Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  From the main floor, Tolliver was led one flight down to police headquarters. He saw that the offices here were swarming with cops, both in uniform and plainclothes, but he wasn’t taken into the area. Instead, the pair who had brought him continued along a dimly lighted, low-ceilinged hallway with holding pens on either side.

  The pens were packed with prisoners, wailing and reaching out to them through the steel bars. The men were filthy, hollow-eyed, and bearded, clothed in stinking rags. A pervasive stench of human waste, a mixture of feces, urine, and vomit, hung over them like a shroud. Compared with this place, Rikers Island was a picnic ground.

  At the end of the hallway, they came to a door guarded by another submachine gun-toting officer. He unlocked the door and Tolliver was led down a second flight of stone steps. They walked along a corridor narrower than the one above, lined with metal doors.

  Ben realized these were the dungeons that had been used by the Guardia Civil as well as the police. It was said that many of the prisoners confined here were never brought to trial at all, but were simply left to rot.

  Midway along the corridor, an officer stood outside one of the doors. He opened it and the cops led Tolliver inside.

  This was an interrogation room. It was perhaps ten by fifteen feet, the walls and floor built of granite blocks. At one end of the room, a number of uniformed men were clustered. Brilliant lights shone down from overhead and the air was thick with tobacco smoke.

  One of the men looked around at Tolliver. He was squat and wide, with gold braid on his cap and more of it on the epaulets of his tunic. Under the cap, his brown features seemed more Indian than Hispanic. Smallpox scars pitted his cheeks and his eyes were hooded like a lizard’s.

  “Welcome to Panama,” he said. “I am Captain Manuel Fuentes de Cardona. In a little while, we will go and talk.” He returned his attention to where the others were standing.

  Tolliver stepped closer and saw that the subject of the interrogation was a male prisoner sitting on a wooden chair. The man was naked and dripping sweat. His wrists and ankles were handcuffed to the chair, and on the floor beside him was a transformer with a length of wire attached to it.

  As Ben watched, one of the cops picked up the wire and held the bare end to the prisoner’s genitals. A blue spark flashed as the copper strand touched the head of the man’s penis. He howled in agony, writhing in the chair. The cop held the wire there for several seconds and then the prisoner fell unconscious, his head lolling. Another officer threw a glass of water into his face.

  Fuentes turned to Tolliver. “Here we are more efficient than you are. When we need to know something, we are very direct in our questioning. A better system, no?”

  Ben glanced at the naked wreck in the chair. The man was coughing, his eyes closed, each convulsive burst from his lungs spraying the air with a fine mist. Tolliver had no illusions as to why he’d been brought down here to witness this.

  He looked at Fuentes. “What if the suspect dies?”

  The captain shrugged. “That is an advantage of using electricity. No one can tell for sure what killed him.”

  The cop with the wire leaned toward the prisoner. “Speak up, you miserable shit, or I will shock your dick off.”

  A deep groan issued from the prisoner’s mouth and then the cop repeated the process, with the same results.

  “Come,” Fuentes said. “We’ll go to my office. Sooner or later, this scum will tell us what we want to know.”

  Tolliver followed him out the door, the two cops who’d escorted him walking close behind. They four of them went back down the corridor and then up the stairs, past the holding pens, to where the police facilities were.

  The captain’s office was large and handsomely furnished in dark wood. A collection of antique swords decorated the wall behind his desk and a Panamanian flag was hanging on the wall opposite. Fuentes gestured toward a chair across from his desk and then took his own seat. Ben sat in the chair, but the two cops remained standing behind him.

  “So,” the captain said. “This must be very important to you.”

  “It could be, or it could be nothing.”

  “The police in New York do not send a detective here if it is nothing.”

  “Then let’s hope it turns out to be worthwhile. If it doesn’t, the deal is off.”

  “How do I know if it is on? I have only the word of your Lieutenant Morales.”

  “And my word,” Ben said.

  The captain studied him with his lizard eyes. “You have to realize, information of this kind is worth a lot.”

  “As much as your brother?”

  “In Panama, it is different from your country.” His tone was derisive. “Here, our laws are based on the Napoleonic Code. We protect our citizens in all matters, including privacy. That is why this could be very dangerous—for both of us.”

  Tolliver thought of the man the police were interrogating, wondering what protection he’d been given. “Then call it, Captain. You want to make this happen, or are we wasting each other’s time?”

  “I told Morales I could get what you wanted.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “Okay. When I’m satisfied it’s genuine, I’ll give New York the word. Charges against your brother will either be reduced to a misdemeanor or thrown out altogether. Fair enough?”

  “The charges are ridiculous. Totally false. All part of a vendetta against the Panamanian people.”

  “Your move, Captain.”

  The hooded eyes were fixed on Ben’s face, not blinking. “When Banco Cafetero received the money, it was deposited into the account of Aguila Associados.”

  “What is that? Sounds like a company.”

  “It is. The man who heads it is Tomas Aguila.”

  “Who is he, and what are they?”

  “He is a businessman, an investor. Very rich, very powerful. His business is mainly import/export.”

