by Gar Wilson
"If I fall asleep in the middle of this story, just wake me up when he gets to the part about his contacts," McCarter said with an exaggerated yawn.
"I was trying to explain why the few contacts I made are probably useless now," Encizo said. "Jamaica has seen a lot of changes since then. Some of my most valuable contacts were working black-market deals at the time. I doubt if they're doing that now."
"We'll try to find them anyway," Katz told him. "Meantime, we'll have to look into the only clue that seems to keep popping up. The police are supposed to loan us one of their people who is something of an expert on the obeah voodoo groups in Kingston and the surrounding districts."
"Whoever he is, he hasn't been much help to the cops so far," McCarter growled, putting down his Coke to take a pack of Player's cigarettes from his pocket.
"We're not in a position to turn down help from any source right now," the Phoenix Force commander told him. Katz took a watch from his pocket. "Of course, we've been in Jamaica only a few hours, and we haven't done badly so far. We know a bit more about our opponents than we did before we arrived."
"I can't say I find that terribly reassuring," Manning commented. "What we've found out so far is that the enemy is even worse than we thought they were. My God, what sort of sons of bitches would turn a man into a mindless animal and then program him to kill innocent people?"
"Pretty goddamn ruthless," James said grimly. "What's worse, we'd better assume the zombie the police killed today wasn't the only one the enemy created."
"That's a cheerful thought," McCarter muttered.
"Like it or not, we'd better face that reality," Katz said, supporting James's theory. "If they can turn one poor wretch into a zombie assassin, they can do the same to others."
"How many others?" Manning asked, wishing he hadn't voiced the question the moment it had slipped from his lips.
"If they have the right equipment, enough drugs and enough subjects who meet the requirements," James said with a shrug, "hell, they might have a hundred of those things waiting to be turned loose."
6
"Mr. Gray" received a phone call from Colonel Wells at six o'clock that evening. Wells told Yakov Katzenelenbogen that Bristol and the "specialist" would be at a tavern called the Creole Dream. The colonel suggested Mr. Gray send only two of his men to meet the cops to avoid the attention a larger group might attract.
Calvin James and Rafael Encizo were the logical choices to meet Bristol and the specialist at the Creole Dream. A black man and a Hispanic man would attract less attention than any other two members of Phoenix Force. Caucasians were regarded with growing apprehension due to the rash of murders of American tourists.
Apparently many Jamaicans failed to realize that the United States of America is a great melting pot of cultures, religions and ethnic groups. That was ironic, since Jamaica is also comprised of dozens of ethnic groups. In Jamaica, the majority of the population is black or mulatto; but there are many minority groups, including East Indians, Europeans, Chinese and Hispanics.
Since the Creole Dream was located on the outskirts of Kingston in an area Wells referred to as a "shanty neighborhood," Encizo and James did not don their best summer suits for the meeting. The Cuban wore a denim jacket with matching trousers while James chose a dark blue windbreaker and a pair of khaki slacks. It was a warm evening, and neither man needed a jacket except to conceal a weapon.
Calvin James carried a Beretta 92-SB 9 mm semiautomatic pistol in shoulder leather under his left arm. A Jet-Aer G-96 fighting dagger was clipped to the Jackass Leather rig under his right arm. Rafael Encizo wore a Heckler & Koch 9 mm P9S pistol in a shoulder rig and carried a Cold Steel Tanto knife on his hip. The Cuban also had a Gerber Mark I dagger hidden in his boot. Each man carried two spare magazines for his pistol.
The Phoenix pair rode a cab to the Creole Dream. The driver seemed uncomfortable with that particular destination, which was in the shantytown beyond the city, and did not seem any happier after Encizo promised him a generous tip.
"This is not a good place to go when night has fallen, mon," the cabbie insisted. "If you wants a good time with some friendly ladies, I know a nice place near the Ocho Rios resort. Clean, friendly ladies, mon. Have you there in half an hour."
"No, thanks," Encizo replied as he and James sat in the back seat, glancing out the windows at the whitewashed buildings that seemed to form a long, pale blur in the darkness as the cab cruised through Kingston, with little competing traffic. "Doesn't look like there's much going on tonight."
