Must have been one tough son of a bitch, Javier mused. He’d shot and killed one of the two surviving assailants, taken a bullet in the thigh, wounded the second remaining gunman, and still was determined enough to make it out of the building to empty his gun at the departing vehicles before being blasted nearly in two by the Madame’s shotgun.
One of the uniformed cops approached him. “We got a match on the prints from the sidewalk corpse. Tomas Cardinez Salazar, AKA Don Tomas. Bogota, linked to the National Liberation Army – the ELN. Suspected of being their number two man on the ground for narcotics trafficking.”
“I’ve heard of him. So that’s Don Tomas, eh?” Javier mused.
“It certainly seems like he went down shooting,” the officer observed.
“What about the Gringos?” Javier asked. “We need to run their prints through Interpol. They look professional.”
“We already dusted them and sent them off,” the officer said. “But you know how that goes. Maybe we hear something in a few days, maybe a few weeks.”
“What about the woman with the shotgun?” Javier asked.
“Apparently the proprietor, Inspector.”
“I sort of worked that out myself,” Javier said. “Where is she? I want to talk to her.”
“She’s already been taken in for questioning.”
“Taken? On whose orders? And taken where?” Javier barked.
It was highly irregular for a participant in a shooting who’d actually killed someone, whether in self-defense or otherwise, to be removed from the crime scene before Javier had the opportunity to get some preliminary questions answered.
“I don’t know, Inspector. I’ll check. The order came from Headquarters. I assumed you had authorized it...”
This stank to high heavens. Javier had been in charge of Panama City homicide investigations for twelve years; first with the Judicial Technical Police, and later with the National Police. There were only two men above him, neither of whom worked nights or weekends, and they certainly wouldn’t get their hands dirty in anything operational.
“Do so. Now,” Javier ordered. “I want to interview this woman within the hour. There’s no excuse for protocol to have been breached like this – find out what happened, and where she is.”
Javier assumed that the Madame had pulled some strings to get herself extricated from this unpleasant situation. It wasn’t unknown for the operator of a high-end escort business to have powerful clients, more than eager to help a valued friend out of a bind. He was realistic, but then again, this wasn’t a burglar shot in some barrio. This case was far too big for the woman to just disappear into the night without explanation. He didn’t care what kind of clout she had. No way would she’d get to leave the area, even in supposed police custody, without answering to Javier. He guessed her story would be that she’d been trying to protect her place when she’d fired at the Colombian. But facts were facts – she’d blown a man in half on the sidewalk, pistol or no pistol, and if you did that you had to chitty chat with Inspector Javier.
Considering this new wrinkle, he drew a cigarette from a small metal case and lit it with a gold Cartier lighter – a gift from the last president. Very little impressed or frightened Javier. But this was one for the record books. He would get to the bottom of it, one way or another.
He was, after all, The Bulldog.
Chapter 13
Ernesto regarded Al with skepticism and suppressed alarm. Even by the standards in Panama, his driving was marginal to dangerous. More troubling to Ernesto though was the bank of warning lamps illuminated on Al’s dashboard.
As the lights of Panama City receded in the rearview mirror another cloudburst hit, blinding them with a virtually impenetrable sheet of dense rain. The car hydroplaned, sliding this way and that before Al regained control with a series of parries. He twisted the wiper knob but only a small portion of the windshield cleared in the top quartile of the driver’s side. The remainder of the wipers were either ragged, or metal.
Even more disturbing, whenever Al slowed and then gave the car gas, a howling issued from below the hood. Al seemed not to notice, but Ernesto, who had spent his childhood helping his father keep his ancient Fiat running, instantly recognized the sound of a loose belt.
“Alberto,” Ernesto ventured. “ I think you have a loose fan belt. That’s what’s making the horrible noise.”
“What? What noise? Oh, you mean that? Don’t worry, it’s been doing that for months. Runs fine,” Al assured him.
