Kingston Carnage

by Gar Wilson

  "We want twenty crates of Myers rum," Encizo declared. "And somebody who can deliver it to an address in Florida without running into the authorities along the way."

  "I serve drinks," the bartender stated, placing a bottle of rum on the counter. "That's all I do, feller."

  "Any of you fellas deal in selling and transportation of larger amounts of goods?" Encizo asked the others in the room.

  "I think I smell a copper," an Asian mulatto commented, wrinkling his nose.

  "Maybe you fellers came into the wrong place," Tattoo stated, displaying a mirthless grin. "We don't look for no trouble. We just do fishin' and dock work, mon. Best you go someplace else."

  "That's not what we heard," McCarter stated, leaning on the bar with his arms folded across the counter. One hand rested under the knapsack.

  "We heard a fella comes in here a lot who handles all sorts of special deliveries," Encizo remarked, taking a wad of bills from his pocket. He counted out one hundred Jamaican dollars and placed the money on the bar. "Whoever helps me find him will receive a reward for his cooperation."

  "I might know him, mon," the bartender said, pouring rum into two glasses and gazing at the money with an expression similar to that of a starving man looking at a steak dinner.

  "His name is Todd Kevinson," Encizo explained.

  "Christ!" one of the black guys at the table exclaimed as he stood and reached inside his denim vest for whatever weapon he carried.

  David McCarter had been half expecting something like that to happen. He yanked his M-10 machine pistol from the knapsack and aimed the compact Ingram blaster at the men at the table. The guy who was about to draw a weapon froze. One of his friends raised his hands. The third turned his back to McCarter and slowly reached for something in his belt.

  "Don't try it," the Briton warned. "Everybody put their hands in the air or I open fire now. This Ingram fires more than seven hundred rounds per minute. With thirty-two parabellums, I can shred the lot of you in about two seconds."

  The three black dudes raised their hands. The bartender lowered a hand to the Largo pistol in his belt. Encizo coughed softly to get the guy's attention. The bartender glanced up and found himself staring into the muzzle of the Cuban's Heckler & Koch pistol.

  "Two fingers," the Hispanic Phoenix pro instructed. "Use 'em to take the gun out slowly and place it on the bar."

  The bartender nodded, his eyes as wide as if the lids had locked back. He slowly placed the pistol on the counter. Encizo shifted his attention from the bartender to the tattooed man, pointing his H&K pistol between them to effectively threaten both without favoring either. The Cuban grabbed the bartender's Largo and stuck it in his belt. Mr. Tattoo folded his muscular arms on his chest and calmly smiled at Encizo.

  "You fellers are quick, mon," he remarked. "Don't figure you be coppers. What you want with Kevinson?"

  "Just want to talk to him," Encizo answered, lowering his pistol. "Do you know where I can find him?"

  "Maybe," Tattoo said with a shrug. "What's in it for me?"

  Encizo did not trust him. Mr. Tattoo was too relaxed under the circumstances. Yet his stance was not as casual as it seemed. Encizo noticed Tattoo's knees were slightly bent, one foot forward. The guy was poised for attack, and Encizo recognized a fellow knife fighter when he saw one.

  "See the money on the bar?" the Cuban inquired, tilting his head toward the cash he had placed there.

  "What else?" Tattoo asked.

  "I won't blow a bullet hole through your head," Encizo answered with an unpleasant smile that would have looked perfectly natural on a hungry tiger shark.

  "That appeals to me, mon," the tattooed man assured him. He did not seem quite as confident as before.

  "These blokes seem to know about Kevinson," McCarter commented, his Ingram still aimed at the three dudes at the table. "You blokes would rather talk to us than have me chop you off at the kneecaps. Wouldn't you?"

  "Jesus," one of the men said fearfully.

  "Hey, mon," an Asian mulatto began. "This ain't none of our business. We don' want nothin' to do with it. Okay?"

  "We'll keep our mouths shut," his companion declared. "Just let us go…"

  "Nobody gets hurt unless somebody gets stupid," Encizo promised. "But my friend is a little trigger-happy. He'd probably enjoy killing everybody in this room if somebody provokes him."

  "It's what I live for," McCarter replied with an exaggerated crazy-man smile. It was not too hard for the Briton to conjure up the expression.

  "I doubt if you fellers are that good," the tattooed man snorted, slowly unfolding his arms to allow his hands to drop by his hips. "Really think you two could get all of us?"

