Moonlight Montecristo

By John MacDonald

Funny thing about lies and secrets. Lies always come back to haunt you. Sometimes secrets can kill. No matter how long ago they were told or how recent, they never go away and they must always be confronted.

Sometimes lies can take you on a journey. Entrenched in everyone’s lies but his own, a high school history teacher named Jack Bennett finds himself helping everyone deal with their demons, past and present. Lies and secrets take Jack on a journey from his home in Lowell, Massachusetts through the streets of Baracoa, Cuba.

With secrets of his own, Jack’s past and present life intertwine as he discovers Fidel Castro’s brutal past and the conspiracy to kill John F. Kennedy. Worlds collide as Jack becomes reconnected with old friends in an effort to help his new friend confront her demons. Murder, revenge and redemption are the ingredients that make up the story called Moonlight Montecristo. The pages come to life and also introduce an uncomfortable tale of those who would kill a President.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John MacDonald
• Release date: Sep 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310023583

John MacDonald

John MacDonald is a veteran of the United States Air Force and Operation Desert Storm, where he served as a Crash Firefighter. John has worked in marketing, public relations and business development throughout various industries, before he started his own consulting company.John is now the host of two radio shows, broadcast weekly. John dedicates his free time to his family. He also enjoys writing and camping. John proudly resides in Lowell, Massachusetts.

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Moonlight Montecristo

By John MacDonald

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 John A. MacDonald

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Moonlight Montecristo

Book Jacket Intro

Funny thing about lies and secrets. Lies always come back to haunt you. Sometimes secrets can kill. No matter how long ago they were told or how recent, they never go away and they must always be confronted.

Sometimes lies can take you on a journey. Entrenched in everyone's lies but his own, a high school history teacher named Jack Bennett finds himself helping everyone deal with their demons, past and present. Lies and secrets take Jack on a journey from his home in Lowell, Massachusetts through the streets of Baracoa, Cuba.

With secrets of his own, Jack's past and present life intertwine as he discovers Fidel Castro's brutal past and the conspiracy to kill John F. Kennedy. Worlds collide as Jack becomes reconnected with old friends in an effort to help his new friend confront her demons. Murder, revenge and redemption are the ingredients that make up the story called Moonlight Montecristo. The pages come to life and also introduce an uncomfortable tale of those who would kill a President.

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Prologue

March, 2000

Falling and rolling on to the hot wet pavement, Jack Bennett's head barely missed the sharp edge of a jagged piece of concrete that served as a section of curb stone. Victor Mendoza lay beside Jack on his back, with the handle of a jagged edged Bowie knife sticking in his chest and penetrating his heart. The midnight air was humid, and thick with the pungent smell of urine that permeated the filthy Cuban streets. The street lamps lit surroundings well enough for Jack to see the last bit of life leave Mendoza's body.

Jack's eyes gazed over towards Mendoza's chest and he was transfixed on the blood rushing through Mendoza's blue and white Caribbean shirt. Blood flowed over the edges of the brass knife guard, forming a crimson pool beside him. Mendoza's dark Cuban completion contrasted his white three day old whiskered face, which grew pale as his life was escaping his body. His thick purpling lips opened and were lined with dark red bubbles popping and oozing in his mouth as his hands slowly stroked the elk horn handle, now firmly affixed into his heaving chest. The breathing chest wound gave a low gurgling and then ticking sound, as if someone were letting air out of a tire in short bursts...then nothing.

Jack felt the overwhelming sensation of nausea come over him as he leaned against a rusting fifties era Ford pickup truck painted in faded sea foam green. In the bed of the truck empty chicken coops were stacked high, providing a moment of camouflage from what had just occurred. Jack stood there shaking while trying to catch his breath, picking and brushing out small pebbles that imbedded their way into his knee caps.

Jack felt bleeding scrapes dripping droplets of blood from his elbows and face. While gathered his thoughts and thanked God that he had granted him safety from Mendoza's blade. Jack would have to find his way back to the yacht, make his way to the quiet seaport and remain undetected. Not knowing if his friends would still be there, if his friend's son made it on board, or if they were captured. Not to mention how would he ever explain this to his wife?

Filled with new life and desperation Jack staggered his way through the shadows of the night and dodged the light of street lamps. Relieved that his fight to the death with Mendoza hadn't drawn a crowd, not even the slightest bit of curiosity from an unknown passerby, on a muggy March night in the city of Baracoa, Cuba.

