Renegade 29

by Lou Cameron

  “Don’t be silly. Would you crawl around down here in this shit if you had anywhere else to live?”

  “Mais non, but I am not a meat-eating reptile, and some of the rats we have met this morning in passing look trés yummy, even to me. Remind me never to start one of these trés fatigue adventures of yours on an empty stomach again!”

  Captain Gringo told him to shut up, adding that conversation, like cigar smoke, made people nervous, coming out of sewer vents. So they moved silently back to the Y-shaped junction Gaston had guessed wrong about. Gaston didn’t comment until they’d backtracked even farther. Captain Gringo said, “I figure that one tube has to lead downslope to the seaward outlets, too. But we passed a grated opening getting this far and the more I think about it, the surer I am we overshot the jailhouse by at least a couple of blocks. The main marketplace is south of the local lock-up, right?”

  “Oui, and the map says a sewer pipe draining the courtyard leads into this main channel at a right angle. But—”

  “But me no buts,” cut in Captain Gringo, feeling in the pitch-black darkness with his free hand until his fingers scraped on a smoother, rusty wet surface and he added, “Yeah, here it is. Some asshole’s stuck a steel plate over the old opening. We must have not been the first guys who ever thought about escaping from the prison yard via the storm drain. They must have put this here to keep other guys from trying it.”

  Gaston wedged up beside him, felt the boiler plating himself, and said, “Eh bien, that does it, then. Even if we had a cutting torch, and even if we were mad enough to light a cutting torch in a sewer filled with explosive methane gas, they are doubtless urging Sanchez to finish his last meal at this very moment, hein?”

  Captain Gringo got out his pocket knife, unfolded the screwdriver blade, and started feeling for screw heads as he said, “Look, they put this plate here to keep guys in on the other side. But they have to have a way to open it once in a while from this side. The courtyard drainage can’t all run through these holes punched in the plate. There must be some way to clean out the crud trapped on the far side and … Here we go, and the screw heads must be brass. They’re not rusted in!”

  Gaston said, “Eh bien, but it’s still too late, Dick. Trust me on military executions; I have been on both sides of the firing squad, more than once. By now the courtyard above us will be filling up with the off-duty curious, anxious to have a good seat before the show begins. The original plan called for us to move in early, on the feet of the adorable pussy, and—”

  “Shut up,” snapped Captain Gringo, freeing a screw and starting on another as he growled, “The plan called for us to rescue Sanchez, period. We took the front money and we promised the guy’s friends and family we’d do our best. Punking out at this late stage is hardly what I’d call the old college try, God damn it!”

  “Oui, but we are soldiers of fortune, not football players, Dick. I enjoy heroics as much as the next idiot. Mais only within reason. You know that even if we could rescue Sanchez, this late in the final quarter, we would be giving up our live-and-let-live understanding with the only police force south of Texas that has, so far, let us live. Costa Rica is not going to like this, no matter how it turns out, and unless my watch is trés fast, it promises to turn out trés noisy!”

  Captain Gringo got another screw loose and said, “You should have thought of that before you made the deal with those Costa Rican rebels, you money-hungry old bastard. It wasn’t my idea to rescue Sanchez. I would have figured any asshole trying to overthrow one of the few halfway decent governments down here deserved what he was getting. But, no, you had to take the front money and introduce me to the guy’s sad-eyed wife and kids, so here we are, and here we go, that was the last screw. Help me move this plate without sounding like a Chinese New Year’s Eve.”

  The two soldiers of fortune manhandled the plate silently out of the way. As they did so, both gagged and Captain Gringo gasped, “Get a good lungful of what’s out here and hold your breath the rest of the way! The tunnel ahead’s filled with pure gas!”

  “Merde alors, you call that pure?” sighed Gaston as he covered his face with a kerchief to follow. Captain Gringo didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The badly drained sewer under the prison courtyard was a choking hell of odorless methane and hydrogen sulphide that smelled like rotten eggs. Both were explosive and both were poisonous to inhale. So he didn’t inhale as he crawled like a lizard over hot rock until he reached the trap at the far end and could stand. As Gaston joined him, he took a cautious sniff and whispered, “The gas is heavier than air. It’s okay to breathe above waist level, I hope, but don’t overdo it!”

