The Lazarus Drop

by Paul Moomaw

  “It's the final score that counts,” I answered. I was sitting at the table, and Pilar was bandaging my arm. “Anyway, this is the only way I can get this woman to pay attention to me."

  I yelped as she gave the bandage a sharp yank. Cruz laughed.

  “I'm going right out and get shot, then,” he said.

  Pilar finished in silence, then leaped up and stalked out of the room, face red.

  “She likes you, gringo,” Cruz said.

  “I like her."

  “I think she likes you a lot. Maybe too much. You could hurt her."

  “I don't want to."

  Cruz shrugged. “Pues, ni modo. It's not my business, I guess. I'm glad you didn't get more than that little scratch. Tomorrow evening I'm ordered to an audience with his royal excellency the General."

  “Bring me back a souvenir."

  “Better than that. You're going with me."

  “That should excite him."

  “Let's hope not. It will be dark, and I can get you to the island easily enough. You can prowl around while I'm with Noriega.”

  “Risky."

  “Agreed. But I want someone to look at the place with fresh eyes before we plan the assault. You're the logical choice."

  “Maybe I can locate Imry, too."

  “That's easy. He's in a separate building, on the hillside above the main house. You can't miss it, even in the dark."

  “Good. It's funny, you know. I've been going through so much crap to reach this guy, Imry. And I've never even seen him in the flesh. Just a picture."

  Cruz chuckled. “We'll have to make sure you don't get the wrong man, then.” He paused. “Tomorrow evening, then. And, Senor Blue, God help us both if you are seen there."

  “I won't be."

  “I'll hold you to that.” He got up and went to the door. “Get some rest."

  I tried, but sleep wasn't in the books. I was fidgety, and my arm hurt just enough that, with nothing else to occupy my attention, it was hard not to notice it. I lay in the dark for a while, then gave up and rolled out of bed.

  Pilar was at the kitchen table with a glass and the bottle of mescal. We stared awkwardly at each other for a moment.

  “You thought only men liked mescal?” she asked, finally.

  I got a glass and sat down across from her. I poured a shot and lifted the glass in her direction.

  “Here's to women who know what they like."

  She smiled, a little grudgingly, and lifted her own glass.

  “About last night....” I began.

  “Forget last night. Tell yourself it was a dream."

  “A good dream."

  Our eyes locked, and I could feel something click, like two stray satellites docking together. Pilar nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

  “Yes. A good dream. But dreams end."

  “One can dream again.”

  I reached out and took her hand. We sat there like that, who knows how long, and then she stood up, not letting go of my hand.

  “My room,” she said. “I want it to be my room, this time."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 13

  Cruz and I stood on a floating wooden pier which rose and fell gently under our feet. The night was black, and all the little butterfly boats were off the lake, which was ruffled slightly by a breeze from the west.

  “The moon won't rise for hours,” Cruz said. “That's good. It will be a night you can hide in.”

  We walked to the end of the pier, where a boat was tied up.

  “Our transportation,” Cruz said.

  The boat was beamy and heavy looking; it seemed almost to squat in the water. Decking stretched from the bow about a third of the way back. The rest of the boat was open, and a bench seat spanned its middle. It rocked slightly as we stepped in and Cruz reached under the decking. He pulled out two long oars.

  “Our engine,” He laughed. “I asked permission to put a real engine in, once, a lightweight water jet, the kind that hangs over the rear. The General said no, that it would pollute the lake and set a bad example for others. But I think he just enjoys the thought of me rowing across the water, huffing and puffing. Makes him feel more powerful."

  Cruz sat on the bench and slipped the oars into sidelocks.

  “Untie us, will you?"

  I scrambled onto the decking and crawled to the bow, where a thin line was looped over a cleat on the pier.

  “Just let it drift,” Cruz said.

  I freed the line, dropped it into the water, and clambered back to the bench. Cruz pointed the stern toward the island, and started rowing.

