No Chance to Dream (Novel extract)

No Chance to Dream:

This novel is also unpublished. Here is a synopsis of the book, the prologue and the first three chapters.

Synopsis of ‘No Chance to Dream’ by Liam Flood:

The third novel in the ‘Mike Lyons’ series sees the former detective finally enjoying life in the Florida sunshine. Then he is asked by a friend to trace Del, a missing person. The man worked as a carpenter and was given to drinking binges and wandering off so the case seems straightforward but proves far from it. The ensuing action involves the vicious narcotics business, a high powered hit man who always dumps his victims in a swamp and a serial killer who lives alone on a ranch and psychologically tortures his victims — he often doesn’t want to kill, at least not yet…… The novel spins a web of intrigue which becomes ever more complex and exposes alliances between the US military and drugs barons which could have explosive consequences if revealed.

Prologue

She was probably in her early forties but wearing it well. Realistically, she looked about thirty five. She had shoulder length blonde hair, a heart shaped face with small features, apart from her eyes; they were large and deep blue in colour; they were her most outstanding feature and he was sure she could light up a room with them. She was dressed simply in blue jeans, a round neck turquoise coloured top and a navy jacket which had a decent cut to it, maybe not designer branded but definitely not from a discount store. Black ankle length boots completed the look. She wore a very light dusting of facial make-up which was barely visible but her eyes were fully made up and accented to perfection.

She ordered the salad bowl with a glass of still water. He was already half way through his large steak and fries with a beer on the side. Despite his efforts, they hadn’t as yet made eye contact. It was five thirty in the evening so the bar was only about a third full. She had chosen a bar stool which was two away from his. He had done this before numerous times but still he was nervous, palms sweaty, heart beating faster than normal. Why he got so wound up he could never understand. He was reasonably attractive, some women would say very attractive. He was thirty five and still had all his hair, which was light brown in colour. He was naturally sallow skinned and he made sure to get enough sun to keep himself permanently tanned. He worked out at least four times a week and he was as fit as when he was in his teens. He had a square face, strong features, with dark brown eyes and dimples in both cheeks when he smiled. To polish off his look, he hadn’t shaved today so he had a healthy growth of stubble; not to every woman’s taste but it was becoming increasingly popular. Why was he nervous then? If he didn’t make it with her, so what; there were dozens of other girls, he told himself. But deep down he knew, it was because she was perfect; she was his type. Oh, he’d chat up any girl in any bar but there were some that just did it for him. He cleared his throat and decided to dive in. He knew that once he opened his mouth, his confidence would return. It always did; what was that song Kristofferson had recorded way back? The Silver Tongued Devil, that was it; yep, that was him.

“I wish I had the courage to order that,” he said, as the bar man put the salad bowl in front of the girl. He pointed to his half eaten steak meal and gave a helpless shrug. She smiled, directly at him, and she smiled with her eyes. She momentarily mesmerized him and he almost felt himself swoon.

“Ah, it’s all I need right now,” she said, instantly friendly and responsive; “but you look like you could put away plenty of steak and fries anyway.”

The smile, the friendly response, the casual compliment; he smiled back, he was in.

They chatted away amiably and he could tell the girl was interested. Before he had even considered starting a conversation with her, he had checked her hands. No wedding or engagement bands. They weren’t a total no-no but he preferred things uncomplicated. Married women going through a hard time were often a lot easier to pick up than single girls but given a choice, he’d go for the ones that were unattached. When she was half way through her salad, he finished his beer and ordered another. It was non-alcoholic beer but it looked exactly the same as what the other punters were drinking. He could afford a few beers even though he was driving but he was a cautious man, hence the non-alcoholic brew. It possibly meant that bartenders would remember him but if he was careful enough, and he always was, they’d have nothing to remember him for. He casually asked her if she’d like to join him for a drink. She said sure and ordered a glass of Chardonnay. Midway through the second glass, she moved one seat to her left and he moved one to his right so they were seated next to each other. Four non-alcoholic beers and four Chardonnays later, they were holding hands and she was flashing those gorgeous blue eyes at him. Her name was Caroline. They told each other their life stories or at least abridged versions of them; her’s was presumably accurate; his was manufactured to suit the mood. Today he was an architect named Don, visiting town to look at some projects he had designed. On other occasions he had been an accountant, a mechanic, even on some occasions a cop, when he felt the girl needed reassurance.

Around eleven, he suggested they go on to another bar or maybe to a night club. He told her he was staying in a Days Inn just off the highway and indeed he was, despite having his own apartment not far away. She smiled:

“Hey, they don’t give you a mini-bar in the Days Inn, whereas I’ve got lots of beer and delicious wine in my refrigerator. It’s not far, oh, are you ok to drive? I think I’ll leave my car here tonight.”

He placed a protective arm around her.

“Sure honey, gee, that sounds swell. I can drive, not a problem, I’ve only had a few beers. Just lead the way.”

She smiled and excused herself to go to the bathroom. He signalled the barman for the tab, paid it in full and left a generous tip, not too large but just enough to make the man feel appreciated. A few moments later, she was back. They left the bar, arm in arm, just like any other couple. They went to her apartment where he consumed two ‘real’ beers and she had several more glasses of wine. Around midnight, they went to bed and made love and it was very good, not the best he had ever experienced but damn close.