* * *

The Bay of Pigs Invasion - The beach was bloody as smoke rose in the distance. Hiding along the beach head in the woods was not a strategy for survival, but it was the strategy of the moment. Three days of absolute horror. Mishaps turned into disaster and then promises of an airstrike faded as did the hope of escape. Invasión de Bahía de Cochinos, The Bay of Pigs Invasion was a colossal failure.

Brigade 2506 was either killed or in the process of being captured with fleeting hope that any kind of support at all would be coming to turn this loss into a salvage operation. CIA Black Operations Officer Oscar Johnson hid in the shadows as he watched the entire operation and his tireless years of work end in failure. It was agonizing to watch. The pressure that he was always able to block out was building in his mind and affecting his ability to compartmentalize the chaos around him. Escape or suicide were the only options creeping into Johnson's mind as he looked at his side arm with glowing, calming comfort. His handgun was the one thing that could provide the form of escape he currently desired.

So many unanswered questions ran through Johnson's mind as he was watching members of the Brigade 2506 dragged to capture or being executed at close range. Johnson laid helpless as the firm steel of his side arm started feeling more and more comfortable.

The end of his pistol tasted bitter in his mouth from three days of use. The smell of gun powder and burning flesh filled the air, but never the less he bit down on the barrel as his finger massaged the trigger. A wash of anger flowed into his mind, unanswered questions of why they didn't receive any support. How could they be left stranded? This invasion was the work of two United States Presidential Administrations. One failed attempt for democracy and another to end a communist threat just ninety miles from US shores.

The steel of the pistol started to rattle against Johnson's teeth as nerves and rage circulated through his body and mind. Johnson's finger slowly pressed against the trigger as his eyes scanned across the beach. Something was coming into view. José Alfredo Pérez San Román, commander of the Brigade 2506 ground troops and one of his field commanders, suddenly came running into sight. Both running to escape with their lives as they were being chased by several of Castro's revolutionary soldiers. Johnson pulled the pistol out of his mouth and began shooting to provide cover for their escape. As one of Castro's soldier's approached, Johnson fired his pistol. The head of the unknown revolutionary soldier exploded into a cherry red blood spray, and then suddenly the other soldiers ended their chase and dove for cover.

It was April 20, 1961 as the lone three US invaders ran deep into the jungle and swamps with nothing but deepening mental scars and the fleeting hope that the US Government would come to save their hides.

Chapter 1

Two Days before the streets of Cuba

LOWELL - Jack opened the cover to his antique humidor, which was often one of his favorite parts of the day. Usually after dinner, when the family started to settle down into their routine, he embarked upon an evening ritual of cleaning up the dishes and getting ready for the next day. An unseasonably warm evening in March awaited his arrival, perfect for a long walk, time to unwind and enjoy a fine cigar. The difference between a long walk and a short stroll was dependent upon the quality and taste of his evening cigar. Jack never really settled on a favorite brand, but he often smoked an affordable Te-Amo and cherished the rare evenings, such as this one, where he could enjoy a rare treat...the Double Corona Montecristo.

Jack slipped off the crackling cellophane wrapper and raised the fine Dominican cigar to his nose. He slowly slid the natural Connecticut wrapper ever so gently under his nostrils, which brought forth visions of fine craftsman and proud people tending to their craft. Perhaps Jack was falling prey to the nostalgic image of peasant girls carefully rolling cigars between their firm thighs, in a rich Cuban tobacco field. So as to deliver one of the finest pleasures of life...a Dominican Montecristo in a box of twenty-five.

Jack discovered his gold leafed cigar cutter within the deep recesses of the left breast pocket of his old military field jacket. Rummaging through the pocket he gripped the cutter and slipped it through his fingers, gently clipping the head of the fine cigar. He placed the fine Toro sized cigar to his lips, rolling it in his mouth and gently resting his teeth on the cigar, feeling its perfectly humidified texture. In his hand he held his trusty silver chromed Zippo lighter. The lighter bearing the inscription GOOD FRIENDS 1997, was a memento from the best man of his wedding.

Jack tied on his worn white New Balance sneakers and zipped up his old olive drab green boot-camp jacket. Kneeling down he kissed his little girls and then his wife Donna on the cheek, before quickly exiting through the back door. Lighting the foot of the Double Corona, Jack puffed and drew an even and steady stoke. Billows of cigar smoke formed a cloud over his head. Gently blowing on the lighted tip, he gazed upon glowing embers of tobacco as hot sparks of ash flew into the wind of the evening air. The first puffs of smoke from the Montecristo began his nightly walk as if it were the remnant signal smoke of a starting pistol.

