The Music Trilogy (39 page)

“We’re even now, Simon,” Gina said angrily. “I don’t owe you any more and Johnny doesn’t owe you. Don’t ever come to my house again.”

Simon grabbed her arm. “Be careful, Gina, be very careful.”

“Let me go!”

He twisted her arm around her back.

She cried out in pain. “You don’t have to worry. Now, let me go.
Please
.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” he said, slowly releasing his grip.

Bastard, she thought. When he was out of sight, she considered returning to the police station and confessing her lie. She just wanted him out of their lives for good.

♫

CHAPTER 20

Ernesto Martinez and Isabel Gonzalez married that summer. Isabel’s mother liked the detective almost immediately, and although she understood that his job was dangerous and demanding, she knew he was perfect for Isabel. They had her blessing.

They spent a week honeymooning in the Bahamas. Although they saw each other every day at the office and almost every night, they did not make love until their wedding night. They were raised as Catholics and didn’t mind being called old fashioned.

Isabel moved into Ernesto’s condominium, and they happily resumed their days at the police precinct but with a difference. Now they were man and wife. Every night was like a honeymoon, every night they tenderly explored each other’s bodies and uncovered more of the secrets of making love.

It was four a.m. when the phone rang and Ernesto Martinez grumbled into the receiver.

“This is Peterson,” his superior said. “I think your buddy has been at it again. Meet me on Biscayne at the Palms Hotel.”

Martinez quickly dressed and kissed his sleeping wife.

The blue lights of police cars illuminated the front of The Palms Hotel on Biscayne Boulevard. Lieutenant Ray Peterson leaned against his car. “Same M.O., slit throat. Dried semen on the face and neck, prostitute, can’t be more than sixteen years old.” He led Martinez into the hotel room. The dead prostitute lay in a pool of blood, her eyes still open.

Martinez looked away. Animals like Grady didn’t deserve to be on this earth. In this free country, it so happened that criminals could have more rights than innocent people.

Peterson seemed to read his mind. “Don’t let it get to you, Ernie. You can’t do that. It’ll eat you up.”

He knew Peterson was right. The room was suffocating. He had to leave it.

Martinez spent the next forty-eight hours in his office. Isabel, who knew what had happened, didn’t bother him. She brought him his meals and hot coffee and stayed with him at the office even though he had begged her to go home. At the end of the third day of this, Peterson walked in.

“Ernie, go home,” he said. “That’s an order, and you too Isabel. Go have a nice meal somewhere. Go home and watch TV. Just get the hell out of here.”

They got take-out Chinese food and then they climbed into bed. They spent hours like this, making love and talking.

“Ernesto,” Isabel said, seeing the preoccupation on his face, “are you alright?”

He was gazing at the ceiling. “Yes, it’s just that this case has gotten to me. I need more information, some good news for a change.”

“Maybe I have some,” she said cuddling up to him.

“Some what?”

“Some good news, Daddy.”

“Daddy? Did you say Daddy? No! Really? Isabel, are you telling me that you’re...” He put his hand on her stomach.

“Yes. You will soon be a father, my love.”

Ernesto let out a cry of joy and went to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Isabel called after him.

He returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “This calls for a celebration!” He poured the sparkling wine. “May the child be healthy, strong like his father and beautiful and kind like his mother,” he said, kissing his wife softly on the lips. They sipped champagne and then Ernesto made a phone call.

“Who are you calling? It’s after midnight!”

“Hello? Lieutenant?”

“Yes, what is it?” Petersen grumbled. “Didn’t I tell you to get some sleep?”

“Yes, you did, but I have to tell you something. I’m pregnant! I’m going to be a daddy.”

“That’s great, Ernie. Do me favor, don’t come in tomorrow. You and Isabel stay home, and that’s an order. And get some sleep! Daddy!” Lieutenant Peterson fell asleep with a smile on his face.

♫

CHAPTER 21

In his first year as an electrical engineering major at Miami U, Johnny Thornton became a new person. His studies and his new friends had changed his life, but the expenses of a college education overwhelmed him. His sister worried about the money as well, and while she worked overtime and saved everything she could, it was still not enough. Johnny suggested they take in a boarder, a Brazilian he met at school who was looking for a place to live. The big advantage was the house was near the college. The Brazilian, his name was Zeferino, would rent out Johnny’s large bedroom, which had its own bathroom. As an added incentive, Johnny agreed to do Zeferino’s laundry. Johnny would sleep in his sister’s bedroom with her. Gina was most agreeable to this, and she found a used table and a lamp that she put in her room for Johnny. She was a little anxious the day Johnny brought their new boarder.