  "You want to find out?" the Cuban asked as he pulled back his jacket to reveal the Cold Steel Tanto sheathed on his belt. "You're ready to go for your blade. You're so eager to find out if you can take me, I can smell it."

  "You think that'll help you find Kevinson?" the tattooed man replied, moving a hand toward his hip pocket.

  "Your friends will be eager to talk after they see what I do to you," Encizo answered.

  "Shit!" Tattoo spit as his hand yanked a large switchblade knife from his pocket.

  An eight-inch steel blade snapped into place. The tattooed thug lunged, knifepoint aimed at Encizo's belly. The Cuban drew his Tanto. Steel clashed as Encizo swept the heavy blade across his opponent's knife to deflect the attack.

  A twist of the wrist altered the Cuban's knife stroke to slash the edge of his Tanto across the fist holding the switchblade. The sharp blade cut skin, muscle and bone. The Cold Steel weapon was a modern version of a samurai tanto fighting knife. It carved through the tattooed man's thumb and bisected it between the knuckles.

  Tattoo screamed as his switchblade hit the floor. His thumb fell beside it. Blood spurted from the stump of the amputated digit. Encizo's left fist slammed into his opponent's jaw. The tattooed man staggered along the length of the bar, crimson still jetting from his mutilated hand. Encizo caught up with him and planted a knee in the guy's abdomen. Tattoo gasped and grabbed his bloodied hand with the uninjured other.

  Encizo shoved him backward across the bar and placed the razor edge of his Tanto knife under Tattoo's chin. The hood trembled with fear and pain. All the toughness drained out of his features. He was no longer a confident knife artist waiting for a chance to slip his blade between a man's ribs for pocket money. He was just a frightened little crook with a knife at his throat.

  "Where's Kevinson?" the Cuban hissed, his face less than an inch from Tattoo's nose. "Talk or I'll cut your head off and throw it in the bay so the fish can have your eyeballs for supper."

  "In the basement!" the tattooed man said quickly, tears filling his eyes and sweat pouring from his brow. "He's hidin' out in the basement, for Christ's sake!"

  "Get him," Encizo told the bartender. "Tell Todd Rafael wants to see him. Tell him if he tries to run we'll break his legs and take him anyway."

  "Okay, mon," the bartender replied, nodding rapidly and heading for the back room.

  "After you do that, call a doctor for your pal before he bleeds to death," Encizo added. "One of you other jokers go behind the bar and see if you can find some ice."

  "One of you," McCarter told the two Asian mulattos. "Everybody else stays put."

  Encizo removed the knife from Tattoo's throat. The hood slumped to the floor and landed on his backside. He clutched his mangled hand and tried to stop the blood; he did not look up at Encizo or the others.

  "You fuckin' prick," he hissed, obviously talking to Encizo. "I'm gonna kill you for this."

  "No fun to jump somebody who fights back?" the Cuban replied as he returned the Tanto to its belt sheath. "You're lucky this time, fella. A doctor can probably sew your thumb back on. While it's healing, you might think about what you're doing with your life. Next man you cross blades with might just kill you."

  The bartender returned from the back room. A small, thin figure, with features that resemb
led an ebony rat with a nervous condition, stood beside him. Todd Kevinson held a Sterling submachine gun, but pointed the barrel at the ceiling. He did not look very happy to see Encizo and McCarter.

  "What the hell do you want, Rafael?" Kevinson demanded. "I'm already a marked man. Ain't that bad enough? How the hell did you find me? How'd you know I'd be here?"

  "We came to take you in for protective custody," Encizo answered. "We also have some more questions for you, Todd. Since Penn might have a contract on you, the safest place for you right now is with us."

  "Sure," Kevinson snorted as he stepped around the bar. "You blew it last night, Rafael. You let Penn and the Haitians get away. Why should I go anywhere with you again?"

  "Because we found you," Encizo replied. "If we can locate you this easy, Penn's people can find you just as easily, and they'll be a lot less gentle than we are."

  "This is disgusting," Kevinson sighed as he lowered the Sterling to the floor. "You bastards are probably right. Let's go."

  15

  The Ruins might seem an unlikely name for a high-quality restaurant that has consistently received critical ranking of no less than three stars and often five stars for excellent food and atmosphere. Yet The Ruins is one of the finest outdoor restaurants in Jamaica. A forty-foot waterfall provides a breathtaking setting for the wooden deck dining sections. Tables are shaded by trees, and an Oriental footbridge extends from the patios.

