Authors: Rochelle Alers
Opening his luggage, Everett removed a change of clothes. A wry smile softened his mouth. He’d left Puerto Limon as the “American,” and with his return he would be known only as Everett Joshua Kirkland.
He and Samuel had discussed the meeting with Nigel Cunningham, head of finance for the United Fruit Company. Cunningham’s telegram indicated he wanted to discuss increasing the rates for shipping goods to the States.
Everett had asked Samuel if he could chair the meeting on behalf of Cole International, Ltd., because he was familiar with the man who at one time had been his boss. He hated the supercilious, condescending, bigoted son of a bitch who’d fired him months before he was diagnosed with the debilitating disease that had almost cost him his life.
A knowing smile curved Everett’s mouth under his mustache. It was now payback time.
Samuel and Everett sat at the end of a long table facing Nigel Cunningham and Trevor Richards. Lacing his fingers together, Samuel leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the stoic expressions of the two men seated at the opposite end.
“I did not spend three days on the water to come here and shout to be heard. Either we sit closer together or this meeting is over.” Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet, Everett rising at the same time, as if they’d rehearsed and orchestrated the motion beforehand.
Nigel stood up quickly. “Mr. Cole…please don’t leave. We have much to discuss.”
Everett, sensing the advantage, spoke up. “If that’s the case,
Nigel,”
he spat out, using the effeminate man’s given name for the first time, “then perhaps you and Trevor can sit closer to Mr. Cole and myself.” He beckoned as a feral smile parted his mouth. “Come, come, gentlemen. I can assure you that Mr. Cole and I won’t devour you, in spite of the stories coming out of darkest Africa about our people being cannibals.”
Trevor’s face reddened as Nigel’s paled. “Look, Everett,” Nigel said, protesting.
Everett shook his head slowly. “I don’t work for you, Nigel, and I’d appreciate it if you’d address me as Mr. Kirkland.”
Trevor Richards, hoping to defuse what would’ve become a volatile situation, rose to his feet and approached Samuel and Everett. He was Nigel’s superior, and in no way would he allow the man’s insecurity to get in the way of United Fruit Company’s success. He sat down on Everett’s right, leaving Nigel to sit at Samuel’s left. The Americans shared a surreptitious look. There was only the sound of measured breathing as the four men regarded one another.
Everett, with a perceptible nod from Samuel, stared at Nigel. “You mentioned in your cable something about an increase in shipping rates.”
Nigel nodded. “That is true. The workers are threatening a work slowdown if they’re not offered better housing and medical care. We’re also facing a massive sanitation program to combat the tropical diseases that undermine the workers’ efficiency and threaten the well-being of company managers.”
Samuel smiled as Everett pushed far enough back from the table to loop one leg over the opposite knee. The cuffs of his suit jacket were slightly worn, as was the collar of his white shirt, but the shabbiness in no way detracted from the overall appearance he presented as a formidable negotiator.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Everett said softly. “You plan to address the issues of health and social inequities by raising shipping costs to offset United Fruit’s efforts to establish a network of hospitals and housing for your workers.”
“You are correct,” Nigel stated emphatically.
Everett’s golden eyes glittered dangerously. “Why don’t you use a portion of your profits? And don’t tell me you’ve been losing money, since I was summarily discharged because you couldn’t stand to work with a black man who knew more than you.”
Nigel cast his gaze downward.
Trevor drummed his fingers nervously on the surface of the table. “We have stockholders to answer to.”
“How unfortunate for you,” Samuel replied sarcastically. “Fortunately for Cole International, Limited, we answer only to ourselves. And I’d like to inform you that United Fruit isn’t the only company interested in soybeans nowadays.” He’d lied, but said it with such conviction that he almost believed his own lie.
Everett picked up on Samuel’s untruth. “I’m certain you two gentlemen remember Mr. Marcus Garvey’s visit to Limon back in twenty-one.”
Trevor Richards shook his head. “Mr. Cunningham was assigned to meet with Mr. Garvey.”
“What was your impression of Mr. Garvey, Mr. Cunningham?”