Shortly afterwards, she fell into a deep sleep. He sat on the side of the bed, watching her, even as the doubts surfaced again. But he shook himself back to reality. He had known how it would end, right from the first moment he had seen her, from the first word he had uttered. She lay sleeping peacefully, not a care in the world, at least none she was aware of. She should have known though; it was dangerous to invite a man back to your apartment whom you didn’t know, particularly a silver tongued devil like him; she had only herself to blame. He got up and made himself coffee, carefully wiping any surfaces he had touched and checking for any traces of himself that he might have left. He had plenty of time because he would not be leaving just yet. No, he would wait until much later, four am or possibly five, depending on who was about. He had already determined that there was no concierge. There was CCTV but he had made sure that it hadn’t gotten a shot of him and it was debatable anyway as to whether it even functioned. The apartment block had a rear exit and at ten minutes to four, he descended the stairs and drove his car around to it. The girl would not be waking up any time soon, certainly not after what he had put in that last glass of wine she had consumed after they’d had sex. He was now back in normal functioning mode. He referred to her as ‘the girl’ with whom he had ‘had sex’. All pretence about love making was abandoned. Caroline was just a name from the evening. He preferred it to be impersonal. At twenty minutes past four, after a final check of his exit route and of the apartment, he left, with the girl over his shoulder. If, in the unlikely event that he met someone, he would say she was drunk. No one asked questions at four in the morning anyway. They descended the stairs together and they encountered no one. He placed her gently into the trunk, silently closed the top and sat into the car. As he drove away, he allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation; it had all gone perfectly. He had planned it well and he hadn’t had to use a single contingency. He loved living in this part of the country; it offered so many opportunities.

Chapter 1

Del Gatlin was dead. But no one had told him yet so he continued to party. Right now, he was smoking his tenth cigarette of the evening and he was on his eighth beer. They would tell him soon enough though. Del had always been slim but right now, he was positively emaciated. He couldn’t remember when last he had eaten a decent meal, surviving as he did by scavenging plates of half eaten pizza or fries or burgers left by other punters in the diners or the bars that he frequented. He didn’t eat fruit or vegetables and although his diet, such as it was, was high in fat, there was no evidence of it on his skeletal frame. Added to that was his problem with alcohol and narcotics which assured that his liver was in pretty bad shape. Del hadn’t had a regular job in a long time, possibly more than ten years. In fact, it was arguable as to whether he had ever done regular work at all. What money he earned came from doing odd carpentry jobs for folks in Jacksonville and occasionally running drugs for one of his suppliers. It hadn’t always been like this though; Del had started out life as a carpenter and in his own view, a damn good one. He still occasionally used his skills to good effect when he could pick up a few days work with a building contractor. The trouble was, it nearly always ended after a few days. With the promise of a decent pay cheque in the offing, Del would borrow to fund his twin vices; then he’d go on a bender and fail to turn up for work. He’d be fired and when the contractor eventually paid him for whatever work he had done, it was rarely enough to pay for his excesses of the previous few days. Then he’d dry out and have to pay off his debts, sometimes by having to undertake unpleasant tasks. He’d get back on his feet until the whole cycle began again. On a few occasions, he had even resorted to robbery; he’d held up a liquor store once and a few gas stations and he’d been lucky not to have gotten caught. When things got really hot, he’d up sticks entirely and move to a different part of the country.

The problem was that Del was always chasing the game; he could never get himself fully back in credit; back on the right side. As the years went by, his habits got worse and the deeper he fell into debt, the harder he partied. When his regular supplier of crack stopped his credit, he moved on and found new ones. When the pusher came back and leaned on him to pay his debt, he borrowed from money lenders recommended to him by another supplier. He borrowed a little extra and partied again. On very rare occasions, Del could go for a few months without drugs. He never went to rehab, just weaned himself off the stuff. He’d continue drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes but Del figured he never had a problem with them anyway; no way, he could damn well quit any time he liked. His body had a high tolerance for alcohol so he could hold down a job even after consuming alcohol all night and turning up for work next morning. In this way, he managed to pay off both his drugs suppliers and even the money lenders with their insane interest rates. He gave up narcotics for a time and got himself back to something approaching normality. But he never quit the booze and the alcohol fuelled nights became longer and the work days more infrequent; then came the day when he went back on crack. He’d thought he’d try just one pipe, what harm could that do? But after the high came the downer and after that he couldn’t wait to get high again and so on it went.

This time, he had no idea how many nights in a row he’d been partying. He slept during the warm sunny days and rose as the sun went down. He was hanging at a Honky Tonk called The Green Pool just off Neptune Beach that everyone just referred to as ‘The Beach Place’. He was shooting pool with people whom he thought were his friends. At some time in the past, some of them may have been but Del had pissed off almost everybody he knew at this stage. He was into anyone who would lend him a buck; his credit at the bar had long since expired and he owed serious money to three drug dealers. But he was convinced it was only a temporary hiatus; he’d get sober in a few weeks and he’d get back to work and pay it all off. Hell, maybe he’d skip town altogether and make a fresh start down Miami direction or maybe he’d leave Florida State altogether. Wasn’t no one gonna look too hard for small fry like him. Still, he liked life here so maybe he’d first try to dry out and get back on his feet. Yep, that was the best thing; no point spending the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. The main thing was he needed to get well, needed to start taking better care of himself, but not just yet.