Ernesto wasn’t convinced. “It’s really not good. You should tighten it up. Do you have any tools?”
“Tools? No, don’t need ‘em. Never have,” Al declared. “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.”
The howling resumed for several seconds as they slowed to avoid a large pothole. The man was an idiot, Ernesto concluded. Other than drink like a fish, he didn’t seem to possess any other skills. Just where had Carmen found him? He hoped the guide he was meeting in the morning proved to be better at guiding than anything this Alberto had done so far.
Al scoffed inwardly at the cook’s concern. Sure, the old Ford had a few dings and wrinkles, but it ran practically like new. He’d taken the same approach to his car that he had with his body – put fuel in it and hope for the best. After all, the car was only twenty years old; good for at least another decade before anything major needed to be done to it. At least, that’s what he hoped.
As they pulled past San Miguelito the traffic thinned considerably and soon they were alone on the road. Lights from sparse residential developments dotted the hills until they left the Panama City area; after this, signs of life were few and far between.
The Transamerican highway they were now traversing ran from Alaska all the way to the tip of South America, uninterrupted except for one section between southern Panama and Colombia. Every so often, a project would be proposed wherein the jungle would be cut back, and the highway would be continued through to Colombia. These proposals were ultimately shot down because the cost to construct a road through some of the most dense tropical growth in the world would be astronomical and would also introduce a host of environmental issues. And the jungle was a toxic no-man’s land of guerrilla fighters, rebels, drug and criminal gangs, and every sort of armed murderous miscreant imaginable. The notion that these predators would simply step out of the way once the bulldozers came in was ludicrous; it was a safe bet that if a road ever did get cut and paved, driving between the two countries would be like running a gauntlet of machine-gun fire for ninety miles.
To say that the prospect lacked practicality was an understatement.
Even just south of Panama City the road quickly became a two lane strip of asphalt with sporadic illumination and varying levels of maintenance. In the dry season the going was slow at night, and now, as the wet season began, some areas ground to a crawl due to flooding and pavements washing away – as well as occasional mudslides.
Al avoided driving anywhere besides Panama City and his office in Colon, which was all of fifteen miles away, so his understanding of current road conditions were about the same as Ernesto’s, who took the bus everywhere and rarely ventured beyond a five mile radius of his barrio.
Ernesto inspected the bank of warning lights reflecting off Al’s face. “Your gas gauge says empty,” he observed.
“Yeah. Been like that for a while. It’s broken,” Al explained. “I put some gas in before I picked you up. We’re golden.”
Ernesto tried again. “Aren’t you worried about all the hazard lights being on? Like the check engine light?”
“Nah. Those are just to let you know the manufacturer wants you to pay the dealer a bunch of money to verify everything’s working. I know everything’s working – if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be moving right now…” Al’s brand of logic was unassailable.
Ernesto changed his opinion of Al. He modified his internal evaluation of Al from idiot to sub-custodial mouth-breather. He just prayed they would ma
ke it to the rendezvous point so he’d never have to see the cretin again.
Unfortunately for Ernesto, tonight wasn’t the night for prayers to be answered. At least, not his. A loud clunk followed by a series of shuddering slamming sounds came from the engine compartment, followed by silence, other than the motor running and the tires on the pavement.
“What the hell was that?” Ernesto asked.
“Dunno. Never done that before,” Al observed. “But hey, she’s running like a scared rabbit, so no worries.”
Which was true, until after a few minutes they both began to notice that the road was getting darker. The dimming headlights were soon barely illuminating the pavement. Al uttered an oath and pulled to the side of the road – in this case, the muddy shoulder.
Al popped the hood and Ernesto propped it open.
Ernesto pointed under the hood. “There’s your problem. The belt for the alternator broke.”
“Shit. Okay, so how do we fix it?” Al asked, his mechanical abilities limited to opening soup cans.
“Well, we can take the spare belt you no doubt have in your trunk, and using your tool kit, we can put a new belt on,” Ernesto replied cynically.