Jack walked the same route through his neighborhood night after night, but for whatever reason this night would be different. The air warm, the weather misty and the road dimly lit. Cloud cover eliminated the chances of gazing upon the evening stars. The usual weather of Lowell, Massachusetts in March was cold and raw, not warm and wet. A mist, almost a fog, covered the sky and yet the moon shone through as if it where the sun peeping on the end of a murky sky. A wonderful evening set perfectly for a guy named Jack Bennett, a chap with unassuming tastes seeking a simple calm existence, who wandered about the streets enjoying life and his great cigar.

The Highland streets of Lowell, Massachusetts, were neighborhoods constructed of new and older homes. Many homes on the streets of the Highlands were colonials of the same early 1900's era and style. The homes were comforting new and old occupants, through their lifetimes, witnessing heartaches, breakups, good times and bad. The neighborhood was a familiar place of many years ago, a place you'd see in any town, anywhere, but now a rare jewel in the ordinary activities of life amongst the newer developments that had cropped up in mainstream suburbia throughout the Merrimack Valley.

The Highlands area of Lowell was a neighborhood of poorly lit, but friendly connecting streets. Every dwelling had a story and every parcel of land had a tale or nook to explore. These pleasures were easy tools for diverting ones attention from the trials of life and an escape from the mundane. History whispered through these Highland streets with slight touches of improvements made with raised sidewalks on main streets and familiar rugged walkways on side streets.

In Jack's mind the enjoyment a fine cigar could bring to an evening walk was immeasurable. A regular evening walk with a cigar began some time ago for Jack when his new hobby, became a pleasurable fresh habit. A relationship with a great fiend, fifty plus years his senior...Andy Cursio, initiated Jack into his new routine. Both friends from different eras enjoying a tradition of wagering one premium cigar, whose fate rested on the winners and losers of Sunday's great games...NFL football.

The wager was a prize of one premium cigar of any kind... week to week. The competitive nature of the bet often brought on a life of its own. Andy and Jack wagered cigars as if thousands of dollars were at stake. Good-natured ribbing and a constant feel of camaraderie enhanced the pleasure surrounding the bet and of course...the win or loss of a fine cigar. Andy and Jack would rate their winnings A-plus through F-minus, the winner's cigar always obtaining a full extra grade, due to the fact it was a winner.

Jack's regular evening walk and nightly cigar became a necessary tool in his ability to release the daily pressures in life. He walked slowly, enjoying every step while walking past the Highland houses. Porch lights were flipped on and frost heaves formed from the sudden change in temperature of cold to warm. Black chunks of pavement gave way to the formation of potholes. Trash barrels lined the streets waiting to be emptied by large blue garbage trucks the next day. The last of the distant autumn's leaves clung to bare branches and occasionally wisped by the light of a street lamp or headlight of an oncoming car. Once in a while Jack would come across a stranger walking their dog, but the moments were rare this time of year as he got lost in the peaceful walkways, puffing away on his Montecristo and deep in thought.

Every night...this night the same, Jack would reflect upon the daily events and future aspirations of his life. Jack often spent time rummaging through memories of his life while examining his cigar for its length of ash, rating the ease of the drag and deciding if it did or didn't satisfy his taste buds in comparison to a Montecristo. Jack was a true cigar aficionado. The Montecristo known for its consistent nature, reliability, quality of the brand was most definitely the undisputable champ of its class. Puffing throughout the walk, planning, plotting and reasoning with himself on a course of action or new direction he would choose to make the following day.

Many evenings while in thought, a noise or flicker of light from a window uncovered by shade or curtain would attract his attention. The military training from Jack's younger days, prevented him from ignoring signs of motion around him. Night after night Jack took the same route, but this evening he reversed and diverted from routine and found himself looking at familiar territory from a different angle.

The church bells from St. Margaret's Parish rang through the air, a distant echo of a strong iron bell that proclaimed the hour of change. A fine evening mist coated his jacket and face. The air was still cool, but humid as the streets became nameless, while he walked past home after home. The trees along the road were giant arms that arched over and above the power lines, some five maybe six feet thick, two or three hundred years old, roots splitting the corners of the sidewalks. Seemingly this all fit into place for this kind of city and back street neighborhood.

He ambled past Highland homes with beautiful lawns in the summer that now looked like a neglected ghost town from a long winter's season. Walkways to doors that held a simple sign of welcome, porches with swings, sunrooms with screens... all at peace and settled for the evening. A throw back night in a neighborhood with a nineteen forties feel, beautiful and especially quiet. Especially quiet on most nights....

