When he was seven years old his step father punished Danny with his belt. Victor Vallero, in a rage over his son’s theft of $20.00 from his mother’s purse, drew his belt off slowly, trying to calm down. He knew if he hit Danny just then, he would probably beat him to death. Victor watched Danny's eyes as he doubled the leather strap over and backed him into a corner. He wanted to make sure Danny got the message. Theft was wrong and Danny would soon know it. He got the beating, and though it was severe, he apparently didn't get the message.
Early one summer evening as the sun was setting when he was seventeen, he took a drive down I-95 south of Boston. He'd borrowed Victor's 1968 GTO without his knowledge. This was one hot car, now in more ways than one, and Danny was too cool for words. It had a 400 cubic inch V-8, four on the floor and a Hurst four speed transmission. It was orange with flame decals on the front end so no one could miss it. It was one mean machine. He and two friends were going to New York City to find some babes and party. The "Goat," as the GTO was fondly called, would make the babe pickup easier than normal, which, for Danny, meant it would be a breeze. He was already somewhat of a stud and a minor legend around his Boston neighborhood. He had $530.00 in his pocket. His friends had just under $200.00 between them. Danny always seemed to have cash, good dope and therefore many friends to entertain. They were going to get a hotel room and party.
Driving in heavy traffic at 80 miles per hour on Interstate 95 is usually not too much trouble. You're passing some, but not all the traffic and anyone driving under 70 mph was just in the way. As Danny cruised up behind one of these "slow-pokes," he hit the brake pedal to slow down, but the pedal went to the floor. The "Goat" didn't even flinch. The brake fluid had leaked out and was strewn along several miles of highway. Fear raced through Danny's body. His brain was scrambled. Panic overcame his friends as the "Goat" rapidly closed on the car in front of them. They felt the jolt as the GTO’s bumper struck the rear bumper of the Mercedes just enough to slow the "Goat" down and give the Mercedes a little boost. At 75 mph, the driver of the Mercedes must have been petrified.
Danny quickly got his wits about him and realized what he had to do. He was able to match speed with the traffic flow and slowly ease his step-dad's valuable car between the traffic in the right two lanes and onto the shoulder. Still going 60 mph, he took his foot off the accelerator and let the big V-8 slow the beast down until he could manually apply the emergency brake and stop the car. A few seconds passed before the three let out a collective sigh of relief.
The fear subsided until Danny remembered he had to face Victor. Victor had beaten him nearly unconscious over lesser offenses, how would he react to this? He thought about abandoning the car and hitching back to Boston. He could claim someone had stolen the car. Then he resigned himself to the fact that he was going have to face Victor. Surely he'd take a beating for this. But if he lied and Victor found out about it, he’d be dead for sure. Danny had trembled with fear.
And Victor did beat him . . . broke his jaw, blackened both his eyes, and would have continued if not for his mother's intervention. But Danny lived through it.
The fear that Danny felt at age seven and again at seventeen was like a French kiss compared to the terror he was experiencing now. His heart was pounding so hard he felt it in his ears. The sweat was pouring off his forehead and his throat was dry and tight, so tight he couldn't utter the least protest. He hadn't learned his lesson at Victor's hand with the belt or by his fists. He hadn't learned when he was beaten nearly to death for taking his dad's expensive sports car. Now it seemed too late for him to learn as the large hole in the barrel of the Browning seemed to be burning a hole in his head. He wished he'd learned that stealing was wrong, especially stealing from drug dealers. But how was he to know that the brown paper bag filled with twenties, fifties, and one hundred dollar bills was the property of Celio Barardi?
Barardi, with his slicked back, greasy hair and black eyes was a small time dealer in the big scheme of things in Boston. He had only six men working for him in drugs, prostitution and numbers. These trades brought him well over a million dollars a year but that also had to keep his men paid. In 1970 that was one hell of an income, but still small potatoes to the big guys.
