Martin Billings Caribbean Crime Thrillers

by Ed Teja

  “Well, Señor, what if we call this a business meeting? You can call this drink a consulting fee, a small and inadequate payment for a few minutes of your time.”

  “And just what are we consulting about?”

  She smiled and pointed at me. “We are dealing with the question of you.”

  “Me?”

  “You and your plans for the near future. You see why you are the perfect consultant? You know everything about the subject and are perhaps the only expert in the field.”

  “And why is Victoria López so interested in a simple gringo tourist? Do you want to sell me a trip to see Angel Falls from the air? Interest me in a boat ride to the outlying islands, lunch and beer included?”

  She shook her head. “Beer is never included. And you are no tourist.”

  “Sure I am. It says so right on the visa officially stamped in my passport by the official officials of the government that were so nice in Margarita. For up to six months I have permission to visit this beautiful country, to patronize its restaurants and bars and boutiques, swim in its waters, and raise hell with the chicas. I think those are in the constitution somewhere, probably in a tourist’s bill of rights.”

  She smiled. “Just the last two. The rest are optional.” She sipped her beer and looked thoughtful for a moment. “You may have permission to be a tourist, but you are a seaman, part owner of the hundred twenty-foot freighter Irreparable Harm, which is now anchored in Trinidad. More importantly, you are the older brother of Timothy Billings.” The information flowed out of her so matter-of-factly that I felt off guard again.

  “Ah, Tim.” I had thought, somehow, that we might get to him, but her directness set me back a little. “Maybe we can talk, but first tell me how you know all this about me? Who are you?”

  “Simply a well-informed, interested party.”

  “Interested in…”

  “In your brother’s case.”

  Her steadiness, her refusal to let the conversation move out of her control, was impressive. I wouldn’t want to play high-stakes poker with this woman at the table, I knew that much.

  “I would appreciate it,” I said, “if you would explain, in something resembling detail, the nature of your interest. Please use simple, understandable words, with no fancy connotations, and do not expect me to read between any lines. My jet-lagged brain does not seem to be up to matching wits, and I want to get a handle on what the hell we are talking about.”

  She raised a hand. “My bottle is empty. And I have priorities.” She ordered two more beers from a passing waiter. When he brought them, she said, “The facts, sir. I represent a client who does not want your brother’s case to become a cause célèbre. My client feels that it is vitally important that justice, Venezuelan justice, be allowed to take its natural course.”

  “And my being here prevents that? I have to say that I am impressed and flattered by the implications.”

  “I am, as you said, well informed. I know that you are enough of a romantic to attempt to right the many wrongs of this world by yourself.” She held up the photo. “And I know that you have sufficient training to create a certain amount of havoc. I also know that you are not afraid to use that training, and that this is one of the reasons you are no longer in uniform.”

  “That’s a very old picture,” I said. “The story is almost as old.”

  “But more recently, when friends of yours in St. Barts were set up by drug pushers it seemed to be quite relevant to that situation.”

  Now she really had my attention. I had thought no one knew what had really happened up island, not even Kim and Andy, the friends she mentioned. I tried to stay calm. “Nothing happened in St. Barts that I can recall.”

  “Of course not.” She sighed. “Nothing at all happened that anyone can recall. And that is just part of the problem. If that kind of nothing happened here, if people lost their ability to recall events, for example, it could cause a great many problems.”

  “Problems for whom?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. There are things involved in this case that you can’t be allowed know about.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you might use it to create more trouble.”

  “That’s no problem! See, if you give me the information, I’ll create my havoc as an informed maniac.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. And that’s why we, my client, that is, would much rather see you gainfully employed, say in Trinidad. Even better in Asia. Anywhere but here.”

  “It’s a good thing I don’t have to worry about what your client would rather see, then.”

  “But you do.”

  I waited for her to elaborate on that statement. “That sounds like a threat. And I don’t like to be pushed.” I took a big swallow of beer. It didn’t seem to ease the dryness in my mouth much. Whoever Victoria López worked for, they had some clout. I didn’t like being clouted much, and I would fight back. But it seemed that if we were in a high-stakes game, for the moment she held all the good cards.

  “We are not pushing. We are offering.” She smiled. “Call it pulling.”

  “Offering? What?”

  She reached back to her purse and took out some papers, a cellular telephone, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  “You shouldn’t smoke,” I said curtly.

  She laughed. “You are worried about my health?”

  “No. I just don’t want the air around me to stink.”

  She clucked her tongue, shook her head, but she put the cigarettes and lighter back in her purse. Score one for her.

  “Not a gentleman at all,” she said. But her eyes sparkled as she said it, and I began to get the impression that she was not all that keen on gentlemen.

  She unfolded the papers on the table. “I have here a contract. It provides for you to haul freight, of various legal types, between Trinidad and the Venezuelan port of Guiria, which lies almost directly across the Golfo de Paria.”

  “I do know where it is,” I said.

