Boyd squirmed free, his face flushed. “What’s your problem?”
“You swore you wouldn’t say nuthin’.”
“I didn’t!”
“I sure didn’t tell no one else.”
Boyd raised an eyebrow. “How much do you actually remember from last night?”
Lee’s heart sank.
It didn’t take long for word to trickle back to Guatemala City that their new agent was being indiscreet.
25
Lee’s intelligence career was over before it really began. He was jettisoned by the Guatemalans and cut off from his new funds, but he wasn’t sore at them. He knew they had to distance themselves from the newspaper stories; the United States Government took a dim view of any revolution organized on their soil—unless sanctioned by the White House, he supposed. But he was angry with himself for screwing up yet another opportunity by acting like a damn fool.
He went back to scrabbling around for any kind of paying work, desperate to make good on his promise to support his children, especially after letting his newfound fortune slip through his fingers. He managed to get some laboring over in Chalmette Harbor, just east of downtown New Orleans. Instead of being frustrated, he took pride in having some tough manual work again, earning his keep by the sweat of his brow. But then a letter arrived from Memphis. Divorce papers from Mamie. Although Lee was heartbroken, he recognized his failure as a father and husband, and he assented.
Mamie was four hundred miles north, yet Lee was anxious to put even more distance between them. When he walked down Bourbon Street, listening to the brass bands play on every street corner, all he could think about was the day he and Mamie had eloped. Passing by the station on the way to Remy Klock’s saloon, all he could think about was the wreck. And when he drowned his sorrows, all he could think about were the many chances he’d let slip through his fingers.
So when he received word that the Honduran government had put out an amnesty, Lee was keen to take advantage, despite remaining a little wary of their motives. Any lingering suspicions were put to rest when he heard that the Hondurans thought it best to keep prospective revolutionaries in plain sight, rather than having them enjoy the largesse of Guatemala and potentially being prodded into action from abroad.
The following week, Lee decided to abandon Louisiana for the Tropics once more, setting sail for Puerto Cortés. He was soon back at the throttle of his toy train, winding up the mountains to San Pedro’s ice factory and hauling bananas from the ever-expanding plantations. In June, he sent Mamie the fifty dollars she needed to finalize the divorce, along with a heartfelt letter wishing her all the best for her future and promising anew to support their children and visit them when he could.
This time, he was determined to keep that promise.
26
Lee soon settled down in more ways than one. Within a year, he remarried—a local beauty from Puerto Cortés by the name of Magdalena Talbot—and was determined to make a go of it and divest himself of his bad habits. He still visited the cantinas, reveling in the telling and retelling of war stories. But he avoided the attentions of the putas, and he never let slip his previous entanglements with the Guatemalan intelligence service, figuring the amnesty would be a little less comprehensive if that got out.
His former reputation as a ladies’ man was something of a sticking point, Magdalena never fond of the whispers that trailed them as they took the evening air. Lee was desperate to make things work, however, so he gave up his steady railroad job when a business opportunity cropped up in Choloma—a small town ten miles shy of San Pedro Sula. The owner of a general store was seeking to retire, so had put a share of the business on the market for a discount—on the condition that the new investor take on the day-to-day running of the place. Lee hemmed and hawed, unsure whether he wanted to leave the coast, but Magdalena insisted.
In Choloma, he slipped into a more sedate existence. He diligently built up the general store’s business, making full use of the contacts he’d established through the railroad and the friends he’d made in the cantinas. Knowing his old train was often half empty, Lee was able to come to an arrangement with his replacement. Reduced freight costs allowed Lee to undercut the competition; soon, he was even peeling trade away from more-established stores in San Pedro Sula. Magdalena gave birth to two girls—Leah and Juanita—adding a bustling household to a thriving business concern. But no sooner was the picture of domestic bliss complete before it all fell apart.
