Anyway, he was too drunk to perform, he’d split the Ron Abuelo with Elmer on the way up, a romp up the old Puriscal Road in Elmer’s beat-up Jeep, laughing, toking, debating the nature of stars and planets, and he’d been chain-drinking Haig and Haig since he got here. He was having trouble figuring out how drunk he was, somewhere at a level below outright staggering, though he hadn’t tested himself on his feet for a while. Those fingertips tracing tiny circles on his skin were keeping him frozen to his seat.
Slack tried to rationalize. He needed the break, it seemed like eons since he had kicked back and shed life’s myriad worries. Let the planet save itself for one night, kidnapping and subterfuge, he’ll deal with that stuff when the sun comes up.
And it was important to stay tight with this Jericho character, vital to broaden this new and excellent friendship. Elmer was picking up the tab tonight, generous with the take from the Eco-Rico Lodge. The guy was smoking through a pack of Marlboros, talking non-stop, he had good Spanish. He also knew his drugs.
“Ecstasy, that’s just rabbit food for Yuppies scared to get high. Same with Dex and ludes and all that shit. Ergot’s still the only thing. Owsley, haze, flying A. Acid, man, LSD-25. No one’s come up with a better product. I must’ve done a thousand trips.” He turned to his companion, cooed something in her ear, she punched him playfully on his shoulder.
Slack started to drink more heavily as Elmer entered into negotiations with the whores, suggesting a package deal, extras included. Slack wasn’t keen on the project, you can’t fake an erection.
“So let’s find a couple of rooms, man. I’m paying.”
Slack tried to figure a way out of this. He knocked back a last desperate whisky straight. He had to focus hard, his eyes were seeing double Elmer, double Loretta, and, by the bar, the blurred outlines of the bartender, who was engaged with a burly, bald gentleman who looked like he was having his hand greased, maybe the local bylaw inspector.
Suddenly Loretta was burying herself behind his shoulder, and then he saw that the bald guy was approaching their table, looking pissed off.
Slack tried to make sense of what Loretta was whispering into his ear. “On the virgin’s name, I took only what was fair. He’s a cop, he thought he could get it for free.”
The policeman started swearing at Loretta. “You thieving nigger bitch, where is my money? Give me your purse!”
The fellow was being boorish and uncivil, an off-duty guardia, a cop on the pad, cheating the girls. This character really put Slack off, he would give him some words of advice. “Stick your head up your culo, you prick.”
At that, the whole bar went silent, everyone watching and listening, Elmer nervously shifting in his chair, Loretta still cringing behind his back.
When the cop made a grab for Loretta’s bag, Slack stood up, snatched his wrist, and cracked him in the shin with the toe of his boot. Then, as the policeman performed a one-legged hop, Slack kicked the other leg from under him, and with his hand to the back of his neck propelled him face down onto the table. He could hear the nasty crunch of brittle nose bone.
He stepped back, shocked at what he had done, he had overreacted, his judgment impaired. He saw blood begin to pool. The cop wasn’t moving.
“Let’s get out of here,” Elmer said.
Slack hesitated, checked for a pulse, it seemed to take forever to find it. The cop began to stir.
“C’mon!” Elmer was already on the move.
Loretta was still pasted all over Slack as he staggered out into the cool night air. He saw a glow in the eastern sky.
– 2 –
The view through the window was of fields and rolling hills under the shadow of Irazú volcano, so Slack knew he was in the mountains somewhere east of San José. He vaguely remembered an ambulance hauling him out here yesterday, it was a private clinic, attendants prowling about in white garments.
The light from the window hurt his eyes, and so did the sight of Ham Bakerfield staring quietly down at his multi-hued body, an abstract canvas of blue and purple. Joe Borbón was off in a corner, looking dejected, Ham must have dealt him a tongue-lashing.
Slack remembered little of what happened after he left the Dungeon. Somewhere, in the distant reaches of his mind, resided a foggy scene in which he got pummelled, but alcoholic amnesia spared him the details.
