The boat’s skipper was picking at some peeling paint when Lee joined him on deck. “She needs a little attention,” he said. “But she’s a hell of a vessel.”
“I think she’s perfect.” Lee walked up to the prow and then gazed back. “Bigger than I expected too.”
The skipper nodded. “She’s big, all right. ’Bout one hundred and sixty foot, give or take.” He walked up to the main mast and gave it a hearty slap. “Twenty-four foot beam too, but she’ll still reach sixteen knots in good weather.
“That fast?”
“Sure,” said the captain. “Once we’re done refitting, at least. There’s something else I think you’ll like.” He brought Lee down to the engine room and pointed to a bronze plaque.
He leaned in to get a better look. “1890?”
“Yep. Saw service in the Spanish–American war. Part of the mosquito fleet sent to blockade Cuba.”
Lee knocked on the plating that surrounded the engine room.
“Navy must have put that in,” said the skipper. “It was added after she was built.”
Back up on deck, Lee spotted two men in trench coats leaning against their automobile. One of them was scribbling something down—probably the name of the boat. He turned to the captain. “Sam tell you about these guys?”
He chuckled and saluted the agents. “Don’t worry, Lee.” He clapped him on the back. “I wouldn’t give them the steam off my piss.”
Lee guffawed, hiding his relief. There were too many moving parts for his liking. Too many people who could spill with the right incentive. Or pressure. He stared down the agents, cracking his knuckles.
There was no point in them hiding their work. The constant shadow of the Secret Service proved the authorities knew what they were planning—not that it was hard to deduce, given the failed revolution some weeks back. The government took an extremely dim view of anyone launching a rebellion from US soil. Using an American-flagged vessel to target a friendly country would bring a strong reaction from Washington. But as far as anyone watching was concerned, Lee was a private citizen refitting a boat. And that was all.
After quizzing Captain Johnson about repairs, he took the streetcar back into town, tailed the entire way by the two agents. They parked outside as Lee entered Remy Klock’s saloon; and they still sat there while he walked right through the bar and out the back door. When he got to Basin Street, he wanted to make sure he’d shaken the tail, so he walked right past Bonilla’s place until he caught up with a newspaper boy. With the paper folded under his arm, Lee doubled back and spotted the tail on the other side of the street. Screw it, he thought, and went up to Bonilla’s door anyway.
Half an hour later, Lee and Bonilla walked around the corner from Basin to Conti. As they passed the long row of dollar cribs, Lee could tell Bonilla was still apprehensive. He quickened his pace until they reached a bigger structure at the end of the street. He’d memorized the address from an ad in the Sunday Sun—No. 1304, a brothel run by Madame May Evans, which promised to be quieter than those on the main drag. A group of kids lounged at the entrance, peddling marijuana cigarettes, three for a dime. Lee scattered them with a glare and strode up the steps. The door opened before he could knock, and after a quick glance at Bonilla, he pushed inside.
Bonilla’s brow furrowed as he took in the gaudy interior.
“It’s perfect,” Lee said, trying to reassure him. He handed a bill to the waiting Madame. “We just want a quiet place to talk.”
She folded the note into her corset and led them into an adjoining room that was more muted than the parlor, if you ignored the gallery of nudes adorning the walls. “Will this do?”
Lee walked to the window and peered through the curtains at a perfect view of the street. He could see the two agents scoping out the building, one of them again taking notes.
“It’s perfect,” he said.
After the Madame left, Bonilla said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple. Those agents are gonna be on our tail no matter what. I tried shaking one today, and he picked up the scent in minutes. These guys are pros. Guy might have been right. US Treasury agents. Makes sense, anyways.”
“What does this mean for the plan?”
“We change nothing,” Lee said, sitting in one of the plush armchairs and indicating for Bonilla to do likewise. “They’re watching all of us, even Guy. They know about the boat. And they’ve probably figured out what we’re up to.”
Bonilla sat down, finally, and sighed.
“There’s more,” said Lee. “Guy told me some newspapermen have been asking questions.”