  “Keeps me young, anyway,” he said.

  “Will we be able to use this boat on the big night?” I asked.

  “No.” Cruz shook his head. “Only the butterfly boats are allowed on the lake on the Night of the Dead."

  “That's a shame. This would carry a lot of stuff."

  “On the other hand, we're not going to have as much stuff to carry as we thought."

  That was a shame, too. Out of twenty smart wire rockets dropped in the Phoenix capsule, only seven had survived undamaged. I hoped Nordeen was right when he said even a monkey could use them; our margin for error was going to be pretty small.

  “The bright side,” Cruz went on, “is that the lake will be filled with decoys. Every butterfly boat will be out; that's part of the spectacle. And Noriega will especially want a good show this time, for his foreign visitors. So we won't stand out."

  It sounded good, in theory. The lake would be full of boats, providing perfect camouflage. The poppers would all be weaving a slow minuet overhead, part of the display, and easy targets. And the motor launches would be sitting quietly in the water, their crews preoccupied; they were the fireworks platforms.

  So all we had to do was get onto the lake, wait for the fireworks to begin, shoot down the poppers, whose pilots’ eyes would be dazzled by the display, and sink the motor launches. Then we would simply hit the beach, mop up the remaining opposition, grab Erno Imry, and paddle away.

  Simplicity itself, as long as the rockets really worked, as long as the men firing them could stay calm and accurate while they bobbed up and down in tiny boats, as long as the motor launch and popper crews were willing to sit around and be targets, and as long as Noriega stuck to tradition.

  “Can we count on Noriega not to pull some kind of change on us?” I asked.

  “It is the same every year."

  “This year is the only one I have to care about. Are you pretty sure we can count on Noriega sticking to the script?"

  “You can always count on a fool being a fool, and Noriega is a pompous fool."

  “And yet, you are rowing this boat to him."

  Cruz laughed ruefully. “You are right, Senor Blue. The General has not been without skill at taking and using power. He is an odd mixture. He's not stupid, and has been imaginative at times, I suppose. And yet he is superstitious—he believes in witches, and depends on faith healers for his own health."

  “At the same time, he has those.” I pointed overhead, where a popper was gliding across the lake toward the island.

  “As I said, an odd mixture. He is cruel and brutal. He would do anything to maintain his power, and expand it. And yet he really sees the people as his children, and loves them at the same time he brutalizes them."

  The popper, which had nearly reached the island, swung back and headed for the boat.

  “I think you had better cover up,” Cruz said, and I ducked under the decking. “Best you stay there the rest of the way. It's not long now."

  The whir of the popper got louder until it was directly overhead. A bright light pierced the darkness, and I scuttled farther under the deck. The popper hung there, chopping up the water with its backwash, and flooding us with light and noise.

  “Assholes with their stupid games,” Cruz muttered. He bent his back to the oars, laboring to maintain headway in the choppy water.

  The popper stayed with us
all the way to the island, then veered off as we bumped up against the pilings of a pier. I peeked out and got a glimpse of rusty metal ladder rungs.

  “Stay down,” Cruz hissed.

  “Hey, jefe. Having dinner with the General?” Booted feet clumped down the pier toward us.

  Cruz crawled across the deck and pulled the boat's bowline out of the water.

  “Catch,” he called, and threw the line up. He scrambled back toward the rear of the boat.

  “Wait until I get this guy off the pier,” he said to me. “Then you're on your own. These dinners always end precisely at midnight. Be here then."

  He put a foot on the lowest rung of the ladder, and called up to the other man again.

  “What's on the menu?"

  “You, from what I hear,” the guard said with a loud laugh as Cruz started climbing the ladder. “You gotta stop letting people take shots at the General."

  “He ate me for dinner already on that one. Walk with me to the house and I'll tell you about it.” Their footsteps faded, and I crawled out from under the decking and started cautiously up the ladder.

  My head was almost level with the pier when someone sneezed, practically in my ear.

