Cleopatra Gold

by William Caunitz

  The minicaravan drove onto the airstrip. About fifty meters west, six Quonset hurts were drawn up next to each other. Narcotics were being off-loaded from a turboprop aircraft and fork-lifted into the huts, while bare-chested men with grim, unshaven faces and carrying an assortment of automatic weapons guarded the area around the buildings and the turboprop. A Jeep fitted with pedestal-mounted twin sixties was parked on top of a nearby sand dune.

  The breeze felt good on Alejandro’s face. Looking around, he could not see any containers of chemicals or plastic mixing barrels or any drying shacks where coca leaves were dried before being processed into paste. Nor could he find any of the telltale signs of cocaine production. He was sure that this was mainly a transshipping point for Cleopatra Gold. “This is no two-bit operation Che-Che’s got going here.…”

  She smiled. “Che-Che is one smart hombre.”

  The van drove off the runway and along a spur that ran in front of a row of camouflaged revetments.

  Alejandro lifted his face to the breeze.

  “You must be tired,” she said.

  “Not really. The adrenaline’s going.”

  “You get off on living on the edge, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said, sliding his hand up her naked leg.

  She slapped his hand away. “The last guy who tried that ended up snake meat.”

  “It might be worth it.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  He looked at her profile, with its sharply defined nose, and asked quietly, “What really happened to Barrios?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders, and then, looking at him, added, “Maybe he got sick and died from an acute case of running-off-at-the-mouth disease.”

  They drove behind the end revetment. A Boeing 767 was parked under desert netting. The van stopped alongside the plane’s open door. Judith stopped the forklift between the van and the planes.

  Pizzaro climbed out and, walking around the front of the van to the side doors, motioned to Judith. She nudged Alejandro off the forklift and drove over to a baggage handling conveyor that they positioned between the van’s door and the loading door of the airplane. Pizzaro pointed at Alejandro and said, “You climb up into the plane and I’ll send ’em to you.”

  The seats had been removed and steel rollers welded to the plane’s floor. Static lines stretched the length of the aircraft; an on-board oxygen console was fastened on the right side of the door.

  “Ready?” Pizzaro called over to Alejandro, who was standing just inside the plane.

  “Send ’em up,” Alejandro called back.

  Che-Che and Judith were standing by the van, talking in hushed tones. Just before Alejandro began to slide the packed chutes into the plane, he saw a flash of gold between Judith’s breasts. An oversize medallion on a chain was revealed by a puff of wind that ballooned her shirt out for a moment. Something about it was very familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Pizzaro pushed a Parapoint system onto the conveyor, which deposited it inside the plane. Alejandro moved it to the rear. A bit of a race between the two started; it stopped when Che-Che warned them sternly to be more careful. Bending at the knees, Alejandro pushed forward one system after another, until the front of the aircraft was full. Then, without warning, the cockpit door swung open and Fiona Lee stepped out. Their eyes met and fell away; in obvious confusion she whirled back inside, closing the door behind her.

  Another Parapoint plopped into the aircraft. He rushed over to it and began pushing it toward the others. His eyes were riveted on the cockpit door, his thoughts echoing Seaver’s long-ago warning when he was first sheep-dipped: “Be careful of entanglements with women. Their knowledge of you can prove deadly.”

  Another system dropped inside.

  Sitting in the cockpit, Fiona Lee gripped the yoke until her knuckles turned white, thinking, Jesus, what do I do now?

  After the transfer had been made, Alejandro climbed out of the plane, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts whizzing around his head. Who was she working for? What the hell am I going to do about her? I can’t tell Seaver; he’ll yank me out and I might never get another shot at Cleopatra.

  Che-Che was waiting for him by the van. “You have a show to do tonight,” Che-Che said. Glancing at Judith, he added, “She’ll be going back with you.”

  Alejandro replied in Tarascan, “What about the drop? I wanna be there to see this thing works for real.”

  “Kee dah mee oo nah koh dah yeh vah,” Judith said in Tarascan—“The drop will be taken care of without you.”

  Alejandro stared at her in surprise. “Where did you learn the language?”

  “I taught myself,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I’m a smart lady. I’d have thought you would have figured that out by now.”

  23

  A very east side crowd showed up at Environment Monday night, adding a touch of class to the joint. Alejandro had arrived early for the first show and was sitting alone in the balcony, watching the dancers below. The loft seemed empty without Che-Che and his crew. He assumed that they were still in Thomas Cay, but he had no way of knowing that for sure.

  His gut was churning with frustration over what to do about the woman he knew as Belle Starr. There was no sense in playing the “I shouldn’t have” and “what if” mind games with himself. Now he had to figure out how he was going to handle it. His survival instincts told him to tell Mother Hen, but he knew what would happen if he did that. He’d be yanked and resurfaced somewhere in some nothing job in the police department. He couldn’t live the life of a regular cop, not after so many years of his high-wire existence.

  He had to get close to Belle Starr and talk with her, find out who she was with, get her to forget about him and not report him to her Mother Hen. He felt himself getting more and more antsy, a bad sign for an undercover.

  They’d been keeping him on a short leash, but he had resolved to get in touch with Seaver tonight after his first performance. It was risky, but he had to let him know that the drop was imminent so Mother Hen could get his electronic eyes and ears ready.

  He had been tempted to telephone Control but had decided against doing that because Pizzaro might have sicced one of his lip-reading teams on him. He’d heard how the Bolivian had trained them by having them sit in front of a television set for hours, watching programs without sound, concentrating on the actors’ lips. Those damn lip-readers could be anyplace. And for all he knew, the Cleopatra Gold might have already been airdropped. He glanced around the loft. The Chinese barmaid, Jasmine, was standing behind the bar, cleaning glasses. Seeing him look in her direction, she asked, “Where is everyone?”

