“Si, Papa.”
“This way, Señor.” The teenager waved towards a boat.
“I’m, Miguel.”
“I’m, Ken.”
“Okay, Ken. We go now.” Miguel gestured for Ken to a seat beside him.
Ken sat down on the cracked vinyl seat and watched the young man work. Miguel leaped over the low windscreen and tossed off the front line, sprang back into the back, and untied the rope at the rear of the boat. Moments later he bounced back into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The engine was old and heavy, but ran smoothly. Ken felt uncomfortable that there was no extra motor on the boat but Miguel seemed unfazed, so Ken relaxed. There was plenty of traffic on the relatively calm narrow strip of sea between the island and the Venezuelan mainland. He just wanted to avoid a rescue by the police who might ask awkward questions.
Miguel stopped just as he was about to steer away from the pier, looked over at Ken and hesitated. The young Venezuelan, noticing Ken’s fair complexion turning a little red under the hot sun. Miguel tapped the vinyl roof that was folded against the windscreen. Ken nodded and helped Miguel flip off two clips and pulled back the roof. Ken gave the thumbs-up and relaxed in the shade while Miguel returned his focus to the controls and the water. The young man darted glances in all directions and gunned the engine, the boat smoothly spun around and headed out into the southern Caribbean Sea for the one-hour journey to the mainland.
* * *
Eric wandered through the bustling marketplace that skirted the beach. He noticed a ferry terminal at the end of the market and purchased a ticket to the mainland before walking back through the market to kill the hour before the departure of the ferry. At a small market Eric found an interesting ring and bargained in Spanish with the salesman. A teenage boy and girl in bathing suits and towels over their shoulder flirted next to Eric. In their giddy happiness they bumped into him while they kissed and giggled. Eric imagined himself doing the same with an attractive, tanned sunbather. After Eric and the vendor agree on a price, Eric reached behind him into his backpack for a ten-pound note. He fumbled in the backpack and pulled out something wet. It was the blue towel worn by the teenage boy who had been beside him. Eric dropped the ring on the table display and ran to a nearby bench where he looked through his backpack and found all of the money gone, as well as his camera. He tossed the towel on the ground and looked around the market that ran along the wide wooden sidewalk. The young couple was nowhere in sight. The jewelry vender saw the exasperated look on Eric’s face, sensing the problem, and didn’t press for the sale. His daughter and her boyfriend would give him his cut that would likely be far more than the profit from the sale of the ring.
Eric gathered himself as best he could and pulled the bag closer to him. He looked around the beach area feeling that everybody was eyeing him, waiting to get his or her hands on what was left in the backpack or his pockets. He unzipped the inside pockets of the backpack and was relieved to see that his assortment of identifications were still there. Fumbling through his pockets he found thirty-five U.S. dollars, walked back to the ferry terminal, and sat in the chair closet to the departure gate.
Ken’s boat ride was uneventful until the small boat got out in the open water where wave after wave of nausea came over him as they traversed the undulating sea. He felt it was a small price to pay for putting distance between him and the detectives. However, he couldn’t keep his mind off of Eric. Three times now his only remaining relative had slipped up badly and nearly had them in the hands of the police.
When they approached the mainland Miguel passed several docks before pulling up to a lower pier that led to a small business area in central Cumana. Ken gave Miguel a good tip and thanked him. Miguel shook Ken’s hand and in a flash the boat spun around and headed back to Margarita Island. Ken walked a few blocks from the water, searching for a way to get to Caracas. Cumana had plenty of tourists wandering the streets, enjoying the blend of old and new in the oldest city in South America. Ken saw no train tracks and thus assumed Eric might be on the bus, so he decided to find an independent mode of transport to Caracas. Three blocks from the water was an old whitewashed building with a small store and a street-front café. He ducked behind a corner and transferred one hundred U.S. dollars from his backpack into his pocket. Ken wandered aimlessly until one of the cabs left so there were fewer people to see him hire the taxi. Finally one of the drivers received a phone call and dashed away in his car, the remaining driver eyed the café and started to go in. Ken walked up to him.