  I froze. There was a second guard on the pier, who apparently had come out to relieve the first. Chair legs scraped, then I heard a squeak and a contented sigh as the newcomer sat down.

  I crept back down the ladder, then hung there, considering my options; I wasn't willing to crawl back into the boat and wait for Cruz. The pier stood on heavy pilings, and a lattice of crossframes stretched across the water between pairs of pilings, for extra support. Each connected pair was about two meters, maybe a little less, from the next. In theory I could jump from one pair to the next, landing on the crossframes as I went.

  I swung out from the ladder, grasped the nearest support, and crawled under the pier. All of a sudden the next set of pilings looked a whole lot farther away. I told myself that was just fear talking, took a deep breath and crouched down, told myself the same thing again, sprang into the air—and discovered that my initial estimate of distance had been, if anything, too long. I slammed into the crossframes so hard I nearly knocked myself out.

  I clung there while my head cleared and my nerves settled down. Then I jumped to the next pair of pilings. It was easier, and the next leap was easier still, but before I could get too cocky there was light on the water, and under the pier, coming from the lake. A muffled roar became audible and grew louder, and the light got brighter. I squeezed against the wood and tried to look like a pier support.

  Roaring out of the darkness came one of the General's patrol boats. It headed straight for the pier, lights blazing, and I couldn't imagine that no one on the boat would see me, but somehow no one did.

  The engine shut down, and the vessel glided up to the pier on the other side from Cruz’ boat. It gave the pilings a bump that nearly knocked me into the water.

  Then the lights went out and I got a better look at the craft. It was completely enclosed, sleek and low of line, meant for speed, with a hard-to-hit profile. There was very little freeboard, and what there was slanted sharply out to meet the superstructure, which was also sharply slanted.

  It was a depressing sight. With no vertical surfaces, even a direct hit might conceivably glance off, leaving the boat intact. A good shot right at the water line would probably do the trick, but that left frighteningly little margin for error. Our brave rocketeers would have to paddle right up this boat's ass to get close enough for a decent shot. And they would have to do that at least three times.

  A forward hatch opened and a crewman emerged, grabbed the boat's bowline, and tossed it to the guard on the pier. As he clambered up the ladder two more men emerged from the vessel and followed him.

  “What has you in such a rush?” the guard asked the first man.

  “News. The kind the General isn't going to like."

  “So maybe you shouldn't be in such a hurry to give it to him, Luis."

  The man called Luis laughed without humor. “I suppose hurrying won't bring the dead to life, anyway."

  “Who died?"

  “You knew Cortez? And Onofrio?"

  “Over at Huetamo?"

  “The same. They died, and half a dozen more with them. They fell off the side of a mountain in their truck, and burned up.”

  “Accident?"

  “So we thought at first. Then we found one of them a ways off from the wreckage. He hadn't burned. And he was full of bullet holes."

  “No shit? Life gets interesting!"

  “I like it better a little dull."

  The three men hurried from the pier, and the guard settled back down into his chair, singing tunelessly to himself.

  I continued my progress to the shore, and managed to drop into a hole full of water at the very end. I froze, but there was no indication that the guard had heard the splash.

  I pulled myself out and scurried for the protection of a tree. It was a chilly night, and being wet wasn't going to help.

  Minutes later I stood shivering near a window of the main house. Cruz had been right; the place was more glass than anything. I crawled from window to window, getting my wet clothes and skin filthy, and telling myself it made good camouflage. I found Cruz behind the biggest window of all, in the center of the building, stretching from roof line to the ground. On the other side of the glass was a dining hall, and he sat with Manolo. Chandra Beg sat on the other side of the boy, smiling at him, while Manolo looked something like a small, wan bird frightened by a snake. Across the table from them sat two Asian men.

  Of Noriega there was only his retreating back. He was walking quickly out of the room, and I guessed he was about to get the news from Huetamo. One more little complication, I thought, and resumed my crawl.

