The Music Trilogy (38 page)

Jean left her home. She carried all she owned. In her purse she had a passport, which she had obtained the last time she determined to leave Simon. She also had her medication—pills that somehow were suppose to keep her alive, at least for a while.

She went to the airport. It seemed the most appropriate place to go. She had no other plans, only to get away. She had ten dollars in her purse. The thought of what lay ahead exhausted her.

Painted palm trees on a pink wall beckoned her into a café at the airport. She bought a vodka, straight up. If she could get through this drink, she thought, things would be clearer. Moments later, a young woman wearing an Australian bush hat sat down at her table. Simon Grady had followed his wife to the airport but lost sight of her in the crowds. He was sure he would see her again. He did not miss her.

♫

MIAMI, 1980

CHAPTER 18

Simon hardly thought about his wife, that is, until he saw Davina’s picture on the cover of a magazine. He stopped dead in his tracks. He quickly bought the revue from the newsstand and sat down on a bench. It was the middle of summer, and Miami was hot and humid. The temperature high in the nineties was suffocating, but Simon never noticed the perspiration running down the small of his back, or the wet clinging of his clothes on his body as he read the article on Davina.

...
Davina Walters, after performing in the European capitals, will end her tour in Miami's Orange Bowl in September...

He read through the article a while longer and then to his horror saw a picture of Jean. She was standing next to Davina and two other men in some town called Pamplona, in Spain. One of the mother-fuckers had his arm around Jean. Simon ripped the picture out of the magazine. He was going to teach her a lesson. He needed a plan. He would contact the man they called B.A. It was said on the streets that he had whatever you needed. He was fried from ‘Nam, they said, but he was dependable. The bitch, he thought, wait 'till you get back. I'll fix both of you, you and your girlfriend, permanently, he said to himself tearing up the magazine violently.

Simon left his bench and started walking, his anger culminating as he devised his plan. He contacted the man they called B.A. who would be able to supply him with the materials he needed.

Simon Grady and the man they called B.A. agreed to meet in Coconut Grove at ten o’clock. It was easy to get lost in the crowds. B.A. said he would be wearing a pink macramé bracelet. Otherwise, he was a big black dude and you couldn’t miss him. Grady saw the face before he saw any bracelet. They walked along the marina. "Hey, man, how would you like to make some fucking money?" Grady asked.

"How legal is it?" The man they called B.A. asked.

"So, so," Simon snickered.

“
Sounds good to me," he grinned, "what do you need?"

Simon told him. .

Simon left the war vet two thousand dollars as a down payment for the supplies. He would need another five thousand. He would have to pull off another job to get the rest. He was obsessed and Simon intended on having everything he needed. Nothing was going to go wrong, and he would get both Jean and Davina in one single coup. He paced the streets of Miami, wandering for hours thinking about his plan. Although he was tired and it was late he did not want to sleep. He was meticulously thinking out every detail, from the first step to the last. Nothing could fail, it would be perfect, like fireworks on the fourth of July. Yes, fireworks. That's how they would go—up, into the sky, victims of an explosion. He was going to blow the bitches to pieces. He smiled to himself at the thought. He was picturing them being torn apart, little pieces of them, like the cars on the track after an accident. It would be a celebration. His most precious moment, his revenge, his ultimate triumph.

He wanted revenge and he wanted it bad. No bitch was going to get the best of him, of that he would make sure. Not him, not Simon Grady

He remembered his last victim. She had been walking down Biscayne Boulevard just as he was now...

"Hey good lookin', want some fun?" She had asked.

Simon didn't answer. He walked past the hooker. He wasn't interested. All he wanted was his property, Jean.

"How 'bout a hot time Mister?" She asked again.

"It's already hot, can't you tell?" What an idiot he thought as he kept walking.

"How 'bout just a quick blow job? Only twenty bucks."

He stopped and looked at her. She was on the heavy side with bleach blond hair with black roots coming through as if someone had painted an uneven line on the middle of her scalp. Her black eyes smeared with heavy eye liner matched the ugliness of her hair. She wore a dirty T-shirt, an imitation leather mini-skirt and stiletto heels.

"What'll it be buster. Screw's fifty, blow's twenty."

Women, Simon thought. Nothing but sluts, whores, prostitutes. Just like his mother, just like Jean. He had to make them pay. This one too.

"Where?" He said flatly.

"Up the street. there's a hotel."

