Death Benefits (A Martin Billings Story Book 2) Read online

  DEATH BENEFITS

  A Martin Billings Story

  Book 2

  ED TEJA

  Published by Float Street Press

  This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. It's good to pretend that none of it happened.

  If you were there when it all went down and remember things differently, that's okay.

  Copyright © 2014 by Ed Teja

  All rights reserved

  To stay connected and learn about the latest books and news, subscribe to my infrequent (no more than once a month) newsletter here.

  This story is dedicated to Bonnie June Teja,

  a great mom and a world-class traveler

  Northern Venezuelan Coast

  CHAPTER ONE

  (Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela March 1995)

  What José Renaldo saw

  José Renaldo was sleepy. Maria and the kids had been making a racket all day long and he hadn't managed to get any decent sleep.

  Sometimes he thought she did it on purpose to punish him. He didn't think that was fair; it wasn't his fault that he worked the night shift.

  He didn't like it either. Working nights meant that he could hear the happy noise coming from the cantina near the marina and know that his amigos were having a good time while he stood at the gate to the parking lot in his scratchy uniform and stiff shoes.

  He looked up at the handful of people sitting in the marina bar and restaurant. It was an open-air place situated so that the customers could look over the boats sitting peacefully along the docks.

  José Renaldo had to admit that on such a clear night, with the stars shining above him, that his wasn't a truly bad job at all. The guards who worked in the daytime had to run errands for the rich marina clients and help them tie up their boats when they came and went.

  They worked harder than he did. The only real problem with his job was not being able to go to the cantina and Maria being angry because he wasn't home at night.

  This was a Monday and relatively quiet. A Venezuelan man who looked vaguely familiar was sitting at the bar nursing a drink. A few minutes later a French couple stepped off a catamaran talking loudly as they walked up the dock to the stairs that led up to bar.

  Still talking, they took a seat at a table. As the waiter took their drink order, José Renaldo wished he spoke French because then he would know what they were talking about. It sounded like an argument, although a subdued one and not at all heated. He enjoyed listening to rich people argue. They fought about different things than his people did. They fought differently too, most of the time.

  He watched them wistfully for a time. The woman was tall and lean, a bit skinny for his taste, but nice to dream about despite that. She was older than he was, but an attractive woman that he wouldn't mind being seen with. He envied the man she was with, both for his woman and his boat.

  He wondered what it would be like to have money, enough to own a boat and be able to sail it somewhere just to see a new place—anytime you wanted.

  Although he'd never been on a sailboat in his life, José Renaldo decided that such a life would be fun, especially if you had money and an attractive woman with you. And if you had money, that kind of money, it was easy to find attractive women.

  He heard the scrunch of gravel as a car pulled into the parking lot. Turning his head toward the gate, he recognized the Ford Explorer of Señor Walker.

  Walker owned the sailboat tied up at the far end of the dock. Once he had told José Renaldo, for no reason other than to talk to him, that he liked having his boat in that spot because he could come and go with no one paying him much attention.

  When he left the marina at night, he could just cast off the lines and slip out quietly through the break in the seawall. No one cared.

  As far as José was concerned, no one would have cared no matter where he kept his boat. What did one more sailboat more or less matter? He would still be there, poor and guarding the gate.

  Señor Walker seemed fond of going sailing at night. To judge by the other gringos with sailboats, that was unusual, but why not go out at night when the sky was clear and the air warm? It was romantic. And that was clearly why Walker liked it. Jose often saw him come to the marina with his briefcase in one hand and a chica on his arm.

  Not usually on a Monday, but why not a Monday? It was just a day like any other. And Señor Walker seemed to pay more attention to having an attractive woman by his side than the day of the week. Rich men could do that.

  He knew there was a Señora Walker, but she almost never came to the marina. That was clever of her. She could avoid confronting the young women her husband brought sailing.

  Yes, José Renaldo decided that he was far more jealous of Señor Walker than the Frenchman. Señor Walker's nice young señoritas were even more to José Renaldo's taste than the attractive Frenchwoman.

  In the dim lights that illuminated the couple as they walked toward the boat, he couldn't see the girl clearly. He could see her figure in silhouette though, and she had lovely curves that excited him. She walked close to Walker, rubbing her hip against his. José Renaldo tingled at the idea of such a girl walking beside him, going to a fancy boat.

  Of course, if he had Walker's riches, José would own a powerboat with two huge engines—the kind of boat that would make his amigos jealous and fearful of their girlfriends.

  He watched the couple board the boat, the girl standing with her hands on her hip as the man unlocked and opened the hatch. Then the girl climbed onto the boat and went below, into the cabin, while Walker checked a few things with the controls and the rigging. Satisfied, he followed her below, disappearing down into the cabin.

  After a time, José heard the soft roar of the boat's engine coming on, the sound bouncing back to his post from the stone seawall that protected the boats from swells of storms out a sea. He listened to the soft and muffled sound echo around the marina.