Relying on hand signals to communicate, Ken pointed to the taxi. “Si?”
“Si, Señor. Adonde?” The experienced cabby waved his arms around.
“Caracas?”
The cabby looked up and down Ken and slowly said, “Si…dinero?”
“Si, yes,” Ken pulled out a piece of paper, drew a dollar sign, the letters U.S., and a question mark with a line for the amount.
“Solo alla?” The cabby pointed towards Caracas with one finger in the air asking if the trip was one-way.
Ken nodded, only one way.
The cabby did not hesitate to write seventy-five in the space.
“Yes, si. Café, Señor?” Ken held up a five-dollar bill.
“Si, gracias.” The warm smile on the pockmarked face put Ken at ease.
Ken bought them both coffee and sat down in the back of the cab for the silent three-hour drive through high, meandering mountain passes. Ken tried to sleep, but the strong coffee and an unknown future kept his mind active.
* * *
Eric sat in the corner of the ferry and buried his head in a magazine, never moving for the two-hour crossing. As the ferry docked at the Venezuelan mainland Eric stood beside a display of brochures. The lowest section of the display contained information on transportation. There was a selection of bus lines offering service to Caracas. With only thirty-five dollars Eric would have to take the lowest priced bus line. After glancing through the information on three bus lines Eric grabbed a red brochure and walked off the ferry. The bus pictured on the cover of the three-fold advertisement displayed a modern, air-conditioned bus, but in front of the company’s bus terminal sat a rusty, twenty-year-old vehicle. The tires were bald and the seats patched with tape. Eric bought his ticket and sat on the bus thirty minutes before anybody else got on board. His only thought was to get to the city hall in Caracas and meet his brother. After the bus fare, sandwich, and coffee, he was completely broke.
* * *
Vincent watched Ken and Eric walk down the pier after they left the old green boat. His vessel was completely refueled and he started back to St. Kitts. After a short distance Vincent slowed the boat and turned around, tying up one pier over from the one where he dropped the brothers. Through binoculars he saw they were still at the end of the other pier. When Vincent first got the call from Eric he decided to remain loyal to a former customer, but now his greed overtook him and decided to turn in the brothers and claim the reward. After the brothers separated Vincent ended up riding the same ferry as Eric, carefully keeping to the opposite end of the vessel. It turned out to be easy to avoid the man who remained in his seat the whole voyage. After Eric left the ferry Vincent followed him to the bus depot. He leaned on a telephone pole dreaming of the reward offered for the capture of the two brothers, but he had to be patient and not alert the police until the fugitives were together. Vincent refocused his thinking, contemplating how he would follow Eric. He knew he couldn’t take the same bus because Eric would see him, so he moved across the street and looked at the bus from the front. A driver entered the bus and turned a lever. The front sign on the bus changed to read “Caracas.” Vincent ran into the station and read the schedule for Eric’s bus. The bus made six stops on its way to the central bus depot in the capital. Vincent checked the schedule of the other bus companies and found one company with a bus leaving at the same time as Eric’s which arrived one hour earlier because it was non-stop. Vincent bought a ticket and climbed ab
out the modern bus where he found thick, comfortable seats.
Vincent slept for the first two hours of the trip, content with the money from the brothers, but greed egged him on to discover where the brothers were headed and scoop up the large reward. On the trip from Nevis to Venezuela, Vincent pretended he didn’t know the details of the crimes for which the Clellands were accused, or that they were wanted in Canada. But, through his travels to major cities Vincent had read many newspaper articles about the incidents in Edmonton. Since he knew one of the suspects so well, he kept the articles and slipped them under his bed on the boat, the worldwide toll-free number in one of the articles mentioning a reward of one-hundred-thousand dollars flashing in his memory.
Convenient number, irresistible
Eric tried to rest but the heavy man with whom he shared the seat squeezed him against the window. When the bus arrived at the Caracas bus depot he was relieved to get out of the smelly vehicle and stretched as he studied a map in the bus depot and was pleased to learn that getting to city hall was only a twenty-minute walk.