“He followed her through a dark garbage filled alley. It reeked of rot. The heat of the night, making the smell unbearable, sent a nauseating stench to Simon's nostrils. They entered a run-down hotel. The neon sign was only half lit, some of the bulbs having burned out months before, never having been replaced. They checked in and went to a back room. It was hot and musty. Simon hit the switch on the overhead fan. It slowly started to turn noisily not doing much for the asphyxiating heat of the small room. The hooker opened the window but there was no breeze. Cockroaches scurried everywhere. They had been rudely awakened by the intruders. After all they lived there. Another fucking hot night, she thought, but at least she would make some money.

"Get undressed," Simon ordered.

"Money first, Mister."

Simon was already furious. He always was whenever he thought of Jean. Take it easy, he thought, you're going to get your money back anyway. Play it cool.

"Here's a hundred, show me what you can do," he said handing it to her. She went to take it from his hand but Simon grabbed her by the neck instead and held her against the wall. With his other hand he pulled out a knife, the kind the fishermen in Miami used to cut bait with, sharp and flat with a blade curved into an almost half moon.

"Do what I say and you won't get hurt," Simon said, tightening his grip on her.

"Sure, anything you say."

He took his hand from her throat and grabbed her by the hair and pushed her down to her knees until her face was in front of his fly.

"Give me fucking head, bitch! And don't even think of doing anything or I'll cut your throat."

She did as she was told. The closer Simon came to climaxing the tighter he pulled on her hair. The hooker was completely terrified. She had a weirdo on her hands and there was nothing she could do about it. Would he leave her alone once he finished?

Simon came in her mouth. As he did he slit her throat. Sooo sweet, he thought, almost like a double climax. Nothing could top that. The girl fell to the ground like a heavy sack, her eyes still open, blood gushing from the opening in her neck. She hadn't even had the time or pleasure of a last scream. Simon stabbed her again and again and again. He had to. He had to teach her a lesson. His clothes were so blood stained they had changed color. They were now a deep dark red.

After leaving the Flamingo Hotel, Simon Grady made his way into a neighborhood of the city. It was still before dawn and the lights were out at the Thorntons. He knocked several times.

“Who is it?” a sleepy voice asked.

“Simon.”

The door opened slightly. The young woman behind the door saw who it was. Mr. Bad News, the man she hoped she would never see again. She knew that she should not let him inside. He was dangerous, but she owed him.

“Well, hello, Gina.”

She did not reply.

“I need some clothes and a place to crash for a couple of days. Any objections?”

“There’s the couch,” she said. “Johnny’s clothes are in the closet.”

“You got a beer?”

Gina Thornton went to the refrigerator and returned with a can of beer.

“I have to work in a few hours,” she said.

He took the beer from her.

“You’re welcome,” she said and went back to her room. But she could not sleep, not while Simon Grady was in her house.

♫

CHAPTER 19

It was pouring. It always came down hard in the summer. At the Flamingo Hotel Sergeant Ernesto Martinez repeated his questions to the woman at the reception desk. "Who did she come in with?"

The receptionist shrugged for the third time. She did not want to get involved. She had seen Simon and the prostitute last night and she would have recognized him immediately. He was not the average John. He was good looking, but there was something about his eyes that wasn’t right, something that silently but clearly announced itself:
Peligro! Malo!
Danger! And she did not need any bad trouble. She had a sick mother and a younger sister to feed, and if she got in trouble, there would be no one to look after them. The three of them had come over from Cuba. They left the island with nothing except a few small personal articles and what they wore. The Cuban government had killed her father. Her mother never recovered from that.

They had struggled in Cuba and were still struggling, but at least in the United States, no one looked over their shoulders and harassed them. If she volunteered any information, she knew there would be trouble. She worked two jobs, one at the hotel at nights and another during the day at a hamburger joint. She made enough to put her sister through school and pay her mother’s medical bills. She could not afford to lose this job.

Martinez cursed quietly. "What is your name?" he asked her in Spanish.

“Isabel Gonzalez."

She was a pretty woman, but she looked so very tired. He knew she saw the mother-fucker who cut up the girl. "You saw him, didn't you, Isabel?" he asked gently.

She didn't answer. She did not dislike policemen, and this one seemed nice enough.

Ernesto Martinez was in his mid-thirties with dark hair and dark eyes, and a thick trim moustache. He was tall and strong. His parents had come to Florida from Cuba when Batista was overthrown. He grew up in Miami and was fluent in both English and Spanish, a definite asset in his profession in this city.