"Folks like stayin' home and prayin' it'll be a quiet night," the driver said in an ominous tone. "You chaps sound like you come here from America. Creole Dream isn't such a good place for Americans, mon..."
"How come you're so nervous, fella?" James asked. "You scared of where we're going, or are you just worried about driving around with Americans in your cab?"
"Both give me reason for concern, mon," the cabbie admitted. "You hear what happened today to that poor feller at the hotel? If I was you American fellers I'd be outta Jamaica quicker than a cat on a mouse. Not safe for you fellers right now. Ain't too good an idea to be around you fellers very long time. Look what happen to that poor maid today, mon."
"Don't worry," James chuckled. "I never heard of zombies successfully attacking a moving vehicle. Just don't park long enough for them to get together and turn over your cab and you ought to be safe."
"Laugh if you want, mon," the driver told him as the cab approached a hamlet of shabby buildings illuminated by harsh neon. "But I ain't hangin' 'round after I lets you gents outta my cab. Got me a family to look after, so I can't afford to get myself killed."
The area stank of poverty. The buildings were crudely constructed, and none stood higher than three stories. Street whores strolled along the sidewalks, watching the cab with professional interest. Winos, junkies and various breeds of burned-out humanity lurked in alleys. Other eyes watched from the windows of the surrounding buildings.
A side of Jamaica unfolded that was seldom seen by tourists. The unemployment and domestic unrest of the past two decades had been hard on the lower-income segments of Jamaican society. The slums were not mentioned by travel agents or included on vacationers' tours.
The taxi stopped in front of an ugly gray structure with faded red stripes painted across its drab surface. A neon sign above the doorway announced the home of the Creole Dream. Encizo handed the driver his fee with a large tip. The two Phoenix pros left the vehicle and the cab immediately departed, creating a mini-whirlwind of discarded newspapers and cardboard boxes in the gutter as it sped away.
"Hey, you two lookin' for a good time?" a hooker called out to the pair. She was a tall mulatto with a face as hard as concrete. "You got the money, I got what you need, mon."
"I doubt it, honey," James muttered as he and Encizo entered the Creole Dream.
The tavern was seedy and filled with smoke and the smell of sweat and stale beer. The place was dimly lit, except for a bright spotlight that shone on a crude wooden stage surrounded by tables and chairs. A black man with a shaved head occupied center stage. He was dressed only in a thin loincloth and primitive jewelry made of bones and hammered copper. The decorations were bizarre. Tiny skulls, fanglike bones and odd circular symbols hung from his neck; twisted copper snakes were wound around his ankles and wrists.
The bald man began to dance to the rhythm of the throbbing drumbeats and monotonous chanting that came from a group of performers who stood in the shadows behind him. As his contortions grew faster in time with the accelerating thunder of the drums, sweat poured down his body.
James and Encizo glanced around the rooms, adroitly and discreetly sizing up the customers at the tables, few of whom were paying attention to the strange performance on stage. Many puffed marijuana cigarettes or snorted lines of cocaine. Several bar whores were getting very friendly with male customers. James noticed one woman duck under the table beside a grinning man.
More
than one set of eyes watched the Phoenix pair with suspicion. The vast majority were native Jamaicans, either black or mulatto. A few appeared to be Asian mulattoes, bronze-skinned mixed-bloods with full lips, flared nostrils, high cheekbones, straight black hair and an Oriental slant to their eyes. Nobody seemed very pleased to see the two strangers in the Creole Dream. Even the whores did not want them for clients.
At last they spotted Sergeant Bristol seated at a table at the back of the room. The Kingston cop was in the company of an attractive black woman whose hair was clipped short with black bangs combed across her forehead. The woman's eyes were large and dark, her mouth wide and sensuous. James uttered an involuntary hum of approval when he saw Bristol's companion. He and Encizo approached the table.
"You two certainly took your time getting here," Bristol complained. The cop seemed uncomfortable dressed in civilian clothes. Being surrounded by dope dealers, prostitutes, junkies and pimps did not make him any happier.