He’d lost track of Elmer, though he had a sense of Loretta having been with him in a dingy hotel room. He couldn’t recall if he miraculously rose to the occasion. Nor did he remember being rolled by her, though that must have happened, because he’d lost six toucans from his wallet, close to a hundred bucks.
Ham lit a Churchill. “You able to talk now?”
Slack hadn’t been able to do that for two days, he’d got one in the throat, though most of the pain was coming from his two cracked ribs. The Demerol helped.
As best he could put it together, the cop whose nose he’d broken had gathered up a few of his cronies from the station, figured out where he was, or maybe Loretta squealed, and they barged into the room. Without even the courtesy of advising him of his rights, they proceeded to settle their dispute out of court.
“How did you find me?” he croaked.
“By the smell. Hurt much?”
“Only when I laugh.”
Slack assumed they’d done the rounds of the hospitals, he recalled stumbling into one before the ambulance took him out here.
“Almost predictable, the babysitter takes one night off, the trained agent goes on a tear, sneaks up to San José, gets rolled by a hooker, and ends up on the floor of some flophouse smelling like a garbage truck and looking like it just rolled over him.” Ham blew out a cumulous cloud of smoke. This was a care facility, there had to be a rule against polluting the air, but Slack was too weak to complain.
“So give me the Purple Heart,” he rasped. “I’m in deep, I’m inside.”
“What we got here is a team player who keeps scoring in his own goal. You could have called in, hero.”
But Slack could see through puffy eyes that Bakerfield was smiling, trying to rein in his mirth.
“What the hell, looking at you, I got my sweet revenge. You sure this Jericho guy trusts you?”
“Like his mother.”
Yesterday, during one fairly lucid moment, Slack had been able to jot down Elmer Jericho’s name, along with the notation: “Inside job. Don’t touch him.” This morning he had managed to scribble out a fuller report.
“Didn’t think we were dealing with any gringos.”
“It’s a con game.” Despite the pain of the swollen larynx, Slack delighted in rubbing it in. “What I said from the start.”
“He checked into work this morning, the Eco–Rico office. We have eyes on him.”
“Stay away. I put a lot of work into this guy.”
“I got to admit the Einstein who had his file didn’t do a prize job of backgrounding him. Now we find out he was into some teak plantation scam a few years ago, selling ten-thousand-dollar shares for a square foot of dirt. Ex-Special Services, did you know that?”
“Said he was in ‘Nam.”
“We’re checking the land registry, see if he owns a house where the two women might be.”
“Good luck, registry’s a mess.” It had taken Slack a month to locate the title to his own property.
“When are you supposed to connect with him?”
“Ten days.”
“How about quicker?”
“Dying here, Ham.”
“You’ll die when I give the order, pansy. You got a few lumps, that’s all. I want you up and walking by the morning, we’ll brief you then.”
As Borbón followed him out, he gave Slack a hurt look, as if he’d been betrayed. Cozying up to the squatters, the windup Cuban got what he deserved, he missed a good fight.
Slack’s multiple swellings had subsided somewhat by the next morning, and since all his limbs seemed to be functioning he passed up the offer of a wheelchair and limped out to take some
air on the back patio.
The small clinic specialized in tucks and lifts, he’d seen a few customers wandering around with face straps, men and women, vanity was gender neutral. The facility was in the hills above Tres Ríos, under the precarious shelter of Irazú and its hissing vents. Slack guessed they located it here because of the nearby hot springs, where they had guest cabins, you could hide out until your skin grew back. He wouldn’t mind doing a few facelifts of his own on those unsporting peace officers who jumped a drunk. But maybe he’d asked for it, let it go.
It bothered Slack that he couldn’t seem to get from point A to B in this rescue op without causing damage to himself, but his pain was dulled by the satisfaction he had pulled off a major coup. Not that Ham Bakerfield would ever openly applaud it, you could tie a ribbon around the entire Cinco de Mayo, present them on a platter, and he wouldn’t twitch an eyebrow.
