Most of the conversation was in Spanish, of course, and between the rush of the breakers, and the roar of my ignorance, I heard nothing of value until one man paused and translated for the Colonel. He said “monkey trap” several times and I moved closer to the window.
“Hey, you, what are you doing there?”
It was Helizondo, one of the many men in Panama who didn’t care for me. He had a pistol in his hand, one of his ivory-gripped Colts, and behind him was another Latino security trainee. He was carrying an Uzi. They both aimed their weapons at me.
“I was just watching the waves,” I said.
“Then go down to the beach,” Helizondo said. “Go away from here.” He thrust his pistol like maybe he could throw the bullets at me and save a few pesos on gunpowder.
Taking the hint, and the opportunity, I went into the hotel, up the stairs, and knocked on Kris’s door. There was no answer. I was on my way to my room when Eubanks said, “Hey, Monkeyman, you got a call.”
It was Marilyn, asking me to dinner. “You wait there and I’ll pick you up. Wear something nice.”
“How nice?”
“Panama nice.”
Which is an oxymoron.
* * *
The restaurant was part of the local yacht club and we ate at a table next to the dock. Sailboats and stinkpots rocked easily on the black water as night smothered the Isthmus in humid darkness. The waiter brought us lobster, shrimp, and crab. We ate with our hands, the garlic butter making our fingers slick and fragrant. We smeared our wine glasses and called for more and Marilyn talked of places she’d never seen, and things she would do if she won the lottery, and songs that made her cry.
I asked about her family and she told me her parents had been killed in the Panama invasion.
I made all the awkward apologies that seem so inadequate, and are, when tragedies like this are revealed. I asked how old she was when Operation Just Cause made her an orphan overnight.
“I was five. The sisters at the convent school took me in.” Marilyn shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
I did the math in my head and said, “Do you mean you’re nineteen?”
“Yes, John, why?”
“You seem older than that, more mature.”
Marilyn giggled and said, “So, now I am an old woman, is that what you mean?”
“No, no, I’m surprised, that’s all.”
Marilyn bit a shrimp in two. “We grow up fast here. It’s necessary.”
After hosing the butter off our hands and faces, we had a very decent flan and another glass of wine. I must have gotten lost for a moment because Marilyn said, “You seem unhappy. Is there something wrong?”
“I’m sorry, no.” I tried a joke—“I was just thinking about the bill for this dinner”—but my delivery wasn’t convincing.
Marilyn touched my bruised jaw with her fingertips. “What happened here?”
“A lack of communication,” I said. “I should learn to speak the language.”
“Panama City is a very dangerous place.”
“So I’m finding out.”
“In Colón you cannot even walk the streets in the daytime because men will rob you, maybe kill you, for nothing.”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around.”
Marilyn’s fingertips traced my lip. “What can I do to make my piano man happy?”
“You’re doing fine.” I changed the subject. “Have you ever heard of a monkey trap?”
“Yes.” Marilyn shook her head. “But I think it’s a fairy tale, you know? Just a story people tell. Why?”
“I heard some people talk about it. I was just curious.”
“A monkey trap is this: You hollow out a coconut, fill it with rice or nuts, and bury it in the ground leaving just a small hole exposed, about this big,” she said, and formed a small circle with her hands. “Now, you be the monkey.”
“Okay.”
“You come to the coconut, sniff the treats inside, and you reach into the hole. Go ahead, reach in, little monkey.”
I stuck my hand through the circle. “Now what?”
“You grab the treats. Go ahead, make a fist.”
I made a fist.
“Now try to pull your hand out.”
I couldn’t. Marilyn held me tightly by the wrist. “So what, the monkey could just let go,” I said, “and get away.”
“He could,” she said, “but he won’t. He wants the treats too much to save himself, even if it means his life.” She released my hand.
I rubbed my wrist, surprised by the strength of her grip.
“Who have you heard talking about a monkey trap?”
“Some men around the hotel,” I said. “That’s all.”
Marilyn’s face went from serious, to worried, to a forced cheer as quickly as wind moves across water. She said, “Hey! I know what we can do.”
“What?”
“We can go see a bruja.”
“A bruja?”
“Yes, a witch, a psychic, where you get your fortune told. It will be fun.”
We drove out of the city, north, beyond the jungles of the Isthmus and into a higher elevation, cooler, and with rolling expanses of grassland cleared for cattle. We were stopped by two bored La Guardia at a military checkpoint, and after they looked over our identification, and I had given each one five dollars, they waved us on. A few miles farther on, Marilyn pulled off the highway and onto a dusty road that ran back through stunted scrub forest. A few hundred yards into the forest we stopped in front of a small adobe house, its front porch strung in Christmas lights and its yard a patch of dust that had been raked at precise right angles. We climbed the steps. Marilyn’s hair captured the colors of the Christmas lights. We knocked on the door.
I don’t know what I expected. I hadn’t pictured a crone, but I hadn’t pictured the woman who answered, either.