In later days, Lee would realize he remarried too soon, that the love he thought he felt for Magdalena was mere infatuation, and that he wasn’t ready for the quiet life. But at the time, all he knew was that his demons had gotten the better of him, and he was chasing tail once more. This time, a blonde caught his eye—an Italian down in Puerto Cortés, named Adelaide Caruso. Once their affair became public, Lee begged Magdalena for a divorce.
She refused to budge.
27
Choloma was a small town, and Lee wasn’t hard to find. If you had a bone to pick with him, a quick tour of the cantinas would find him holding forth over whiskey cocktails, his booming voice filling the room. His prodigious appetite for liquor and women had won him many friends and admirers, but plenty of enemies too. At thirty-seven years of age, he had already survived two attempts on his life. At first, the bullet that grazed his cheek in the cantina was considered a stray—a fortuitous escape from some drunken fool discharging his weapon in the street. But when he was struck down with a mystery illness, Lee began to suspect something more sinister. Only the intervention of San Pedro’s sole gringo doctor saved his life, the physician quickly identifying the poison coursing through Lee’s veins and procuring the necessary antidote.
Lee promised the doctor he’d be more careful, since it was clear someone had his number, but it wasn’t like he could hide away. He had a business to run, and the sole respite from his disintegrating marriage was the cantina. And anyway, he had simply crossed too many people to avoid them all—too many wronged lovers, too many cuckolded husbands. The only way he’d get a bead on who was trying to kill him was if he acted like normal and tried to flush them out.
He wasn’t stupid, though. Before he began showing his face in public again, Lee finally accepted an offer from his old adversary Terencio Sierra, who was now ensconced in the Presidential Palace in Tegucigalpa. Sierra’s henchmen didn’t seem to want much, just an occasional report on the rabble-rousers of the plantations, eyes and ears on anyone trying to sow discontent or rekindle revolutionary sentiments. Seeing as the Guatemalans had dropped him like a hot potato, and no one was really up to anything, Lee figured it was harmless. A little extra money on the side, and maybe someone he could count on to have his back.
Some of the new business Lee helped build up came from a curious source. Lee’s gringo doctor, he discovered, came from a settlement of former Confederate officers that had sprung up on the outskirts of San Pedro. Most of them had fled the South at the end of the Civil War. Fearing reprisals, they had instead brought their families to Honduras to start a new life.
A couple of months after the attempted poisoning, Lee was in his usual spot: propping up the bar of the cantina, cracking jokes, accosting newcomers, and flirting with every woman in the joint. The bartender caught his attention, telling him someone wanted to see him out back to talk privately. Lee assumed it was a mission from Sierra—orders were rarely written down, with intermediaries used to pass messages instead. He made his apologies and slipped out the side door.
He was immediately greeted by a shotgun blast.
Lee screamed and fell back, clutching his chest in agony. He tried to prop himself up on one elbow, desperate to gain purchase on the muddy ground so he could turn and flee, but he was already too weak. He slumped against the wall of the cantina, blood bubbling at his lips as he tried to call for help. The shooter stepped forward into the light, showing his face for the first time. He was just a kid, as frightened as Lee.
His han
ds trembled as he reloaded his weapon. Lee shook his head, silently pleading with his assailant. The gunman raised eyes wide with terror. He steadied himself. He took aim. And he pulled the trigger.
28
Dr. Sydenham Waller had established a decent practice tending to the increasing number of foreigners in San Pedro Sula, and his renown as a surgeon had spread. Late one night, a messenger bearing an urgent message rushed up to the doctor’s house: a gringo had been shot. The boy told him the handcar was waiting to take the injured man up to Choloma. Dr. Waller grabbed his kit and hurried out the door.
When Dr. Waller saw the damage two shotgun blasts had wrought on Lee Christmas, he feared the patient was beyond even his restorative skills. The local doctor had done what he could—cutting away the patient’s clothes, cleaning the wounds, and stemming the flow of blood—but he’d never treated a gunshot victim, and he didn’t have Dr. Waller’s battlefield experience. The doctor set his kit down on a bedside chair and grabbed his stethoscope. Bending over the bed, he listened carefully. Only the faintest of heartbeats was audible. Then Lee’s heart stopped altogether. The doctor snapped into action, abandoning his stethoscope and reaching into his bag for a syringe that was already loaded with nitroglycerin.