He eased himself into a plastic lawn chair. Borbón was out here, pouting, refusing to acknowledge him. Otherwise the ambience was pleasant enough, flower-choked trellises, Mexican tiles, the sun out, summer finally here. Down the hill, a pastoral scene, a herd of Holsteins being ushered from a farm gate, a Land Cruiser waiting to get by.
The vehicle finally worked its way through and pulled into the parking area, then Ham and Chuck Walker emerged and began trudging up the path. Slack had it all worked out, what he was going to propose to them. He would have to abide Walker and his many helpful hints because the senator would have to okay his plan.
He greeted his guests with a limp wave and sent Borbón off to fetch coffee. Walker insisted on grasping his hand, squeezing the bones. Maybe Slack had got in a punch or two the other night, his hand was sore.
“Excellent work, it looks like we recruited the right man.” But for some reason Chuck didn’t look happy, worry lines marking his face. Maybe he was disappointed that the show was nearing final curtain, he wouldn’t be crowding America’s front pages much longer. “You’re sure this character – Jericho, is it? — wasn’t just bullshitting?”
Ham answered for Slack. “I don’t think that’s likely, senator. This just came in.” He handed Slack a page of lined paper: “Cinco de Mayo desinga Señor Slack Cardinal.” The verb was misspelled.
Walker was playing devil’s advocate: “Is it genuine? Could it be a practical joke? No photograph, no proof it’s from them.”
“Elmer Jericho wrote this,” Slack said. “He’s the genuine article, senator.” It was painful to talk, because of the cracked ribs he dared not take a deep breath.
“He sounds somewhat lacking in the brain department.”
“Blown out on dope.”
“Well, I hope we can pull it off.”
“Think there’s any chance of doing this in one shot?” Ham asked. “Just follow you in there?”
“No, I should reconnoitre first, see the lay of the land.”
“Okay, I think you’re right. But you’re to be blindfolded, isn’t that the idea?”
“And checked for wiring. I’m going to have to work this Halcón guy a bit.”
“So you won’t be armed,” Walker said, disappointed.
Slack ignored him. “Ham, can we get Benito Madrigal out of that house without a media carnival?”
“I think we can smuggle him out. He’s in the hands of the local authorities, they’ll have to be brought into the picture.”
“I don’t want Minister Castillo or any of his ineffectual Ticos involved,” Walker said. “Well-meaning, but they don’t have the know-how.”
“Can’t be avoided,” Ham said. “Madrigal is acting up, wants a full pardon before he’ll agree to be released. Guess that can be arranged, too.”
“I’ll also need a shitload of dinero.”
Slack waited for the reaction, and was met with a silence that held while Borbón passed around mugs of coffee.
“I understood we would not be donating to the cause of left-wing terrorism,” Walker said.
Slack shrugged. “A good-will offering, senator. Say, a token five hundred thousand dollars.”
Walker seemed in a state of shock. “That’s totally unacceptable.”
Slack spoke hoarsely, ordering himself to ignore the pain, he had to make the strongest possible case. “Maybe that’s not going to be enough. Six hundred. Senator, they may just jump at that, it might be enough, and then I get the women out of there. Even if it’s not enough, it’s a hell of a down payment. The money will be safe, they won’t be able to run off with it. Then they’ll be softened up for my next visit. With backup.”
Slack didn’t really think the Mayoists would accept six hundred free and clear, but maybe he could use it for Maggie Schneider, get her out of the way in case there’s rough stuff later. They had no reason to hold her. No discredit to her, but she wasn’t worth anywhere as much as Glo. He dared not let Walker know what was in his mind, the Canadian woman was nothing to him, he would go cold on the idea.
She had looked so sad and pretty in that Polaroid photo, a hardy, spindly prairie flower. Close up, he smelled rancid … She’d be on her knees thanking him, though he’d remember to shower first.
“It seems a very risky investment.”
“Bait money, senator. It’ll set this whole thing up, they’re going to think I’m their best pal. And the next time I go in there, I’ll be packing, a snug in my boot, how’s that?”
“And you take them out.”
“If necessary.” Slack gave him a fixed look, didn’t bat an eye. Let him think he’d do it.
