by L. J. Martin
This is way too fishy for my taste, so I'm headed for the hospital to see who I can talk with. A spider, my ass.
19
Carmen merely shrugs her shoulders when I tell her about Bartlett's death, as if death is common enough in Paraguay, but she agrees to go with me to the hospital to talk to the doctors and whoever did an autopsy on him, if one was done.
We're not shown to the doctor who treated Bartlett or to the morgue and pathologist who did the autopsy. Instead, we're ushered into the hospital administrator's office. Señora Julieta Rejala is a short, buxom woman who charges around her large desk a little like a freight train. She shakes hands like a man, with both Carmen and me, then returns to her seat and leans forward on her forearms, all business.
First she turns to Carmen. "Have we not met before, Señorita?" she asks.
"Possibly. Although I've been in Estados Unidos for a few years."
"A fund raiser for the hospital, possibly?"
"Five or six years ago, if so. My father was here for an operation, and my uncle served on your board at one time."
"And he was?"
"Ricardo Juarez, brother of my father Alfonso and my other uncle Manolo."
"Of course. Now," she turns her attention back to me, "what can I do for you?"
"You had a patient, Tobias Bartlett—"
"The victim of a spider bite, as I recall. We actually didn't have him in treatment as he was pronounced dead upon arrival."
"The newspaper—" I start to say.
"The newspaper is often wrong, and was wrong about that. He'd expired before the ambulance crew arrived at Colonel Vargas's home, and could not be revived."
"But was autopsied?" I ask.
"Of course. A physician was not in attendance at his death, and he was certainly not old enough to die of natural causes."
"May I have a copy of the autopsy?"
"And you're related to Señor Bartlett how?"
"No relation. I'm merely representing his wife."
"Aw, so he has relatives?"
"In California, a wife and two daughters. His wife, Penny, would like me to arrange to transport his body—"
"He was buried shortly after his death," she says, and looks a little too satisfied for my taste. Then she continues. "I'm sorry, but since you are not a relative, I am afraid I've already said too much."
"So, what do you need to give me all the pertinent reports and lab results?"
"A request from your embassy or a certified notarized letter from Mrs. Bartlett."
I'm not happy, but it's her rules, and I've got to play by them unless I can figure a way not to. As soon as we leave, we head for the embassy.
Theo Gann is in his office, and has us shown right in.
I introduce him to Carmen and he gives her a smile with lips tight as a gopher snake, and a caution, "I've read quite a bit about your fiancée, Mr. Reardon. Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?"
Carmen laughs. "Yes," and gives me an admiring glance. "He's an interesting fellow. A fellow who could use your help."
"Oh," Gann says. "He wasn't exactly cooperative when I called on him at the hotel."
I step into the conversation. "The hell you say, I bought your cup of tea."
"That you did," he says, and I get the snake lips. "So, what's up?"
"To be truthful, Carmen's family is only part of the reason I came to Paraguay. The other part was to help a friend locate her husband, and I'm afraid I did."
"This…husband…is an American citizen?"
"Was. I understand the embassy was informed of his death…Tobias Bartlett."
"I'd hear of the death of an American here in Paraguay and we have had no report of the death of any Tobias Bartlett."
I glance over at Carmen, then back to Gann. "Interesting. The newspaper and the hospital said the embassy had been informed."
"I guess there's a chance, and I'll check into it. If I learn anything, I'll give you a call. You still at La Mision?"
"Of course, if he was murdered, and the hospital, military, and maybe even the police were complicit, then you'd not be informed."
He laughs. "You sure you're not Clive Cussler or Agatha Christie or something? That's hardly likely unless you have proof of some kind?"
"No proof."
He's so smug I want to plaster his nose all over his face, as he snorts, "I didn't think so."
"I am still at La Mision, but there's more. I want a copy of his autopsy and his death certificate, and I'd like to interview the doctor who pronounced him."
"He has relatives in the states?"
"He does, a wife and children. I was on the phone with her yesterday."
