Night of the Jaguar

by Joe Gannon

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  To Valentina Barbara Pearl,

  luz de mi vida, reina de mi corazón,

  and

  to the people of Nicaragua, who deserve so much more

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Disdaining kings, we give ourselves our laws to the sound of cannons and of bugle calls. And now, on the sinister behalf of black kings, each Judas is a friend of every Cain.

  —Rubén Darío, “To Columbus”

  PROLOGUE—THE JAGUAR

  June 21, 1986

  “Say the first part.”

  Enrique Cuadra smiles in the dark. He turns his balding head—gleaming under the full moon—and studies his cousin’s profile. The hawkish nose and high cheekbones—El Indio. Epimenio can barely write his own name, but he never tires of the poems, and asks to hear them each night once they make camp. The three days they’ve spent tracking the jaguar have taken them high into the selva, the mountain forest that runs from southern Mexico, through their home in Nicaragua, and all the way south to Peru. They’ve only covered ten miles as the crow flies from Enrique’s farm, and then circled, looking for a sign. Any further out and they might run into the Contra. Enrique knows a lot of the hungry, hard-eyed young men who have joined the counterrevolution. They are led by some of the old dictator’s Guardia, but the foot soldiers are local boys mostly. He should be in no danger from them. But they would take his shotguns.

  Three days away from the coffee finca is more holiday than Enrique’s had in years, and he enjoys Epimenio’s company. There is an ease between them that is rare between padron and peasant, even when they are related. They spend most of the daylight tracking in companionable silence, then make a small fire, warm a few of the tamales Enrique’s young wife prepared, and enjoy the first hours of night talking quietly, like this. Epimenio is fascinated by the notion that he could walk this mountain chain all the way north through Central America and Mexico, America, Canada, and on to the top of the world. He marvels that there are Americans even there, in Alaska. Enrique explained that Americans have a powerful hunger to be in many places, some of them far from home.

  “Say it, Enrique.”

  “You know it as well as I do,” Enrique says.

  “Only the words, you know how to, you know…”

  “Recite it.”

  “Yes!”

  Enrique sits up. “‘Rain, the first creature, even older than the stars, said, “Let there be moss aware of life.” And this was jaguar’s skin. But lightning struck its flint, and said, “Add sharp claws.” And a soft tongue licked the cruelty sheathed in its paws.’”

  Epimenio Putoy lies on his back in the cool mountain air and smiles. He looks straight at a moon so full his cousin could read the poem from a book—if he needed a page clearer than his memory. It is Epimenio’s favorite passage. He has heard it many times on the porch back at Enrique’s farm. But out here, high in the Segovias, the two middle-aged men stretched out on horse blankets, the fire just dying embers, their shotguns near to hand, the very creature itself somewhere out there in the Nicaraguan night, Epimenio feels a thrill that the poem never brought before.

  “Do you think that’s true, Enrique? Can you make skin out of moss?”

  “You can if you’re a god.”

  “But there’s just one God.”

  “One God with many names, many gods with one Name. We can’t know.”

  “Father Jerome wouldn’t like that.”

  “Father Jerome knows what he knows, and we know what we know.”

  “And the jaguar knows what she knows.”

  “And the jaguar knows what she knows. But you’re sure it’s a she?”

  “She walks a little crooked when nursing. Her paw fits into the closed hand.” Epimenio makes a fist. “The male’s fits into the open hand.” He spreads his fingers. “But either way, it’s true. The claws are cruel.”

  “Cruel to the cow when she killed it. But she doesn’t kill out of cruelty. She’s nursing little ones of her own, verdad?”

  “True. Now say the next part.”

  “‘Then the wind, blowing its flute, said, “I give you the rhythmic movements of the breeze.” And it rose and walked like harmony. And jaguar ruled the kingdom of death, undiscerning and blind.’”

  Epimenio looks at the moon; he mouths the last lines to himself. “What does that mean, ‘undiscerning’?”

  “It means indiscriminate. But in the poem, it means not to care what you hurt.”

  “But you said she’s not cruel.”

  “Not the animal we hunt. The jaguar in the poem is a symbol for powerful things. Kings, dictators, emperors. Those who do not care what they hurt, they…”

  Epimenio springs up, flicks his blanket over the embers to smother them, and crouches stock-still. Enrique rolls onto his belly, silently lifts his shotgun. He snaps the safety off; the usually small metallic click is like a thunderclap in the silence. Enrique peers into the dark. The waxy leaves of the dense selva reflect only the moon’s silvery sheen. The clearing seems to be an island of light in a doomsday-black sea. He feels exposed, as if caught in a searchlight. Enrique belly-slides next to his cousin, holds his hand up like a claw. Jaguar?

  Epimenio wags his index finger, points his thumb at his heart, and wiggles two fingers like legs. No. Men.

  Enrique closes his eyes and listens. After a moment he hears something, something mechanical. The faint whine of an engine. A plane? He points to the sky, nods, and points to his ear: I hear the plane. Epimenio wags his index finger, points into the darkness, and wiggles his two fingers again: No. Over there. Men.