  “I see.” In this part of the world, as in a number of others, import/export was a catchall that could cover trading in a wide range of goods—anything from legitimate commodities to drugs, arms, or people. Noriega had been in that business, dealing in all three.

  “And he’s located here, in Panama City?”

  “Yes. His offices are in the Torre Plata, which is on Paitilla Point.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “Nothing,” Fuentes said. “I have delivered what I promised. After this, you must deliver at your end. And therefore, I make you another promise.”

  The captain got up from chair and came around the desk. Stepping close to Tolliver, he drew a 9-mm Beretta from the black leather holster on his belt and jacked a round into the breech.

  He held the pistol close to Ben’s face. “If you renege on the offer for my brother, or if in any way you have deceived me, I will make sure that you are dead. No matter where you are or how long it takes, I will make sure.”

  Ben remained silent. He could see the lands and grooves in the barrel of the pistol, could see the captain’s finger tighten on the trigger. He was about one-thousandth of an inch away from getting his brains blown out.

  “Well?” Fuentes said. “Do you understand?”

  Tolliver locked his gaze on the lizard eyes. “You shoot, and your brother’s in jail forever.”

  There was a moment of silence and then Fuentes’s mouth twisted in a lopsided smile.

  He returned the pistol to its holster and stepped back. “Very well, Lieutenant. Good night. Enjoy our city while you are here.”

  58

  As I told you the last time we talked,” Laura Bentley said, “I’m very excited about reviving my career.”

  “I know you are,” Shelley said. “That’s why I thought we could do each other a favor. You give me an exclusive interview, and I’ll slant it as big news. Famous movie actress launches exciting new career in TV. That way, you’ll get maximum PR value from the interview. It could be almost like a personal promo for y
ou.”

  They were sitting in the grillroom at the Four Seasons. Shelley had called to say she had some ideas about how Laura could get started in television, and Laura had gone for it, suggesting they meet there for a drink.

  “I like that,” Laura said. “I like that a lot. I’ll give you the interview and also tell you things about people in the movie business—things you’ll find fascinating. Some of them are kind of freaky even. But of course you’ll have to be careful how you handle the material.”

  “Of course.”

  “And it’s understood there can be no questions about the death of the senator or that writer who committed suicide.”

  “There won’t be,” Shelley said.

  “I have to be sure of that. Didn’t you do a report on it not long ago? I remember seeing it.”

  “Yes, but that was just one of many things I’ve worked on. Anyway, the story’s all over by now. It’s ancient history.”

  “Maybe so, but the family’s touchy about it—especially my husband.”

  “I promise I’ll avoid the subject entirely.”

  “Good. And there’s one other point.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want Clay to know what I’m planning. I wouldn’t want to do the interview until I was sure I had everything lined up. He seems to think being married to him is career enough in itself, but you know how men are.”

  “Yes, I do know.”

  “Multiply it by ten and you have some idea of what it’s like being a woman in the Cunningham family.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But that’s another story, too. What’s important is that I think TV would be the perfect medium for a new start. Much better than going back into movies or doing something on Broadway.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “My agent doesn’t. He tells me I’m being silly, but I don’t trust his motives, either. The thing about me is, I’m a realist. I know my days of doing romantic leads are over.”

  Shelley could understand that. Bentley’s face was still beautiful by any standard, except the one that counted most: It was no longer youthful. The high cheekbones were still sharply defined, the nose short and straight above the full-lipped mouth directors had loved back in her heyday. But now there were tiny sags and a network of lines around her eyes. Her hair was subtly different, too; its chestnut color didn’t look as natural as it once had. Men wouldn’t notice those things, but women would—just as Shelley did now.

  The net of it, she decided, was that Laura was getting on and wasn’t sufficiently talented to take on character roles.

  “What I really want to do,” the actress said, “is host a talk show.”

  Oh God, Shelley thought. You, too?

  “When I look at some of the crap that’s on today, I can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I,” Shelley said. “You have a format in mind?”

  “Yes, but that’s one of the things I’d like your advice on. As a trained actress, I could handle it any number of ways. In fact, doing a show of that kind would be a snap—especially because I could attract so many great people to come on as guests.”

  “I’ll bet you could.”

  “Friends of mine in the entertainment world, and also painters, authors, sculptors, people like that. I thought we could talk about trends in the arts. And I’d tape the show in a lot of fabulous places, not just here, but in Europe.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” And guaranteed to put an audience to sleep, she thought, if it ever got on the air—which it wouldn’t.

  “Just between you and me,” Bentley said, “I’m looking for an apartment to buy … in Paris. That would be my base over there.”

  “That’s exciting, too.” And revealing. Apparently, Laura was getting her ducks in a row. For what—an impending divorce? A settlement from Clay Cunningham could be quite a jackpot. “How soon are you hoping to have all this happen?”

  “As soon as possible. You must know some packagers, don’t you? My agent tells me everything is syndicated nowadays.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” And he tried to talk you out of it, but you wouldn’t listen. Like a lot of other people, you hear what you want to hear.