"Have her contact State and have them request the info from me and give me permission to have you see it, and that can happen."
"Bullshit, Gann. That will take a month of Sundays."
"That's the way it works."
"So, I'm telling you that an American died in Paraguay, and the embassy is supposed to be contacted—"
"We weren't."
"But you were supposed to be, and you were not, and of course you wouldn't be if there was some government involvement...so is that as far as it goes?"
"That's the way it works, Reardon." He climbs to his feet, walks to his door, and holds it for us. "Stay out of trouble," he says as I walk past.
Then I stop and turn. "He was a very nice young man, with a beautiful wife and children. She teaches school in California. Good family folks."
He shrugs, looking very bored.
So I continue, lowering my tone an octave. "And you're a total prick and I'd like to stomp your nuts into a grease spot right here on your chicken shit tile floor."
He steps back a couple of steps and holds his palms out. "We have security here, you know."
"Yeah, and being such a total dickhead, you probably need it a lot. And, sir, you are going to damn well need it if you don't pursue this."
He walks quickly back to his desk, and picks up the phone.
"I'm leaving, Gann," I say, "but I should shove that phone up your worthless ass."
20
As we head to where Alex waits in the parking lot, Carmen earns her money. "My Uncle Ricardo knows everyone in that hospital, where he was once a board member, and he hates corruption and hates incompetence even more. I've heard him speak badly of Señora Rejala. May I ask him to help?"
"May you? Damn right you may."
"Then I will. Are we dining tonight? Another trip to Bolsi?"
"I'd love to but I have an errand I have to run."
"Without your interpreter?" she asks, playfully.
"Yes, ma'am. I've got to go his one alone."
"You're not…how do I ask this politely…you're not taking advantage of our dark side are you, my fiancée," she says, then giggles.
"I haven't visited a whorehouse, if that's what you're asking, since I was sixteen."
"Good. Then I will sleep peacefully."
We drop her at a shopping center, at her direction, and then I'm alone with Alex, and ask, "You want to pick up a half million of those guarani of yours?"
"Of course, Señor. Who do you want to disappear into the swamp?" he asks, but laughs, and it's all I can do not to give him Theo Gann's name. Instead, I say, "I need some black clothes, some soldado outfits. You know, night gear. Like the guards at the airport wear. Then I need you to drive me tonight, and wait, and ask no questions."
"That is much to ask. Will this get me to the jusgados...how do you say, jail?"
"It could, if you think I'm the kind of man who'll get caught. But this kind of work is my job, has long been my job, and I don't plan to get caught, or get you caught, as I plan for it to be my job for a long, long time to come. And, mi amigo, all you have to do is wait."
He's silent for a moment, then glances back over his shoulder. "Then a million guarani wouldn't be out of the question?"
"You're a hard man, Alex. How about seven hundred thou?"
; "How about a million, Señor. I have a wife and children who will starve if papa is in the jusgado...and half in advance, of course."
"Of course," I say and laugh—realizing a million guarani, at forty-five hundred to the dollar, is just a little over two hundred twenty bucks—as he heads for a store that looks to be sporting goods.
I brought a pair of hiking boots so it was nothing but pants and shirt needed. Even my jungle camo has some light spots, and for this job, it's night fighter gear. I pick out a few other select items and we take our leave.
Happy that I'm able to fill my little shopping list, I return to the car and I instruct Alex to find a pharmacy. He does and I'm able to cross off another item on my list.
When I pass the desk, carrying my shopping bag full of clothes, Señor Alfonso again waves me over. "Señor, the gentleman, Señor Glascock, our former guest, stopped by to see you. He's waiting on the patio having a cocktail…his fourth. Would you like me to bring you one and join him?"
"Yeah, tall vodka tonic, squeeze of lime, please." I need to be on my best later tonight, so I'm taking it real easy. I'm a little taken aback, as the last person I thought would give me a social call was good old Charlie Glascock, but I'm more than eager to have a chat with him. I'd prefer the chat was somewhere in a dark alley, but I'll get around to that.