Danny had seen one of Barardi's men place the bag filled with cash in the wooden crate at Curio's, the abandoned fish packing warehouse by the wharf. Danny played around there often when he was younger. As a young teenager he would bring his easier conquests there. He'd set up a mattress in the loft area of the warehouse with relatively clean sheets, because he hated dirt. There was even running water close by so he and his "date" could wash afterwards.
Sometimes Danny would go there to be alone and think. It was on one of those ‘thinking’ occasions that he'd seen one of Barardi's men nail a crate shut with only two nails. It had been left for delivery in the morning but Danny made the pickup himself before the owners could get there. The man who was supposed to watch the stash was busy relieving himself outside when Danny had made his move.
He was so cool. He snuck down from his loft, un-nailed the crate, grabbed the bag of cash, put the lid back on the crate without nails, and quickly but quietly made a clean getaway. It was so smooth, so easy. Just like in the movies. Local kid makes big time heist of unmarked drug money. It seemed all too easy.
And it was all too easy. Especially when a nineteen year old punk who had never made more than $250.00 per week in his life started flashing money around like a Hollywood Film Agent and dressed up like a pimp. It didn't take Celio Barardi long to figure out who had his money and that's when Danny found himself here at the end of the gun.
"You stupid punk," the voice behind the gun grumbled. It was the kind of grumble you'd expect to hear from a mob figure. It was the unpleasant grumble of Barardi himself. He wanted to take care of this one himself to send a message to anyone else who knew about this little charade. You didn't mess with Celio Barardi.
"I don't take kindly to punks stealing my property," Barardi said. "Where's the rest of it? If there's enough left, I might let you live, maybe just some broken ribs and legs. It's better than what you're gonna get now."
Danny's throat was still dry as a bone. He managed to think some relatively straight thoughts. If I tell him where the money is, I'm dead. He tried to clear the frog in his throat and said in a quivering almost inaudible tone, "I . . . I can take you to it. It’s not far from here."
The voice grumbled back, "How stupid do you think I am? Tell me where it is or I'll blow you away right here and now. I'm tired of wastin' my breath."
Again Danny quivered as a chill ran the whole length of his spine. "I'm . . . I'm too . . . too nervous to . . . tell you. I . . . can show . . . you real easy."
"Too late kid, times up." Danny's whole body shook and his eyes widened in horror as the hammer on the big .357 was drawn back by Barardi's finger pressure on the trigger. Then he heard Barardi say, "Good-bye punk."
“AAAAH!”
The scream was blood-curdling, horrifying. Ginny was sure the neighbors could hear it. She was startled and didn't know what to do. Danny's restlessness had awakened her a few minutes earlier. He’d been talking in his sleep. It was something the likes of which she’d never heard before.
Ginny Parks, the 21 year old nursing student at the University of Central Florida in Orlando, met Danny the night before at the Rock Alliance. The Rock Alliance in Orlando was featuring a hot new band called Brian Purcer and the Hot Licks. A few months back, Ginny had met Brian Purcer, the lead guitarist and founder of the band so she wanted to hear him play. She'd done all her required labs and needed a break from the stress of the full load of scheduled classes. She and her roommate, Sharon, decided it was time for some stress relief.
She was immediately attracted to Danny's dark Italian eyes, dark silky hair and close trimmed beard. She was further charmed by his quick wit, flare for extravagance and his strong New England accent which was a rarity in central Florida. He was quite a switch from th
e immature school boys at UCF or the local "country boys" from Oviedo where she shared a two bedroom rented house.
Ginny's roommate was a real party girl. She liked to stay out late and it wasn't unusual for her to be gone for several days at a time. Ginny said she didn't mind but deep down it bothered her that her roommate was gone so much. She knew what Sharon was doing, and that was troubling enough, but Ginny didn't like being alone over night in their house. It was out in the "boonies" and that was frightening. She enjoyed getting out occasionally, but not like Sharon. Ginny didn't sleep around too much though she did have an occasional fling.