After clearing air from the syringe with a quick squirt, Dr. Waller leaned down to his patient. “Listen to me, Lee.” He slapped his face. “Focus now, come on. Come back to us.” He slapped him again, harder this time. “Listen to my voice. You’re not dead yet. You hear me?”
Dr. Waller ignored the wailing behind him, focusing on his patient. “You gotta do what I say, okay?” He watched his patient until he thought he saw a slight nod of the head. “Your bit is easy,” the doctor continued. “All you gotta do is clench your teeth.” He felt out the spot on Lee’s chest. “Clench your teeth. That’s it. Good, you can hear me. We might save you yet, damn it. Now, clench your teeth and don’t breathe. If you open your mouth now, you’re dead!”
The doctor held the syringe high in both hands, centering it on the patient’s sternum; then he jammed it down with all his strength, right into Lee’s breast. He pressed down, forcing the nitroglycerin into that poor, failing heart. The syringe discarded, Dr. Waller wiped his brow, grabbed his stethoscope, and blessed himself. As he searched for a beat, he saw his patient’s face grow redder and remembered his command. “All right, son. You can relax now. Breathe.”
Dr. Waller wasn’t sure if his words were registering, or whether the nitroglycerin had worked. But as he bent down to listen his patient’s heart once more, Lee Christmas started to breathe.
29
Forgiving his indiscretions and the shame he had brought on their family, Magdalena nursed him through his long and difficult recovery. Before his convalescence was even fully underway, however, Lee somehow managed to accost his assailant. He hobbled to the jailhouse, bribed his way inside, and beat his would-be assassin close to death with nothing more than a rock.
As soon as Lee was well enough to wander around on his own, he sold his share of the general store and went back to the coast—straight into the arms of his Italian lover, Adelaide Caruso.
Lee was boldfaced enough to again ask Magdalena for a divorce; she was sturdy enough to resist. One thing was certain: she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Under Honduran law, both parties had to consent to the dissolution of the marriage—unless there was cause, that is, and Lee’s wandering eye didn’t qualify.
Meanwhile, he was back to his carousing best. Surviving a shotgun blast to the chest only added to his allure among his circles of hangers-on in Puerto Cortés. When Lee refused the offer of his old job in the railroad, yet still had money to splash around, rumors intensified. Some suspected he was working for Sierra. But since the episode in New Orleans, Lee had learned to keep his damn mouth shut.
The rumors did his reputation no harm. Lee had little to do for his government retainer other than file the occasional report on the old revolutionaries still kicking about in Puerto Cortés. Now and then, he made journeys to Guatemala, but they involved nothing more than passing messages by backdoor channels between emissaries of the respective governments. He was happy, of course, being largely free to do what he liked, which usually involved a day of heavy drinking before falling into the arms of one of the putas who plied their trade in that deceptively busy port town. Lee felt the matrimonial bond was no impediment to such romantic interludes; Magdalena’s family, understandably, felt quite different. Everyone knew that one of her brothers was out for blood, hoping to restore the family honor by teaching the gringo a lesson.
One night, Lee joined some friends at one of the large round tables in the barroom of the Hotel Lefebvre. As soon as he hollered for a drink, Magdalena Talbot’s brother entered and took the spare seat at the table. Lee pretended to pay him no mind, and kept on talking, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a pistol on Talbot’s lap. He leaned in, on the pretense of sharing a lurid detail in his tale but actually readying himself to upturn the table should Talbot make a move. He watched his brother-in-law relax, waiting until his hand strayed from the gun. Lee then stood, still telling his story, acting out the parts, moving around the table.
All of a sudden, he lunged for Talbot.