  She smiled. “Yes, this is where you currently have much business, am I right?” I nodded and she went on. “This contract gives you one load every week in each direction at ten percent above market rate. The term is for two years. The payment is guaranteed even if there is no cargo.”

  “Damn generous,” I muttered. In fact, the deal was inconceivably good—for any freighter. For some time, it had been a buyer’s market for freighters. We all scrambled for work as the demand bounced up and down.

  “That is the intent of the offer. That is its attraction. My client wants to make certain that you have no more uncertainty about work, no need to come to Venezuela looking for cargo, for instance. The money should be enough that you can maintain your boat and even invest a little money against problems that you might have later.”

  “And all I have to do is?”

  She slid what was unmistakably a plane ticket across the table. “Sign the contract and return to Trinidad to begin hauling cargo.”

  “You don’t want me to see my brother? Just turn tail and leave?”

  She shook her head. “No such thing! I think you should see your brother. Assure him that while justice in this country is slow and uncertain, that while imprisonment is harsh, the truth of this matter will certainly come out. Hire him a good lawyer, I will be glad to supply references, then spend a few days and nights with your girlfriend, and relax. You might even take that tourist trip to Angel Falls. It is quite beautiful. Or I can even arrange a trip to Mérida, up in the Andes.”

  “Anywhere but Cumaná.”

  “Almost anywhere. I think my client might even pay for the travel expenses.”

  “Another indication of excessive generosity from your anonymous client. What if I said I wanted you to go with me instead of my girlfriend?”

  “Naughty of you to think of it,” she said, “but not part of the offer. And my client cannot give what my client do
es not own. This country does operate by a form of rule of law.”

  “Do you really think that if I stay in Cumaná I’ll get on some crusade and raise hell trying to free my brother?”

  “I don’t have any idea of what you will do, only what you are capable of. Think of me as my client’s risk consultant. I have to think as I would if I worked for an insurance company. I would be required to do due diligence. After research, my assessment is that, regardless of your brother’s guilt or innocence you could stir things up and endanger my client’s interests.”

  Actually, she was probably right.

  “That’s the nicest way of calling someone a hothead that I’ve ever heard,” I told her.

  She paused before adding, “So that you really understand as much as possible, I should add that those interests I am protecting are not directly tied to your brother’s fate. My client does not care whether your brother is guilty or not, whether he is convicted or not. None of that has anything to do with...with the things you might confuse.”

  “Right. Damn nice of your client to be such a caring soul.” I looked at the contract, stumbled through a few lines of the nominally English document. “The problem is that I can’t decide anything until I have an idea of what is going on here. Since you’ve written this in lawyer-speak instead of human language it will take some time.”

  Ms. López pushed a business card across the table. “I understand that too,” she said softly.

  “You should have written it in Chinese. It would be clearer.”

  “Take the contract and the ticket with you. Have a lawyer read the contract. Have a Chinese lawyer read it, if that helps. I can recommend one or two of those as well. If, after you have had it explained to you, you decide to accept, simply sign the contract, then call me—I’ll tell you where to send it. If there are problems with the terms of the contract, call me.” She pointed at her cellular phone. “The number on the card is for this phone.”

  I looked at her card. It had nothing but her name, phone number and the fact that she was a lawyer. At least it didn’t offer the services of a lousy welder. “What if I decide to stay here and fight the good fight?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Call me before you decide irrevocably. Any decision.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps only so that we can have another drink together.” I smiled at this, and she said, “Don’t you think I enjoy your company?”

  “No. How can you? I’m rude and ungentlemanly.”

  “Is that a negative? Most people are far too polite for my taste. It isn’t exciting. Life needs excitement, as you seem to know. But we should take up that subject when we can spend our time leisurely and not on business.”

  Her telephone rang just then and as she turned away to answer it, I was left alone inside my head, with her sensuous rendering of the word “leisurely” echoing in my head as she answered the phone. She talked and, keeping her eyes on me all the time, listened for a moment then simply said, “Gracias.” Then she clobbered me with her knockout smile again. “Your friend is on her way and I must go now.” She stood up and held out her hand, so I stood up and took it. “I have enjoyed meeting you. Please call me.” Then she was gone.

  I sat down and ordered another beer, feeling that things were growing curiouser and curiouser, as Alice so aptly put it. I looked at the contract again. In amongst all the lawyer-speak clauses were a few actual English words that weren’t a party of any part but seemed to indicate the deal was exactly as she said it was and nothing more. I stuck it, along with my brand-new plane ticket and her business card, in my duffle. Too much was happening, too quick.

  I didn’t sit there for more than five minutes before Maggie came in, flushed and out of breath. I jumped up and gave her a hug and a kiss. She looked as good as ever, but the contrast between her and Victoria López couldn’t have been more striking.

  Victoria was an elegant Latin beauty, Maggie had short brown hair and bright blue eyes and was tan from working in the sun. Shorter and more muscular than Victoria, Maggie had a delightful curve to her. On top of that, Maggie wore jeans, sandals and a man’s shirt. Two completely different women, both exciting and desirable. Shows what little use arbitrary standards of beauty and sexiness are.