  Lights came on inside, shining out but diffuse by curtains in the ports. The curtains didn't matter—José Renaldo could picture the scene on the boat. He saw it in his mind as he would have it play out.

  If he were the rich man, he would take this delicious girl into the stateroom and use her for his pleasure while the engine warmed up. Later, when he sailed the boat from the marina, he would sit at the helm and lean back against the stanchions. He would have the girl bring him a drink and then sit in his lap.

  As they motored through the black night with only running lights on, he would fondle her until they reached some moonlit bay. And then he would make love to her again.

  As José Renaldo played this fantasy through his mind, substituting his powerboat for the stupid sailboat and himself for the rich gringo, he suddenly noticed a new figure in the shadows, moving down the dock.

  He couldn't think where she, and it was a woman—a gringa as far as he could tell, had come from. She had the same long and lean form as the French woman but moved like a cat.

  He smiled to himself. This was one cat he thought he wouldn't mind meeting in the dark. She went directly to Walker's boat, stepping over the lifelines and onto the deck. He noticed her look around, hesitating for a moment before ducking down the hatch.

  José Renaldo felt his respect for Señor Walker increase. Tonight, the man had two lovely chicas aboard his yacht. Yes, if one girl was good, having two who wished to play would be more than twice as good.

  As he watched, the lights went out inside the boat. Then the lithe figure of the new woman came on deck. He was sure it was the second one
from the way she moved. She undid the lines that held the boat to the dock and then went to the helm station. She put the engine in gear and motored out of the marina.

  José Renaldo had a great deal of difficulty imagining what a woman who could sail would be like. The women he knew made love, cooked and brought men beer, but they didn't even want to operate a boat. That's why they had men.

  But a woman who was strong and with the mind of a gringa was a different kind of creature than the women he knew. He decided that she would probably be a tiger in bed. If not, why would a man like Walker want her along?

  As the sound of the sailboat's engine faded, he was left alone with his fantasy. He wondered if Maria would be in a good mood when he got home. Maybe once the children had breakfast and went to school, he could entice her to go back to bed for a while. She was no tiger, but when she wished to, she pleased him a great deal.

  CHAPTER TWO

  James has a problem

  When I got off the plane in Grenada the hot sun welcomed me, touching my face. It spread its warmth like a soft caress. I inhaled the scented air deeply, hoping it would displace the recycled and over-processed air that had permeated my lungs on the plane.

  Grenada is a small country—not even a big place as tropical islands go.

  The airport terminal, as well as the formalities of going through customs and immigration, seemed refreshing after dealing too often with the sterile environs of Miami International.

  You got off the plane and had a little walk under a pleasant sky, felt the trade winds blowing in from the East, and generally got a much-needed boost after being cramped in an airplane.

  For once though, I wasn't really noticing the clean, fresh air or the green backdrop that ran up to the chain-link fence. As I walked across the tarmac, I anxiously scanned the faces on the other side of the chain-link fence, looking for one particular face. That face would quite likely be the only yellow face among the many black and few white faces looking out at the plane and its arriving passengers as they disembarked. I saw a few that looked familiar, but none was the one I was looking for.

  I was looking for James. He was meeting me. At least that was the intention.

  I had called James from Guyana a few days before. Although we were old friends, James and I, this call had been about business. Well, mostly business, and mine for a change.

  Somehow, Ugly Bill and I had lucked into a chance to buy a cargo of beautiful hardwood. Wood, good wood, is becoming scarce precious and this was old wood, called purpleheart, a mill had stockpiled years before.

  Ugly Bill, my partner, and the font of all knowledge, informs me that the wood is really named Peltogyne. Courtesy of Bill, I now know that it is also called amaranth, and is a genus of 23 species of flowering plants in the family Fabaceae.

  I do know that it is an extremely dense and water-resistant wood. It is ranked one of the hardest and stiffest woods in the world. It can be hard to work with, but it is beautiful for making furniture, which is why this lot was a steal—one that would generate a nice profit for us.

  What mattered to me far more than its fine qualities was the realization that if we bought it at the price being asked and hauled it up island, where there was far too much high-end building going on, then we could resell it for a tidy sum.

  Unfortunately, it was a cash proposition—and cash was the one thing I had little of and Bill had none of.

  Actually, we seldom had much of it at all, tidy or otherwise—cash, I mean. We owned a boat, after all. You probably know the sea captain's axiom—boat or bank account; pick one because you can't have both.

  There are plenty of variations on it bouncing around, mostly because it is true.

  James had helped us out a few times before and I was pretty sure he'd do it again. We'd always paid him back on time and with interest, so I didn't mind going back to this particular well.

  James is a savvy guy and once told me that I was taking out what he called a bridge loan. I thought it was a wood loan, but He could call it whatever he wanted as far as I was concerned if he gave me the money.