  Enrique closes his eyes. Listens. Listens. And then, yes, he hears them. Distinctly, but far away: men’s voices. Laughing.

  1

  Managua, July 2, 1986

  1.

  Captain Ajax Montoya had a pain in the ass.

  As he drove along the carretera playing Russian roulette with the potholes in the decaying city’s streets, it occurred to Ajax that life since he had come down from the mountains was a series of pains in the ass. A chain, a sequence, a succession. He had an abundance of them, a plethora, an actual cornucopia of them. How doth my ass ache?—he could shout out the goddamned window of his broke-ass car if the window worked—Let me count the goddamned ways.

  The shrapnel lodged in his tailbone where a mortar round had sown it was the first, original, and perpetual pain, always with him like a schizophrenic conscience that can’t stop muttering to itself. That pain was aggravated this morning, like warm breath over hot coals, by the chrome-plated Python holstered down the small of his back. But the aggravation put him in the right frame of mind to deal with the cigarette smugglers. And those sons of bitches had
better hope he found them before he smoked his last butt.

  He’d had been up for five straight nights reading his thesaurus and smoking one Marlboro Red after another. It was all he had left now—now, nowadays, at the present time, currently. He’d been stone-cold, cold-turkey sober for five days. And that was maybe the biggest pain in the ass he’d had since he was last sober. Four years ago, almost to the day. His impulsive sobriety was accompanied, not surprisingly, by an inability to sleep or to fight off that parched inner voice—demon, fiend!—constantly begging, demanding, imploring Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme just the one drink! Which was why he had taken up reading the goddamned thesaurus all night long in the first place.

  He’d begun by reading the dictionary as an antidote—a remedy, a tonic—to that shrill, sleepless voice, but had discovered that he preferred the thesaurus. The dictionary, Ajax found, with its multiple, even contradictory meanings only disoriented him like these Managua streets, which lacked not only identifying street signs, but names, and so could only be navigated by landmarks, many of which no longer stood, and so were only known to lifelong residents, one of which he wasn’t.

  The thesaurus—alternately, conversely, on the other hand, with its long lists of alphabetized synonyms ready to roll off the tongue—the thesaurus seemed more a poem to be recited. He had learned long ago in the mountains that he didn’t have to understand a poem to be soothed by it.

  Ajax had endured some memorable pains in the ass up in the mountains during the long years of the insurrection: gunshots, jungle rot, malnutrition, malaria. To say nothing of the spies and traitors who had to be endured before they could be found out and executed. Then there had been the loneliness—loneliness as immense and unbroken as the sierra itself. And the boredom, which in the early years had only occasionally been interrupted by bloody, thrilling firefights with the Ogre’s Guardia Nacional—and he’d really not cared if he was shooting or being shot at. Then there had been the hours of mind-numbing indoctrination they’d had to absorb and discuss to help forge the New Socialist Men they were supposed to become, in the Worldwide Revolution they were supposed to be part of, even though they’d mostly lived like mice in Cat City.

  He’d joined the Frente Sandinista in 1969 when he was only eighteen. That was in what would charitably be called the Sandinistas’ quixotic phase as they faced off against the longest-ruling dictator and the biggest army in all of Latin America. Ajax had fought alongside them for the next ten ghastly years until the impossible had happened that impossible day in July 1979. Forty-three years of despised, dynastic tyranny fell in a matter of months, and the cruelest army in Central America collapsed into nothingness. General Somoza, the ageless Ogre, was overthrown!

  Yet during all those hellish years, no matter how hard the march, how short the rations, how endless the rain, how well-armed the enemy, not once—not once in ten years—had Ajax ever doubted himself, his compañeros, or that he would see Victory or Death. Meaning, no matter what, he had always known what was what. Which was why it troubled him—vexed him, frightened him—that on his third day of sobriety he had begun to lose his mind.

  Now, at thirty-six, Life—La Gran Puta of all Putas—presented him with the ultimate dilemma, irony, paradox: remain a drunk and lose his soul, or keep his temperance but lose his mind.

  He hit another pothole and the shock shot a needle into his coccyx. Shit-eating fucking sons of bitches! This pothole Russian roulette was worse now, in the rainy season. The ruts, plentiful as splinters in the Risen Carpenter’s ass, were full of water from last night’s tormenta, so he couldn’t tell which was a puddle or a pool. His rattletrap Lada magnified the hurt. Its suspensionless frame telegraphed through its springless seat directly to his ass every jolt, pothole, fissure, and bump of the weary city’s exhausted streets.

  And he had those streets mostly to himself.

