by Lou Cameron
Captain Gringo took a swallow of rum and said, “Get to the point, dammit. I swear to God, Gaston, if somebody asks you what time it is you tell them how to build a grandfather clock!”
Gaston sat down on a hardwood chair his wet pants couldn’t hurt and sipped his own drink before answering, “One never knows when one may wish he knew how to build a grandfather clock, my hasty child. But to hold your short attention span, I shall sum it up à la brass tacks. El Generale Hernan Portola wants to hire us, with the usual paid expenses, and a bonus on satisfactory completion of the job. We will naturally be screwed on that point. But I said we wanted our first month’s pay in advance if we took the job.”
Captain Gringo frowned down at the Frenchman and growled, “You did, huh? Who the fuck is General Portola and does he know we once fought on the other side against him?”
“To answer your confusion in order, my old and rare, Hernan Portola is a dedicated cocksucker. He would no doubt prefer to be called the Butcher of Leon. Either description fits as well. And, oui, he knows we once fought for the Granadines or so-called rebels. Apparently he admires the way we sank that government gunboat on Lake Nicaragua for the sons of the bitch who never paid us for doing so.”
Captain Gringo sat on the bed, lit another smoke, and shook his head to marvel, “Boy, you take the cake, old buddy. Can’t you see a trap when it’s drooling at your balls?”
Gaston shrugged and said, “If I had not seen the trés clumsy trap in that alley on my way home, we would not be billing and cooing at one another like this. You must learn to pay attention to your elders, Dick. I said Portola was a dedicated sucker of cocks. He is trés brutal, utterly ruthless, and all in all a man one would not wish to invite to one’s home for dinner. But he is a sincere patriot, or at least sincerely dedicated to his own Nicaraguan faction. For Leon and the so-called liberal party, Portola would butcher any number of babies and bayonet his mother with a rusty blade. But, unlike so many warlords of bananaland, Portola keeps his word and never changes sides.”
Gaston took another sip and reached for his own cigar as he added, “I suppose someone must have dropped Portola on his head when he was an infant. But, whatever the reason, he is known to those in our profession as a man who can be trusted. El Generale never crosses one double unless one tries to do it to him first. After that, of course, one must recall why they dubbed him the Butcher of Leon, hein?”
Captain Gringo thought, shrugged, and said, “Well, we can’t stay here much longer, and we could sure use new ID as well as the bucks. But I don’t like the idea of machine gunning old comrades in arms, even if the other side didn’t pay us in full that time.”
Gaston chuckled fondly and said, “Oui, I got some good screwing in the rebel camp, too. Mais relax, my conscience-stricken child. Portola’s man said they did have a machine gun for you to work with, as well as a cute little field gun for moi, if we can manhandle it into the rough country involved. We are not, however, being sent to fight our old friends of the Granada faction.”
“Jesus, two sides ain’t enough in a civil war?”
“Mais non, that would be barely interesting. By now the war would be over if it was only between Granada and Leon. Leon, as you know to your sorrow, has been backed by recognition, loans, and other good things, like guns, from your doubtless confused President Cleveland.”
“Never mind why Washington keeps backing piss-pot dictatorships down here. I’ve given up trying to figure that one out. Who, aside from their official enemies, does the so-called Nicaraguan government want bumped off, and how come they have to send out for help? Doesn’t El Generale Portola have an army of his own?”
Gaston nodded and said, “Oui, armed, as we know to our cost, by Washington. That is where the wheels within the wheels of the clock you don’t wish to hear about get trés sneaky. Queen Victoria as well as President Cleveland expect Portola and his government to make la nice-nice. So Portola would be trés embarrassed if either caught him with his bloody hands in the cookies, non?”
“Dammit, Gaston.”
“Mon Dieu, I am speaking as swiftly as one can with rum and tobacco in one’s mouth, Dick! Eh bien, Portola wants us to take out an engineering project, started by outside international interests with the approval of both Washington and London.”