Zeferino da Cunha was pursuing his master’s degree in architecture, following the family tradition. Before this, he had studied at the University of Sao Paulo. He wanted to make his father proud of him. He had always regarded his father as a man of strength and great knowledge, a man who had cunning business perception. His father had been the main constructor for the new city of Brasilia, which became the nation’s capital, and Zeferino intended to continue the tradition, but with greater emphasis on the architectural aspect of the business. The da Cunhas were one of the leading Brazilian families, very rich and very powerful, with interests all over the world, ranging from construction companies to factories that built equipment for their trade. Following in his father’s footsteps would be an enormous task, Zeferino knew, but that was his goal and he intended to achieve it.

The da Cunha fortune was easily worth billions of dollars. Zeferino could have stayed at any luxurious Miami hotel or condominium. When he met Johnny, he liked him immediately and he wanted to help him out of his financial difficulty. So when Johnny shared his idea about taking on a boarder, Zeferino said he would take him up on it. “You’ll love my sister,” Johnny said. “She’s so cool.”

Zeferino thought so too. He considered this a real bonus. He brought Gina a bouquet of yellow roses. “I thank you for allowing me to stay in your nice home.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Gina said, staring at the dark handsome Brazilian. His eyes were blue, a kind of crystallized blue, like the blue off the Florida Keys, and he was charming.

“We want you to feel very comfortable here,” Gina said. “If there is anything you need, please ask us.”

They ordered out for pizza that night, the three of them.

“This is the national food of the United States,” Zeferino said, holding up a piece of pepperoni pizza.

“Really?” Gina said. “I always thought pizza was Italian.”

“It
is
!” Johnny said.

“Ah, what you don’t know about your own country!” Zeferino teased. “I would like to visit some American places I have heard about here in Florida, like Disney World and Universal Studios. You have been of course?”

“Yes, you should go,” Gina agreed.

“But we need a car,” Johnny pointed out.

“A car?” Zeferino considered this. “So we buy a car. My father sent me a little extra money. And you are the expert, Johnny. Tomorrow we buy a car?”

“Sure. I know a couple of places where we can get a good deal.”

“Good. And you, Gina, you are coming of course?”

“Well, if you like.”

“Yes, you must. We need you!”

In the morning they started their search. They went to only one dealership. Gina fell in love with a yellow Dino, a small Ferrari.

Zeferino laughed. “I see you have very good taste in cars. This little canary, my dear, is an Italian masterpiece, like your pizza, only more expensive.”

Gina looked at the price tag. “Eighty thousand dollars!”

“Maybe one day, if I become successful, I will buy it for you,” he said smiling.

“You’re such a dreamer,” Gina said, a little embarrassed.

“Hey, forget the Ferrari and check this one out. It’s interesting,” Johnny called out, pointing to an old Buick.

“Interesting?” Zeferino asked.

“Yes, price-wise.”

“But, my friend, this is a tank, not a car.”

“What about this one?” Gina stood at a red Volkswagen Beetle.

“Do you like it?” Zeferino asked her.

“I think it’s cute, and the price seems pretty good too.”

“Johnny, tell the man that we will take this one, the one the lady likes.”

“Are you sure?” Johnny asked, amazed that a man would defer to a woman when it came to choosing an automobile.

“Of course I’m sure.”

♫

CHAPTER 22

Isabel and Ernesto obeyed Lieutenant Petersen’s order and took the day off. They spent most of it in bed. They ordered out for their meals and watched some television and made love and talked about their child, the one now forming inside of Isabel. They promised each other they would not mention the Grady case, and they were true to their word.

In the morning, their lives were very different. Almost as soon as Ernesto sat down at his desk, he received a call from one of his contacts.

“This is B.A.,” a familiar voice said. “I’ve got some useful info on Grady. I’ll meet you at the usual place in an hour.”

Sergeant Martinez grabbed his cup of coffee and promptly spilled it over his desk. He cursed and rushed out of the precinct, leaving the black puddle behind.

