“You trying to be a hero?” I notice another bruise on his jaw, about the size of a small Otaheite apple. “You found out today that it’s not so easy.”
“You’re right. It’s not. But I learned more than just that today.” He drops the cigarette butt and reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of Lucky Strike. “Would you like a smoke?” he asks.
“What else happened at the rally?”
“It seems that the constables were informed that the son of Bernard Christian Tynesdale would be participating in the rally, and my father’s instructions were to teach me a lesson. So he hired troublemakers and more constables than usual to disrupt the rally. Consequently, not only did I get my ass kicked but I also sparked a riot.”
“What happened today was not your fault,” I say. “Rallies sometimes escalate into a brawl. Besides, you only agreed to get involved last night, and you were here this morning at five o’clock. How could your father have organized such a plan overnight?”
Byron grunts. “He hired a private detective.”
I lean back. “He did?”
“This fellow has been watching me since I returned to Kingston. I believe my father already knew who you were when I introduced you at the Myrtle Bank Hotel.”
“How did you learn about this private detective?”
“One of the constables, a guy I’ve known since childhood—the same one who tipped me off about the raid the other day, told me after he stopped a group of his fellow officers from beating me to death.”
“Your fatherisill if he’d put his plantation above your life.”
He looks at me with a sadness that I can feel in my chest. “It turns out he’ll do whatever he believes is necessary to protect his business interests.”
“I’m sorry, Byron, but why did you think any of this would be easy?”
“I’m a fool. I thought my father, facing death, would hand the reins over to me without too much fuss or, at the very least, listen to my ideas. Of course I expected a debate, but I always thought he’d come around.” Byron chuckles. “I left Jamaica a decade ago, and the man I knew then wouldn’t win a prize for father or husband of the year, but I still didn’t believe he was evil. Or maybe I just can’t see evil.” His voice cracks. “My father has been corrupted by money, success, and everything that comes with it.”
“I’m sorry he disappointed you.”
“Sad and silly, huh?” He looks shaken. “A grown man who stubbornly believes he can convince his father that together they can make a difference for Jamaican workers and the sugar industry.”
“He may not be able to, but you can.”
“That’s not the difference I meant.”
“Working with Allan will help create change.”
“Will it?”
“The movement is much more than just a rally or a difficult day,” I explain. “We are committed to the labor union as long as it takes to achieve success. One day, regardless of the industry, workers across Jamaica will be treated fairly, earn just wages, and have safe working conditions.”
“I’m too angry to feel hopeful,” Byron says with a bitter chuckle. “I want to confront my father and make him face the pain and suffering he’s inflicting on the men, women, and children who work for him.” He inhales more cigarette smoke. “I want to hurt him the way he’s hurt others.”
“Let’s channel that anger to support the movement.”
“You’re a crusader, Zinzi, and a reasonable woman, but I may not share your belief in the humanity of mankind, and its ability to change minds.”
I tense up. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“You already did.” He chuckles. “But I’m a fool, and you shouldn’t believe anything I say.”
“Hey, come on. Stop being so hard on yourself. You’ve taken enough hits for one day. Let’s get out of here.”
“And go where? The hospital? No, thanks.”
“All right, no hospital. But we’re in Kingston, Jamaica. This city never sleeps.”
“That’s New York City or London. Jamaica is different.” He stands up, offers his hand, and helps me to my feet. “I want my father to get his head out of the clouds and do what’s right. That means hitting him where it hurts—his bank account.”
