Martin Billings Caribbean Crime Thrillers Read online

  Table of Contents

  UNDER LOW SKIES

  DEATH BENEFITS

  IN HARM’S WAY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Martin Billings

  CARIBBEAN CRIME THRILLERS

  Books 1-3

  Includes

  UNDER LOW SKIES

  DEATH BENEFITS

  IN HARM’S WAY

  This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents, and places 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.

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  UNDER LOW SKIES

  A Martin Billings Story

  Book 1

  ED TEJA

  Copyright © 2013 Ed Teja

  All rights reserved.

  “I do not know beneath what sky

  Nor on what seas shall be thy fate…”

  Richard Hovey, Unmanifest Destiny

  FISHING

  [1993, Ensenada, Tigrillo, Venezuela]

  The small fish camp consisted of two weathered buildings which seemed to have grown up out of the water to huddle together on the shore at Punta Tigrillo. On the day he would die, just like nearly every morning of his life, Antonio woke with the first light. Groggy with sleep, he climbed out of his hammock and pulled on a pair of worn jeans and a tee shirt he had left on the floor next to the hammock the night before. He untied the hammock from the steel rings embedded in the concrete walls, rolled it into a ball, and stuffed it in a makeshift bag made from old fish net.

  Slipping on a pair of sandals, he stepped out onto the sheltered porch where the barrels of fresh water they hauled from the city were kept. Using an empty jar which sat on the floor, he scooped out some of the water and poured it over his head, feeling the invigorating rush it brought to his skin. The water ran across the concrete floor and out through a drain onto the thirsty desert soil. Then he picked up a small water jug and used the jar to fill it.

  He looked out over the calm water. He felt better. More alert. It felt like a good day. Carrying the water jar, he left the fish camp and followed a narrow and well-worn footpath leading through the scrub on the hills and up the red hillside, away from the water’s edge. At the top of the hill he came to a squat shelter and an open, flat area that overlooked Punta Tigrillo. The shelter was a rude affair, with a wooden frame, no walls, and a roof of corrugated tin. He sat the water jug in the shelter, tucked it into a spot where the sun wouldn’t hit until late afternoon. He knew the water would keep cool there and provide a refreshing drink when he needed it. Then he stepped to the edge of the clearing where he would begin his vigil.

  It was a fine morning. Clouds hung low over the sea, and a thin haze filled in the space between cloud and sea, obscuring the horizon. Looking north, out across the Caribbean, the water and sky formed a single, seamless surface that glowed an eerie metallic gray. Later, when the morning wind came up, it would ruffle the water, but for now the world lay still—the water shiny and flat and seeming to go on forever. Normally Antonio would be able to see the fuzzy outline of the island of Margarita, lying some forty miles offshore. Often it appeared as two separate islands with its low center disappearing into the sea. But today he could see nothing of it. It kept out of sight behind the gray curtain.

  Still, it was a fine morning, and seeing things at such a distance was not so important. He knew Isla Margarita was out there, with its fancy hotels and stores and casinos. But he was here to work, to look for fish and give warning when they came. To his critical and experienced eye, this was a good day for fish.

  The one who looks for fish is the one responsible for giving the rest of the fisherman in camp—Antonio’s father, brothers, uncles—warning so that they can launch their peñeros, the wooden fishing boats already loaded with their nets, so they could trap the fish as the schools migrated through the narrow cut, called Paso Campañero, which separated tiny Isla Caracas del Este from Isla Varados. From his spot, Antonio could watch the fish gather for their run out in the deep water of the Caribbean.

  Looking out to sea, Antonio squinted against the intense glare from the water.

  “We are under low skies today,” he muttered, recalling how Uncle Manuel had hated the days of low clouds, especially when his eyes had begun to fail.

  Uncle Manuel often grumbled that the job of a watcher was not truly a man’s job, but better suited to pelicans. However, even the pelicans suffered the fate of the watcher, their vision fading as they grew older. Diving into the water for fish eventually ruined their eyes completely. Many pelicans died, their necks broken, when their faulty eyesight confused the glint of light on a tin roof with the flashing silver of fish.

  Today the glare was bad, but the water looked right for fish, and that was what was important, what made it a good day. Antonio shrugged away the dryness in his eyes. Across the paseo, on Isla Caracas del Este, he could see the peñeros of fishermen from other camps, artisanal fishermen who trolled the early morning water with handmade lures. They were finished for the morning and had pulled their boats up on a beach called Las Negadas where they smoked cigarettes and talked. Later they might come to Antonio’s family’s fish camp to buy some sardines to use for bait and then spend part of the day bottom fishing for Pargo Rojo and Catalana. Except for the fishermen, the waters around the islands and the point remained empty and still.

  As the morning grew warm, Antonio went to the shelter for a drink of water. He hefted the jug, raised it to his lips and felt water, cool and sweet on his tongue. He took a white cotton rag from his pocket, soaked it in the water, and then wiped his eyes with the cool cloth. It eased the pain that was already starting. He tied the cloth around his head then stepped back out to his station and let his deep brown eyes sweep the water again. Nothing. For now, there was nothing. Not a ripple disturbed the water.