  He took one of the Winchesters and started up the ladder toward the manhole cover above them. Thanks to the perforations in the cast-iron cover, they could hear what was going on topside, as well as see, sort of, what they might be up to.

  They’d timed it close. As Captain Gringo reached the top of the ladder he could hear the corporal of the guard giving orders to present arms. There wasn’t time to eavesdrop further. A firing squad presented arms just before it fired!

  The big Yank took a deep breath of pure stink, gathered his powerful legs up under him, then levered a round in his Winchester’s chamber as he braced his back and shoulders against the bottom of the manhole cover, and heaved!

  The officer of the day, standing on the cover, was the first to sense something very unusual was going on as he was dumped on his ass, shouting, “¡Terremoto! ¡Temblor de tierro!” in the mistaken conclusion it was an earthquake. Earthquakes were much more usual in Central America than the sight of what seemed to be a big blond jack-in-the-box, covered with crud, popping out of the ground with a repeating rifle in its hands, firing as fast as it could lever round after round in the chamber!

  Captain Gringo mowed down the firing squad between him and the white-clad prisoner against the wall across the way and shouted, “Sanchez! This way! Poco tiempo!” before he turned on the ladder without waiting to see what Sanchez was doing. He turned just in time. The officer of the day was sitting up, pistol in hand, just in time to catch a .44-40 slug with his left eye socket. Captain Gringo potted a soldado in the distance who hadn’t come unstuck yet. Then the magazine was empty and Sanchez, hands still tied behind him, was trying to dive headfirst down the manhole with Captain Gringo. The big Yank dropped the useless Winchester, caught the desperate young Costa Rican by the belt just in time, and lowered him head first to Gaston, who already had his own knife out to cut the boy’s hands free, saying, “Eh bien. Follow me, tout de suite, and try not to breathe!”

  Captain Gringo slid down the ladder to follow both of them as he grabbed the Winchester that was still loaded. Sanchez, of course, inhaled some sewer gas on the way to the main sewer channel and passed out between them. Captain Gringo abandoned the remaining rifle to haul the unconscious youth along while, behind them, he heard some dumb bastard yelling, “After them! They are trying to escape by way of the sewers!”

  By this time they were out of the gas-filled tunnel. Captain Gringo growled, “What does he mean, trying? Gaston, take the lead. Get us back under that marketplace on the double!”

  Gaston was already crawling fast, but called back, “Eh bien, then what? Do you really think it wise to erupt like some species of volcano in such a public place, Dick?”

  “Keep going. We have to get out of this maze some damned place and at least I know where we’ll be if we come up some place I’ve been before! Sooner or later some wise ass is going to think about sending guys with guns to cover all the ways out. So let’s get out sooner. Can’t you move any faster, damn it?”

  “In pitch blackness, on my hands and knees, in a maze filled avec rats and crocodiles? But of course! Watch my smoke! How is our passenger doing back there, Dick?”

  “Not as well as he could if I could wake him up. The fucking gas is following us and I don’t feel so chipper right now, either. So pick ’em up and lay ’em down before all three of us pass out!”

/>   Gaston did. They were soon in the dimly lit trap under the market, and as Gaston leaned Sanchez against the slimy bricks to slap him either silly or awake, Captain Gringo eased up the ladder again to find the same dame was still standing on the manhole behind her same chicken stand. He sighed and reached in his pocket for a fistful of change. Below him, the bewildered youth they’d rescued opened his eyes to ask blearily, “Where am I, and who the hell are you guys?”

  Gaston said, “Later. Are you ready to move fast and do just as we say if you ever wish to see your trés adorable little family again?”

  Sanchez nodded weakly, and said, “Si, if I have to. I thought I was a goner, back there.”

  Gaston said, “You have to, and you were. Move up the ladder after our friend, the moose-like object above you, hein?”