"Hey, Reardon," he says with a friendly smile as I approach. He pulls a chair out next to him, both of us shaded by a wide green umbrella in the center of the glass table.
I sit, and ask, "Hey, I thought you weren't interested in any avionics?"
"Just a social call. Not too many gringos around to chat with."
"Oh, I get the impression that Colonel Vargas talks a lot more gringo than he lets on."
"You think so?" he says, then laughs. "He's a cagey son-of-a-bitch, and does understand damn near everything that goes on around him, so you're probably right."
Alfonso arrives with my drink, and Glascock leans over and pulls my shopping bag open. "Black? Hell man, you're in the tropics."
I give him a smile that I hope is not as phony-looking as it feels. "Yeah, but sometimes you got to go formal, and I've been invited to dinner at a beautiful estancia. Got to look sharp." I move the sack to my other side so he doesn't look any deeper.
I sip my drink, then ask, "So, where's the hot club action around town?"
"Hell, I don't need it. The colonel has provided me with a place overlooking the river and a couple of girls who tend to all my needs…and I mean all." He guffaws.
"Hell? Sounds like heaven to me."
I guess he thinks he's bullshitted me enough, and his smile disappears. "So, Reardon, why are you really in Asuncion? You CIA or some cockamamie horseshit like that? You look ex-military to me."
"Marine, years ago. Civilian for a long time…nothing to do with Uncle Sam." Time to lie again. "I was crew chief on some jump jets…where I got some of my avionics training."
"I don't think so." He's eyeing me through furrowed brows.
"Hey, I'm just settling into this job. If I'd been at things as long as an old fart like you, I'd probably be better at it."
He's not amused. He shoots the rest of his drink, then rises. "Well, I thought I might drop by and say howdy…so, howdy. I've got to go see what my two housekeepers are up to."
"I feel real sorry for you," I say with a laugh, and rise and stick my hand out. He shakes with a limp-dick handshake, then heads for the lobby and out the front door.
As I flop down on my bed to take a rest, I'm wondering just what brought Glascock to my door. I hope he has no idea I'm working for Wedgeworth. If he has any inkling there'll be a welcoming party at the airport. I'm wondering if I should wait until the boys arrive and I have lots of firepower, since they're coming anyway. I decide, to hell with it, maybe they'll get in just in time to spring me out of the jusgados rather than help me recover the plane.
I'm going tonight.
I check my phone before I close my eyes and see I have a text from Pax with the arrival time of Skip Allen, Hank Hausman, Everete 'Wetback' Alvarez and Chad 'Madman' Madsen, and see it's not until eleven thirty PM, same flight as I came in on. There's also a call from the beautiful Tatya Bolinsky, Wedgeworth's secretary, with a two word message "Miss you"; and one from Tenee Wedgeworth, his daughter, and it's a little disturbing. She says, "I told you I need to get out of here and if you were the tough guy you look like, you'd help us. I think you're an asshole, just like my old man."
She said "us" like she meant both her and her little sister. Something's weird about that family, and I'm beginning to wonder if it's not more than just mama's boozing it up.
When I've got my recovery fee, and gee whiz Wedgeworth has no more hammer over my head, I'll dig deeper into that aspect of my new friendship with the Wedgeworths.
I set the alarm on my iPhone for nine fifteen and decide to get some shuteye, just as my phone goes off with an unknown caller.
It's Carmen. "Hey, I got your autopsy report in hand, and even some pictures of poor Mr. Bartlett. And it seems he did die of a spider bite."
"How about brunch in the morning? Here at the hotel? I can send a cab for you."
"Cabs are nothing, here. What time?"
"Ten AM, I know you like to sleep in. And bring the report."
"Okay, big boy, but no hanky-panky. I'm saving it for the wedding night." She laughs healthily, then says "mañana" and hangs up.
I'm too wound up to sleep, so I gather my gear and call down to room service. "Two pounds of raw steak, please."
"Pardon?"