  All five men of Phoenix Force assembled at a table near the waterfall, where the rush of water helped cover their voices from unwanted eavesdroppers. Sergeant Delia Walkins, Sergeant Bristol, Lieutenant Smith and Todd Kevinson were also at the table, and all were making casual chitchat about how lovely Ocho Rios was at that time of year. They gushed over Jamaican sites and how wonderful the Caribbean was. Finally, after they ordered and the waiter left, the group discussed its mission.

  "I don't believe it," Kevinson muttered, gulping a glass of straight rum and ice. "I'm sittin' here with a bunch of coppers and whatever the hell you other blokes are. What the hell sort of outfit are you mixed up with, Rafael?"

  "Just shut up and drink, Todd," Encizo replied. "As I recall, you were always pretty good at getting drunk."

  "So long as somebody else is buyin'," the smuggler said. "I'm not sure whether I should be celebratin' or boozin' it up because I'm a condemned mon. You did say Montgomery Penn is dead, right?"

  "Very dead," Manning confirmed, raising a cup of black coffee to his lips. "Deadeye Smith saw to that."

  "Damn it, I acted in self-defense," Lieutenant Smith snapped as he banged a fist on the table near his double Scotch and water. "And you know it!"

  "Keep your voice down," Yakov Katzenelenbogen warned, glancing around The Ruins. "This is a public place and not far from the Americana or the Sheraton Hotel. We don't need to share this conversation with any tourists."

  "I was surprised you managed to get reservations here," Delia remarked. "But I see the place isn't as crowded as usual. Tourism has gone down, and business suffers when that happens."

  "That doesn't seem very important right now," Smith complained. "I don't appreciate goddamn Yank foreigners suggesting I killed a man without good reason."

  "Sort of hard to claim self-defense when there is a case of overkill," Calvin James said with a shrug. "Even if the guy was a zombie."

  "Go easy on him, mate," David McCarter urged with mock sympathy for Smith's plight. "After all, the lieutenant was under a lot of stress. Bristol here knows about that. He shot a fella once under similar circumstances. Personally, I think it's easier to understand pulling a trigger as a reflex action because somebody took a shot at you, but I'm sure Smith will convince the investigation of the shooting that his actions were justified."

  "Yes," Bristol began, surprised by the support he received from the Phoenix commandos. "I suppose so."

  "An investigation would probably be contrary to the national security of Jamaica and the security of this mission," Katz remarked, offering Smith a chance to save face. "I don't see that anything is to be gained by raking over the details of either incident. No innocent persons were harmed due to either shooting, although both are certainly regrettable."

  "I imagine that would be for the best," Smith agreed, his tone revealing both a trace of resentment and relief at Katz's suggestion.

  "Am I missin' some information here?" Kevinson inquired.

  "Yeah," Encizo told him. "And let's keep it that way."

  "What is this slimy little smuggler doing here?" Bristol asked, watching Kevinson gulp down his drink. "Since Penn is dead, this toad can't lead us to him. Why not let him crawl back under his rock so we can get back to work?"

  "Be okay with me, mon," Kevinson said with a sniffle. "I would have been happy to stay at the Pirates' Lair, but Rafael and his buddy came lookin' for me. After I eat I'll crawl back under my rock and leave this gunplay nonsense to you blokes..."

  "Not yet," Encizo declared. "Penn's dead, and you know more about his syndicate than anyone we've been able to question so far."

  "I was never part of his gang, for crissake," the smuggler said. "By the way, I need another drink."

  "Did you ever hear of Haldren or Griswald?" Calvin James asked, checking a notepad to be certain of the names.

  "Penn's top lieutenants in the syndicate," Kevinson answered. "Not sure where you'd find 'em."

  "Haldren is back in Kingston," James explained, sipping a tall glass of beer. "He's in the city morgue. We paid him a visit just before we left Kingston to meet you guys here. Jonathan Haldren was fished out of the water near Port Royal around noon today, but the local cops didn't know who he was until they ran a check on his fingerprints. Lucky they called Kingston for the records. Haldren apparently had an accident while snorkeling. Probable cause of death is listed as drowning."

  "No idea what happened to Griswald?" Gary Manning asked.

