smell the cigarettes and coffee on his friends’ breath and could feel the tension as the setting sun threw shadows across the walls of his study. Next to the manuscript was a small black notebook stuffed with newspaper clippings, Nicolas’s black Smith-Corona, and a photograph of his wife, Eve, her black hair perfectly curled, holding their newborn.
    Jean Faustin, whom Nicolas and his close friends affectionately called Jean-Jean, gingerly slid a newspaper clipping from the notebook. He held it away from the window. In the newsprint photograph, a man disfigured by a scar from his eye down to his chin grinned in the sunlight. Standing next to the man on a balcony was Papa Doc, his smirk and glasses unmistakable. Jean-Jean’s age-spotted, bald head tilted back as he let out his habitual, pensive grunt. He was in his seventies and had lived through enough to move away from the window lest anyone see what they’d found. He retreated to an empty space between the bookshelves that lined the walls.
    â€œI don’t understand,” Georges said. His large belly rolled forward as he leaned over to extinguish his cigarette in an empty espresso cup. He was a handsome, heavyset man who always wore white or beige linen clothing that set off his inky skin. Hehad large eyes and purple gums that flashed nebulous teeth when he spoke. His rich baritone filled the room.
    â€œI know you said you wanted to write a book, but—when did you have the time to do all this?”
    â€œTook me a few months,” Nicolas said. “But never mind that. I called you here because I need your help.”
    Georges’s fearful eyes belied his calm voice. “Help?”
    â€œAs you know, I’ve been collecting notes on Duvalier and Jules Oscar,” Nicolas said. “I have the evidence. It’s all in the book, but now—”
    â€œSlow down, son. Please.” Jean-Jean fell in a