Bonilla let out a string of curses as Lee continued. “Now, we’re probably going to get a lot of press attention. The government might be leaking the story themselves, getting more eyes and ears on us, seeing what the muckrakers can shake loose.”
“You think anyone will talk?”
“I’m working on the assumption everyone will talk. This is a hot story. JP Morgan angling to buy up all the Honduran debt while putting the taxpayer on the hook for insurance. Everyone with two nickels to rub together suddenly has skin in the game—and they ain’t backing our side.”
They sat in silence for a moment until the Madame opened the door and slipped inside. “Sorry to interrupt your business, gentlemen, but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Go on,” said Lee.
“Fella came in. Fierce interested in joining you two.”
“What you tell him?”
She smiled. “Private party.”
Lee took out another bill, but she shook her head. “That one’s on me. Never liked cops.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Shoes,” she said. “Can always tell by the shoes.”
“Do me a favor,” Lee said. “Let him in next time. I’d prefer to keep him in plain sight.”
She nodded and grasped the door handle behind her. “Fetch you boys a drink?”
“That would be lovely, ma’am.”
Lee turned back to Bonilla, noting the confused look on his face. “I’ll explain in a minute,” he said. “But before I forget, fill me in on Davíla.”
Bonilla snapped his fingers. “Yes, the people are mad. They think he’s selling the country off to the yanquis.”
“That’s what I wanted to ask,” said Lee. “What’s JP Morgan getting for clearing all those loans?”
“The customs houses.”
“A percentage?”
“No,” said Bonilla. “Running them directly.”
Lee chuckled. “No wonder Sam is so keen to knock Davíla off.” He thought for a moment. “Does he have the votes to push through the treaty?”
“It’s hard to say. He and Sierra have a lot of influence. But with revolutions breaking out all over the country, everyone is watching his own back.”
“Is there a chance Davíla will just ditch the treaty? Because if he does, Sam’s backing will evaporate.”
“He can’t,” said Bonilla. “His credibility depends on the treaty’s passage. He sought it, he backed it, and he needs the money for his project. If that trans–oceanic railway doesn’t get built, Davíla will get destroyed in the next election.”
The Madame knocked and entered, leaving the door slightly ajar. “You boys must be getting thirsty. She clapped, and two scantily clad girls entered, bearing drinks. Lee saw Bonilla grin, but he shook his head, intercepting the cocktails. The Madame clapped her hands again and the girls scurried to the door, one stopping to pout at Lee.
He gave her a little wave of his hand. “Promise to be a little friendlier tomorrow night,” he said. The Madame nodded and left.
“Tomorrow night?” asked Bonilla, arching an eyebrow.
Lee passed him his drink. “Oh, yeah. So here’s the rest of the plan.”
51
For the next three weeks, while the Hornet was being refitted, Lee, Bonilla, and Molony whiled away their evenings carousing in The District, which some were now calling Storyville, after the lawmaker who
se legislation had created it. In an attempt to halt the spread of prostitution into every sector of the city, the council had designated a twelve-block area north of the French Quarter as a legal red-light district. In local parlance, it was a place where patrons of sporting emporiums could enjoy themselves without interference from the law.
Each night, the Treasury agents would dutifully tail Lee and his companions into Storyville and post a man outside the brothel. Lee ensured these ostentatious sessions would run late into the night, noting that the agents would often quit when the drinking got heavy or if it looked like things would go on until dawn.
The refitting of the Hornet was complete by mid-December, and she began loading up cargo immediately. Agents openly searched each shipment, finding nothing but coal. The Paredes–Knox treaty was getting a lot of press attention, as was anything that was seen as affecting its passage, especially Lee Christmas, Manuel Bonilla, and the Hornet. The Honduran embassy protested again and again that the boat was to be used in an attempt to overthrow their government, and demanded that US authorities seize the ship. But the agents couldn’t uncover any evidence of suspicious activity. On December 20, the skipper of the Hornet, Charles Johnson, finally received permission to clear the port. The vessel meandered the ninety-mile stretch toward the Gulf—agents following her all the way downstream and out to sea before they were satisfied.