  As the Costa Rican started climbing, Gaston cocked his head, cursed, and quietly called up, “Dick! They’re in the tunnel behind us, coming fast!”

  Captain Gringo muttered, “I noticed. Sanchez?”

  “Si?”

  “Stay right on my tail. Don’t worry about where I’m running. I’m not sure myself, yet. All set?”

  “Si, I shall follow you through hell, amigo. It has to be an improvement on where I just was!”

  Captain Gringo nodded, put the money in his mouth, then took out a match to hold between his lips like an unlit cigarette before he drew the .38 double action from his shoulder rig, braced himself, and heaved the manhole open.

  The market woman standing on it weighed less than the officer of the day who’d last experienced such an event. So she flew farther, to land with her skirts up around her bare hips, screaming like a banshee as her chicken cart rolled the other way, scattering hot grease and fried chicken into the startled crowd while Captain Gringo and his two comrades popped out of the pavement at them!

  Captain Gringo spat a mouthful of coins at the outraged woman to pay her for any damage he’d done her goods and dignity. Then he struck the big wooden match aflame and dropped it in the manhole they’d just climbed out of. The results were even noisier than he’d hoped for as the mixture of air, methane, and hydrogen sulphide blew manhole covers high in the air all over town.

  It probably didn’t do anyone down in the sewers at the moment a whole lot of good, either. But Captain Gringo wasn’t about to hang around and watch. He was already running through the crowd, only knocking down those rude enough to stand in his way, as Sanchez and Gaston bulled after him through the total chaos. Gaston thought it only right to grab a wooden pole in passing, dumping shelves of produce and a big, flapping awning in their wake as somewhere a police whistle chirped plaintively for answers to all the confusing noises. Then Captain Gringo was running up the cathedral steps and into the incense-scented darkness beyond with his pals right behind him. As he ran down a side aisle toward an exit he remembered from a more sedate visit with a religious girlfriend, an old woman praying in one of the pews screamed maledictions after them. But an altar boy lighting candles as they passed merely shrugged, as if he was used to maniacs attending church between services.

  Captain Gringo led the way out into and across a graveyard, paused behind a tomb near the far wall, and grabbed the still groggy Sanchez by the seat of his pants and the scruff of his shirt. He said, “Upsy daisy!” and heaved Sanchez over the wall. Gaston growled, “Please, Mother, I’d rather do it myself!” So the three of them were soon over the wall, and if Sanchez was acting dopey again, what the hell, he was easy to carry between them as they moved down the alley to a pateo gate Captain Gringo remembered well enough to kick open with his big mosquito-booted foot. They hauled Sanchez inside and spread him on the weeds. As Gaston shut the gate after them the bewildered Costa Rican sat up and gasped, “¡Jesus, Maria, y José! You guys sure move around like spit on a hot stove! Where are we now, and what if they call the police?”

  Captain Gringo took out an Havana claro and struck another match to light it as he said, “They won’t. This property is deserted. I know because just the other night I was screwing a local girl right where you’re sitting. She was the one who told me the family that owned this property just moved up to the highlands. Nobody but a few of the local street kids know it yet. Let’s make sure the cops don’t. Come on, Sanchez. Are you escaping from prison or taking a fucking sun bath?”

  Gaston helped him up as Captain Gringo moved to the back of the house to try the rear entrance. It was locked. No problem to a guy who’d put away his .38 to get out his knife again. The knockaround Yank picked the lock politely, to avoid needless damage, and led them inside. The house was a bit gloomy with all the windows shuttered and drop cloths draped over the remaining furniture that apparently would be sold with the house, when and if.

  There was no food in the kitchen, unless one wanted to count a string of red peppers on one stucco wall. None of them were quite that hungry yet. Captain Gringo tried the sink pump. It worked. He grinned and said, “Something had to go right today. Bueno. We can rinse our duds out in this sink, clean ourselves with rags as well, and walk out of here after La Siesta looking like proper little gentlemen after all. How far is your hideout from here, Sanchez?”

  “In God’s truth, I am not sure. Was that the main cathedral we just tore through back there?”

