Sixteen break-ins in eighteen years and not once
had a damned witness come forward. And now Howard listened to a
stick-thin vagrant, nicknamed Magga, describe how “about ten big,
stinkin’ niggers” had wrenched wrought-iron gates from their concrete
moorings, smashed through Howard’s glass storefront and cleaned out his
merchandise.
So much for the 6PM curfew and Abu Bakr’s order for looters to desist,
Howard fumed, glaring at men toting pilfered refrigerators and
mattresses on their backs through streets strewn with broken glass. He
could thank God his store hadn’t gone up in flames like those in Port of
Spain but, when Abu Bakr and his Muslimeen had stormed Parliament five
days ago, they’d overthrown the government in the name of Allah.
God obviously had other priorities in Trinidad on July 27, 1990.
Kicking aside debris, Howard stopped short as he entered his store, not
because the clothing, jewelery, accessories and toys he had struggled to
protect from thieves during Christmas and all the long weekends in
between were gone. No, that he was sadly used to. One Christmas Eve, he
had carted his entire inventory home just to have it stolen at gunpoint
when the store reopened on Boxing Day.
What stopped him now was the missing shelves, rolling racks and glass
cases. The space was completely bare. Even the blonde mannequin had been
taken. A gush of water drew him further in, past dressing rooms stripped
of curtains and mirrors. The door to the bathroom was missing and a
geyser of water plumed where the toilet had been.
A chocolate marshmallow of a man, shiny with sweat from his labour,
turned from detaching the porcelain sink from the wall. His gummy,
gap-toothed grin quivered with regret.
“Sorry, boss,” he sighed as he hefted the sink. “Nuttin’ else left to
take.”
Howard took extreme pleasure in ramming his fist into the man’s face.
(c) 2016
Read feedback on Coup de Gras.
Ever caught someone doing something illegal or unexpected? Could be good inspiration for a story.