Martinez arrived on the scene in the early morning hours after a cleaning woman called in the murder when she went to make up the bed. The room was sealed off now. Police cars, an ambulance, a coroner's car and the homicide squad surrounded the area. The prostitute lay under a fluorescent orange police tarp.

"Isabel,
por favor
, this girl was stabbed fifteen times and her throat was cut. I know you saw them. Do you want this to happen again? It could happen to anybody. We have to catch this animal. Please help me."

"I'm sorry.
No puedo
, I can’t. I don't know anything."

But he was certain that she knew and he could not leave without getting her to talk. He went back to the room where a policeman was dusting for fingerprints.

"Anything?" he asked.

"The bastard was careful. He wiped everything off.”

Martinez was determined to nail him but all he had to go on was a dead prostitute who could not talk and Isabel Gonzalez who could, but wouldn’t.

Isabel had just returned home from an eight-hour shift of grilling hamburgers when she opened the front door of her apartment to Detective Martinez. "What do you want?" she asked through the screen door.

"I would like to know if you would join me for dinner this evening.” He held out a bouquet of flowers. “You pick the restaurant."

How nice that sounded. The detective was obviously a gentleman and not the usual man who wanted her for only one thing. But still, he was a cop and he was after her for something else. "I'm sorry but I can't."

"Isabel, please,” he said in Spanish. “You wouldn't let a poor man starve or eat all alone, would you?"

"Please, you must understand, I cannot get involved."

"This has nothing to do with the case. I’d just like to take a nice girl out to dinner, especially a nice beautiful girl. Please say yes. Oh, and here’s some chocolates."

“Well, I—but I have to change.” She opened the door and took the flowers and the box of chocolates from him.

“I can wait outside,” he said.

Isabel was ready in fifteen minutes. She wore a pretty cotton dress. She had her black hair pulled back with a flower in it and some eye shadow enhanced her dark eyes. Her cheeks were naturally colored and rouge covered her lips.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked.

“It doesn’t really matter,” she said shyly.

“Okay, I’ll choose.”

They went to an outdoor restaurant in Miami Beach. They ordered the house special and ate to the sounds of
merengue
. They talked about themselves, about their backgrounds, their hobbies, and his profession as a detective. This last was an opportunity and he took it. He showed Isabel a picture of a man wanted by the police. It was a long shot. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

Isabel nodded ever so slightly.

“Would you be willing to testify?”

“Is this why you brought me here?” She asked heatedly.

“I won’t lie to you. Yes, I need to find out. But I want you to believe me when I tell you that I wanted even more to go out to dinner with you.”

She looked at him, not sure what to say or do.

“I’m scared, Ernesto. If I do, maybe something will happen to my family or me. I cannot risk that. You must understand, and I would not be able to go back to work at the hotel.”

‘You shouldn’t be working there anyway. That’s no place for a lady.”

“Fine!” She snapped. “Then you find me a job for a lady. It’s not easy, you know.”

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. If I find a job for you, will you testify?”

“I guess so. Well, maye.”

“Good. Now, what would you like to do? Go dancing maybe?”

“But Ernesto, I have to go to work.”

“No, that’s out of the question, it could be dangerous.”

“I need the money.”

“Tonight you will have a well deserved good time, and tomorrow we will look for a new job.”

“It sounds too good to be true. Are you really sure about all this?”

He was very sure.

Isabel and Ernesto spent the rest of the evening dancing—to reggae, salsa and jazz. They both loved to dance, something neither of them had done in a long time. They made an impressive couple on the dance floor. For such a big man, Ernesto was light and graceful. He complemented Isabel’s movements perfectly.

It was a magical evening. When Ernesto dropped Isabel off at her house, they made a date to meet the next afternoon to look for a job for a lady.

Isabel met Ernesto as promised at his office. As soon as he saw her, he got up from his desk and kissed her on the cheek.

“You look very nice today, Isabel. I see you are ready for an interview.”

“I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like interviews and I’m afraid I won’t get the job. My qualifications are limited.”

“Would you be less nervous if I conducted the interview?”

“Yes of course, but—but—is that possible? How could you?”

“Sometimes policemen get special privileges.”

“Stop, Ernesto, you’re making me even more nervous. But have you found anything yet?”

“I think so, but first we must do a preliminary interview.”

“But why?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Well yes, but...”

“Now, tell me,” he interrupted, picking up an application and a pen. “Name?”

“Ernesto, you know my name.”

“Isabel, please, just answer.”

She sighed. “Isabel Gonzalez.”

“Birthplace?”

“
La Havana
, Cuba.”

“Any convictions?”