"Yes, two pounds of raw steak. To the room, please."
21
I take the stairs down from my third floor room and exit via a back way, then work around to the front.
While I'm waiting for Alex to arrive—standing outside the hotel where I've slunk back into the tall shrubbery to be inconspicuous, dressed in black from head to toe, with a small bug-out bag in hand, sipping a cup of coffee—I decide to text both Tatya and Tenee. Tatya gets a "Working hard, getting Prather K's ride back. See you soon." And then to Tenee, "Sorry I'm not there. Out of the country. We'll talk soon."
Alex is right on time and seems a little nervous as he roars away from the curb. And even more nervous when I tell him to head for the airport.
"Slow down, Alex," I command. "Don't break any traffic laws."
"What you got in the bag?" He asks.
"Tools of my trade."
"Señor, you are not a terrorist are you?"
I laugh, hoping to relax him a little. "No, Alex. I'm merely doing a little company spying. My company is interested in some new products manufactured by another company, and your airport is way ahead of other places and has some installed. I'm just taking some pictures, but can't be seen doing it."
"Oh, company espionage, I have heard of that."
"That's it." He seems to relax, and slows a little.
Then he glances back over his shoulder, again worriedly. "Why you did not do this in the States?"
"Well, it's a crime in the United States for one company to spy on another company. I had to go outside of the U.S. to do so. Paraguay doesn't give a damn about one American company spying on another."
"Ahh, that makes very much sense."
I have no idea if it's true or makes any sense at all, but it sounds good, and he relaxes even more. I have him drop me off a half-mile beyond the Air Force buildings, but still inside the separately fenced Air Force complex, where the fence is lined with brush between fence and road, and wave at him as he drives away with instructions to return in two hours. The fence is eight feet high with three strands of barb wire topping it, but I see no reason to climb. I work my way into the brush, dig out my cutters, and begin working my wire clippers, opening a five-foot gash in the cyclone wire. I slip inside, dig a two foot long strip of white cloth out of my bug-out bag, and tie it two feet off the ground so I can find the damn thing, even at a dead run.
I've picked this spot because there's a th
irty foot tower between it and the hangars, with some type of avionics equipment mounted on its top. I hustle to it, dig another tool out of the bag, and climb about ten feet up its ladder. Then I put my little implement to work. It's a simple tool—a whistle, with a tone above what a human can hear. I'm wondering if it's working, then am sure it is, as I hear violent barking. I'm rewarded with two very large German Shepherds, kicking dirt out behind, coming my way like I'm a t-bone steak…which I'm not, but I do have two nice chunks of sirloin in my bag and dig them out. They are each laced with four nice sleeping pills, and as soon as the dogs quit jumping as high as they can, trying to get a bite out of any part of me, they settle to a low growl, each looking up at me as if I'm the interloper I am. I throw one chunk to the left and one to the right.
Oops! Both of them inspect the steaks, but don't attack them as I anticipated they would. Instead, they return to below my perch and continue the low growl.
The best laid plans of mice and stupid men. What now?
I decide to convince them of my innocence and helplessness, and begin to sing a couple of low Irish lullabies my sainted mama taught me. If that doesn't piss them off, I don't know what will, and if anyone's heard my singing, they'd understand, but strangely enough, after five or six nice slow versions, on the third repeat they stop growling and one of them actually sinks to his belly. He keeps glancing up at me, but at least he's relaxed. My singing would bore anything, including a slathering beast.
It's at least a half hour, and my voice is beginning to go with the tenth repeat, when the mutt still standing walks over and settles to his belly in front of the steak, plops one paw on it, and begins gnawing. Thankfully, it's more than the other mutt can stand and he attacks the other chunk.
It's another twenty minutes before both are snoring like a pair of lumberjacks and I'm able to dismount the tower. I like dogs, and hope I haven't overdosed them. I have no idea how long they'll be out, and I damn sure want to be long gone when they come to. They looked mean as hell, and I imagine they'll be even meaner with a sleeping pill hangover.