  “Beats me. I don’t know Limón that well. But it was named for the Fourteen Holy Martyrs, if that means anything.”

  Sanchez brightened and said, “I know where we are now. My wife and children are less than five blocks from here! I could make it in one dash, no?”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “No. It’s broad-ass daylight out, and the cops know we’re somewhere in this part of town.”

  “Bah, I spit in the milk of their stupid mothers! It is well known the police of our most corrupt and inefficient government could not catch the clap if it really wished for to get away from them!”

  The two soldiers of fortune exchanged glances as Captain Gringo went on filling the kitchen sink. Gaston shrugged and said, “Oui, for this we just risked our lives and no doubt made the trés inefficient police who just caught it mad at us as well! I told you you were a sentimental fool, Dick.”

  Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “What can I tell you. Everyone deserves a second chance.” He turned to Sanchez and said, “Look, amigo, your political views are your own business. We just got paid to get you out of the mess you were in back there. So please don’t get in any more before we can deliver you alive and pick up the bonus from your pals. Let’s get out of these shitty duds. There’s no soap, but a good squishy rinse ought to work most of the fresh crap out of the cloth.”

  Sanchez objected, “It will take hours for our clothes to dry, no?”

  Captain Gringo growled, “Hours we got. La Siesta won’t end until at least three p.m., and when La Policia see anyone out on the streets during La Siesta they always seem to want to know why.”

  “But I am so close to home! I have not seen my wife since they arrested me and—”

  “So go jack off in a corner, you jerk-off!” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “The game is staying alive. Not getting laid or even bouncing kiddies on one’s knee, see? You got picked up in the first damned place because you went out to buy a present for your wife with every cop in Costa Rica looking for you after that bungled guerrilla raid. Now you want to run five blocks in broad-ass daylight, less than an hour after busting out of jail? You’re right, the current government of Costa Rica must be inefficient, if you’re a product of the local educational system!”

  The big American finished stripping off his soiled duds and dumped everything but his boots, gun rig, and pocket contents in the tepid water as Gaston began to follow suit. Sanchez asked how they were to bathe themselves without wash rags, adding he saw none around.

  Gaston said, “Every stick of furniture is covered with clean white cotton, merde alors! Can’t we just shoot him, Dick? The idiot doesn’t know how to wash his own balls and he wants to overthrow the government of a stabl
e democracy! I do not know about you, but the company of lunatics makes me trés nervous!”

  Sanchez looked so worried Captain Gringo took pity on him, told him Gaston was just kidding, and moved into the next room, naked save for boots and gun, to gather some clean cloth for them all. He ripped a drop cloth in three good-sized hunks and was about to return to the kitchen with them when he heard something that froze him in place.

  Unless a mouse was nibbling at metal for some reason, someone was trying to pick the same back door he’d just opened and relocked a few minutes ago. He eased to the kitchen door, hissed, “Company!” to Gaston as he tossed in the sheeting, then moved toward the nibbling sounds with his gun muzzle trained on the thick oaken door.

  Whoever was trying to pick the lock this time didn’t know what he or maybe she was doing. Captain Gringo waited on the far side until he got tired of waiting for them to either bust in or go away. Then he shrugged, grabbed the inside latch with his free hand, and swung the door open, to snap, “¡Congelos!”

  The two girls on the back veranda froze as directed, staring wide eyed at the apparition of a big, blond, naked man pointing a gun at them. Then the one who knew him, in the Biblical sense, gasped, “Deek, what are you doing here?”

  “Doing my laundry. Inside, both of you, poco tiempo!”

  The muchacha he’d had in the grass out back a few nights ago—if only he could remember her fucking name as well as her fucking—nudged her better-looking friend, and the two of them did what any sensible people would with a gun trained on them; they stepped inside. Captain Gringo slammed the door shut behind diem and made sure it was locked again before he lowered the muzzle of his .38 to a more polite angle and said, “Okay, ah, Dulcenia? My pals and I ducked in here to get cleaned up and sweat out la siesta unobserved. Now it’s your turn.”