Nigel fixed his gaze on a pencil beside his right hand. “I
heard he was quite satisfied with the results of his visit here. Mr. Garvey told the workers that the work given them by the United Fruit Company meant their bread and butter. They would receive the same respect as United Fruit once they had farms, railways and steamships of their own and showed that they could operate them.”
Everett inclined his head. “Did he not say that in order to operate such an enterprise they must have money and that in order to get money they had to work?” Trevor and Nigel nodded.
“There is another group of men,” he continued smoothly, “who are of the same belief as Mr. Garvey.”
“Who are these men?” Nigel asked.
“I cannot reveal their identity,” Everett said, his expression closed, and it took all of his self-control not to laugh in the faces of the two greedy North Americans. “However, Mr. Cole is a member
and
an officer of this organization that has become the cornerstone of a vision for black economic independence. The corporation was created with the goal of supporting businesses that would employ African-Americans and produce goods to be sold to black consumers. They have black-owned factories, retailers, services and other businesses. The result will be a network strong enough to empower and sustain an all-black economy with worldwide significance.
“If you intend to raise the shipping costs for goods handled by Cole International, Limited, then we’ll be forced to pull out completely and turn everything over to this organization.”
“But…but you can’t!” Nigel sputtered.
“But
we
can,” Samuel said quietly. “Have you forgotten the clause in our contract that our prevailing shipping costs are fixed for the next five years? However, if you want out, then you’ll have to pay me….” His words trailed off as he met Everett’s amused stare. “Mr. Kirkland, have you come up with a figure that would satisfy us for this breach of contract?”
“At least one million.”
“You’re crazy if you believe United Fruit will give two niggers a million dollars!” Nigel shouted.
Schooling his expression not to react to the slur, Samuel glanced around the large room. “Who are these niggers you speak of, Nigel?”
Everett wasn’t as successful in reining in his temper. “If you ever utter that word in my presence again you’ll find yourself picking up your teeth with a rake.”
Trevor’s open palm came down hard on the table. “Gentlemen,
please
.” He glared at Nigel. “Leave us, Cunningham.”
Nigel blanched. “Trevor, you can’t take their side.”
“I’m not here to take sides,” he countered. “I’m here as vice president of the United Fruit Company. In case you’ve forgotten, our role is to protect the company. I’ll take it from here.”
Samuel lowered his head rather than let the others see the smirk stealing its way across his face. Nigel and Trevor were both from the American South, but that was the only similarity. Nigel had worked as an accountant for the owner of several West Virginia coal mines before he signed on a merchant steamship heading for Central America, whereas Trevor left Alabama to escape his tyrannical banker father.
Waiting until the door closed behind Nigel, Trevor turned his attention on the two men who’d managed to shake the accountant’s composure. The skin around his soulful-looking brown eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“I’m sorry about Nigel. There are times when he forgets himself during the heat of negotiations.”
“There’s no need for you to apologize,” Everett said harshly.
Samuel placed a hand on Everett’s sleeve. “Everett, let’s hear what Mr. Richards has to say.”
Trevor inclined his head. “Thank you, Samuel. May I call you Samuel?”
Samuel nodded. “Yes.”
Trevor smiled at Everett. “Everett?”
“Yes, Trevor.”
Clasping his hands together, Trevor stared at the shiny surface on the oak table. “Gentlemen, I need to take something back to my superiors that is palatable. Are you willing to help me out?”
“Do you smoke, Trevor?” Samuel asked.
His light brown eyebrows lifted. “Cigarettes?”
“No. Cigars.”
The middle-aged man smiled, the gesture making him appear years younger. “I like a good cigar.”
Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, Samuel withdrew a cigar and handed it to Trevor. “Try this one, and let me know what you think.”
Three minutes later Trevor, leaning back in his chair, blew a series of blue-gray smoke rings, his eyes widening in surprise. Removing the cylinder of tightly rolled tobacco leaves from his mouth, he shook his head.
“Nice.”
“You like it?” Samuel asked.
Trevor nodded. “It’s the best cigar I’ve ever smoked. Where did you get it?”
“Cuba.”
“A lot of cigars come from Cuba.”