“Oh boy! Consolidated Construction, Limited, and a dam site in the jungles north of the San Juan?”
It was Gaston’s turn to look surprised. He asked, “Have you unsuspected psychic powers, Dick? The officer I spoke to said the project was supposed to be a deep dark secret!”
“A little pussy told me. You finish your story first.”
“Eh bien. As you know, various international trusts like the Vanderbilt transport complex and the banana barons of New Orleans do business in these parts with little regard for the local governments, since who can say who the local government may be from one day to the next? The Panama project Washington is interested in to the south has bogged down in trés fatigue negotiations and gunplay. Meanwhile, weather and revolutions permitting, the easiest way to move freight between the Atlantic and Pacific is across Nicaragua near the Costa Rican border, which is also a somewhat hazy matter from one war to the next. Shallow-draft steamboats and cross-country railroads, while doubtless profitable to the heirs of Commodore Vanderbilt, involve much loading and unloading even when one considers how little one pays a stevedore down here. The British engineering firm has contracted to improve navigation on the San Juan, and supply hydroelectric power as well, by damming one or more tributaries to ensure high water at all seasons, and so on. I confess, the details of vast hydraulic projects interest me as little as my grandfather clock interests you. Suffice it to say, El Generale Portola does not wish to see the project brought to fruition. Ergo, he wants the works destroyed and the foreigners driven out of his country. He can’t do it openly with his army regulars, because their pay and ammunition is supplied by the very powers he wishes to drive out of his country, hein?”
Captain Gringo whistled softly and said, “You say he never deals from the bottom of the deck, Gaston?”
Gaston nodded and said, “The triple-titted baby raper is as honest as your Abe Lincoln, when it comes to his given word. But you see, neither the junta in Leon nor El Generale ever agreed to the big construction project on what they regard, with some logique, as their own soil. Nobody ever asked them. Polite notes to Washington and London have been ignored, since, after all, who reads Spanish in either case? So, voila, the simple solution, as Portola sees it, is to have the project destroyed, no doubt by guerrillas, disgruntled natives, or who can say, when anyone asks, hein?”
Captain Gringo took a drag on his claro, exhaled wearily, and said, “The construction outfit knows something’s up. Pour yourself another while I tell you my tale. You’ll need it.”
He filled Gaston in on Gloria’s visit, leaving out some of the dirty parts and keeping it short and sweet. When he’d finished and rose to build himself another drink, Gaston nodded and said, “Eh bien, someone has been fibbing to us. Probably both sides.”
Captain Gringo asked him what else was new, adding, “There’s more to this than a dam in the middle of nowhere. The Nicaraguans shouldn’t give a shit if all the outsiders want to do is improve navigation and make some electricity the country could use. The blonde refused to say who Consolidated Construction was building said dam for, and it sure can’t be the Nicaraguan government we all know and love. Could it be a ploy of the Granada side?”
Gaston studied his glass thoughtfully as he mused aloud, “Merde alors, that makes even less sense, Dick. As we learned the hard way, fighting for them, the Granadines are trés flat broke. They would not be, if any outside powers were willing to loan them the time of the day. So Granada could not afford a big engineering project even if they had any use for one. And they have no use for one. Leon controls all the main water and land routes now. The Granadines have been reduced to guerrillas in the hills here and there. Besides the
obvious, Portola would have a good excuse to publicly oppose the engineering project if Granada had a finger in the pie, non?”
The storm had faded to an occasional distant rumble of thunder now, but it was starting to get darker. Captain Gringo walked over to switch on the overhead Edison bulb as he said, “Okay, let’s write off all six or eight sides as just plain nuts and forget it. Are you sure you checked out every cotton-picking tramp schooner, Gaston? If someone like old Esperanza were to come tooling down the coast in her Nombre Nada—”
“Mon Dieu, to be so young and sure of his luck once more!” Gaston cut in, adding, “Your big gunrunning girl friend is up the coast giving aid and comfort to Mexican rebels at the moment. I asked. But don’t jerk off in frustration just yet. Did not the blonde say she was coming back for a second helping?”