"Guess we lingered outside to enjoy the scenery," James replied, taking a chair across from Bristol and the woman. "Who's your friend?"
"Sergeant Delia Walkins," she replied stiffly. "You must be Johnson. The medical examiner said you were pretty impressive at the autopsy."
"Nice to know somebody appreciated my work," James remarked. "The guy we cut up wasn't able to give his opinion."
"Are you the expert on voodoo, Miss Walkins?" Encizo inquired, joining the others at the table.
"That's what they tell me," Delia answered. She tilted her head toward the stage, where now the male dancer had a live boa constrictor draped across his shoulders. "You see that?"
"Yeah," Encizo replied with a shrug. "I saw a stripper in Miami do an act similar to this with her pet snake. Frankly, I liked her performance better."
"This performance is supposed to be a ritual dance of obeah voodoo, honoring Damballah," Delia explained. "It isn't a genuine ritual, of course. They wouldn't perform an actual rite for the entertainment of a bunch of louts. However, those blokes are really members of an obeah cult. This is done as a reminder to all present that voodoo still thrives in Jamaica."
"I would have thought they'd heard enough proof of that on the news," James commented, watching the dancer bounce and twist with the boa constrictor wound around his neck.
"This reminds the audience that obeah is here, among them," Delia stated. "The eyes and ears are everywhere. If anyone talks to the authorities, the obeah cults will know about it."
"I still think we should arrest every single member of those God-cursed devil cults," Bristol muttered sourly.
"That would require arresting hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cult members," Delia told him, "most of whom would be innocent of any crimes. Besides, voodoo isn't a form of devil worship."
"Voodoo is a religion," James added. "If you stomp out one religious group because you don't agree with it, it won't be long before the government is outlawing every faith except whatever the state approves."
"Very good, Mr. Johnson," Delia said approvingly.
"I have my moments," James grinned. "And please call me Cal... er, it's sort of a nickname."
"Yeah," Encizo muttered, worried that James might get careless around a pretty lady. It had never happened before, but there was always a first time. "Why exactly are we here? Does all this have anything to do with our job here in Jamaica, or is this supposed to be an introduction to a crash course on obeah and voodoo?"
"A major obeah cult is located in this area," Bristol answered. "It's one that we've suspected has been dealing in cocaine and prostitution for some time. You may notice that this place is full of such activity."
"The cult is actually a cover for a criminal syndicate that uses the fear of voodoo and the occult to frighten the ignorant into obliging the hoodlums," Delia added.
"What you fellers want to drink tonight?" a painfully thin waitress with long beaded hair asked as she approached the table. "Beer, rum or whiskey, mon?"
"What kind of beer?" Encizo asked.
"I look like an information center or somethin'?" the waitress said with a bored sigh. "It's bottled beer, okay? One dollar Jamaican money. Two dollars American."
"A couple beers will be fine," Encizo told her.
The waitress headed for the bar. Encizo and James exchanged glances. Both men sensed they might be in trouble. The waitress obviously figured they were Americans. If she suspected that, others in the Creole Dream probably did, too. That did not make the Phoenix pair feel very secure.
"Is there a good reason for us to hang around here?" James asked Bristol and Delia. "I've got a feeling this isn't a real good place for us to be unless there's a real good reason for it."
"An informer was supposed to meet us here," Delia explained. "A fella connected with the obeah cult that acts as a cover for Montgomery Penn's syndicate."
"Montgomery Penn?" Encizo asked. "Isn't he the local big shot in the Kingston underworld?"
"The biggest," Bristol answered. "We know a lot about Penn, but unfortunately we can't prove anything..."
Suddenly four men approached the table: two blacks from one side, two Asian mulattoes from the other. Their jackets were open, and at least one man carried a gun. Encizo saw the checkered grip of the revolver jutting from the man's belt.
"You didn't call for any backup, did you?" Encizo asked the two cops.
"No," Bristol answered, confused by the question.
"Oh, hell," Calvin James rasped; he had also noticed the gun.