Seated at a lunch counter in the bus depot, Vincent kept his baseball cap over his eyes as he leaned over his sandwich and watched Eric in the mirror behind the counter. A heavy waitress walked up and sorted dishes in front of Vincent, blocking his view. Vincent didn’t want to lose the man in the bustling city so he took a chance and turned around. The stool squeaked but Eric didn’t hear it, he had entered the revolving door and was on the sidewalk, soon to be lost in the crowd. Vincent handed the waitress a five-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.
Vincent patted his breast pocket. The rectangular shape of the newspaper article with the phone number gave him visions of the money and a new boat. He quickly slipped through the revolving door and turned right, almost running into Eric, who had stopped at the window of the store next to the bus depot selling diving equipment. Eric was engrossed in the great prices on the state-of-the-art diving masks and breathing apparatus. Vincent blended with the throng of people on the wide sidewalks, careful to stay out of view.
Eric soon lost interest in the store and continued down the sidewalk, walking past the ancient cathedral and turned left three blocks up. Traffic was heavy and the air was filled with the stinging odour of vehicle exhaust. Vincent found it easy to follow Eric from a distance because while the streets in the central area of Caracas were packed with people Eric was far taller than most. The man slowed his pace after five more blocks and stared at the old stone façade of the city hall sitting high above the street, dominating the central square of the city. Climbing the cracked steps to the front of the stone building, Eric put his hand up to his face to block the glare of the sun, looking like an Indian searching for his fellow warrior. Vincent, hidden behind a group of people, smiled, anticipating the brothers were meeting up again. He wanted them together and not moving when he called the number. Vincent pulled out his cellphone and confirmed he had a strong signal.
Eric remained at the top of the wide set of steps, eventually sitting down. He fiddled nervously with an empty coffee cup. Vincent could think of no other reason for Eric to be sitting in front of city hall except to meet somebody. Vincent sat in a chair outside a bakery across the street where he had an excellent view.
It surprised the drug dealer and smuggler how easy it was to follow Eric, and became more and more confident that his plan would work.
After all, they’re twins and Ken is likely as careless as his brother.
The waitress dropped the pastry and orange juice in front of Vincent. Again the dealer gave a large tip, certain he would soon be living the high life.
Eric sat on the top step of the city hall. Vincent sat munching on his snack at the bakery. Neither of them were aware Ken was perched on a hotel balcony overlooking the City Hall square. Binoculars in one hand, unlit cigar in the other, Ken watched Eric approach the square. It only took moments for Ken to spot the heavy form of Vincent, and determine Eric was oblivious to the fact someone was following him. Ken leaned back in his chair just far enough to keep an eye on Vincent, pulled out his dad’s gold lighter, one of the few remaining possessions to remind him of his youth, and lit the cigar. Studying the scene below, Ken was certain Eric would remain where he was, looking for the one person who could help him out of the nerve-wracking situation. There were no obvious police around so Ken was confident Vincent was waiting until the brothers were together before calling the police. There were only two options, either create a diversion and get away from the drug dealer, or eliminate him. He decided the second option was far better than the first, as it negated the chance Vincent would call the police anyway. It would look like just another murder of a drug dealer and give the brothers more time to go to the backup plan, settling in a large city where they would blend into millions of other people. Ken would miss the beach, but he could always make frequent visits to resort destinations.
Ken pushed himself out of the chair and looked up and down the street trying to determine the best way and place to kill Vincent. He decided to use a surprise hit, giving Vincent no chance to enact his own plan. Ken looked around the hotel room for a weapon. The only likely thing was a heavy metal letter opener on the desk. A quick glance at Vincent and Ken saw that he had not yet paid his bill so would be at the table for a while longer, allowing Ken work out a few details.