Martinez waited for the man they called B.A. in a small Cuban cafeteria on Flagler Street in downtown Miami, nursing a tiny plastic cup of Cuban coffee.

B.A. was prompt. He wore blue jeans and a snug T-shirt that showed off his muscular upper torso. Incredible body, Martinez thought wistfully as B.A. walked past him and entered the men’s room. Martinez soon followed.

“Nice to see you, my friend,” Martinez said quietly, shaking B.A.’s hand. “I am now married and expecting a child.”

“Congratulations.”

“Do you know where that bastard is?”

“Not at the moment but rumors are that he’s up to something big, and we want him as much as you do. At this point, we don’t care who gets him first, as long as we get him.”

“We want him for murder one. What does the FBI want with him?”

“Narcotics.”

“That fucker is up to his ears in shit and we can’t put a finger on him.”

“He just put a down payment on some explosives, heat-sensing. He’s supposed to come back and get the stuff with the balance of the payment. Grapevine says he wants some sort of revenge on his ex-wife. She’s supposed to be somewhere in Europe.”

“Yeah, that’s what we know. She’s with the singer Davina Walters.”

For the first time, B.A.’s face, which heretofore was almost without expression, changed. “She’s with Davina, Davina Walters?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“Davina’s singing here next month at the Orange Bowl.”

“You think there’s a connection?” Martinez wasn’t following.

“Ah, shit.”

“Far as we know, Grady’s ex-wife’s been with Davina since she left Miami.”

“Okay, amigo, adios. I’ll be in touch. Regards to your wife.”

“Thank you, keep in touch.”

B. A. made a thumbs up and left the men’s room. He could not get Davina Walters out of his mind. His mission was different now, very different.

♫

VIETNAM 1974

CHAPTER 23

Clinton Benton was seventeen years old when he walked down the aisle of his high school in Harlem to get his diploma and move on to another life, away from the ghetto and the Welfare that supported him and his mother. His mother was sickly. All she had to offer him was her love, which was considerable. He never knew his father, who died before he was born. His mother’s dream was to see her only child get his high school diploma, but she died, a victim of pneumonia, only a month before the ceremony.

After she died, the Welfare checks stopped and Clinton was forced to leave their two-room apartment. He had no relatives and nowhere to go. Neither did he have any real friends. Almost all the boys he knew had to be reckoned with, or kept away from. Clinton rolled up his schoolbooks in a sleeping bag and headed for the streets. He slept in condemned buildings, in basements and sometimes in dark alleys, places he thought were more or less safe, places most people stayed out of. He washed cars twice a week; that gave him enough money for food. He could have easily stolen the food, but he didn’t. The independence felt good, although he had always been independent. He would not have survived otherwise.

In his neighborhood he always carried a knife. He had been assaulted several times on the streets by the same boys, not because he had some change in his pocket, but because he was different. He didn’t belong to a gang. He always managed to escape unharmed when the gangs came after him. He was good at escaping.

What he wanted most was to go to college, but this was only a far off dream. There was no way he could afford something like college. But he would not stay here. The only way out was through the military. He wasn’t afraid of dying in some godforsaken rice paddy. It wasn’t easy to get killed, not if you knew how to escape. Nothing scared him. He was tough. The day after he was handed his diploma, he went to the local recruiting office. The service would be his school now, and he would be getting paid for it.

Clinton Benton did so well that after his initial training, he was sent to another Army camp, one reserved for elite soldiers. His was special. He had ambition. He was a perfectionist and he learned quickly. He never complained. He seemed to take everything in stride, as if it was just a game and he knew that whatever it was, when it was over, he would be victorious. He graduated, this time as a United States Ranger, one of the select few. He was an expert in armaments and demolition. His greatest asset was his in-bred talent for escaping. Now he was ready to put it to the test. He was given a mission, to penetrate deep into Viet Cong territory and rescue prisoners of war.

A helicopter took Clinton and the five other members of his unit several miles east of a POW camp. On the ride over, the men were silent in the chopper. Their only occupation was smearing black camouflage paint on their faces. The officer in charge covered himself and handed the paste to Clinton.

“Thanks, Lieutenant, but I don’t need any. I was born camouflaged.”

The Lieutenant laughed. He was glad Benton was on his team. He was quiet, always obeyed orders, and he was one hell of a fighter.