“I told you. I don’t have any tools. And no belts, either.”
“Si, I figured that. I can tell you this car isn’t going anywhere now, not until it gets repaired.”
“You’re kidding, right? Al protested. “We’re in the middle of the jungle, and it’s close to midnight.”
“I wish I was,” Ernesto lamented. “I think our only choice is to walk. If you look south, down the road, you can just make out some lights maybe a mile and a half away. Perhaps we can find someone who does have a tool kit...”
“Are you crazy? Walk all the way there? Why not just drive without the lights on?”
Ernesto shook his head and closed his eyes. “Within minutes your motor is going to die, because anything requiring electricity isn’t getting any from the alternator, and when the battery dies, the engine does.”
“Jump in. Maybe we can make it most of the way there,” Al said, smearing mud up the door as he reinstalled himself behind the steering wheel. Ernesto sighed wearily, and squelched his way round to the passenger side.
The car advanced for another twenty yards, and then all became silent.
Ernesto regarded Al’s profile with disgust. He collected his backpack and his water bottle, and exiting the car, began slowly walking south. Al called after him, but Ernesto didn’t turn. Head down, he just kept trudging. Al grabbed his bag and locked the doors before jogging clumsily after him.
“Don’t worry,” Al said. “I know a lot of people in Panama. I’ll have us out of here in no time.”
A strange smile spread across Ernesto’s face. “I don’t suppose,” he said innocently, “you’re on close terms with your mechanic, though?”
Al fell silent after that. They marched along the side of the road, the jungle sounds ever louder since the death of his beloved car. The rustlings of the bushes and the chatter of nocturnal bugs, punctuated by the odd indeterminate howl or shriek in the darkness, did little to calm the nerves of either man.
After half an hour they arrived at a little hamlet made up from a sorry collection of squalid houses stretching into the shadows of the ever-surrounding jungle. Incandescent lights glowed over a small market, still open, where a number of local residents were seated at white plastic tables near a portable food-service cart mounted to the back end of a bicycle. A small black and white TV sat on a shelf by the cart, providing free entertainment for the diners.
A tired looking sign a few yards from an ancient pay phone informed them they were in La Loma. Ernesto approached the man standing at the food cart and began an animated discussion in Spanish. After several minutes of hand waving, pointing, and gesturing at the sky with exclamations of wonder or amusement, Ernesto disengaged with his warmest handshake and returned to Al’s side.
Ernesto reported his findings. “He says there’s a mechanic who lives in this town, but he’s gone to Panama City for the weekend, no doubt to party and wade in sin, leaving his poor mother to worry about whether she’ll ever see him again. Apparently, he has a drug problem, and a number of loose women he sees in the city, while he ignores his live-in girlfriend here and their three year old daughter.” Ernesto smiled. “Sorry I asked him…”
“So no go on a repair tonight...” Al summarized.
“No.”
Well that was just peachy. They were stuck in a backwater slum with no car, a tight deadline, and nobody around to help them. Al considered calling Carmen, but quickly reconsidered when he realized what she must be going through with the police after the shooting. And she’d never use him again if she discovered he didn’t keep his car in reasonable operating shape.
Al fished through his wallet for a card, finally plucking out the one he wanted. “Ernesto. You have a phone I can borrow for a second? I need to call someone to come get us.”
Ernesto pouted. “What’s wrong with yours? Mine’s almost out of minutes...”
“I…uh…forgot mine – it’s at home,” Al explained sheepishly. “Look, I’ll only be a minute, okay? And this is to help you, not just get me out of here,” Al reminded him.
Ernesto reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a micro-cell phone. He reluctantly handed it to Al, who glared at him before moving away to distance himself from the television noise. He entered a series of numbers and pushed send.
A bombastic voice answered. “Hola. Quien Hablas?”
“Sergio, it’s Al. Al Ross.”
“Al! What’s up?” Sergio asked. “Why are you calling at midnight on a Saturday? Did you get arrested? In an accident? Start a fight?”