Captain Gringo consulted his pocket watch and said, “That’s hours from now. Besides, I don’t like her deal as well as I like Portola’s, and his stinks! I think it’s time to pack our bags and scoot, old buddy. Too many people know where we are right now, and if only one of them goes to the local law and mentions those reward posters out on us—”
“Oui, even though we don’t have bags,” Gaston cut in with a laugh, then added, “Even traveling light, we would travel trés wet if we ran for the trees in this adorable wet season. Since you read maps as well as I, I shall not fatigue you by pointing out that no matter which way we leave Greytown by land, we shall be crossing into Nicaraguan territory, non?”
“Okay, so most of it’s uninhabited jungle, but how the hell far can we be from the Costa Rican border?”
“About thirty Yankee miles, as a crow might fly. Needless to say, we are not crows. So one must allow for mangrove swamps and other trés fatigué detours through the dripping annoyances of the Mosquito Coast.”
“Hell, let’s do it, then! Legged-up soldados can easily make thirty miles in a night’s forced march, right?”
“Wrong. I just said there were endless swamps and trackless jungles in the way, Dick. And once we get to the San Juan, how do we cross the thrice-accursed estuary? It’s almost as wide as the Mississippi at the mouth!”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. We can’t stay here now. Either side figures to turn us in if we say no, and nobody but an asshole would say yes to working for either a mysterious bunch of sneaks or a piss-pot dictatorship out to double-cross its own backers! The dame will expect an answer by midnight. How long did Portola’s guy give you?”
“I said I’d meet him later this evening at the same cantina, after talking it over with you. Why?”
Captain Gringo started checking out his money and ammo as he muttered, “Shit, that means we should have started at least an hour ago! I don’t have to worry about bullshitting Gloria and her pals. Portola’s man will figure the answer’s no if we don’t get back to him muy pronto!”
Gaston shrugged and said, “Try it this way. I return to the cantina. Maybe that same mujer of forty summers will be there, so I may kill two birds with the stone as I assure El Generale of our undying devotion and send the disguised officer back to him, hein?”
“What if he insists on us going back with him? What excuse could we give him for saying no?”
“Your blonde and my somewhat-gray-around-the-edges lass of forty-odd summers? I don’t think he would but it, now that I ponder the sense of two wanted men lingering in a British police station when safety lies just at the end of a hand-in-hand stroll to El Generale’s camp just over the border.”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Okay, I’ve the wherewithal for a couple of not-too-serious gunfights and maybe enough to bribe a ferryman or so and still get us up to San José, once we make Costa Rica. How are you for rent money, once we get there?”
Gaston shrugged and said, “Minor expenses are no problem to one who learned at his mother’s knee to say ‘hands up.’ But let us further consider your droll comments on gunfighting! That officer neglected to inform me just where in the jungle one might expect to meet El Generale, and the sucker of cocks travels with an army, Dick!”
“They usually do. Meanwhile, the storm’s letting up. The streetlamps are going on. In a little while the locals will be out strolling the plaza to see if they can get laid tonight, and the more proper lime juicers will be waving dinner. So who’s going to notice if we leave this light burning and sort of slip out the service entrance downstairs? You know the area better than me, so we’ll leave the best route out of town up to you.”
“Oh, merci beaucoup, since there is no best way to anywhere I’d like to go! Portola would doubtless be waiting astride the one main trade route inland. The path we came in by from the north only leads back to the trés disgusting chaos we came here to escape. The south road leads only to a pleasant stroll among the banana groves before it peters out in a mangrove swamp.”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Good. That’s the one nobody should be expecting us to take.”
“But, Dick, the damned south road does not lead anywhere!”
“That’s what I just said. Let’s go.”