  “Martin, I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said as we broke from the kiss, immediately starting in to tell her story. “I left in plenty of time to meet the flight, but I got stopped by a police road block. They had to see all my papers: the documents for the car, driving license, I.D., everything. Then, when they seemed happy with the papers, they started to search the car. Took their time about it too. It was loco. They wouldn’t say what they were looking for. Drugs, I guess.

  I told her to sit down and catch her breath. I leaned across the table and told her, “They weren’t looking for anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a stall. They just wanted to keep you from getting here on time.”

  She shook her head in disbelief and wiped sweat from her forehead with a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table. “Why would they, whoever they might be, do that?”

  I let her wait for a moment, fidgeting impatiently. I was still gathering my own thoughts on the subject. “There was someone else here to meet me. A woman.” I pointed to the empty beer bottles. “She wanted to buy me a beer and talk about the facts of life—Tim’s life mostly, and she had an interesting offer, but for me, not Tim.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  I took the contract from my bag and handed it across to her. Maggie wiped the table with her napkin before spreading the contract out on the surface. “Jesus, but I hate legal mumbo jumbo,” she muttered as she read. When she finished, and she gave it a more careful reading than I had, she asked, “What does this have to do with Tim?”

  “Directly? Very little. But it ensures, if executed, that one Martin Billings won’t be on stage while Tim’s case is played out. It is the carrot that entices the potential disrupter, the bad boy of this portion of the Western world, to go home quietly. Along with the contract comes a free trip to Trinidad on Friday.”

  “She was serious about this?”

  I nodded. “Serious and mysterious. She had taken the time to know exactly who I was and when I’d be here, then got some cops, or their stand-ins, to delay you. I know the freight company mentioned in the contract pretty well, we do work for them from time to time. She probably knows that, and that I could confirm the validity of the deal with one phone call. I am sure the whole offer is legit.”

  Maggie tapped the contract with her fingertip, her mind racing far away. “I wonder how she knew what you even looked like.”

  “Another bit of mysteriousness,” I said. “She had an old Navy photo of me, one I’d even forgotten existed.”

  Maggie reached over and touched my arm. “Now there is something I can explain. Tim had a photo of you from your SEAL days. He showed it to me once. It was probably taken from him when he was arrested.”

  “Tim was still carrying that? I remember sending him one when I had them made—right after graduation, but he was in grade school.” Of course, Tim always surprised me. It’s just that normally the surprises weren’t touching. “But how did this lawyer get it?”

  Maggie shrugged. I knew that shrug and how loaded it was with meaning. It meant, how can you know? How did she get the cops to play along? How did she get a legit Trinidad businessman to make a distinctly disadvantageous business offer? It probably held even more meaning than that. It was quite a shrug.

  We sat in a somewhat stunned silence for a few minutes. A kind person might say that we were gathering our thoughts. Whatever Victoria López had intended, if setting us back on our heels was part of it then she had succeeded wonderfully. I scooped up my bag.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said. “I need open space.”

  Maggie led the way out of the bar, downstairs into the terminal itself and out the fro
nt doors into the parking lot. The bright sun shone with an intensity you never experience outside the tropics. The air felt drier than it had in Trinidad, making me comfortably warm instead of hot. The climate of Venezuela has to be one of the best in the world.

  Maggie stopped at a Land Cruiser, or what had once been one and now had the shell of one badly interwoven with the decay so prevalent in the tropics. I shuddered at the sight of its banners of white-painted metal and rust. I hate the sight of neglect and she saw my look.

  “The hazards of salt air,” she said. “Jezebel is safe if not pretty. And if she were pretty, she’d be a target for bandidos.”

  The name Jezebel did not give me a feeling of confidence. People tend to name cars after some dominant trait, and treachery wasn’t what I considered a reassuring quality. Despite her down-at-the-heels look, a security bar connected the steering wheel to the gearshift with a convincing display of burglar proofing.

  I laughed. “Isn’t this a bit of overkill?”

  “Even a shabby looking car isn’t safe in such a poor country. If it runs, you need to take precautions.” When she turned the key, the engine started with a confident roar. “Good girl, Jezzy,” she said, patting the dashboard. Her face drifted off into thoughtfulness as we left the parking lot.

  “A genuine Bolívar for your thoughts,” I said.

  She smiled. “I was just thinking about what happened today. Some of the things are easy to figure. Any well-informed and well-educated person, anyone with money, for that matter, could have gotten access to the information that your mystery woman had, even the photo. But I can’t figure out how she knew when you would arrive. That bothers me. I made the arrangements just before I called you.”

  “It bothers me too,” I agreed. “So, let’s work backwards a bit. Who else knew I was coming?”

  She thought for a time. “I’m trying to remember if I mentioned it to anyone but Tim.”

  “You didn’t tell the cops who are investigating the case?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “They won’t talk to me. That’s one reason I thought you should be here. They’ll only release information to his lawyer or family.”