“No, of course not. But my father was a political prisoner in Cuba.”

“Not important. Most of our families were or at least one of our relatives were.”

They continued the questions and answers until the application was filled out.

“I think you have a very good chance,” he said. “Wait here and don’t move.”

Ernesto returned with another policeman, who was a little older. “This is Lieutenant Ray Peterson.”

“Miss Gonzalez?”

“Yes.”

“Welcome to our family,” he said extending his hand.

“Excuse me?”

“You are our new receptionist. We need someone bilingual. Your qualifications are precisely what we’re looking for. Of course Sergeant Martinez has vouched for you.”

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant.”

Petersen winked at his Sergeant and left.

“Ernesto, you knew all the time, didn’t you? You-you
diablo
.”

He laughed. “Come, let me show you what you’ll be doing. Mainly answering the phones.” He introduced her to the rest of the staff and told her how much she would be earning. It was more than she made from both of her jobs combined.

“I don’t know what to say. Ernesto, how can I ever thank you?”

“Well, I can think of a way. You could have dinner with me tonight.”

“My choice?”

“Of course. Your choice.”

“I suggest eating at my house. Would that be alright?”

“Home cooked? Wonderful!”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you again very much, Ernesto.”

When she left the precinct he still had a smile on his face. He could not get her out of his mind. Or the man she identified as the one with the prostitute at the Flamingo Hotel the night of the murder.

For days, Detective Martinez studied the Grady file, his habits, his quirks, his hobbies, his temper, his hangouts, and his crimes. All he needed was to find him. He had a key witness. Isabel had agreed to testify.

It did not take long to find Grady. Martinez arrested him at the dog track, read him his rights and took him to the precinct. He was allowed one phone call. He called Gina Thornton.

“This is Simon,” he said. “I’m calling for my payback. You owe me.”

Gina Thornton provided Simon with the alibi he needed. She told the police that he had been with her the night of the murder.

Martinez was furious. He had no case. He knew Gina was lying, and perhaps for a good reason, probably to protect her ass from that son-of-a-bitch Grady. But that scum was guilty of murder-one and unless he could get Gina Thornton to change her mind, Grady could walk off a free man. Again. Simon Keith Grady had many convictions but nothing ever stuck. He kept getting off for lack of evidence.

“Do you know that lying under oath is perjury?” Martinez asked her. “You could be arrested, you could go to jail.”

“I’m not lying,” she said. “Can I go now?”

The woman was obviously afraid of Grady. Martinez gave her his card. “Should you need to contact me.”

Gina posted Grady’s bail which she had borrowed from a loan shark, according to Grady’s directions. They left the police headquarters together. Martinez watched them through the window. He swore he would put Grady behind bars if it was the last thing he did.

Isabel could not understand this American form of justice. “But I testified that I saw him. How can he just walk out of here? That’s not justice!”

“No, Isabel, it’s not justice,” Martinez said. “It’s the law. It’s just the law and the law is not necessarily justice. Laws are made by men, imperfect men.”

Now Isabel feared for herself and her family. Martinez assured her that he would have Grady behind bars soon. “We are having him followed. The first wrong move he makes will be his last.”

Gina could not forget the picture of Simon dragging her brother to safety. They owed him. And she knew that one day he would ask her to repay him. The day had come. She remembered how Simon had saved her brother’s life. It was at the track and they were both drivers in the third race. Simon Grady was out front, but not by much. There were three cars only inches behind him, coming around the last curve. As Johnny pulled ahead of the pack, another car clipped Johnny’s rear fender. It was just enough to throw him off course and into the cement wall. The engine exploded on impact.

Simon crossed the finish line in first place. When he looked back, he didn’t see Johnny Thornton get out of the car, and he knew the car would soon be engulfed in flames. Simon raced back. He pulled Johnny out of the flaming car. Seconds later the flames reached the front seat. Johnny might have been burned alive.

Johnny was grateful to Grady, but he couldn’t help wondering why Grady had risked his life to save his. They were in the same racing circuit, but Johnny had never entirely trusted Grady. His temper could be violent, and he could suddenly become very moody. But now he owed him one. Simon had said so. “You’ll pay me back one day.” Gina prayed that her brother would get out of racing for good, get an education, and stay away from men like Simon.

The accident had been enough to convince Johnny to quit racing. His sister was right. He needed a respectable profession. Gina was the one who had provided for him all his life. It was time to repay her. Johnny matriculated at the University of Miami. He was in the engineering college. The day he told Gina was the happiest day of her life.