They never found out just where the south road ended. More police whistles were tweeting somewhere in the night as they moved down the alley behind the hotel. Gaston observed that Captain Gringo’s blonde had most surely ratted on him to the constabulary as they dog-legged across a side street and into yet another north-south alley. Captain Gringo had just said that didn’t make much sense when they heard the distant sound of pistols shots, and he added, “See what I mean? Don’t be so egotistical, Gaston. We’re not the only knock-around guys on the Mosquito Coast. Her Majesty’s constabulary are sort of stuffy bastards, and the civil war has all sorts of people ducking into Greytown these days. Where does this alley lead?”
“Merde alors, how should I know? Before I met you, I used to walk the streets like a gentleman. I see no light at the end of this particular tunnel, ergo we are approaching a part of town that the powers that be do not find worthy of streetlamps.”
They moved out the far end and found themselves on a crunchy cinder path with barely a sliver of light showing here and there from the ramshackle houses on either side. Gaston said, “Now this is my kind of town. I smell West Indian cooking. The neighborhood is dark in more than one way. Let me get my bearings and … Ah, oui, the wagon trace out to the soggy farmlands to the south is around that corner to our right.”
A few minutes later, as they moved along a rutted cinder path little wider than an alley would have been in the lighter-complected parts of Greytown, Captain Gringo narrowly missed stepping in a deep puddle and asked, “Are you sure this is the main drag south?”
Gaston cursed in French. Then the moon broke through a patch of thinning storm clouds, and as Captain Gringo could see farther, he nodded and said, “Okay, it has to go someplace if it’s lined with shade trees.”
Gaston said, “Those are not trees planted for shade, my pampered child. The wagon trace was hacked through the usual jungle that grows all by its adorable self around here. I told you Greytown was small. Regard how we are already leaving the last native shacks in our wake. You may walk ahead of me to step on crocodiles with those big feet of yours. We should be wading in a swamp any moment now!”
That wasn’t quite true. The wagon trace ran straight and more or less dry to the southwest, in line with the coast to their left. The moonlight was okay, and as they crossed an open patch with pepper fields on either side the visibility got even better. Gaston started to light a smoke. But Captain Gringo warned, “Not yet,” as he gazed back toward Greytown to see if anyone was trailing them. Nobody was. Gaston snorted in disgust but put his cigar away again as he observed, “If anyone was trying to keep us from leaving town, we’d have walked into their ambush by now, non?”
Captain Gringo started to agree. Then he frowned and said, “Stand right where you are and hold the pose. I want to see something.”
Gaston snorted again, removed his planter’s hat, and held it acros
s his chest in a respectful attitude as Captain Gringo moved fifty or sixty feet back the way they’d just come. Then he nodded and rejoined Gaston to explain, “You were just a blur from point-blank range. So we should still be invisible from that tree line to the southwest.”
“So what, Dick? Were we expecting to meet a pair of lovely ladies of the evening in the woods?”
“I don’t want to meet anybody in the woods. I think it’s scouting time. If I was going to set up for anyone taking this trail out of town, that tree line ahead would be my first choice.”
He cut due west through the pepper field, crunching pungent peppers and reasonably dry soil under his mosquito boots as Gaston tagged along, muttering, “Such a suspicious nature. Who would want to harm a pair of sweet kids like us, hein?”
“If I knew how many players were in the game, I might have chosen sides back there. Keep it down to a roar. We’ll hit the tree line a hundred yards from the road and work back tippy-toe, okay?”
“Merde alors, teach your grandmother how to knit. I was trés tippy-toe before you were born, you overgrown sneak!”
It worked pretty good. They made the trees, which turned out to be coffee, with the red earth well cleared between the close-spaced trunks, and were able to drift silently as ghosts toward the road until they both spotted the back of someone dressed in peon white cotton and a big straw sombrero. Captain Gringo stopped and nudged Gaston. The Frenchman whispered, “I see him. That rifle across his knees would indicate he has not squatted there to take la crappe. Ah, over to his right, resting his derriere against a tree trunk … he has a gun, too.”