  “Let’s have another drink,” Laura said.

  “Sounds fine.”

  While Bentley sought to catch a waiter’s eye, Shelley glanced about the famous French rosewood-paneled restaurant with its black leather upholstery and the rippling copper-chain drapes. Elegantly dressed patrons were eating dinner at the tables while others jostled for places on all four sides of the bar. She liked this room better than the more formal one with the pool that was on the opposite side of the building.

  The waiter brought them fresh drinks: vermouth cassis for Laura, Chardonnay for Shelley.

  Laura raised her glass. “Here’s to a new beginning.”

  “Yes, here’s to it.”

  They sipped their drinks and then Laura said, “Maybe there’d be a spot in the package for you, too. Would you consider that?”

  Shelley smiled. “Sure I would,” she said, thinking, I’d consider it a bald attempt to buy me. But we’re talking fair exchange here, right?

  “Tell you what,” the actress said. “I’d like to discuss this at some length, get your ideas as to what producers I should be dealing with, where to shoot the pilot, stuff like that. Why don’t you come out to Long Island for the weekend?”

  “At the family estate?”

  “Sure, why not? As far as Clay is concerned, you’d just be one of the guests. He wouldn’t pay any attention to us, anyway—all he does out there is talk business with his sister and brother-in-law and sometimes their lawyers. We’d have a chance to explore ideas for the show in much greater detail. And we could also go over the kind of material you want for the interview. What do you say?”

  “All right, fine. That’s this weekend?”

  “Yes. We’ll fly out. I’ll send a car for you, to take you to the heliport. I think it could be productive for both of us.”

  “I think so, too,” Shelley said. “Very productive.”

  59

  In the morning, Tolliver ate a breakfast of sliced papaya and drank a pot of the thick, rich coffee. Then he checked out of the hotel. At this point, he had the name Aguila and a hazy description of an import/export business, but not much more than that. At least it was something; he’d known when he came down here that he was betting on a long shot.

  Paitilla Point, the address the police captain had given him, was an area of tall buildings in the business district. Part of the new section of the city, it was a jut of land extending into the Bay of Panama. Riding toward it in a taxi, Ben found the locality jammed with people and vehicles, all moving sluggishly in the brilliant sunshine. The heat was much more oppressive than in the night—the temperature had to be close to a hundred now.

  Approaching the building, he saw that Torre Plata was indeed a tower, rising twenty stories above the crowded streets. Where the silver part of its name had come from was a mystery, however. Probably out of some developer’s feverish head. It looked little different from any of the thousands of other metal-and-glass boxes that had sprung up in cities all over the world.

  A black Cadillac limousine was parked out front. As Ben’s taxi drew up, the big car pulled away, and then the cab took its place. Tolliver paid the driver and went into the lobby, carrying his bag.

  The directory said Aguila Associados occupied the penthouse suite. He took the elevator up there, and when the doors opened, he stepped out into a reception room that was sleekly furnished with white sofas and chairs and white carpeting, the walls clad in teakwood. A garden terrace surrounded the space and blue-tinted curved windows gave a panoramic view of the coastline and the Pacific Ocean.

  The receptionist was dark and very pretty, wearing a flowered silk dress. She greeted him with a smile. Using his best Spanish, he told her be was there to see Señor Aguila. Sorry, she said, but Señor Aguila was not available.


  Tolliver took his case from his back pocket and flipped it open, giving her a quick look at the gold shield and then putting it away again. Police business, he told her. It was imperative that he talk with her boss at once.

  It made an impression. She was wide-eyed but still apologetic, saying Señor Aguila was on his way out of town—in fact, he’d just left for the airport.

  Ben recalled the black limousine that had left the building as he was arriving. He asked whether that was Señor Aguila’s car and was told it was. Where was Aguila headed? he asked next.

  She hesitated and then said she didn’t know, which clearly was a lie.

  Nevertheless, he wasn’t going to stand there and debate it with her; there wasn’t time. Which airport? he demanded.

  She claimed not to know that, either, probably another lie.

  Instinct told him it would be the international. The other one was small and handled only domestic flights. He turned and hit the button for the elevator.

  When he got to the lobby, he ran out into the street, waving for a taxi. It took several minutes to flag one down; when he finally succeeded, he waved the shield again, telling the driver to make the run to Tocumen as fast as he could.

  That turned out to be very fast. The cabbie was obviously overjoyed to have a cop on board—he could forget about laws. He whipped in and out of traffic, blowing his horn and passing slower vehicles, infuriating some drivers and scaring the shit out of others, his brown face split in a wide grin. Twice he came within inches of slamming head-on into other cars on the narrow road.

  If he only knew, Ben thought.

  They made the airport in what must have been record time. The cab skidded to a stop in front of the terminal and Tolliver jumped out. There was a jam-up of vehicles near the entrance, but the limo wasn’t among them.

  Looking around, he caught sight of the long black car disappearing through a gate in the high chain-link fence, a hundred yards farther down the line. He got back into the cab and told the driver to go there.