The pilot signaled them as the orange sun began to disappear over the hillside. The chopper descended and hovered a few feet above the ground for no more than a minute, enough time for the men to jump out.

The men carried Soviet built AK-47s, not because this gun was a better weapon than the American M-16, but because if they were surprised and had to shoot, the familiar sound of the Russian gun could possibly be mistaken for a drunk with an itchy trigger finger. Each of them also carried a pistol with a silencer and three grenades, one fragmentation and two stunners. In addition, they were equipped with a fierce looking knife strapped to their leg. The blade was jagged on one side and smooth on the other. A compass adorned the top of the handle. This also doubled as a cap that could be unscrewed to open a tiny compartment that housed fishing lines and hooks, waterproof matches, a miniature flexible saw, and a tiny capsule with three white tablets and one red. The white ones were benzedrene, fondly called ‘hill climbers’ because they gave that extra boost that could give an exhausted man enough energy to run for his life. The red pill they didn’t talk about.

Under cover of darkness, the six Americans in combat fatigues made their way through the thick foliage of the jungle until they came to a clearing. Just beyond the horizon they could see campfires. The prisoners would be there, the Americans they had come to rescue. They had just walked five miles. They rested a little while before going in. Timing was crucial. It might be everything.

At the Lieutenant’s signal, they moved out. They half walked and half crawled through the swampy rice paddies. Dark clouds hid the moon. They looked through the tiny openings of the bamboo fence that surrounded the POW camp. With the exception of a few guards, the soldiers were asleep, or they seemed to be. Small bamboo cages barely large enough to fit a man were lined up in front of a barracks. There were six of these cages. The Lieutenant assigned each of his commandos to go and investigate one of the cages. This way, with all of them going out at the same time, their commanding officer said, they would have more firepower. If they were caught, they would open fire simultaneously.

Clinton Benton thought this was plain dumb. One man alone should go in to reconnoiter. It was much safer. But the CO had given the order. Clinton did not argue, but he had an uneasy feeling, something in his gut.

He went in with the rest of his unit. They cut the fence and entered the camp, crawling slowly up to the cages. The cages were occupied.

Clinton whispered to the shadow that was inside a cage as he pulled out the bamboo log that held the opening closed. “Hey, in there, keep quiet, we’ve come to get…”

He was interrupted by shots fired from the other five cages.

It was a trap. The enemy soldiers had been waiting for them in the cages.

“For God’s sake man, get me out of this goddamn box!” the shadow yelled at Clinton. “I’m the only one left alive!”

Clinton helped the man climb out. He kept firing as he and the prisoner scrambled through the opening in the fence. Half a dozen Viet Cong were right behind them.

“Run for the trees, I’ll catch up!” Clinton yelled, training his machine gun on the enemy. They fell like broken dolls. He looked quickly to see if any of the others had made it, but all he saw were American bodies, five of them. They were all dead. His stomach tightened. They were his buddies. But now he had to get out of there or he would be lying beside them.

Clinton caught up with the POW who was running through the rice paddies as fast as he could, which was not very fast. The man was very thin and weak. Clinton doubted that he would make it to the edge of the jungle. But they had to move faster, had to at least get to those trees.

The Viet Cong were still shooting at them and a bullet caught the POW. He went down. Clinton picked him up and put him over his shoulder. Just a few more yards, he told himself. He ran until he thought his lungs would explode. Just a little more to go. He was gaining distance, but the enemy continued to fire. A bullet hit Clinton in the leg. He fell with his load.

The bullet had only grazed him. He pulled the other man and they crawled the last bit of distance into the dense foliage. If the VC did not see them get up, they might think they were dead. But in any case, they would continue looking for them in the morning.

The POW was bleeding heavily. A bullet had gone clean through his shoulder. Clinton took what was left of the man’s shirt, which was really no more than a rag, and tied it around his shoulder. “How are you?” he asked. “Do you think you can walk some?”

“Yes,” the man said. He took a deep breath. “I think so.” The man was older than Clinton. He was probably a lot younger than he looked. He looked like hell.

“Good, let’s go.”

They walked most of the night, through the jungle, and then the man collapsed. Clinton again picked him up and placed him over his shoulder. By first light, he stopped, took a drink and made the other man drink. He managed a few swallows.

“I can’t make it. You go on ahead. Leave me here.”