  The morning wind began to rise, and although it was still gentle it whipped the surface of the sea into small choppy waves which reflected the morning light in quick flashes of silver. He smiled, thinking of the times when he was young and still learning and had seen those silvery flashes. Overeager, he shouted “Fish!”

  His uncle would laugh and say, “No, muchacho. This is nothing but light dancing on the sea. We cannot eat light. We cannot sell it. Learn to wait for the true signs.”

  Suddenly he caught a glimmer of light near the point. The glimmer spread, dividing into regular patterns. He raised his face, looking down his nose to minimize the glare as his uncle had taught him. Then he saw them. A large school of fish had begun to circle outside the paso, gathering courage, or waiting for slower fish before entering. He often wondered if the fish somehow knew that the channel represented special dangers for them, for not only were the fishermen always there, but large groups of dolphins often swam through, feeding on the abundant schools. In the narrow channel, trapped between the islands, they had less room to run. Perhaps this was enough to make them circle nervously before making their run.

  Antonio shaded his eyes with his hand and began to estimate the size of the school. Sometimes it was better to let a small school pass by in order to net a larger school that might be frightened off. Calculating this was also part of the watcher’s job. His mouth felt dry again. It always felt dry when the fish began to come.

  He licked his lips, his attention, and his every sense, focused on the blue waters off of Punta Tigrillo. The glare no longer mattered. He no longer felt his burning eyes nor parc
hed lips. He was aware of nothing but the movement of the fish. He thought of nothing but what the movements meant. As he watched and calculated, the cry to his family was in the back of his throat, waiting for the exact moment, the precise instant that would give them plenty of time to get the nets out and still not scare the fish back into deep water.

  Pepe sat at the bottom of the cliff, staring at the nets piled around him in the large wooden peñero, their floats circling the gunwales. He felt restless. The boat rocked gently, banging against the sandy shore. It was a soothing sensation. The wind was right, the water was right for fish. He put his hand in the clear water. Even the temperature was what it should be. He smiled, thinking about what a good catch would mean. In the limited vocabulary of Pepe’s pleasures, fish translated into money—money for rum and girls. The year had been good. So far, he had no complaints, but more was better—Como no?

  Glancing across the surface of the water, Pepe could see a fair number of fish jumping. This was strange. He had heard nothing from Antonio. He glanced up the cliff but couldn’t see his brother. Well, he must be getting a drink of water or something. But certainly, he had seen the fish. He had to have seen them. They filled the water. Why hadn’t he called out? But seeing the fish was Antonio’s job. Pepe’s was to wait.

  Suddenly his father came running down the bank toward the boat, followed by Pepe’s uncles.

  “Start the motor,” they shouted as they ran.

  Startled, Pepe lurched toward the back of the boat and pulled on the starter cord of the ancient 75HP Evinrude motor. He felt a surge of pride as it sparked to life with a healthy roar on the first pull. Maintaining the motor, ensuring that it would start when they needed it, was his job and he also took great pride in his work.

  “Get the nets out! Hurry!” His father was sweating profusely and still trying to catch his breath after his run, but his words still had the bark that made people jump. One of his uncles pushed the other boat into the water and started the motor. His job was to act as an anchor for the huge net, holding one end of it while the men in Pepe’s boat stretched it out to encircle the fish.

  “What about Antonio?” Pepe asked as he positioned the boat so his uncles could lay the net out across the passage.

  “He must have fallen asleep,” his father said. “I’ll deal with your brother when we finish with the fish.”

  Pepe shuddered at the dark look in his father’s eyes. He knew what Antonio was in for.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time the men had gotten the net out, chased fish into it, and hauled it in again, arduously picking the fish from the net by hand, trying to damage neither. Then they loaded the catch, sardines mostly, into one boat so that an uncle could take them to the Pueblo of Mochima to sell them.

  The work done, Pepe and his father checked the camp to see if Antonio had come down from the cliff. He wasn’t there, and the women said they hadn’t seen him. This, too, was unusual, but if Antonio had fallen asleep, he would either still be asleep or know he was in trouble.

  The two men started up the steep path to the lookout spot, kicking up the dry dust. At the top, Pepe’s heart began to flutter. Antonio was certainly lying on the ground, but he wasn’t asleep. He lay face down in a pool of blood. Their father ran over to him and rolled his body over. Antonio’s eyes were wide open and glassy, blood poured out of his throat.

  “He is dead,” the fisherman moaned. “Muerto! Someone has cut my oldest son’s throat.”

  Pepe didn’t hear. He sprawled raggedly across the red rocks—he had fainted.

  [Cumaná, Venezuela]

  Five policemen and five well-armed soldiers from the nearby Guardia Nacional base took up positions crouched behind parked cars across the street from a small concrete-block house in the middle of the city’s barrio. It wasn’t much of a house—just a tiny concrete box, unpainted, with a single barred window and a tin roof. As such, it looked exactly like most of the houses surrounding it.