Del’s liver was in bad shape; he had a bad cough from smoking too many cigarettes and he was a prime candidate for either cancer or heart disease. He had a stomach ulcer from neglecting his diet and eating poor quality food. But none of these ailments were likely to kill him, at least not just yet. He was only thirty five years of age and he reckoned if he cleaned up his act, he still had a lot of living to do. His problem wasn’t his heart or his lungs or his liver; Del’s problem was his brain. He had greatly underestimated his state of indebtedness and his creditors’ potential response. He was into three different dealers this time, two of whom had seen him come back before but had given him dire warnings this time. The third dealer was new and Del thought he was good for another month at least. He owed this man over five thousand dollars, in itself not a huge debt, at least not in the context of drugs. Most serious dealers wouldn’t wipe their ass with five grand but this dealer had told him that it was his absolute limit and that if he did not start paying some of the debt off soon, there would be very serious consequences. The man had called to Del’s home two mornings ago when he was sleeping off another drunk and had scared the shit out of him. But he had given him another fix and Del took this as a reprieve. He figured the dealer would be back in a week and by then, he’d have sobered up and he’d be working again. Hell, he had even befriended the dealer after their initial altercation. There was plenty hiring in that new construction project in downtown Jacksonville. He’d pay the man back a little at a time and earn his confidence, just like the other two dealers. He put the thought of repaying them to the back of his mind for now. To contemplate his finances was just too much of a strain; besides, he was high. He was shooting pool with his buddies and he was downing long necks like there was no tomorrow. There were some awful frisky looking ladies in tonight and if he played his cards right and stayed half way sober, he might just score. If not, he’d just mosey on down the coast to one of them ‘hookah bars’; pick himself up a nice piece of ass, maybe even black or Latino; yeah, now that was a prospect. The only reason he was out at all tonight was because his sister had visited him two days previously. Judging by the complete lack of anything except mould in his ice box and by his personal state, she assumed he was flat broke. He was. She wasn’t a wealthy woman by any means but Del was her only brother and she loved him. They had both been orphaned when they were young and Del had taken care of her in his own way, although she had also looked out for him. She was only in town for two nights and she spent them with him. She stocked his fridge freezer before she left although he hadn’t sampled anything she had purchased for him just yet. How the heck could he when the little darlin had left him a roll with over three hundred bucks. He momentarily felt guilty when he thought about it now. It was probably all she had, but hey, she’d be able to earn more and so would he when he got himself sorted. Yes sirree, he would. But first he’d have one last good night on the town; shoot some pool, sink some beers and maybe get himself a tasty piece of ass. He signalled to the barman for another beer. He still had two hundred and eighty bucks; hell, he might even get a second night out of it and maybe a little crack? No, he stopped himself; no more drugs for Del, well maybe a little hash to smoke but no heavy stuff. He was done with all that. It was Friday night; if he was careful, he might even make the roll last all weekend; try his luck with the ladies and bring one back along with a six pack. Yep, that would do, he could party until Monday; then he’d look for work. He was wrong. He had done one too many deals; failed to pay off the wrong guy this time; pushed his luck just that bit too far. He was unaware that he was being observed and his every move was being reported back to his observer’s superior. The man listened carefully and then nodded.

It was after two am when Del finally left the bar. He had failed to score with any of the ladies despite strenuous efforts. It was likely that his consumption of eighteen long necks had been a factor in his inability to string more than half a dozen words together coherently. After a while, the girls just tuned out or took up with someone else. Not his night, but the hell with that, he’d drive his old Camry down the beach and see if he couldn’t pick up a nice little hookah for himself; yep, fifty bucks should do it. He shook hands with his buddy and then made his way unsteadily across the dimly lit car lot, almost stumbling several times. He eventually found the unlocked Camry and collapsed behind the steering wheel. He wasn’t worried about the police. There’d be no patrols out this late and even if there were, what could they do to him? Take his licence? He’d manage; they’d taken it before and he had continued driving. He struggled to insert the key in the ignition. He never once looked in the rear view mirror because if he had, he would have seen the man who had been observing him in the bar, now calmly sitting in the rear seat. The man had been instructed to give Gatlin one final chance but that was the only conversation he was to have with him. He now placed a small pistol directly behind Del’s right earlobe. The gun was a point two two and it contained soft nose bullets. The weapon was virtually useless at any more than ten feet unless you were a very good shot but even then was unreliable. But up close, it was lethal. It would make a small entry wound, the bullet would shatter on impact; there wouldn’t be enough energy for the bullet to exit again so it would ricochet its way around the brain wreaking havoc. There would be no exit wound, a minimum of blood spillage and death would be instant; neat. The man spoke:

“You know who this is, have you got our money?”

Gatlin reacted with shock; a shiver went through his entire body but he was frozen to the spot; he didn’t move.

“Shit man, you scared the fuck out of me, what you doing like that hiding in the back of my wheels?”

“Last time, the five grand, you got it or not?”

“Five grand? Look, hold it, ok? Tonight I’m just having a little down time, a little me time. I’ve got the debt all sorted man. You don’t understand.”

“I seem to think that’s what you said to the last guy.”

“No, shit man, you don’t understand.”

The man in the back seat was aware that the conversation had already gone way beyond what had been authorized but felt so confident that a little more chat wouldn’t matter.

“I’ve seen you tonight, partying. You must have got a stash somewhere. If my boss knew about that, he’d be none too pleased. You’ve got to come up with at least a grand, that’s it, that’s the final offer.”

A fucking grand, but I ain’t got; I mean, by when?”

“By now, final chance.”

He was sweating profusely now and sobering rapidly as he began to realize the gravity of the situation. Had his chickens finally come home to roost? No, he’d stall this guy; he was good at this; he calmed himself.

“Ah shit man, look, I think we’ve got a misunderstanding here. I mean, I’m only partying with some of my buddies because I came into some bucks, but it ain’t much. I ain’t got no grand but hold it, we need to….”

The man in the back seat sighed deeply and said:

“Sorry.”