Ken packed his small bag and returned to the wrought-iron balcony. He scraped the edges of the knife against a rough edge of the iron, sharpening both edges. As he did this he contemplated how to distract the people on the street so he could sneak up behind Vincent. Ken watched a man barbecuing at a nearby restaurant down the street from the hotel and came up with a plan. He shredded a newspaper and writing paper and piled them on the floor beside the old, dry curtains on the window of the hotel room. The closet contained six wooden hangers, which he snapped into small pieces and piled on top of the paper. Next he took the cotton sheets off the bed and piled them beside the paper and wood, pushing the piles tightly against the curtains and wall. He built the pile higher with wood from the draws in the desk and beside tables. Ken build a fuse by creating a thin but dense line of shredded dry paper along several ceramic tiles he pulled off the bathroom wall.
Ken gathered his belongings, including the letter opener, placed them in his bag and walked into the bathroom. He soaked a bath towel and carried it to the door. After confirming that the hallway was clear Ken propped a chair against the door and laid the towel near the bottom of the chair. He again checked the hallway before he pulled out his dad’s lighter and lit the end of the fuse. The flame moved slowly but steadily along the tile. Ken did a quick calculation, the main pile should catch fire in about two minutes. He raced to the door. Setting the towel between the bottom of the doorframe meant it would cover the entire crack under the door. Standing outside the door and reaching behind the partially opened door, Ken pulled the chair until it was at an angle and under the door handle. It wasn’t very tight but it would delay anybody who might smell the smoke and tried to enter the room. Before he left, he slipped the “do not disturb” sign on the door.
He ran to the end of the hallway and down the emergency stairs, moving down the flights of stairs two at a time. Standing next to the hotel building and across the street from the bakery where Vincent was, Ken waited for a group of people in front of him to cross the street when the traffic cleared. When the group of people crossed the street Ken slouched so he wouldn’t stick out above their heads and joined them, slipping into the entrance of a store next to the bakery’s sidewalk tables.
Trying to look calm, Ken glanced at the fine china display in the window. He watched out the corner of his eye and was the only one who noticed the small amount of smoke coming out of the hotel window. He took regular glances at his target, happy to see only a few people sitting or standing about. Eric remained stationary on his perch at the top of the steps at the city hall.
I have to keep track of Vincent and where Eric goes when the fire s
tarts so we can get away quickly, thought Ken.
The blaze grew dramatically, the old drapes quickly became completely engulfed in flames. The wood frame of the window and the furniture near the drapes also went up. Smoke and ash were now pouring out the window, licking the balcony above it as it shot into the sky. A buzz ran through the growing crowd as all eyes in the square focused on the fire that was quickly spreading to adjacent rooms in the old wood frame building. Ken took a final glance at Eric and noticed he had risen to his feet but remained in the same area. The crowd increased in size quickly as people poured onto the street from stores and apartments in the area. It was the perfect opportunity from Ken to strike.
He gripped the cold handle of the letter opener and pulled it out of the bag as he weaved his way through the people. He took the odd glance at the fire, so he wouldn’t stand out as the only one not staring at the hotel. Vincent was still seated at the table, but was also focused on the fire. Ken moved in behind him and took a final look around him. While the area was crowded, nobody was paying the slightest attention to him. Ken kept the weapon hidden between his body and the bag, which was slung over his left shoulder. He turned the blade so it was horizontal and plunged it between Vincent’s ribs, aiming for the heart. The knife slid in all the way to the handle. Vincent’s moan was lost in the buzz of Spanish conversation in the square, his gaze fell briefly on Ken before his mouth fell open and his eyes closed. Ken pulled the knife out with one hand and eased Vincent’s head down to the table with the other. Again shielding the knife between his body and the bag Ken backed away from the table and moved slowly through the crowd towards his brother. After about ten seconds a loud scream erupted from where Vincent lay slumped over the table. It blended with the chatter from the other people in the street glued to the drama of the growing blaze. Ken kept the knife in hand to use against anybody that might want to stop him, fighting the urge to look back. He focused on his brother whose light features stood out against the darker complexions of the surrounding Latin people.
Rough Business Page 17