Marilyn’s bruja was an attractive woman in her forties, darker than Marilyn, with curly hair and green eyes that were magnified behind tortoiseshell glasses. She wore a long white dress, open at the collar and cinched at the waist with a black leather belt. A white cat curled around my leg and purred.
“Marilyn, it is a surprise and a pleasure.” The woman bent at the waist, hugged Marilyn, and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “I see you brought an American friend to visit. How nice for both of you. Please, come in.” She led us into a tiny living room lit by a single paper-shaded lamp. The bruja settled into a wicker wing chair. Marilyn and I sat next to each other on the sofa.
A toucan, high on a perch, turned his head and sized me up with one marble eye. He was unimpressed with what he saw.
Marilyn introduced me to Miss Turando. “A very wise woman who knows all things.”
“Con mucho gusto.” Miss Turando let me take her hand. It was cool and dry.
“And why have you and your young friend come to see me, Marilyn?”
“He wants his fortune told. To know about his future.”
Miss Turando laughed, her long fingers held against her bosom like a matinee actress in a sham swoon of humility. She leaned forward and placed those fingers on my knee and said, “It is all for fun, Mr. Harper. I am really a nurse at the hospital, but the girls like to pretend I am a bruja, so I let them.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said. “And how much do you charge the girls to pretend?”
The smile didn’t change, but behind those thick lenses her eyes widened. “I charge only what they think my advice is worth, Mr. Harper, and no more. Now, would you like some tea?”
“I’ll be happy to help,” Marilyn said, and started to get up.
“No, please, I’ll be right back.” Miss Turando disappeared into the back of the house. I could hear the tinkle of cups against saucers and she soon returned with a tray. She placed it on the coffee table and poured each of us a cup.
There was also a single glass of water and a white candle.
“Since you both seem to be in a hurry, maybe we should
begin.” She lit the candle and set it behind the glass so that the flame illuminated the water and flickering shadows danced across the tabletop.
“Have you ever had your fortune told before, Mr. Harper?”
“No, ma’am. This is a first.”
Miss Turando smiled and it was oddly comforting. “Just relax, Mr. Harper, and let your thoughts wander where they want to go. Have you been in Panama long, Mr. Harper?”
“Just a few days.”
She studied the water and scowled, unhappy with something she saw. Perhaps it was a bad review.
“And are you planning a trip, say, to another part of the country?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.”
She raised her eyebrows, surprised by my answer. “Not even to the far side of the Canal? For a party of some sort? A New Year’s Eve party, perhaps?”
“Not that I know of.”
“That’s good. If you are invited, it would be wise to decline.”
I thanked her for her advice.
“You are not a believer, are you, Mr. Harper?”
“Maybe a little skeptical.”
“Very wise. Tell me, do you have a dog?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Hmmm. I see a dog. A dog with a man’s head in his mouth.” She stared into the shifting currents of the tumbler.
I asked, “Does this dog bite?”
“He will not bite you. Others will not be as fortunate.” Miss Turando poured more tea. “There is a young woman.” It wasn’t a question.
Marilyn smiled and put her hand on my arm.
“Another woman,” the bruja said, and Marilyn took her hand away. “An Anglo woman. American perhaps. Am I right, Mr. Harper?”
“I don’t know.”
Marilyn whispered, “La rubia.”
“Yes, she is blond and you have promised to teach her something, but it is you who will be the student.”
Marilyn sank back into the sofa cushions with her arms crossed. “I bet she teaches you something.”
“I’m getting a confusing message here. Someone will be hurt.” Unlike the earlier theatrics, this time she seemed genuinely worried.
“Who?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked at us, a frown on her face, her large, magnified eyes darting from me to Marilyn and back again. “I am frightened for both of you.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Mr. Harper, give me your hands.”
She held them in hers and closed her eyes. “I sense music, lots of music, but”—her eyes opened—“you have too many secrets, Mr. Harper. I can’t tell what is truth and what is fiction.”
“That’s because he’s a spy.” Marilyn laughed.
It was a joke to Marilyn, but not to me, and from what I saw in this bruja’s eyes, it wasn’t a joke to her, either.
“Please, I’m very tired.” Miss Turando stood up. “Please, if you would be so kind.” Her hand was shaking. She stopped us at the door and seemed almost afraid to be near me. “Mr. Harper,” she said, “you would have been wise to stay in the States. Please, please go home as soon as possible. Before the New Year.”
“Why? What’s supposed to happen? What is so terrible?” I looked from the witch to Marilyn but both faces were pale with fright. If this was a joke, it was a good one.
Miss Turando shook her head and said, “I’m begging you to go. Please.” Without another word she closed the door and we heard the bolt slide home.
In the car, Marilyn sat for a long time without starting the engine.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and her voice quavered.
“Hey, it’s okay.” I tried to touch her hand but she pulled away. “She’s just crazy.”
“Maybe not so crazy,” Marilyn said.