He squeezed the trigger twice. The gun was silenced and made barely a whisper outside the car. The gunman then calmly left the rear seat and opened the driver’s door. He pushed Gatlin’s lifeless body across to the passenger’s side. Then he started the engine and drove the Camry quietly from the almost deserted car park. There wasn’t a soul to be seen as he entered the street. Del Gatlin had finally run out of road.

Chapter 2

Melanie Simpson woke up on top of the world. After twenty years of hawking her songs from one small town to the next and knocking on every record company’s door from New York to Memphis and from Nashville to L.A., she had finally cracked it. Melanie had always believed she’d make it and had insisted on doing only her own material. Part of her problem had been categorization. She wasn’t quite country enough for Nashville and she wasn’t rock and roll enough for Memphis. So what, she had felt; lots of middle-of-the-road artists had made it big too. But there was a problem there also. Melanie wasn’t quite what you would call middle-of-the-road. She wasn’t even on the sidewalk; nor was she just off the road; she was about as far away from the mainstream as you could get. Various managers and agents had, over the years, begged her to go more commercial. She had a good voice and she played a mean guitar. Melanie’s reply was always that there were a hundred thousand others that had the same talents. No, she was and always wanted to be different. Managers and agents had come and gone, as had two husbands and umpteen boyfriends but Melanie had never strayed from the path. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to make it big; she did, desperately, but she would never compromise her principles. She knew she wouldn’t have been able to; had she gone into a recording studio and did covers of some other artist or tried to record in some genre which wasn’t hers, it would not have worked. She knew she wouldn’t have been able to go through with it. Melanie’s music you see, like all great artists, came from within her. On days when she was in the mood, she could sit with her guitar and write four or five songs, straight up. They’d require a little bit of refining but not much. Oh, she was no Woody Guthrie, she knew that, but put her in a studio with a guitar and a few session musicians and Melanie would make sweet music for you.

Part of the reason she hadn’t made it up to now was that there are literally thousands if not tens of thousands of Melanie’s out there, all talented, some more than others, all trying to make it, all hustling, all looking for a break. The trick was to get the right record company executive to listen to her play the right song on the right day. In twenty years, it had never happened. She had recorded quite a lot of stuff and she had a decent back catalogue, but all of her recording sessions were paid for by herself and whoever was with her or backing her at the time. Many times they had got decent reviews too and felt they were on the cusp of a breakthrough, only for that hope to fall flat. But Melanie was resilient; this was more than you could say for both of her husbands. One had been a roadie in her first band, probably her first true love. They had toured together for more than ten years and had gotten married somewhere along the way, exactly where, she couldn’t recall. She had loved Brad but he thought he was on to a good thing. Melanie would eventually make it big and he’d be on easy street. Then things got tough and they ended up playing in smaller venues, sometimes to half full auditoriums; the money dried up and there was still no sign of that lucrative record deal. Eventually, Brad ran out of patience and just left; he got a job with a rock band out of Miami; apparently they were just about to make the big breakthrough. Strangely enough, Melanie had never heard of the band since, but neither had she heard from Brad. She had been deeply hurt and ran on empty for a long time. She continued to perform night after night but she was on auto pilot and when she looked back, there were huge gaps in her memory of this period. Part of that was probably attributable to booze and the occasional narcotic that she used to ease the pain and pass the time on the road. When she eventually came out of her self imposed stupor and got her self esteem back again, she found she had written some of her best material; lonesome, poignant songs that could get into your soul. Time and again, she was advised to record them but she stubbornly refused to do so. She rarely even performed them in public; the pain was too great.

Then one night in Houston, she met Sly. He was the total opposite of Bradley. Where Brad had been quiet and thoughtful, Sly had been brash and arrogant. In retrospect, she wondered what she had ever seen in him. But deep down she knew; it was because he had helped her regain her confidence. He had that way of saying ‘fuck you’ to everyone that didn’t take his fancy or if he just felt like it. He urged Melanie to do the same. He was also an agent and he promised her the sun, moon and the prospect of stardom. Of all the people she had ever met, Sly had been the one who had lavished the most praise on her. To Sly, Melanie was a genius, albeit an undiscovered one. He really believed in her music and he did push hard for her. Looking back, she was probably flattered. She had always believed in herself but she also had self doubt which Sly had helped rid her of. After a whirlwind courtship and several nights of sheer bliss, which Melanie hadn’t had since Brad had left, they married in Vegas, in the middle of another of her seemingly endless tours. She did have a following but it was very much a fringe one and they were generally folks who liked their music live and not the type of people who spent serious money on purchasing albums. Married life with Sly did not take long to unravel. He had been around the music business in some form or other all his life and he felt he had to live at a hundred miles an hour. This madcap tendency had, in part, been what had swept Melanie off her feet but she did like to put them back on the ground occasionally and chill out. Not so Sly. He always seemed to have something going on. The fact that he acted for more artists than Melanie gave him the ideal outlet for his energies. Unfortunately, this often extended to more than mere representation. He was acting for a young punk rock artist called Susie G, who was seriously hot. Susie performed in ever more outlandish costumes which she had a habit of shedding as the night wore on and she was being billed as the next Lady Gaga.