Magdalena’s brother started in surprise, but Lee shoved him back in his chair and grabbed the pistol from his lap. Lee stood back and placed the gun on the table, keeping his eyes on his brother-in-law the whole time, then slid the weapon out of reach. Talbot slumped back in his chair.
“This is a family matter. We need to talk.” Lee pointed out into the street. “In private.”
Talbot nodded, and they both headed out the door and down the street in the direction of the wharf. Lee didn’t say anything on the walk down to the waterfront. At the pier, he turned to Magdalena’s brother, and quickly dropped his shoulder to punch Talbot in the gut. Talbot was doubled over, winded, before he even knew what was happening.
“That’s for the shotgun,” said Lee, grabbing him by the neck and forcing him to straighten up. “And don’t say you had nothing to do with it.” Lee checked his brother-in-law’s pockets for further weapons. “I beat it out of him. Damn near killed him.” He stared into Talbot’s eyes. “Probably should have too.”
Talbot went to speak, but Lee raised a hand. “If you were anyone else, you’d be dead already. But you’re family.” He let Talbot catch his breath. “I’m not going to beat you neither, though I’ve half a mind to.”
Lee shook his head and dropped down to the pier, dangling his feet over the edge. “Now that’s out of the way, let’s sit down and talk this out.”
Talbot looked surprised but nodded and sat down beside him.
“You got a right to be sore,” said Lee. “If I was in your shoes, I’d be looking for blood too.” He sighed, tossing a stone into the water. “And I feel bad for Magdalena. Never should have married her.” He turned to Talbot. “But I want to make things right.”
“How?” asked Talbot, speaking for the first time. “How will you do that? You’ve got two kids. You’ve shamed her. Ruined her life.”
Lee hung his head. “I know, and if I could change things, I would. We never should have married. She knows that too. We’ll never be happy together. It’s better for both of us if we make a clean break and start over. That much I’m sure of.” He turned to Talbot again. “What happens next is down to you … and the family. I want to set Magdalena up so she’s got nothing to worry about. So the kids are provided for.”
Talbot nodded.
“What will it take for the family to agree the divorce?”
Magdalena’s brother spread his hands.
“All right,” said Lee. “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do, but let’s get this over with. What’s it gonna cost me?”
30
Lee didn’t know whether to be excited or apprehensive when he was summoned to the capital for a meeting with his paymasters. Normally, if they had a mission for him to undertake, a messenger
would suffice. A face-to-face meeting in Tegucigalpa meant something else. At first, he worried it was something to do with his amorous escapades: that his affair with Adelaide Caruso was causing a scandal, or that his loud insistence on a divorce from Magdalena was upsetting someone. He wasn’t sure, but if they wanted shot of him, Lee figured they wouldn’t call him to the Presidential Palace just to tell him to his face. He’d be on the next steamer north. Or worse, he supposed.
He wondered if it was something to do with the upcoming election. The cantinas of Puerto Cortés were full of talk of the rumored pact between the three leading figures of the Liberal Party—considered the main reason Honduras had been undergoing a period of relative stability. Policarpo Bonilla had given way to the presidency of Terencio Sierra, and the latter was slated to step aside for Manuel Bonilla—no relation of Policarpo.
What Lee wasn’t expecting was a promotion. He was made a colonel in the army, and put on full pay, even though he wouldn’t actually be serving. Instead, his time was to be spent undertaking another job: chief of police in Tegucigalpa. While he was nominally in charge of the local police chiefs in each municipality, Lee soon discovered it was a largely ceremonial role. Previous incumbents had been ready to put out to pasture. It was a distinguished, well-paid position that was normally a thank-you for a lifetime of service and offered no real power or duties—until Lee’s real orders were handed down: whip the police force of Tegucigalpa into shape, and turn them into an elite fighting force.
Sierra had no intention of relinquishing the reins of power. He needed loyal retainers close to him, men whose bravery could stand the heat of battle. Lee soon realized his job was to build a private army, not bound to any creed or country but loyal to one man. Terencio Sierra.
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