“And there’s nothing between me and that girl. Honest.” It was a lie, and shameful, and I wanted to take it back even before it had left my mouth.
Without a word, Marilyn started the car, put it into gear, and drove toward the highway.
I looked back at the house with its raked yard and Christmas lights and heard angry dogs barking in the distant hills.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marilyn didn’t speak the entire trip. I tried joking about psychic hotlines and why if Miss Turando could see the future she couldn’t foresee how much more doctors got paid than nurses, but it just steamed her, and she worked her mouth as if she were about to spit. She pulled up to the hotel’s front gate and stopped. She wouldn’t look at me.
“If Miss Turando can predict the future, why was she surprised when we showed up? Huh? Tell me that?”
She gave me a look that was a mixture of pity and contempt. “Stop it,” she said. “You are just making yourself look foolish. There are things going on here, John, that you don’t know anything about.”
“This is about the blond girl. You’re jealous.”
“Just shut your stupid mouth.” She twisted the wheel in her hands. “Go on, get out. Now.”
I leaned into the open window. “Look, I’d like to thank you for all the help you’ve given me.”
She stared at me for a long time but I couldn’t read anything in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Don’t ever come to see me again, John Harper. Not ever.” Marilyn let out the clutch and took off toward the city, leaving me standing in a circle of light next to Hamster, who was standing guard at the gate.
“Dude,” he said, “that was harsh.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know, Hamster.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t take much, you know, to make women angry,” he said.
“You got that right.”
“You two getting it on? Because the word is, you have your eye on Kelly’s daughter. Not that I blame you, man, ’cause she’s one fine definition of fine.”
“No. Marilyn’s just someone I met. And there’s nothing going on with Miss Kelly, either. I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”
Hamster nodded. “Yeah, right, I guess not. But you wouldn’t be the first guy who thought with his little head, bro.”
“A wise observation, Hamster.”
I walked down the dark road toward the hotel. Lights were on and there were a few people in the bar, but no one stopped me or even looked in my direction. I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door to my room.
There, on my dresser, was my laptop. I opened it and sat on the bed. To anyone tossing my room, and I could tell that someone had tossed it again while I was gone, the computer looked harmless. If you turned it on, the usual window came up and the usual programs ran. But this laptop had been a gift from Smith. This laptop recorded conversations, even when off, that were transmitted by the bugs I’d planted the night before. It couldn’t be far away, but two floors, even through this tropical concrete, was close enough.
I listened to Kelly’s bug first but, instead of any information about the guests, or what Kelly had planned for New Year’s Eve that I could use as my ticket away from this place, all I heard was the stale air of a Sunday afternoon in an empty office.
I switched to the Colonel’s frequency and heard the same hush of nothing.
I lay back against the pillow and dozed off, the headphones on, and at some point in the night I was awakened by conversation. At first, still drugged by sleep, I wasn’t sure if people were talking in the hallway, or in a dream, and then I realized that the voices were in my ears. The voices were those of the Colonel and the younger man with the accent. They were speaking on the Colonel’s phone.
“We are set,” the younger man said.
There was a long pause filled with nothing but breathing and the scratch of static. The Colonel said, “I know it must be done.”
“Do not think about it. Are we ready for the new year?”
“Yes. The General’s yacht is due in port Wednesday morning.”
“Good. I will be in touch. Until then, please try and not fuck up any more tha
n you already have. Explaining the loss of one of Major Cruz’s men has already taken up too much of my morning,” the young man said, and hung up.
The Colonel said to his empty office, “Goddamn little goat fucker.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was three days to New Year’s. Three days to find out who was here and what they were up to. What could be easier?
Phil knocked once and pushed open my door. “C’mon, partner, time to run.”
“It’s got to be Monday,” I said. “Monday in hell.”
“Isn’t there someplace we have to check out?”
“You mean the place in the bush?”
“Yeah. Kelly went into the city for something, which means we’ve got the morning to ourselves. You’re supposed to be the smart one, what do you think?”
“I’m the smart one, huh?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” Phil yawned, letting me see his molars. “So far, I haven’t seen it myself.”
I didn’t bring up that first-night drunk, or that maybe I was as skeptical about my intelligence as anyone. But I did bring up Cooper. “I know I asked you this before, but how well do you know him?”
“I’d trust him with my life,” Phil said, “which is more than I can say for you. All I know about you is you’re good at picking up women.”
“Fair enough.”
Cooper was already on the beach, stretching his hamstrings and delts and traps and whatever else he felt a need to stretch. I blinked a few times in the bright dawn, stretching my eyelids for a hard day’s labor. Every other muscle in my body hurt too much to move, and what didn’t ache burned, itched, or throbbed. I was enduring, as stoically as I could, the scratches, welts, and stings of the natural world, as well as the drubbing I’d been given by Panama’s finest and the right cross I’d been too slow to duck. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t get out of this place alive.
Beneath a Panamanian Moon Page 12