Melanie was performing at a gig one night in Phoenix and Susie was due to play the same venue the following evening. Sly booked his artists like this when he could so as to keep all his people together and save costs on hiring equipment, set-ups, backing musicians and support artists. After the gig, Melanie had a slight stomach upset and didn’t go with the rest of the musicians to the usual wind down few beers or whatever was on offer. Sly had already left, citing tiredness and the need for an early night. It was surprising for him but she supposed even he had to get tired sometime as he sure liked to burn both ends of the candle. When she reached their hotel room, it seemed that Sly had gotten over his bout of tiredness and Susie was performing a night earlier than planned. Melanie entered the suite to the sound of moans and the sight of Susie’s long stocking clad legs wrapped tightly around her husband’s naked ass. She had entered the room silently; she had been annoyed but also embarrassed and she actually thought about leaving again with the same stealth. But then the self confidence that Sly had given her broke cover and she lost it. She flicked on all the lights and screamed at the top of her voice. She picked up lamps, plates, glasses, anything that she could lay her hands on and threw them violently at her husband and at a seemingly terrified and apologetic punk rock artist. Susie eventually managed to escape from the room and ran, virtually stark naked to her own but Melanie wasn’t finished yet. She gathered up Sly’s and Susie’s clothes and threw them in the corridor. Sly pleaded with her to calm down; what the fuck was she blowing her lid about; this was the music industry for fucks sake; everybody fucked everyone else in this business. The more he said, the more annoyed she got until hotel security intervened and asked them to cool it. Melanie immediately changed back to the quiet considerate person she really was and apologized profusely for the racket she had made.

She asked Sly to take his stuff and leave. When he protested that he had nowhere else to stay and that the hotel was full, she almost lost it again before advising him to ‘try the bitch down the hall, you seemed to be doing ok with her earlier’. She had been in the music business long enough to know that what Sly had said was partially true. Everyone did not sleep with everyone else but when you were on the road, things happened; she knew because they had happened to her. What she hadn’t realised was that Sly had been providing a full service to all of his clients, particularly the female ones. They briefly made up but it was never the same and a few weeks later, they went their separate ways and quietly divorced. That had been seven years ago. In the meantime, there had been lots of guys, but usually just one or two night stands. Melanie was attractive and she was on the road all the time. She had her share of offers and mostly, it was easier to sleep with someone than not. She had not had another serious relationship but she had gotten so bruised from the first two that she liked it that way. At thirty eight, she was single, childless, spent most of her time living out of a suitcase and sleeping on a tour bus and she still hadn’t made it big in the music business. Hell, she thought, if she was honest, she hadn’t even made it small in the music business.

But all that had changed literally overnight. She was more mature now and comfortable in her own skin. She realized a lot of the stuff she had written when Brad left was some of her best and she planned to use it. She began to change her repertoire and the more she tried the new stuff, the more her confidence grew. It was painful and she often felt she was baring her soul on stage night after night. But the punters loved it and word got around and the crowds grew a little larger. Her new agent eventually managed to get her gigs in slightly larger venues. She would never do the big stadium concerts as she felt her music was too personal, too intimate for such a huge setting. But an average sized concert hall or dinner venue was just fine. One night she was doing a show in Tulsa, Oklahoma and someone in the audience recorded the show, illegally. The guy was a fan who had Melanie’s best intentions at heart and couldn’t figure why she hadn’t made any music videos. So he decided to make his own. It was now 2012 and the cyber age, so he just posted one of the clips to U-Tube with a recommendation. Within twenty four hours, it had over five hundred hits; within a week, it had half a million. It was then that Melanie’s cell phone had begun ringing off the hook. It seemed like every major record label in the country wanted to sign her up. Neither was she beset by cigar smoking, cologne smelling record company executives. The business had changed. The people she spoke with were highly professional and fully transparent. Her agent had hired a lawyer and the three of them had met each of the companies in turn but in truth, apart from checking the legalese, the lawyer was not necessary. The record company executives realized that Melanie was thirty eight years old and had been in the music business for a long time. No one was going to pull the wool over her eyes so no one tried. She carefully considered all the offers and eventually signed with Sony Music for a seven figure sum. This was only an advance on the album that she had agreed to start recording as soon as she could get the dozens of interviews that they had lined up in locations coast-to-coast out of the way. Her back catalogue was another matter entirely. Sony had put a group of lawyers and accountants to work to buy back the rights to anything Melanie had recorded in the past. They figured now that she had achieved modest fame, the price would have increased but they were confident it would be nothing compared to what they and she would make out of it when they purchased the rights and the albums were re-released.

She woke up in her hotel suite in Manhattan really excited. She hadn’t performed in over a week and she had been tired from all the meetings. But last night, she had gone to bed early and slept like a log. This morning, Lara Spencer was interviewing her on ‘Good Morning America’. This was mega stuff. She bounced out of bed, showered and dressed quickly. She didn’t bother with cosmetics as she knew ABC news would have a whole fleet of make-up artists to prepare her for the show. The limousine was due to collect her at 06.30 and she wasn’t gonna be late. Melanie had always been on time and she didn’t intend to change now. As she grabbed her handbag and placed her cell phone inside, she felt a small tinge of regret that she really had no one to share her good fortune with. She had thought of looking up either of her ex-husbands but dismissed it. Her parents were long since passed on. She did have a brother but she rarely saw him and wasn’t sure how she could contact him. She could try later anyway. Right now, she was about to have her fifteen minutes of fame, maybe it would last a little longer? Either way, Melanie was going to enjoy it.