"What..." Delia began, glancing about with concern.
Returning with two beer bottles, the waitress shuffled past the Asian mulattoes without noticing anything odd about them. One of the hoods grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. She snapped an obscenity, expressing more anger than fear. Being grabbed by men was obviously not a novelty in the Creole Dream.
"Hands off, ya bastard!" she hissed as she pulled away from the man. "Get yerself a trollop if yeT John Thomas is actin' up. Plenty of sluts about..."
"Outta my way, bitch," the man growled in a soft voice that frightened her far more than an angry bellow would have.
"Thanks," Encizo declared, jumping from his chair to take the beer bottles from the waitress. "I've got them, ma'am."
Shoving the waitress aside, the hood yanked the revolver from his belt. Encizo immediately snapped his right wrist to propel a stream of beer from one bottle into the man's face. With his left hand he hammered the bottom of the other bottle into the guy's wrist. The revolver fell from numb fingers, and the hood yelped as the beer stung his eyes.
Encizo swung his right arm, slamming the bottle against the gunman's skull and hitting hard between the left ear and temple. The thug staggered sideways, dazed by the blow. The second goon threatened, aiming a stiletto with a long, thin blade at the Cuban's belly.
The Phoenix pro tossed a beer bottle at his opponent's face, distracting the knife artist. With the hard glass surface of the other bottle he deflected the blade of the stiletto. Then he grabbed the guy's wrist and twisted it, digging his fingers into the back of the thug's fist.
Pressure on the ulnar nerve forced the knifeman's fist open, and the stiletto dropped from his hand. Encizo quickly rammed an elbow stroke to the goon's chin. As the hoodlum's head snapped back, Encizo followed through with a cross-body karate chop aimed at the neck. Missing the intended target, his hand struck the guy on the side of the jaw. Nonetheless, the attacker collapsed to the floor in an inert heap.
Encizo reached inside his jacket for his H&K P9S. The first attacker, recovered from the blow with the beer bottle, suddenly swung a right cross to Encizo's jaw before the Cuban could draw his pistol. The punch sent him hurtling backward into another table. He flopped over the top, rolled with the punch and landed on his feet on the opposite side.
Shouts and screams of alarm filled the air. Customers, realizing this was more than the usual drunken donnybrook of the sort that erupted frequently in the establishment, bolted for the exits, eager to
escape. Even if it had been just a knife fight, the regular patrons would have regarded the battle as entertainment, but guns had been pulled. Nobody thought it would be fun to catch a bullet.
Calvin James had been as busy as Encizo. As his partner was fighting the two Asian mulattoes, James had grabbed a chair and swung it at the nearest black thug, who had started to draw a Largo pistol from his belt. The chair hit the thug in the chest, knocking him off his feet, sending his pistol skidding across the floor; it came to rest somewhere under the wooden legs of the surrounding tables and chairs.
A second black man pulled a snubnose .38 revolver from a hip pocket. James whipped the wooden legs of the chair across the gunman's forearm, striking the revolver from his grasp. The thug responded by delivering a short left hook to the side of James's face. Grunting with pain, the black Phoenix pro jabbed the chair legs into his opponent's chest and abdomen.
The goon staggered backward, groaning, clutching his gut. In a ruthless overhead swing, James brought the chair crashing down on his opponent's head and shoulders. Cheap and poorly made, the chair shattered on impact; so did the hoodlum's skull.
Sensing motion behind him, James glanced over his shoulder to see his first opponent rising. The Phoenix fighter executed a back kick and caught the guy between the legs with his heel. No sooner did the thug double up with a choking groan than James snapped a backfist to his face. A knuckle struck the man between the eyes, and his head rocked from the blow.
Not allowing the man time to recover, James smashed an elbow into his head. Then James smashed an elbow into his solar plexus and hooked an arm around his head. Then James jammed his shoulder under the man's chin and grabbed a fistful of hair with his other hand. Stepping forward, the Phoenix Force pro dropped to one knee and tossed the hoodlum over his shoulder. The big man sailed through space and crashed to the floor.