  "Colonel Wells sent some agents to Griswald's home in Mandeville," Delia Walkins explained. "Griswald's wife said she hadn't heard from him since he went off to meet with some chums at the Manchester Club this morning. However, Arthur Griswald isn't a member of the club, and they have no idea who he is or where he might be."

  "Mandeville?" Kevinson frowned. "I thought Griswald lived in Mo' Bay."

  "Mo' Bay?" McCarter raised his eyebrows. "You mean Montego Bay?"

  "Native Jamaicans usually call it Mo' Bay," Encizo told his British partner. "Are you sure about Griswald and Montego Bay, Todd?"

  "I know he used to run some smugglin' operations outta Mo' Bay 'cause I handled a boat for him on a couple occasions," Kevinson confirmed. "Griswald was sort of Penn's top boy when it came to smugglin' operations. He was co-owner of a number of boats in Mo' Bay. Fishin' vessels, speedboats, even a yacht or two."

  "Did you come across anything about that when you checked out Griswald's records?" Katz asked, turning to Delia.

  "No," the lady cop answered. "Griswald has been connected with Penn for years, but no one was ever able to prove he was guilty of anything. He even stood trial on three occasions. Twice for suspicion of smuggling and once for conspiracy to commit murder. Witnesses either refused to testify or disappeared. The previous charges of smuggling were supposed to have taken place around Port Royal and Long Bay. I don't think anyone ever suspected Griswald was involved in any smuggling operations in Montego Bay."

  "Think it's worth looking into?" Bristol inquired.

  "I don't know what else to do under the circumstances," Katz admitted. The Israeli was about to light a cigarette when two waiters approached with their meals.

  Everyone except Bristol and Smith had ordered the lotus-lily lobster — a gourmet legend at The Ruins. This was the first meal in a quality restaurant any of the men of Phoenix Force had been able to enjoy since their arrival in Jamaica. They intended to make the most of the opportunity. Delia Walkins and Todd Kevinson had also taken advantage of the chance to eat a classic lobster dinner they would not ordinarily have been able to afford
.

  Bristol and Smith had ordered Chinese dishes. The Ruins has a reputation for having the finest Chinese food in Jamaica — if not the entire Caribbean. They waited for the waiters to leave before continuing the conversation.

  "I have an idea that might be worth checking out," Calvin James announced. "Cercueil has been getting his zombies by abducting winos and baking their brains with drugs and electrical torture..."

  "Most of them had probably already lost their willpower from years of hitting the bottle," Smith remarked.

  "Maybe," James said with a shrug, "but don't forget Montgomery Penn was zombified, too. They managed that in less than eight hours. Cercueil's zombie-makers must be getting pretty good at turning human beings into robot-slaves."

  "Sweet Jesus," Bristol whispered. "You mean those damn Haitians can turn anyone into a zombie?"

  "Possibly," James answered. "If they had enough time. In Penn's case, Cercueil obviously decided the guy was a liability. So his people did a special job on Penn. My guess is the autopsy will reveal Penn received an extra dose of everything — drugs, electrical shock and maybe a few other nasty tricks. Still, don't be too impressed. Penn was a prick to begin with. Turning an amoral gangster into a mindless killer isn't exactly transforming St. Francis into Jack the Ripper."

  "Why didn't they just kill him?" Kevinson asked.

  "This doesn't concern you," Encizo told him, passing a bottle of white wine to the smuggler. "Just get drunk like a good fellow, okay?"

  "I can do that," Kevinson said, and poured himself a drink.

  "He has a good question," Smith pointed out. "Killing Penn would have been easier. Why turn him into a zombie and force him to kill his mistress?"

  "Because it accomplished three goals simultaneously," Katz explained. "Whatever Penn knew about Cercueil's activities was wiped away forever when they altered his brain to make him a zombie. Whatever his mistress knew was taken care of when Penn killed her. Finally, the murder of Inger isn't a mystery. Officially, Penn murdered her. He was an underworld figure, and no one will be too surprised to hear a gangster strangled his girlfriend and was later shot to death by the police. Cercueil knows damn good and well we don't intend to tell the public Penn was a zombie. That would cause more problems among the obeah cults and other voodoo-related groups. More confusion, fear and stronger belief in Cercueil's 'mystical powers.' We'll cover up the facts, and our Ton Ton Macoute opponents know it."