“That’s true,” Samuel conceded. “What if I arrange for the exportation of Cuban cigars to this region in exchange for a small percentage of the profits you’ll derive from their sale? We can begin with a small quantity, and if the demand increases so will the supply.”
Everett picked up quickly on Samuel’s new scheme. “Your company’s stockholders never have to know about the cigars. The profits can be used to offset the costs for your hospital and housing projects.”
Trevor’s features became more animated. “Let me talk to my boss. Do you happen to have another one for him to sample?”
Reaching into his pocket, Samuel took out the last two remaining cigars and handed them to Trevor. “When will you get back to me?”
Trevor sucked in another mouthful of sweet tobacco. “Can you wait?”
“How long do you want us to wait?” Samuel asked.
“Hopefully, I can get back to you before the end of today.”
Samuel checked his watch. The end of the day wouldn’t come for another two hours. “Contact me at my hotel.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Casa del Caribe.”
The meeting ended with the three men shaking hands, and when Samuel and Everett stepped out into the brilliant sun, their smiles were triumphant.
Samuel rested a hand on Everett’s shoulder. “What made you come up with that secret organization hoax?”
“Those two hillbillies have been away from home too long to concern themselves with black men seeking to change the status quo. Are you serious about the cigars?”
Samuel nodded. “Quite serious. M.J.’s father is a cigar manufacturer. We can export the cigars without a broker.”
Everett’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Do you think they’re going to accept it?”
“They’re too greedy not to.”
Everett hoped Samuel was right, because it was a scheme wherein United Fruit’s owners stood to make a lot of money without having to share the profits from the sale. They were known for exporting bananas, not importing cigars.
Samuel dropped his hand. “A word of caution, Everett. Never show your opponent your weakness.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You got personal and lost your temper when Nigel called us niggers. If Richards hadn’t stepped in when he did, then we’d be going home with nothing.”
Smarting from his boss’s reprimand, Everett clenched his jaw. “It will not happen again.”
Samuel patted his cheek. “Now let’s go get something to eat.”
“I thought we were going back to the hotel,” Everett said when Samuel started out in the opposite direction.
“Patience, Everett,” he said in a soft voice.
Patience,
he repeated to himself as he followed Samuel to a restaurant frequented by tourists.
Samuel and Everett sat on the sand and toasted each other with Jamaican rum. They’d returned to their hotel to find a typed letter signed by Trevor Richards. The executives of Puerto Limon’s United Fruit Company were willing to negotiate with Cole International, Ltd., for the importation of Cuban cigars.
“You’re a genius,” Everett said reverently.
“No, I’m not,” Samuel countered. “It’s called appealing to one’s greed.”
“Hola, Americano.”
Everett glanced over his shoulder to find the woman he’d slept with while he waited for his photographer lover’s return, smiling at him. Petite, dark-skinned and very pretty, Paullina Michael was an expert when it came to pleasing a man. Her tightly curling hair floated to her shoulders like a dark cloud.
Both men rose unsteadily to their feet.
Everett nodded. “Hello, Paullina.”
Her gaze strayed to Samuel before it returned to Everett. “Would you like company?”
Everett stared at Samuel, who nodded his approval. He wanted to stay and celebrate with his boss
and
he wanted to go with Paullina, because it’d been too long since he’d lain with a woman.
“Samuel, this is Paullina Michael. Paullina, Mr. Samuel Cole.” The two shook hands, exchanging the perfunctory greetings. “Would you like something to drink?” Everett asked the garishly dressed Paullina.
She sat down, gesturing to the bottle of rum. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
Samuel signaled for a waiter under a makeshift bar to bring another glass. He was ready to retire for bed. He’d been headed there when Everett suggested they go out and celebrate their unexpected windfall. They found a little shack less than a hundred feet from the ocean, ordered a bottle of potent Jamaican rum, and sat silently drinking and watching the sun sink lower and lower.
His mind, before the onset of drunkenness enveloped him, was filled with plans on how he would approach Jose Luis to have him sell a portion of his cigar production to his son-in-law to export to Costa Rica; and he still had to weigh the advantages of having the cigars shipped directly from the Pinar del Rio factory.