Al laughed. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. Are you working right now?”
“I just got off my shift, and was about to head out for some entertainment, you know?”
“Hmm, nice,” Al said. “But how would you like to make a little money for a very minor favor, my friend?”
Sergio’s tone took on a suspicious air. “A minor favor at midnight on Saturday? Sounds like it might be expensive…my friend.”
“It’s really nothing, Sergio. My car broke down, and I just need a little lift.”
“So all you need is a ride?” Sergio still wasn’t convinced. He’d known Al a long time. “Where are you, and where do you need to go?”
Al paused. “Well, that’s kind of the touchy part, Sergio. I’m about an hour outside of the city, in a beautifully quaint spot called La Loma. It’s just a little south of Chepo...and I need to get to Metiti by morning.”
“Metiti? As in, Metiti by Darien? Have you lost your mind? What did you do, kill someone?” Sergio fired back at Al.
“No, Sergio,” Al explained softly. “My car broke down, and I was giving a friend a ride to see his sick grandmother in Metiti...she could go at any time. It’s heartbreaking really, and you know what a soft touch I am...”
Sergio’s good nature surfaced. “A friend, to Metiti, huh? That doesn’t seem too suspicious at all.”
“It is what it is, Sergio. I was thinking two hundred dollars for just a few hours of your time...” Al ventured.
“Two hundred? To blow off my Saturday night and haul you and god knows who else into the middle of the jungle? Al. Please. You’re so way off. I think I’m hearing an $800 favor,” Sergio replied.
“$800? Are you nuts?” Al exclaimed. “You think I have that kind of money lying around? If I did, don’t you think I’d have fixed my car?”
“I’m just saying, it’s not a $200 favor by any means,” Sergio explained. “But hey, you called me, not the other way around. Do you want to take some time and think about it? I can’t guarantee I’ll be answering my cell much longer – I have a date for the evening I’d have to cancel. And she’s very beautiful.”
“Okay. $400. But that’s all I have,” Al countered.
“Did I mention she’s young, too?” Sergio continued.
“Young and beautiful. A rare and breathtaking combination...”
“Sergio, I really need your help. Fine. You’re killing me. $500, if you can be here in an hour,” Al conceded.
“It’s a deal,” Sergio said brightly. “Now, where in that shithole are you hiding?”
Al gave him directions and disconnected. He was pissed, but there wasn’t much he could do. So now he was down to $1300 for the ‘errand’ and by the time he was done with his bookie and fixing his car, he’d be lucky if he had a few hundred bucks left for himself. He returned the cell to Ernesto, who pocketed it and immediately resumed viewing the TV. Al told him a friend would be coming to give them a lift within the hour, so everything was fine. Ernesto shot Al a skeptical look but said nothing.
Frustrated, Al turned and ventured into the little market. He emerged in a few minutes with a quart of local beer. He chugged half of it before taking a breath.
“Hey, are you hungry? This is really good,” Ernesto called to him. He was clutching a Styrofoam plate from the food cart with some steaming concoction on it, which he was eagerly consuming with a plastic spoon.
“No thanks. I don’t eat anything but hot dogs and beer. American food. I don’t like boiled cat or whatever that crap is.” Al took another long pull on his beer.
Ernesto waved his spoon. “It’s really good – Sancocho – a Panamanian specialty. I’m a cook, and I can tell you that this is not just good, it’s great.”
Al eyed the plate dubiously. “What’s in it? Rat tails? Dog sphincter? Goat semen?” He had to admit it did smell pretty good. And the locals were munching it like it was opium.
“Chicken, meat, vegetables. It’s practically the national dish. Come on, Alberto,” Ernesto chided. “How long have you been living here, and you haven’t sampled one of the best things Panama makes?”
“It’s probably pig intestines and horse scrotum, isn’t it?” Al said. But he was wavering.
The Geronimo Breach Page 8