“Your call, senator.” Ham’s face was shrouded in smoke, but Slack could tell he didn’t mind, it wasn’t his money. “He’ll have to be wired on the second go-round, and he’ll need first-rate backup.”
“Snipers,” Walker said. Then he shook his head, still antagonistic to the idea. He had a big war chest, the Keep Chuck Running fund was rumoured at around forty million dollars, Walker could look bad if he refused to invest a small portion in Glo’s freedom.
“Tell you what,” Slack said, “the three hundred you’ll be paying me, I’ll throw that in. You ante up the same amount.”
Walker began pacing. “I hope I’m being fair, Slack, but, ah, it seems to me you’ve had a few misadventures along the way, and …”
Slack stood up, winced, staggered a step, a demonstration of what he had suffered on Walker’s behalf during the course of these misadventures. He got close to him.
“Senator, you’re risking no more money than me, and I’m almost dead broke. I’m also risking my life – for the woman you love.”
That pulled him up. This was the kind of appeal Walker could understand, he prided himself on his honour, an old-fashioned principled conservative. Slack sensed his heroic offer had hit home. Walker himself was no coward, a decorated officer, he’d rescued his platoon behind enemy lines.
He patted Slack on the shoulder, gave him a squeeze. “I take your point, soldier. I’ll discuss the matter with some friends, see if we can come up with the extra three on top of what we’ll owe you.”
Ham was looking at Slack with renewed respect. “Okay, sounds good, anything else?”
“Expense money. I’ll need about ten grand, I’m not talking colones.”
“I’ll make out a requisition. Maybe we can clean this up quick. Do we have to wait ten days for you to contact Jericho?”
“That’s what he said. I need ten days.”
“Give him what time he needs,” Walker said. Astonishingly, he seemed to have bought Slack’s expensive plan, he’d expected to be bargained down.
“You running more checks on that name, Pablo Esquivel?” he asked Ham.
“We’re looking into it.”
Slack was working on a theory.
– 3 –
La Esmeralda, downtown on Avenida Segunda, was a venerable San José eatery, packed with musicians, home of the Mariachi Union, also a hangout of promoters, speculators, and fixers, crowded now at two p.m., still lunchtime. Ham Bakerfield had put some people on the st
reet, but Slack had told them to stay well downwind.
The big room echoed with guitar music and the loud gabble of the country’s vast underground economy at work. You could get the best rates on the U.S. dollar here, passports for sale, permisos, Swiss watches. You could buy or sell just about anything in San José, a connection town, you just had to know the right person.
They’d fixed up Slack a bit at the clinic and he didn’t draw anyone’s attention as he strolled in, looking for Elmer. After ten days, much of his bruising had subsided, but the cracked ribs remained a potent reminder of the perils of drink; negative conditioning works.
He spotted Elmer waving at him from the back. Slack had called him on a tapped line at the Eco-Rico office, hinting at developments. Elmer had suggested the Esmeralda. “We better not be talking on the phone.” If he was that nervous, why weren’t they meeting at a more clandestine location? Slack was having trouble figuring out these people.
Someone was with Elmer, short and stout, and as Slack approached, he got a better look at him, noticed a cane leaning against his chair. Herman Rebozo of the wounded foot, his cast had been removed, the bullet wound couldn’t have been that crippling.
“Looks like they got you pretty good, buddy. This here’s Herman, but everyone calls him Gordo.”
Rebozo didn’t seem to like the teasing nickname, and looked uneasy, distrustful, his handshake didn’t have much oomph. The moustache and beard were new, needed a few more weeks to fill out. Ex-payroll clerk in the civil service, fervent believer in the Great Dead God of Marxism, plus he’d run away from a wife and six kids. You’d think she’d be bitter, but interviewers hadn’t found her a fountain of information.
Elmer called for a round of beer, Slack said he’d stick to coffee. He and Elmer had a few laughs over Slack’s run-in with the cops, Gordo not following, he had no English.
“You ain’t had any second thoughts? You know, about the project.”
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