Her on-again off-again boyfriend back home in Avon, Ohio didn't like this arrangement one bit. He was trying to force the issue of marriage, her quitting school and moving back home, but it wasn't working. She wanted no part of it and his attempts only made a bigger gap between them. They both knew it was coming apart and Ginny felt it was all for the better. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, didn't want to face the fact that their relationship was going the route of many high school sweetheart romances. Once distance cooled off the heat, there was no real substance to hold the thin bond intact. They still kept in touch, but the letters were coming less frequently and their content was less substantive, unless they were downright hostile.
Now she found herself in uncharted territory. She was in a strange bed with . . . Danny . . . what was his last name? He was screaming at the top of his lungs, obviously in great fear, sweating profusely. He was mumbling "Don't shoot me, please don't shoot me, I'll take you to it. No . . . no . . .please no." Then "AAAAH!"
"Danny, Danny, wake up, please wake up!"
Danny shot up like a rocket to a sitting position, eyes wide open, staring ahead, sweat rolling off his olive skinned body. He was so tense that his skin was taut. A blood vessel on his left temple throbbed as the blood raced through the vein.
He looked over at Ginny and could see the confusion mixed with fear all over her face. He started to slow his breathing as he regained consciousness and realized he was no longer in front of the gun barrel he’d escaped some twelve years ago. He'd had this nightmare several times a month ever since then. It was one thing he felt he never would totally erase from his past. He'd managed to get away from the old neighborhood, his old buddies, most of whom were dead or in prison. But somehow he knew, Celio Berardi would continue to haunt him, maybe for the rest of his life.
Danny saw the fear in Ginny's eyes and the expression on her face; like a young, frightened child, lost in a crowded shopping mall, not knowing if her parents would ever find her. He took a deep breath. He said to the frightened young woman, "What a nightmare! I’m sorry you had to witness that." As Danny soothed Ginny's fears, he reached over and put his arms around her and slowly stroked her hair, pulling her head to his shoulder.
"You were talking in your sleep. Some of the things you said . . . the way you were saying them . . ." She started to cry in long sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks to Danny's shoulder. The whole episode pushed her over the edge. Between the pressures of school, living over 800 miles from her parents, being in an unfamiliar house, in an unfamiliar bed, with a guy she hardly knew, and he was having a bad dream . . . no, a major nightmare, she just couldn't hold it back. The tears were flowing faster now and Ginny began to shake; chills running down her spine.
He had to think for a minute before he spoke. What is this girl’s name? Where did I meet her? Then he started to remember. It had been his third girl in the last week, so he wanted to be sure he had her name right. The Rock. That's right. Jenny, I think. She knows Brian. I'll have to remember that. Softly, and still stroking her hair, Danny said, "Take it easy, baby, it's Okay now. It's Okay now, it's over." He continued to stroke her hair and held her very gently; he knew how to smooth things over with women. You just have to tell them what they want to hear.
Ginny was starting to calm down now. Her tears were slowing. Her breath was settling into a smooth pattern. Danny held her tighter and gently pulled her down on top of him as he eased back down onto the bed. He slowly stroked her shoulders, down her back and to her rear. He slowly worked the magic that made him a neighborhood legend. He started out slow and gentle. Within ten minutes, he was pushing hard and fast into her. Fifteen minutes later, she was near an orgasm, but Danny came first, rolled her off of him onto the bed and fell asleep.
Ginny began to quietly cry again. But that didn’t stop her from finishing the job herself while she thought about Brian Purcer.
* * *
Al Michaels was a bit annoyed. He'd had a rough night last night with the pipe bursting in the greenhouse. Then he had to clean up the mess all day today. It was hot in the greenhouse during the day at about 105 degrees and it was hard work. He was tired and sore. He wasn't in the mood to sit on the phone trying to scare up customers for Bill Grimes' new venture. He had his own sources for weed and he really didn't like to handle cocaine. He decided to at least make an effort to move some of the dope to some friends. What the hell? Maybe I can move enough that I can pick up some free stash. It was late in the evening but he could make some calls and catch them as they were just getting home from the bars. Most of his close friends were in their late twenties to early thirties and didn't stay out all night like they used to when they were in their teens. Their bodies just couldn't handle the all-night parties and then get a productive day’s work in the next day.