  The Soviet tanker bringing the month’s fuel shipment was late, again. The gas had dried up yesterday. No oil meant no buses, no buses meant few workers, and few workers meant almost no sidewalk vendors or street hawkers. Why bother? Managua could still seem an alien place to Ajax. He hadn’t come home to Nicaragua until he was nineteen, and had never set foot in Managua before the revolution had triumphed in ’79. He was thirty by then. He’d had seven years to put the city on like a glove, like a skin. Let it in. But he still felt a stranger in it. It was a city of almost a million souls in a country of four million, yet the city center was empty not only of citizens but even of buildings. The terrible earthquake of ’72 had toppled a critical mass of the homes and businesses that made the city the city. Much had never been rebuilt—despite the world’s generous response—because General Somoza, the last of the Ogres of that name, had hoarded the donations like bones to make his bread. So now Ajax passed through neighborhoods of tidy homes, a hotel or a restaurant, but then block after endless block of empty lots, framed by snaggle-toothed walls overgrown with weeds, where young boys now tended cows.

  The horizon, too, as he sped toward the cigarette smugglers, was empty. For a full 360 degrees only four points stood more than a story above his head. The Government House and the InterContinental Hotel in the dead center of “downtown,” were paired in perfect symmetry with the twin cones of Momotombo and Momotombito—the two volcanoes on the far side of Lake Managua that waited patiently like unexploded ordinance. Ajax wiggled his ass, looking for some relief as he pushed the accelerator—and counted the usual six seconds until his Lada actually sped up.

  Earthquakes and volcanoes, it sometimes seemed, were two of the few assets his piss-poor country had in abundance. The only stable things in Nicaragua were the stars, and they were too far away to be of any help. He fished a cigarette out of his last pack. He had to get to the smugglers. Instead, he got the radio call he’d been waiting two days for.

  “Ajax, Ajax, Ajax. Copy?”

  “Copy, Darío. Go”

  “We got him, Ajax. Positive ID.”

  “Where?”

  “Barrio Jorge Dimitriov.”

  “Any sign of the priest?”

  “Neither dead nor alive.”

  2.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ajax squatted inside one shack, observing another about twenty yards away. He pulled the .357 magnum from its hand-tooled holster and slowly rolled the Python’s chrome cylinder over his open palm. With the hammer half-cocked it turned smoothly. He could feel the chambers silently clicking as they rolled past the barrel, like tumblers falling in a big lock. It helped him to think, always had.

  The people in Jorge Dimitriov were among the poorest of the poor—barrio kids, farmers displaced by the war in the northern mountains, and decommissioned soldiers. This was why the soldier Ajax had been searching for took refuge there. You could hardly call it hiding, Ajax thought. The shack he was in was as locked down as a wooden hut could be, its flimsy shutters sealed tight, with wisps of incense smoke curling from cracks in the mismatched slats. The soldier inside must be burning piles of it: smoke signals calling Ajax to him.

  “Smells like a priest’s whorehouse, doesn’t it?”

  He turned to see his new partner, Lieutenant Gladys Darío, only twenty, crouching next to him. Gladys had missed much of the battle against the Ogre and so sometimes overcompensated with foul-mouthed blasphemy.

  “There aren’t any whorehouses in Nicaragua, Lieutenant. Don’t you read Barricada?”

  “Oh, right, sorry, Captain.”

  New to the homicide squad, and fresh out of a Cuban police academy, Gladys favored clean, crisp uniforms and was an eager Sandinista believer of the stripe Ajax increasingly found a pain in the ass. But she had two great assets: she was a dead shot, which, while not really necessary to the job, was a trait Ajax admired in anyone, and she actually believed being partnered with the “great Ajax Montoya” was a blessing. Ajax figured she had really pissed someone off, or was spying on him. The latter possibility was one reason he’d agreed to sober up. An old friend had warned him that the Frente—the San
dinista Front, both as ruling party and government—had overlooked all the missed assignments, no-shows, and glassy-eyed insubordination it was going to. If the Frente wanted to make a move on him, Ajax had vowed, they could do it for any reason they liked. But not because he was drunk on the job—or insane.

  Still, he liked Gladys. She had close-cropped hair—kind of butch, he thought—but an unlined face that made him feel good when she smiled, even if she was taking notes.

  She wasn’t smiling now.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Seguridad is here.”

  Ajax shot up off his haunches and looked out the door. A squad of Russian-trained sharpshooters from State Security took up concealed positions around the soldier’s refuge. He froze Gladys in an accusation: “How did they know?”

  “We got orders at formation this morning. You weren’t there. The major said to notify State Security when we found him.”

  “The major is a moron.”

  “The perpetrator was from the Seventeenth Light Hunter Battalion. They’re a MINT unit.”

  The Ministry of the Interior, the MINT, was an octopus with a tentacle in too many tamales, including State Security and its own combat units fighting the Contra.

  “Gladys, his name is Fortunado Gavilan.” Ajax returned the Python to its holster and handed the rig over to her, ivory handle first. “Don’t ever involve State Security in our business again.”

  She looked at the gun. “Captain, are you crazy?”

  He regarded her for a moment. Did she know his history with State Security? Did she sense his confusion from the hallucinations he’d been having? Or had he told her and forgotten?

  “I won’t need the piece, Gladys, he’s done killing.”

  She seemed to straighten up into a formal pose. “Captain, regulations say no officer is allowed to enter the presence of a dangerous suspect without protection.”

  “Jesus, you sound like a condom ad from the Health Ministry.”

  He shoved the Python into her hands.