* * *

Dallas, TX 1963 - Dallas was just plain warm, even for late October. A bit desolate and lonely for any out of town strangers. Two young men, crew cuts, khaki pants and short cotton shirts, strolling into Carousel Club during a weeknight would not be uncommon, in particular for out of towner's looking for a goodtime. What else was their really to do in downtown Dallas for a couple guys in their early twenties? Women would be on the menu for most men looking for a little fun.

The two young men were Oscar Johnson and his new partner Harry Swanson who were working for the CIA. Both were sent to Dallas for the purposes of investigating leads of information pertaining to a potential threat to the President of the United States. President John F. Kennedy was expected to take a trip to Dallas within weeks. Following these kinds of far-fetched leads regarding death threats to the President were not uncommon. Usually these investigations were conducted by the FBI, but in this case the CIA has a vested interest, because of a connection to a particular threat that appeared to have a CUBAN connection.

Oscar Johnson had survived the beaches of the invasion of the Bay of Pigs. He certainly had his point of view of the Invasion, but was openly pro-Kennedy after understanding the circumstances that played out. Johnson a young covert officer in both the CIA and the United States Navy with field experience that was up close and personal, a valuable commodity to both Departments. Johnson was proving he could easily maneuver between the two.

Harry Swanson was much younger than Johnson and a green officer in the United States Air Force. Johnson's protégé in many respects, however, he lacked actual field experience, but proved to be highly intelligent and in control of his emotions, both elements that the CIA and the United State Air Force learned to appreciate. Swanson demonstrated a keen ability to execute direct orders to a finite detail, a trait which was useful in any situation.

The Carousel Club was a seedy little joint with huge lit signs outside the club flashing Girls, Girls, Girls, Burlesque and COME IN! Inside chairs and tables were spattered about as younger to middle aged women sauntered around asking customers for drinks or were up on stage performing to the latest musical number.

Jack Ruby was the owner and made himself as high profile as most of his top dancers. Desperately Ruby wanted to be seen as a playboy, but had the looks of an uncertain slippery half assed mobster with a quirky smile, balding slicked back hair, long thick nose and squinty eyes. Always well dressed as to play the man in charge or in a moment's notice, the stage handler. Known to the girls as being extremely kind or as mean as a bulldog depending on his mood or situation. A bit unstable, his signature hair trigger temper would often flash with either something a dancer did or wouldn't do for a customer.

Ruby and his club were well known to local law enforcement types at all levels. Jack was the man who always seemed to be in-the-know or had relationships that were always up for sale. Ruby walked on a blurred line of the law and the mob. He was the connection between the two worlds and reveled in the relationships he established. So when Johnson and Swanson walked through the door, they knew who to see for information. Making contact with Ruby would be a valuable tool for finding out who possibly was out to kill the President of the United States.

Chapter 2

LAWRENCE - The City of Lawrence, Massachusetts was another mill city built in the late 1800's during the tail end of the Industrial Revolution, similar to Lowell and its sister city in many respects. Lawrence was a city equally rich and steeped in history, but had not reaped the rewards its sister city had some twenty miles south. Lowell had gained the bounties of economic renewal, where Lawrence hadn't. Many years of economic blight and poor leadership led to the urban decline of Lawrence. Lawrence a historical gem of canal ways and clock towers, had become a city ravaged by crime ranging from drug trafficking to auto theft and became the number one city in America for auto insurance fraud.

Despite all that Lawrence didn't have going for itself, it did have one advantage... a massive immigrant population that took advantage of cheap housing and was the new home of many Spanish speaking immigrants. As the years went by, the City of Lawrence would become dominated by a seventy five percent Spanish speaking population. Brick built neighborhoods of apartments and housing projects that were led by people who commanded respect and enforced justice within their own domains, without the help of the local police. It was common place that the average citizen would often fear the police more than the gangs who occupied the streets.

Dalia Castillo, a Cuban refugee who fled her native country in the late seventies, landed in Miami and then made her way to Lawrence. A brilliant woman who was passionate about the United States and fanatical about what it stood for...freedom. Dalia now forty nine maintained an attractive figure and sported a short fiery red haircut, while consistently wearing tight designer blue jeans and snug paisley shirts that accentuated her large breasts. Her cleavage bustled out of her shirt and was often decorated with large gold braided chains. Her face always seemed vibrant, her lips painted in bright red lipstick that glistened in the sunlight. All these features were highlighted by her thick rimmed large black plastic sunglasses, studded with fake diamonds and rubies that covered her large beautiful brown eyes. Dalia had impeccably manicured fingernails that were only outdone by a weekly pedicure of painted toenails gleaming like a kaleidoscope.

The days of Fidel Castro ruling her homeland had to come to a swift end in Dalia's opinion. Too many years of oppression and Communist rule had taken away everything good she remembered