Al sat down at the breakfast nook in the kitchen and opened his personal phone directory. He punched out the seven digits of his first potential customer. The phone rang seven times and no answer. Al decided to go to the next name. Again he punched out a seven digit code. This time he got an answering machine. You don't leave these kinds of messages on an answering machine, so he hung up. By this time, Al was getting frustrated. He went on to the next name and went to pick up the phone. As he was reaching for the phone, it rang, startling him just a bit. He took a deep breath to regain his composure and answered.
"Hello?"
"Al, this is Brian."
The noise in the background was heavy metal and Al figured right away that Brian Purcer was between sets at the "Rock." He had intentions of going to see Brian and his band but hadn't had the time to get away from the day to day hassles of the greenhouses.
"Brian. What are you up to? How's the gig going?"
"Pretty well. When are you coming out to the 'Rock?' Tonight would be a good night. We've got two more sets to go. Besides, I wanted to tell you about an interesting letter that I got last night. It was from Pat McKinney!"
Brian was nearly hollering into the receiver and it was hurting Al's ears. Al shouted into the phone, "Hey Brian, you don't have to yell, I can hear you just fine."
"Sorry." Brian lowered his voice some, realizing that it wasn't necessary to yell because Al didn't have the background noise of loud, heavy metal rock-and-roll to compete with. "Anyway, when I got this letter from Pat, I thought I should get in touch with you and tell you what's going on with him. I can't believe what he's been up to. He was in the Navy for six years, man! He's moving to Dunnellon. He’s started his own company. There's more. He's married, man! He's got kids! Can you believe it?” Brian paused before going on. “Besides, I thought you'd like to get out and relax a little. You've been working yourself to death lately, man. You're not getting any younger."
Al thought for a minute. It was Friday night and there was nothing pressing to get done tomorrow in the nursery except a daily tour to make sure all the automatic sprinklers were working properly. Besides, he hadn't been to a bar in ages. Since his divorce, he'd only been out on a date once. A date? I'm thinking like a teenager. "Okay, Brian, you’re right. After tonight I need a break. You should hear who called me. I'll tell you about it when I get there. It'll take me about forty-five minutes. I'll catch you at your next break."
"Great. I'll be looking for you."
"See you soon."
With that, Al hung up the phone again and headed for the bathroom to get re
ady for his first night on the town in a very long time. Brian was right. He needed a break from the daily grind of the business world. It was turning him into a mindless machine, thinking only of processing orders, planting schedules, worker problems, growing liability problems, due to certain pesticides, fungicides, etc. He caught himself in a daydream about the business and shook his head clear. Boy, do I ever need a break. This is driving me nuts! Al put on his good blue jeans. He was ready to party. It was going to be a good night.
Chapter 12
The night was cool for July in Florida. Seventy three degrees with a breeze that was so slight, it was barely perceptible. A cold front had moved through earlier in the day and a heavy rain had fallen on the entire region. The roads were almost completely dry as was normal in a central Florida shower. Only puddles in pot-holes or deep grooves in the road still contained evidence that there ever had been a major rain shower that evening. There was no moon as it was still slightly overcast and the night was very dark.
The four small, block houses were situated on a cul-de-sac at the end of a street about two hundred yards long. The developer had gone bankrupt after completing these four and no other builders had come in yet to pick up where he’d left off. The houses were single story ranches with brick veneer across the front. The other three sides were cement block construction, which was common in central Florida. There was no basement or crawl space as each was built on a concrete slab. Each home had about 1200 square feet of living space with three bedrooms, one and a half baths, an eat-in kitchen, and a carport. The lots on which they sat were odd pie shapes, narrow at the street and wide at the back of each lot. The cul-de-sac and adjoining street had six more vacant lots, all overgrown with weeds and palmettos. The street opened up to Orange Blossom Trail, a four-lane state highway. Within half a mile in either direction there were several roads that connected this isolated area with the vast central Florida suburbia. A man could get lost in the crowd of traffic traveling these back roads within minutes and never be seen again.
A Lifetime of Vengeance Page 8