  The police investigators wore no uniforms. They had casual clothing, typical of the Policía Técnica Judicial. They would have passed for ordinary citizens if not for the hefty revolver each had stuck into the waistband of his slacks. The soldiers, however, wore camouflage fatigues and purple berets. Each held an assault rifle.

  Behind one of the cars a small man in tattered clothing huddled with one of the policemen.

  “Si, he is in there, Señor,” the man said. His voice, like his hands, was thin and shaky. “It is certain. I myself saw him go in there not twenty minutes ago.”

  The policeman, whose name was Wilfredo, was tired. He was also hot. He grunted and looked over the trunk of the car toward the house as if, armed with this information, he might see through the walls. Then he looked at the man and shook his head. He detested informants but his office was understaffed, without them he had almost no resources on the street. This job was too important not to use every lead he could find, even one as disgusting as this filthy little man.

  “Is there anyone in there with him?” Wilfredo asked.

  The small man shrugged. “He has his chica with him, his woman. I saw no one else.”

  “Very well.” But he had to wonder. Is there anything else you haven’t told me and won’t mention unless I ask?

  He sighed and handed the man some money. The man clutched the bills eagerly.

  “Now,” Wilfredo hissed, “get away from here quickly.”

  Only too happy to leave, now that he had his money, he ran off dodging between the houses and disappearing through a hole in a crumbling concrete wall. Wilfredo wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and watched him run.

  When he was out of sight Wilfredo signaled to the others, first catching their eyes, and then raising a hand. Each man acknowledged his signal silently. He took a long, deep breath then stood up and walked into the street, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable if a killer was inside with a gun trained on him. He crossed the street as casually as he could manage, keeping his gaze on the window and the door all the time. He saw nothing, heard nothing.

  It could be that the snitch had lied.

  That did happen sometimes, but usually only when there was a lot of money at stake. This one was earning only a few thousand Bolívares and he was well aware of how short his future was if he cheated the police. No, most likely he told the truth.

  He stopped in front of the door and gave another signal. The guardsmen trained their assault rifles on the house, and the four other policemen came out from behind the cars to join him at the front of the house. Surrounding it was pointless. These houses had no back doors. Often, they shared the back wall with the neighbor behind.

  Wilfredo chuckled as he watched his fellow officers run across the street. He thought of himself as out of shape, but these younger guys were pathetic. Too much beer and too much time behind a desk had made them soft. It was good they didn’t have far to run. But then the Guardia were along to take care of the physical work. They were certainly fit enough.

  Wilfredo waited until his men were in place, ready to go in, their breath coming hard. Nothing moved on the street, it was oven hot. Sane people were taking a siesta. The cooling breezes which kept the waterfront so pleasant didn’t penetrate this far into the city. He wished they had been able to come in the morning when it was cool. Well, they would take care of business, and then he could stop and have a cool drink before he went back to the office. It would help some.

  He let out a calming breath of air, pulled the .38 caliber revolver from his belt and kicked in the door. It flew open amazingly easy. Clearly it hadn’t been locked. The five policemen surged into the darkened interior moving with the opening door, guns at the ready.

  There was a movement in the corner of the room, and five guns trained on it, with a jumble of police voices demanding that anyone there freeze.

  A voice shouted back at them in English, “What the hell is this?”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Wilfredo saw a man and w
oman naked on the bed. The woman turned her back to him. Their clothes and the bedding were in a pile on the floor.

  “Turn this way and keep your hands over your head,” he commanded. They did as he said.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man asked in fractured Spanish.

  “The police, Señor.” He approached the bed and pulled out his wallet, which contained his large gold badge and showed it to them. “Are you Timothy Billings?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  Wilfredo noted that the man seemed to be regaining his composure quickly now that he was dealing with the police. Perhaps he had been expecting someone else? The woman looked to be Latina, probably a Venezolana. She stared back at Wilfredo silently, making no move to cover her nakedness. As he watched, her face contorted into a haughty sneer. She was an attractive girl and probably thought he was just trying to get a free show.

  Wilfredo turned to the man. “Señor Billings, I wish to advise you that you are under arrest for murder.” He caught the look of astonishment that crossed Billing’s face before he turned to his men. He saw them standing idly, happily staring at the naked girl.

  “Search the place, you morons. See what there is to be found,” he said. Reluctantly they tore themselves away and spread out through the small house, opening drawers and closets, rummaging through them.

  “Can we have our clothes now?” Billings asked, nodding at the pile of clothes on the floor next to the bed.

  Wilfredo pointed at the clothing with his gun. “Alfredo, search through the clothing, empty the pockets, then give them to these people.”

  The heavyset policeman came over and began slowly, painstakingly, going through the clothing. Wilfredo noticed that he searched the man’s clothes first, taking his time. He spent more time looking at the girl more than doing his work. But what could he do about it? This is how people are. Men want to see naked women.