Chapter 3

There was often a public outcry when the numbers of murders or drive-by shootings or violence in general increased, particularly if a lot of it occurred over a short period. People got scared and complained that the police weren’t doing their job properly and petitioned their politicians. If a number of the deaths were drug related or as a result of gangland feuds, some people couldn’t care less and took the attitude, they’re all crooks, let them shoot each other to death for all we care. Others were concerned about stray bullets and the safety of children and neighbourhoods; some complained about the ready availability of guns; yet more were worried about the effect repeated killings were having on society as a whole; the cheapening of life. But there was one type of gangland death which no one ever complained about. That was when no one except the perpetrators knew it had occurred because the body was never found. It could be disposed of in any manner of ways from dissection and dumping in various safe locations to the extremely gruesome, but very effective method said to be practiced by the mafia: feeding it to pigs. But in Florida, the preferred method was to bury the victim in the everglades — millions of square miles of swamp where a body would never be discovered. You didn’t have to live in South Florida either. If you planned the death properly, there was an abundance of places in the State where you could safely dispose of a person’s remains. There were thousands of square miles of natural reserves and forests and swamps and other deserted areas all over the State.

Ricardo Salazar liked neatness; he detested loose ends. He was extraordinarily thorough and precise and he demanded similar standards from his employees. Ricardo was not a violent man and had never gratuitously practiced violence. He much preferred to seek innovative solutions to problems but even he was conscious that in the drugs business, there were bound to be disposals required at times and even some collateral damage. He rarely needed to order a hit on someone because people who dealt with Salazar knew his rules and knew that he enforced them strictly. It was rare that someone crossed him or did not pay a debt to him but on the few occasions that it did occur, Ricardo acted swiftly and ruthlessly. The individual would quietly disappear; there would be no body discovered, hence no police investigation, no charges and no trial. The people who needed to know the man had disappeared would know but they wouldn’t be telling anyone. In this way, Ricardo ensured that the chances of anyone taking a chance on crossing him again were getting rarer still. His obsession with neatness extended to the way the hit was carried out and the way the body was disposed of. There was to be no evidence discovered. If the victim owned a car, it was usually used in the hit. But there was never any question of setting fire to the car afterwards. A burnt out wreck would offer little useable evidence but the car could be identified as belonging to the victim so there would be suspicion of foul play. No, when the body had been disposed of, the victim’s car would be driven to Ricardo’s chop shop, where it would either be re-sprayed and re-badged if it was a decent vehicle or cut up and used for parts if it was unlikely to be resold. Whatever money it realized could offset the debt, even if the sum involved was immaterial. It wasn’t about the money; it was to do with neatness and doing things correctly. Likewise, if the victim lived alone, their apartment would be thoroughly cleaned; anything of value would be used and the rest would go in some dumpster. All this would be done discreetly, usually at night. The bottom line was that anyone who went looking for the person would have to assume that they had skipped town. Given that most of those on whom a hit was authorized owed a lot of money, it would be no surprise to discover the person had left to get a new start somewhere else.

In thirty years of living in the United States, Ricardo had never been charged with a criminal offence; the man hadn’t even gotten a speeding ticket. He was as clean as a whistle. He had been born in Venezuela but not in the nice part of it. Ricardo had been brought up in the Jose Felix Ribas barrio. Perched on the eastern hillsides of Caracas, it is said to be one of the largest in Latin America. An estimated one hundred and twenty thousand people live there in an area of about two hundred acres, most of them in the rickety houses known as ranchos that they build for themselves. Ricardo would have liked to live in one of these rickety houses; instead, he and his mother and his three brothers lived in a one room shack that was made from mud and straw and any other useful materials he and his brothers could find in the local dump. It was there they spent most of their days, scavenging for anything they could either use or sell. Ricardo was the youngest. He had never known his father; when the man had discovered his wife was pregnant with their fourth child, the strain became too much and he simply gave up and walked out. Ricardo’s mother struggled on and through a combination of working as a maid in one of the huge mansions in the eastern district and various part time work, she managed to put food on the table and reared four children. Ricardo idolized her and he had long since shown his appreciation by purchasing for her one of those very same mansions in the district where she had worked for so many years. His Mama appreciated her youngest son, who had ‘made it big’ in the U.S. and she constantly talked about him. Two of his brothers were married and still living in Caracas and Ricardo had also provided handsomely for them although Juan and Felipe did not seem to appreciate what he had done for them and never seemed to have enough. Perhaps it was those bitches they had married? Ricardo had never had any time for either of their wives, but it really didn’t matter because he could have provided for twenty brothers and barely touched his fortune. His other brother, Luis, was a different matter. Luis had come to America with him. They had always been close, being only a year apart in age. When they were young, Ricardo had idolized his brother and they had been inseparable. Luis had always looked out for him in the tough alleys of the barrio where poverty was rife and life was cheap. As they grew older, their roles gradually changed. It became obvious that Ricardo was the clever one and Luis had no problem acknowledging this and deferring to his younger brother.

When they had finally given up on Venezuela and emigrated to the U.S., Ricardo ran the show. They worked at various jobs including construction and transport by day and in bars and restaurants at night. They had come to Florida because the climate was largely similar to their own. Work was plentiful and it paid well. If you were prepared to work hard, this was the place to be. Both brothers had always taken a laissez faire approach to the law. They broke it when it suited them and observed it when they had to. There was no other way to survive in the barrio Jose Felix Ribas. When they came to the U.S., they would have been initially very cautious as the last thing they needed was to be caught on some misdemeanour and expelled from the country. Ricardo had big plans and he was going to take his time and do things correctly. At that time, the drugs scene in the State was largely centered around Miami and was controlled by the Italians. Marijuana, cannabis and hash were the most popular. Hard drugs like heroin hadn’t really taken hold in this part of the world. There was a scene in Jacksonville then but it was small. Nonetheless, Ricardo noticed how easily drugs were available and the relatively ‘hands off’ approach adopted by law enforcement. He had been at numerous parties where drugs had been used freely by seemingly ordinary respectable people who never seemed to think about the fact that they were breaking the law. He noticed that none of them were ever prosecuted either. He continued to work hard but he stored all of this information, ready to use when the time was right.