The following evening, when Molony returned home from work as usual, his sister passed on a short telephone message from Christmas: Tell Guy it’s tonight.
Molony said nothing. He went to his room, packed his belongings, and returned to the kitchen with a note for his mother. The plant owes me eight dollars, he wrote. I won’t be here to collect. He left to meet Bonilla and Christmas at the corner of Canal and Royal.
* * *
The agents had doubled their watch—probably extra suspicious now they had found nothing on the Hornet. Lee, Molony, and Bonilla were tailed right to the door of May Evans’s sporting emporium, where they had frittered away the past few weeks. As soon as they were inside the parlor, Lee summoned a boy and took him to the front window. They peered out the shutters. “See those three.” He pointed across the street. “The ones walking real slow, pretending not to look this way.”
“I see ’em,” said the kid.
Lee pressed a coin into his hand. “Keep an eye on them. If they quit watching this place, come back and tell me straightaway.”
Soon after the boy left, a stranger entered. Lee raised an eyebrow at Molony, who gave a curt nod. Bonilla’s eyes narrowed.
Good, Lee thought, they’ve pegged him too.
Bonilla sprang into action, ordering champagne for everyone. Lee set a fierce pace, chugging back glass after glass, whereas Molony, after a long day at his regular laboring stint, needed only a couple before he was soundly asleep in the corner.
Lee could see he would have to shoulder most of the burden for keeping this party going, but there was no better man. He drank and danced, and flirted with the girls. Bonilla ordered bottle after bottle. Lee drank glass after glass. In the corner, Bonilla clapped his hands along to the tinny, mechanical piano, which he kept feeding quarters. “Muy alegre amigos! Muy alegre!”
The party continued past midnight, the music and dancing increasing in intensity. By two-thirty, the stranger was done and made an abrupt exit looking like he was about to puke. Once he had cleared the building, the party ground to an abrupt halt. Lee waited anxiously by the door, watching as the agents got into their cars and drove away. A few minutes later, the boy reappeared.
“I was right on the corner where they were waiting,” the kid said. “The man that was in here now came over and said this was just another of those drunken parties they’ve been having. He said he was sick and tired of it, that you ain’t going nowhere tonight. Then they all hightailed it.”
Lee paid the boy and returned to the parlor. Bonilla looked at him hopefully. Lee said nothing, instead reaching into his pocket for a puro and taking his sweet time lighting it. He smiled. “Well, compadre, I’ve heard of rags to riches, but this here’s the first time I’ve head of someone going from the whorehouse to the White House.”
52
Lee shook Guy awake. “It’s time,” he said. As Bonilla settled the bill, Lee spied out the shutter once more. He turned to his companions. “Cars are outside.”
Molony and Lee piled into the second car, gripping each other as it took off at an almighty pace, bouncing along the rutted streets on the way north to Lake Pontchartrain. Lee pulled himself forward and hollered in the driver’s ear. “You sure this thing is safe?”
The driver laughed in response, as a pothole sent Lee flying into Molony’s lap.
Guy grimaced. “I’m none too crazy about this either.”
They made their way beyond the city limits, up to where Bayou St. John entered the lake, and the driver slowed a touch. He leaned back to look at them. “First time in an automobile?” They nodded. “Can always tell,” he said.
But something else was bothering Lee. Nearby was the old Spanish Fort. He thought back to the day he had spent on the surrounding fairground. Kissing Mamie on the Ferris Wheel. Goofing around at the shooting gallery. Both of them filling the silence with nervous chatter, both scared and anxious about their planned elopement.
He hung his head.
“There it is,” said Molony, elbowing him in the ribs. The car skidded to a halt, its headlights illuminating a boat: Sam Zemurray’s private yacht, which would ferry them to their maritime rendezvous with the Hornet. The banana magnate and sponsor of this revolution was already aboard, dressed in the simple garb of a deckhand. He waved at their automobile and drew a finger across his throat. The driver cut the lights.