  Two buildings stood above the main house, not one. The closest was fairly long, with a low roof and a row of tall, skinny windows along the wall. I scurried over to it and peeked in. About half a dozen men, all in uniform, were sitting around. A couple were playing cards, and what looked like a bottle of mescal sat on the table between them. Another man was cleaning a weapon, and a rack of elderly looking rifles lined the walls behind him. If this was the entire island defense—barring the poppers and motor launches—it didn't look too formidable. It was the first good news of the evening.

  The other building, a little higher up the hill, didn't have windows, but there was a large skylight on the slanted roof, and a warm, golden light glowed through it.

  This had to be where Imry was kept. Heavy vines covered the building wall, so I hoisted myself to the roof and had a look.

  I recognized Imry right away from his picture, even looking down on his bald spot, which the picture hadn't shown. He was alone, sitting at a small table, wearing a jacket and pants which looked like good quality, but which were frayed and worn. He was bent over some papers, writing something; I couldn't tell what, exactly, except that the paper was filled with lines of numbers and symbols. Being hijacked apparently hadn't hurt his appetite for work.

  I didn't think I was making any noise—maybe Imry was just one of those people with sensitive antenna—but he looked up suddenly and caught me staring down at him. He blinked a couple of times, as if to make sure I wasn't an hallucination, then got up and walked out of the room and out of my view while I crouched on the roof wondering what to do next.

  Imry solved that problem for me. He came outside and stood by the wall, staring up at me. I smiled at him sheepishly and jumped down to the ground.

  “Just taking in the sights,” I said. “Don't let me interrupt you."

  He shook his head and spread his hands, then said something in a language I didn't understand.

  “You don't speak Spanish?” I said in Spanish.

  He got that, and shook his head rapidly from side to side.

  “Do you speak English?"

  He nodded. “Yes, I speak English. Who doesn't, these days? I don't know you, do I?”


  “No, you don't. My name is Nathaniel Blue. And you're Erno Imry."

  He looked at me quizzically for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind about something. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in a chair."

  He led me into the house, and motioned to a low, cushioned seat next to a wall. Then he closed the door and slid a large, old-fashioned bolt across it.

  “I'm so curious to know what you found all that fascinating about the top of my head,” Imry said. A smile spread easily across his face, dimpling his cheeks. But his eyes, while not unfriendly, glistened with an intensity which bored right into me. The picture hadn't prepared me for the eyes, and they didn't fit the rest of him—the plump, heart-shaped face, small, pointed nose and pasty skin marked by a few freckles, and the ears sticking out almost comically from the sides of his head.

  But if the face was pouter pigeon, the eyes were all hawk, piercing, appraising, and intensely intelligent. When I looked at the eyes, it became possible to believe that this man had a mind that could touch the stars.

  “Now you must tell me who you are, and what you want here.” He was suddenly all business.

  “Tonight, just looking things over."

  “With some purpose in mind, I assume?"

  “To get you out of here."

  “And escort me to Brazil?"

  I shook my head. “I'm from the States."

  His eyebrows drooped, and he looked almost angry. “You people never give up, do you."

  Looking back, I might have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd asked what he meant by that. So, who's perfect?

  “Two nights from tonight,” I said, “on the Night of the Dead, I'll be coming back, with friends."

  “The Night of the Dead. Appropriate, I'm sure. I assume you are aware that there are others here who already have plans for me."

  I nodded. “We like our plans better. Now, listen, please. We're going to be moving fast. Try to be right here, so I can find you quickly."

  “No.” He shook his head. “Get out, and don't come back."

  “You don't understand."

  “It's you who doesn't understand, Mister whatever your name was!” He slammed his fist on the table. “I don't want to go with you. More important, I have no wish to die—here or anywhere else. There are two Chinese representatives here who are leaving in a week. They firmly intend that I shall be with them. But they have made it very clear that killing me is a reasonable alternative. The minute this silly rescue party of yours attacks, I am a dead man."