  This time, when I called, he surprised me.

  "I need to see you in person," he said. "Then we can talk about the money."

  "There is a bit of a rush on this deal," I said. "Someone with cash could sweep in and steal this shipment out from under our noses. I just need a short-term loan, James. The cargo is as good as sold right now. All we need to do is get it loaded on board and secured. Then we haul ass for Martinique; there will be no taxes due and no port fees. But while I wait, I am piling up charges at the dock in Guyana."

  "I have no problem getting you the money," he said. "It's yours. I'll pay the extra fees out of my own pocket, but I need to see you and talk to you about something important."

  This wasn't sounding good. Somehow, I could see my little business venture turning into something else.

  "Can't we talk over the phone? You can tell me about your problems. I've already told you mine."

  He paused and then spoke slowly and firmly. "Martin, I need to see you in person. I really need your help."

  The conversation ended then. James had said the magic words, the ones I can't resist. James was playing my weakness against me and we both knew it. I also knew that it had to be important. So that was it. I was going to Grenada.

  He arranged to have a will-call ticket waiting for me at the BWI counter in Trinidad. I'd take the ferry across from Guyana as there were no direct flights to Grenada. James said he would meet me at the airport in Grenada.

  I hoped that meant he would bring the money with him. If he showed up with the money, I could be back in Trinidad in time for dinner and the ferry would get me back in Guyana by the next morning.

  The plane from Trinidad turned around in about two hours for the trip back, which gave us plenty of time to chat about whatever was bothering him and sign whatever papers he wanted me to sign. Then I could get back and lock down my cargo before someone else got it.

  I strained to see, but I couldn't see the Chinaman's face in the crowd. Now, before you get upset, I know that I'm not supposed to call a gentleman of Chinese descent a Chinaman. It isn't nice or politically correct. I don't care.

  I've known James longer than political correctness has been around, and I'd been calling him a stupid Chinaman every time I got angry at him for that the entire time. If I stopped calling him that now, he'd probably think I was really upset with him. Friendship trumps politics every time in my book.

  I was one of the last passengers from my flight to clear through the leisurely experience that is customs and immigration in Grenada. There were three lines to accommodate the passengers, and naturally, I got in the wrong one.

  I always wind up in the one that is headed up by an elderly man who is not only stone deaf, but also an inexperienced traveler.

  Inevitably, he doesn't realize that he is supposed to show his passport to the smiling official in the starched white uniform. After all, he showed them when he got on the plane, why would he need to show them again when he got off?

  It never helps matters that the officials in the starched white uniforms respond to deaf people by simply repeating themselves and holding out a hand for the documents they want.

  This dance can go on this way for a long time without either party realizing that they are not communicating. Or perhaps they don't care. I have to keep in mind that the officials get paid by the hour.

  When I finally got through to the baggage claim carousel, I caught sight of James. He stood nervously by the door, looking for tall sea captains. James is a trim little man and he looked his usual dapper self in a white tropical-weight suit. You seldom see those anymore in these air-conditioned times, outside of old movies, that is. I figured he had them custom made.

  He nodded toward the carousel and I shook my head. I didn't have any baggage to claim—everything I thought I would need was crammed into my carryon bag. I certainly hoped it was
all I would need.

  I didn't figure on staying long—no longer than absolutely necessary. The single bag was also my insurance. Not having enough clean clothes provided something of an excuse for a hasty departure.

  We exited past the guard who is supposed to ensure that you only take your own luggage, but who was busy chatting up some cute island honey. I couldn't blame him. She stared up into his eyes and hung on his every word.

  If I'd needed more clothes, I could have left with any bag I wanted. Fortunately, most people don't want someone else's dirty laundry and they tend to take their own bags.

  James walked briskly toward the parking lot with me in his wake. Although I have long legs, I had to hustle to keep up. "I take it you didn't bring the money with you," I said.

  He nodded again and kept walking. The nod either meant "no" as in "no I didn't bring the money," or "yes," as in, "yes, you are right I didn't bring the money." James was not a verbose person by nature, but this was a bit short even for him.

  When we reached his battered Toyota pickup, he rested his hands on the roof and looked at me. "I will explain everything over drinks and dinner," he assured me. He unlocked the truck and hot air rushed out at us as we opened the doors. I got in and rolled down the window. James put the key in the ignition and then sat back and paused, looking over at me. "But before I explain, we need drinks. Lots of drinks."

  I laughed. "James, you don't drink."

  He smiled a weak smile. "I don't drink when there is no reason to."

  I watched his forehead pucker into a frown as he started the truck. Clearly, James had a serious problem; one a lot bigger than loaning me a few thousand dollars to buy some wood.

  # # #

  James drove back to his house, which is up the hill they call Scott Street, right in downtown St. George's. It is just a few cobblestone blocks from the Carenage, where the cruise ships and the Windjammer ships come in and unload their loads of tourists.