Molony helped Lee from the back seat and steadied him as he tried to find his feet. For a second, Lee thought he was going to puke. All those bubbles sloshing around in his stomach had become a dagger stabbing at his intestines. But after a couple of deep breaths, he straightened up. When Lee was a few steps away from the car, it revved its engine and sped away, spraying dust and dirt and fumes. That time, he did puke.
“Now I’m glad I dozed off,” said Molony, stepping onto the boat. Lee wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. After making sure they weren’t tailed, Sam Zemurray introduced his brother, already at the wheel of the yacht, and they cast off as soon as Lee sat down, Sam’s brother sailing the yacht out across Lake Pontchartrain. They turned east toward The Rigolets, where they watched the sun rise over breakfast, before turning in for a well-earned nap.
It was dusk before they reached Ship Island, off the coast of Biloxi, dropping anchor on the Gulf side, where the island shielded them from any prying eyes on the mainland. After dinner, they took turns keeping watch, but the Hornet never showed. When the sun rose on December 24, they cast anchor and crossed to the mainland, knowing the Hornet wouldn’t attempt another rendezvous until nightfall. Zemurray went ashore, alone, to provision the boat, having warned Lee and Bonilla to keep below deck. Their photographs had graced enough newspapers recently. While he was gone, the rest turned to poker to occupy their minds. As Lee dealt the first hand, with a puro clenched between his teeth, he chuckled when he realized their table was a case of rifles. He was less happy when Bonilla walked away with the pot.
After the sun set, Zemurray’s brother maneuvered the boat out toward the back of Ship Island. Lee stared out at the horizon.
“Don’t worry, she’ll come.” A voice came from behind him. It was Zemurray. “If she knew she wasn’t going to make it here before dawn, she would have turned back. She’ll come, though. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Lee lit up another puro. “It will be a sorry Christmas if she doesn’t.” By the time the vessel rounded the western tip of Ship Island, Molony and Bonilla had joined them on deck. Zemurray let out a whoop, pointing at the signaling lights of the Hornet, some twelve miles distant, safely in international waters.
They pulled
alongside and began transferring boxes of rifles and ammunitions. Once the munitions were stored safely in the hold of the Hornet, the banana magnate made his goodbyes, wishing the men luck.
“I’ve bet the farm on you,” he said, removing his jacket and passing it over the rail to Bonilla, who shivered in the icy December wind. “I might as well bet the coat too.”
* * *
Lee tried to get some sleep while the Hornet cut across the Gulf of Mexico, envious that Molony had dozed off instantly, and Bonilla too. Lee just didn’t feel tired. His body ached, but his brain was working through all the permutations of the next few weeks. All of the plans of attack. All of the things that could still go wrong.
He must have dozed off at some point, for when he awoke, their sleeping area was already bathed in light. Scratching his stubbly chin, he sat up and pulled on his boots. He stretched, slowly, yawning all the while, and then went up on deck. Captain Johnson turned from the wheel and nodded, taking a swig from his mug.
“Don’t suppose that’s coffee,” said Lee.
The captain shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t you know what day it is?”
“Uh.” Lee counted his fingers. Before he could figure it out, a groan came from below: Molony and Bonilla getting up. The captain checked the horizon and then clapped Lee on the back. “Let’s go down to the others. There’s something I want to show you.”
As Bonilla stretched and Molony rubbed his eyes, Captain Johnson dug around in the hold. “I had to hide it away. Couldn’t risk you finding it.” He carried a keg into the center of the room, already tapped. “But I couldn’t help myself this morning.” Molony and Lee grinned at each other.
“Merry Christmas,” said the captain.
Lee chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He eyed the captain. “Hope you’ve got more than one mug.”
53
The Hornet docked out of sight of the Guatemalan authorities at Bahia Graciosa, reuniting with the Centinella, which had been passing as a fishing boat during their absence. Lee glowered when he saw it; he was sure it was jinxed. Bonilla ignored him and sent for the arms and men at Livingston. As soon as the machine guns arrived, Molony set up a lantern so he could work through the night. He wanted to strip and reassemble each piece before their first engagement; it would be dawn before he was done.
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