Within a year, he saw his chance. It was almost like a revolution was happening in narcotics. People had discovered cocaine. Here was a hard drug that didn’t need to be injected, gave you an equivalent high but with no major crash afterwards and no chance of a bad trip. Some said it wasn’t even addictive; you could take it as you pleased. It very quickly became the drug of the masses and it didn’t take long until it surfaced in Jacksonville. Most of the supply came from Miami and there seemed to be an ocean of it. Ricardo and Luis initially took it slowly and carefully. They used their weekends to drive down I95 to Miami and made contact with some of the Colombians who were now settling in that city. They purchased small quantities, which they then carefully concealed in their vehicle and brought back for sale up north. They never actually sold any of the drugs themselves, Ricardo was always cautious to use other immigrants who would receive a share of the proceeds. If any were caught, they would take the fall but there would be no come back to the Salazars. In the event, law enforcement was initially slow to react to the literal tidal wave of cocaine that hit the country and they traded with almost total impunity. None of their dealers was ever caught in those early days and within six months, the brothers had made more money than they had ever dreamed of.

But Ricardo had much bigger plans; he had already stopped driving to Miami as his concentration was now on consolidating his position and distancing himself from every element of the operation. He was a master planner and accomplished this with ease. He thought, why should he buy his drugs from the Colombians in Miami? He had developed a good relationship with them but he could make a lot more if he sourced directly. He didn’t envisage a problem as what he purchased from them was small relative to their total business. When Ricardo set out his plan and revealed it to Luis, both thought it was beautiful; it was also amazingly simple. Most of the world’s cocaine is grown in Colombia, which bordered his own country. It was only a short hop from Maracaiba in Venezuela across the very poorly policed border to Valledupar. He contacted his brother Juan and put the proposition to him. Juan would move to Maracaiba; it was only three hundred miles, and would base himself there. Through his Colombian contacts in Miami, Ricardo obtained the names of people who would provide direct supply. The Colombians were initially unwilling to provide this information but on the basis that they knew Ricardo would find out anyway and that the business was absolutely mushrooming, they agreed to cooperate for a fee. The deal was set up. Most of the drugs entering the U.S. were coming through Mexico overland but the DEA, then a fledgling organisation, was getting more resources and consignments were being intercepted. Some shipments were being air-lifted and dropped in safe isolated areas of Florida but again, this wasn’t ideal. Aircraft had to file flight plans and could easily be followed on radar. Ricardo couldn’t understand this and felt there was a much better way to organize the transfers. What was the most common form of transport used between North and South America? Shipping of course; there were literally thousands of boats of every size plying their wares between the various ports up and down the coast, all competing for business, all willing to transport your goods for a price. For this part of the operation, he selected Felipe. He knew his brother already worked for a shipping line and he had contacts in the business. Using ports in the nearby towns of Catia La Mar, Maiquetia and Caraballeda, Felipe discreetly enquired of certain sea captains if they would be willing to transport a little extra cargo for a hefty bonus. Smuggling in this region was as old as time; he did not receive any refusals. He dealt only with the captains. What way they rewarded their crew was their business. The merchandise would be picked up by Juan’s men in Colombia, smuggled across the border and loaded on ships bound for somewhere in North America or the Caribbean. The Venezuelan coast guard assumed that all narcotics going by boat were loaded in Colombia so they did not question boats departing from ports in their own country. The drugs would never be offloaded in a U.S. port but always transferred during a late night rendezvous with another vessel, usually a fast moving launch. Ricardo started by bringing in a hundred kilos in this fashion. The system worked perfectly. Business boomed and before long, he was supplying other dealers in nearby towns and cities. He was always careful about territory though, never taking on a deal without thoroughly clearing it in advance. The Colombians down in Miami had gotten greedy and had a war with the Italians. It was hard to say who won as there were numerous deaths on both sides and both were still in the business. As he envisaged, the law enforcement focus was very much down south and he was left relatively free to operate and in the process to make an absolute fortune. Before long, he was bringing in literally tons of the stuff. He was making so much money that he had no idea what to do with it. He sent large tranches of dollars back to Venezuela to reward his family but it barely put a dent in his fortune. He and Luis had long since quit their legitimate jobs and he had purchased large houses for both of them in the sought after suburb of Avondale. Both had fabulous views over the river. He had masses of cash, which did not initially worry him as he had stored it in a remote warehouse where only the bravest would attempt to gain admission. There were rottweiler dogs, barbed wire and electric fences and if you managed to breach all those, you still had to get by the heavily armed Venezuelans. As a general rule, he tried to use only his own countrymen as hired help although this changed over time when he realized that loyalty was a commodity, like any other, that can be bought for the right price.

Eventually, the pile of cash became ridiculous and was incapable of being counted so he realized he would have to diversify. He had to develop ways of laundering his money and fast because he was making so much of it so quickly that it was rapidly getting out of control. He used to laugh heartily with Luis when they were enjoying a quiet beer or glass of wine together in the evenings. They would think back to their days in the barrio and when they would discuss the problem of the quite literally tons of cash, both would break into uncontrollable laughter. The strange thing that Ricardo often reflected on was that it had all been so easy. He never made the mistake of thinking himself to be a genius; yes, he was clever and a good planner but he would not fall into the ego trap. Anyone of average intelligence and flexible morals could have achieved the same, he reasoned. It was just that he had figured it out first. He also acknowledged that he had been lucky to catch the first wave of cocaine usage. The consumption of the drug had now grown to phenomenal levels; he had read somewhere that there was hardly a banknote in the entire country which did not have traces of cocaine on it.