“Cut the shit. You’re going to make it, pal.”

They had to keep moving. They had no choice. It would be hard to stay inconspicuous in daylight, but Clinton also knew that this man had to rest.

“Let’s just rest here for awhile,” he said.

“You’re an angel, you know that?”

Clinton laughed. “I’ve been called a lot of names but not that. Didn’t know there were any black angels. Shit, I don’t know that there are any white ones either.”

“They do exist. I know.”

“Okay, whatever you say,” Clinton said, positioning the man up against a tree.

“What’s your name, Black Angel?”

“Benton, Clinton Benton.”

“I’m Adam Spencer.”

“How the hell did you get in that camp?”

“My plane was shot down.”

“Fly boy?”

“Leftenant.”

Clinton saluted.

“Oh, cut it out. The name is Adam.”

“Right, sir.”

“What?”

“Adam.”

“That’s better.”

“How did they know we were coming?”

“Maybe they didn’t know. They must have presumed someone would eventually try something because those guys took turns in the cages every night.”

“What about the others?”

“We were five. Two died of dysentery, that kind of thing. The others were killed trying to escape. Dying was preferable to the alternative. They wanted me to confess to some damn fool murders and I couldn’t manage to confess to murders I didn’t commit. They didn’t appreciate that. You can imagine. They even put rats in the cage with me. What saved me was getting hit on the head. I pretended to be out of my mind, you know, like they shook up my brain, made me a tad crazy. They finally gave up. They left me alone to rot.”

“You’re not American, are you?”

“English, but I’ve been flying with you Yanks for years.”

As the sun began to slip beneath the farthest ridge, the two men set off again. Clinton figured that if they didn’t run into any VC, they could reach the American encampment the following day. But Adam Spencer was in bad shape. He was already weak and his shoulder was still bleeding. Clinton patched it up as best he could with a concoction of mud and roots. They had not walked for long when the pilot stumbled and fell. His face was half buried in the mud. “Hey, Black Angel, I can’t make it. Get yourself out of here, and that’s an order.”

Clinton lifted him up to a sitting position. “Now, just who in the hell do you think you are giving me orders?”

“Leftenant Adam Spencer…”

“Adam, shut up,
sir
. We’re going to make it and don’t give me any more bullshit.” Again he lifted the pilot over his shoulders.

“Black fucking angel, that’s what you are,” Spencer said before passing out.

Clinton walked all night, a man obsessed with his quest. Nothing could stop him. Not exhaustion, not hunger, nothing. He stumbled a few times and when he fell, they both fell, hard, but Clinton always got up and moved on. He stopped at dawn. The pilot was slipping in and out of consciousness.

“Adam, look, food.” He held a piece of white meat before his mouth.

“Chicken for God’s sake?”

“There’s a farm down there.”

“That was lucky,” the pilot said. The thought of chicken made him salivate. He had eaten only rice for the past two years.

“We can’t take a chance with a fire.”

“I don’t mind. It’s probably as good as caviar.”

The pilot chewed a small piece of the meat. He wasn’t sure he would be able to keep it down, but he did and continued to eat, as did Clinton. For snake, Clinton thought, it wasn’t so bad.

About an hour later the sky became ominously dark and rain came down in sheets. The pilot began shivering uncontrollably. Clinton held him against his body. They stayed like this for two hours. But the pilot continued to shiver, and Clinton worried about pneumonia. He had to chance it. Adam would not make it unless he got to a hospital today. In the three days of their walking under cover of night, Clinton had not slept. He popped one of the benzedrene tablets in his mouth, hoping for a burst of renewed energy. They would not get there without it. He lifted the pilot up over his shoulder and started off through the torrential rain.

Clinton had been marching with his load for an hour when he heard voices. He practically threw Adam down. Clinton carefully moved ahead. American jeeps!

He returned to the pilot with two other soldiers who placed him on a stretcher.

“Adam,” Clinton said in his ear, “we made it.”

“My Black Angel.”

Adam Spencer spent two months in the hospital in Da Nang. Clinton was able to visit him a few times. On his last mission, he saw a lot more of the pilot because Clinton was admitted as a patient. A grenade had blown off part of his thigh. The surgeons rebuilt his upper leg. He would be able to walk again, but he would no longer be of use to the Rangers. His injury presented him with a ticket home. The war was over for Clinton Benton.