Wait, Wait a Minute Mr. Postman
Chapter 10
Marie Claire understood Roberto’s order and what needed to be done. The next phase of the operation was about to begin and Desmond’s zombies would deliver the bad tidings. The lazy bastards needed to earn their keep, she thought, as she dusted the filthy shelves of her small shop. The phrase double, double toil and trouble sprang to mind as she went about her work. She cackled out loud at the thought. Bewitchment was merely part of her stock-in-trade.
At Roberto’s instruction, The Family heretofore had only targeted the embassy’s local staff. Now, the campaign would now be ramped-up to include all U.S. agencies in Haiti which included the Agency for International Development, the Peace Corp, the United States Information Service, and other smaller elements of the U.S. Mission. Each employed many Haitian nationals.
The American branded companies, whether owned by U.S. concerns or not, would also be included on the hit list. It was now an all-out war on American interests. And Mama Mambo looked forward to her just rewards for making it happen.
The Family’s zombies owned the night, delivering the Night Letters to all on the list scrupulously prepared by Marie Claire herself. Her not-so bright son was incapable of handling the task, but quite up to other useful things to further the family’s business interests. The letters were impolite missives written in chicken blood which warned of the dire consequences one faced for working for the Americans. Everyone knew what a Night Letter was and the message to cease and desist was unambiguous as well as terrifying. They were to be taken seriously at all costs. No one wanted to cross the sender; voodoo or no voodoo. It was a matter of grave concern to all recipients.
It took the dozen or so zombies most of the night to deliver the letters. On those occasions when stopped and questioned by the cops, a petite bribe was invariably offered and accepted. It was merely the cost of doing business and the Cubans would ultimately pick up the cost.
The ploy worked very well with many employees failing to show up for work in the morning. Mama Mambo was pleased with the outcome.
***
Ron Spencer was livid when he learned many of his workers hadn’t shown up for the morning shift at the plant. He was the managing director of the Coca-Cola bottling plant that not only supplied product for Haiti, but the Dominican Republic too. He wondered what was going on, perhaps an impromptu strike or a walk-out. He wasn’t sure until he spoke to his colleagues at the other American companies in the city. They had experienced the same thing and asked the same questions.
Ron didn’t believe it was a labor issue, but something much bigger and more profound. He then picked up the phone and called the U.S. ambassador and demanded an emergency meeting: immediately, if not sooner. Ron was also the President of the local American Chamber of Commerce and carried a lot of weight in the business community and within the embassy. Not surprisingly, the ambassador readily agreed to see him.
***
The U.S. ambassador to Haiti was Ambrose Simmons, a political appointee from Alabama. He drew the short straw when it came to doling out the plum assignments from his Republican buddies now in office. Maybe he didn’t campaign or donate enough for the cause and that’s why he ended up in Haiti. Some got the plums and some got the pits, he mused. He then called the chief of station to his office for a heart-to-heart chat. Instead, it would turn out to be more of a Come to Jesus meeting.
“Damn it to hell Phil, I thought you had things under control! Now things have taken a worse turn and I’m holding you responsible to make things right. Not only have we been targeted, but now the U.S. business community as well. This has to stop or I’ll be out of a job. However, I won’t go alone, if you get my meaning.”
“I do Mr. Ambassador and we’re doing something to turn things around as we speak. We have an operation underway to turn the table on the Cubans and make this situation seem like a bad dream. But we need more time, probably a few more weeks.”
“Look, I’m meeting with Ron Spencer shortly. I need to tell him something positive or he’ll have me for breakfast.”
“Tell him we have a game plan that’s now in the works, but we need some more time. Swear him to secrecy. The fewer people who know we’re fighting back the better. Also, tell him we’re pressuring the Haitian government to step up and do the right thing. By the way, you should write a dip note to the foreign ministry to do your due diligence. But tell Ron anything to keep him off our backs awhile longer. I understand the AMCHAM is a powerful lobby group and has a lot of clout in Congress, but please buy us more time.”
The ambassador agreed to play along. However, his meeting with Ron Spencer didn’t go well, but Spencer agreed to hold his horses and temper for a couple more weeks to give the embassy time to get its act together. He actually said shit and not act, but the meaning was still crystal clear and the ambassador was on the spot to make things better. Then Ron casually mentioned that all hell would break loose if the situation continued unabated. Money was on the table and American businessmen didn’t like to lose any.
The ambassador sat down and drafted a diplomatic note, a demarche, to the Haitian Foreign Ministry. It started with the standard pap and then moved to the crux of the letter: get off your miserable asses and do what you’re supposed to do under the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations. As the host government, it’s your responsibility, your duty, to protect our embassy and its staff and that includes the Haitian employees. So get busy!
Well, the actual diplomatic note wasn’t anywhere near as blunt, but the Haitians could read between the lines. But at least he was doing his due diligence diligently as suggested by Phil, snickering as his own turn of the phrase. He was also covering his own derriere. The Haitian government would likely ignore his plea, but he could do no more.
***
The deputy foreign minister for protocol read the note verbal as such things were called in the world of diplomacy, crumpled it and made a perfect three point shot to the wastebasket in the corner. Those American crybabies, he thought. They’re probably stamping their feet and holding their breath until blue in the face. No matter, he wouldn’t help them, even if inclined to do so. And he wasn’t.
He owed his soul and much of his livelihood to the company store run by Mama Mambo.