The man was now a billionaire many times over; he had diversified into property, both residential and commercial and he owned a good proportion of the new shopping malls that were springing up all over the State. In 1987, he had married Patricia, also a Venezuelan immigrant and they had three children; Carlos was twenty two and was involved in his father’s retail chain. Alfredo was eighteen and had just started college and Isabella, the light of his life, was fifteen and still in high school. His children had gone to the most expensive educational establishments and had wanted for nothing. He and his wife were accepted members of Jacksonville society although Ricardo was uncomfortable with the pretentiousness of a lot of this so he left most of the partying and receptions to his wife. Many times he had considered getting out of the drugs business and going fully legitimate. His other businesses, after a shaky start, were now making profits and he could drop the illegal side any time he liked. Part of the reason he didn’t was that firstly he was damn good at it and secondly, it was so easy. He had the system running as smoothly as ever; they very rarely lost a consignment and even when they did, compared to what got through, it was literally a drop in the ocean. But the clincher was that the money was still accumulating at a phenomenal rate. He also employed a large group of people who depended on him. He had more people to pay off and many greedy palms to grease but that came with the territory. The one thing people who dealt with Ricardo would say was that he was straight; there was no bullshit. If he made a deal, he kept to it, simple as that. Ricardo couldn’t see why it should be any other way but he accepted the respect nonetheless. He mingled with politicians and people from the most highly respected parts of society. It had cost him but it was well worth it for his peace of mind. He was so far removed from the everyday dealings of his drugs empire that he had never even come under the slightest suspicion of harming anyone directly. The police knew what he was at by now of course but he had heavy connections so as long as he kept his nose clean, they left him alone.

In the thirty years he had lived in Florida, he had probably personally only killed half a dozen men, most of whom had been direct employees who had gotten greedy and were disloyal. He disliked violence but at times, his men needed to know who the boss was and the consequences of betrayal. So when one of his own was caught offside or with his hand in the till, retribution was swift and bloody and sometimes carried out in full view of the other henchmen. Hence, repeat betrayals were rare. He had probably put out contracts on fifty other people; he didn’t consider this excessive; anyone used to life in the barrios would think this a modest count. Some were people who had cheated or double crossed him; others couldn’t pay their bills; yet more were rival operators killed in disputes over territory although this was rare. Unfortunately, some were innocent witnesses who just happened to see something they shouldn’t have. Ricardo regretted these deaths but he was a neat man so he could not take the chance that these people might talk at some stage. The bodies were always disposed of quietly. If the swamps of the State could speak, they would bear witness to a great many foul deeds but even with modern technology, they were far too vast and it was unlikely that they ever would.

If one of his lieutenants disappeared, he could usually ‘fix’ things internally. If there was a wife or family, he always ensured they were taken care of, despite the disloyalty shown by the man. But when other unconnected people disappeared, there was often a missing person campaign. Ricardo felt for the relatives but what could he do? The vast majority of the people he had killed were not missed by anyone or when they disappeared, their next-of-kin had a fair idea of what had happened and kept quiet about it. On occasion, their partners just assumed that they had gotten scared and skipped town. Sometimes, they even had but they rarely got away with it. Ricardo had long arms and many connections and with junkies, they rarely got far without needing a fix. If he thought someone had skipped town, it was easy to put the word out to his fellow dealers; most of the time, it produced a result.

Very few of those he killed or had liquidated were tortured and when they were, it was only to extract information. He wasn’t a sadist and did not torture for pleasure, unlike some of those crazy Colombians. If the man had no useful information, he always granted him a quick demise. There was no point in doing otherwise. Selling narcotics was a business; it was his business and he was damn good at it. Within ten years of coming to the U.S., he was controlling half of the drugs in North Florida. He sometimes supplied Miami but otherwise stayed away. That was fine — there was plenty of business for everyone. He took his share but he wasn’t greedy. How much could a man spend in one lifetime? He already had all he wanted. Not for him a fleet of cars or homes everywhere or girls. He had a palatial home in Jacksonville and a nice beach house down in Daytona and modest apartments in New York and London. As he now had many legitimate businesses, most of his travel related to them. He contributed to both political parties and was a patron of many good causes. He figured he was so well covered that he never dreamed he’d be charged with a criminal offence. He had a wife and three children whom he loved dearly. He had made some allowance for female company in that he had a mistress in Orlando whom he had set up in an apartment and he had ladies that he called to when travelling on business, but not always and never to excess. He was the same with drink; he favoured quality over quantity, preferring to savour a fine wine or a cognac rather than drinking to get drunk. Needless to say, he had never taken narcotics of any description and he never would. If other people wanted to coke themselves up to their eyeballs, that was their business; Ricardo would merely be there to supply them. He sat back now in his chair by the pool, sipping a glass of Louis X111 cognac. His wife joined him with a glass of the Montrachet they had enjoyed at dinner. It was late but the weather was still warm and he loved the sounds of the night. He was too far from any of the reserves to hear the sounds which emanated from the swamps but there was a dense forest just to the rear of his house which was filled with all sorts of interesting night creatures. His wife touched his hand and smiled at him. His mobile phone vibrated twice and he noticed an incoming text; he knew the number as the owner had informed him of the new phone card just this afternoon. He read the text which simply said ‘Operation completed successfully’.

“Everything OK darling?” his wife Patricia asked.

“Yes, just fine,” he said and smiled back at her.

The operation had been regrettable but necessary nonetheless. The man had been warned many times and had refused to obey the rules; in Ricardo’s world, there could only be one outcome.