  He shrugged indifferently. “Want something?” she asked, holding a rocks glass up to the light.

  “A glass of soda, please.”

  “You got it, handsome,” she said, and tossed ice into the glass. She came out from behind the bar, walked over to him, and set the glass on a cocktail napkin, asking, “Would you like anything else?”

  He looked into her big dark eyes and said, “No, thank you.” Noticing her bow, he asked, “Do you always wear that yellow ribbon?”

  Her easy smile vanished as her finger glided over the back of his hand. “Not always.”

  He watched her slither back behind the bar. Sipping at the soda, he saw his manager, Josh Budofsky, climbing up into the loft. Holding his glass to his mouth, he watched him approach. Budofsky tossed a slip of paper onto the table.

  “Here is the address and suite number of where we’re meeting to work on your new act. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at three P.M. Please be there, Alejandro.”

  Pushing back his chair, Alejandro tucked the slip of paper into his pocket and said, “See you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll catch the show from here,” Budofsky said, and, looking across at Jasmine, he ordered a stinger.

  The music stopped. As the lights dimmed, the crowd on the dance floor rushed up to the stage, cha
nting, “Alejandro, Alejandro.” A spotlight beamed down to reveal him standing motionless, head bowed, his trademark rose held loosely in his right hand.

  Seventy minutes later he ran offstage with the cries for “More!” echoing behind him. As he rushed into his dressing area, he was brought up short by the sight of Judith sitting on a folding chair, filing her nails. “You’re very good,” she said without looking up at him.

  “Thanks,” he said, getting his first really good look at her long legs, which were exposed by her short black skirt. “I have to change now.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” she said, still not looking up from her task or showing any sign of leaving.

  “I won’t,” he said, and unbuttoned his shirt. He took it off and tossed it into the overflowing plastic laundry bag on the floor, aware of the impatience swelling inside him.

  Filing a nail, Judith glanced down at the smelly clothes. She wrinkled her nose. “When do you clean that stuff?”

  “When the bag gets full,” he said, kicking off his shoes, unzipping his trousers, stepping out of them, and tossing them into the pile on the floor. As he stood in his briefs at the sink, washing himself, she looked up at him and her lips parted slightly. She lowered her eyes when he pulled off his briefs and stepped into a fresh pair. He got dressed: jeans, short-sleeved paisley shirt, brown loafers, no socks. Facing her, he asked, “Why are you here?”

  “I thought we might spend some time together.”

  “I’m going out to get something to eat.”

  “I’ll go with you.” It was more of a command than a suggestion.

  A light rain had come and gone, leaving behind warm, balmy city smells and the light freshness of a brief summer shower. The Emerald Pub was an Irish hangout on the east side of Second Avenue, a few storefronts south of Fifty-first Street. Heavy doors inlaid with frosted glass in the shape of shamrocks swung open to reveal a long bar on the left and a small bandstand up against the right wall where the bar area ended and the dining area began.

  The bar was crowded when Alejandro and Judith arrived shortly after one A.M. The Emerald Pub was one of the few remaining Manhattan joints where live bands played music from the old country; guest artists appeared nightly to play the music of rebellion and lament that evoked Ireland’s rich and troubled history.

  They edged their way through the crowd into the dining area and stopped in front of the bandstand to look for an empty table. A big thick-necked man with a pudgy face was up on the stage singing about the “troubles.” Alejandro looked up at him and nodded as he made eye contact, rubbing the left side of his nose with his right thumb.

  The singer nodded back.

  Booths lined both walls of the dining room, and there was a double row of tables cramped into the space between them. A waiter came over and led them to a booth facing the stage. They squeezed in next to each other, facing the three-piece band.

  “I’ve never been in an Irish pub before,” Judith said.

  “Then your education has been sadly neglected, lass.”

  She laughed. “My teachers at Ramaz wouldn’t approve of a nice Jewish girl going into any bar. They even kept us separated from the nice Jewish boys at school.”

  “You’d have been perfectly safe.” He was surprised at his own defensiveness. “We Irish are a warm, kind, gentle people with a great love of life and literature.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “What a strange man you are. You really are completely at home here, aren’t you?”

  “And why shouldn’t I be, lass, I’m a Monahan, aren’t I?”

  She laughed. “You’re no more an Irishman than I am. You’re a Mexican, an American, a Tarascan Indian. I bet you’re the only man in here not wearing socks or oversize boxer shorts.”

  “You peeked.”

  She dropped her eyes.

  He looked at her, not saying anything for a moment. “And what about Judith? Does she know who she is?”

  “She knows.”

  “I don’t know her last name.”

  Her face grew cold. “That’s not important. You don’t need to know.”

  A waitress came over, and they ordered shepherd’s pie. The singer gripped the microphone as the drummer beat out a roll for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I’d like you to put your hands together and help me ask an old friend to get up here and sing us a song.” He swept his big paw out to Alejandro. “Al Monahan, will ya give us a tune?”

  Alejandro looked at Judith, shrugged helplessness, squeezed out, and walked up to the stage, accompanied by a smattering of polite applause.

  Two men sitting at the bar exchanged odd looks. One leaned close to the other and said, “He doesn’t look like a Monahan.”

  After talking briefly to the band, Alejandro turned and faced his audience. He stood with his hands at his sides, his eyes searching out the distant past, and began singing “The Ballad of Willie McBride,” a haunting song that told the story of a nineteen-year-old boy killed in the trenches in 1918. Alejandro’s light baritone had an Irish lilt and was filled with heartfelt emotion as he sang the refrain about a boy turned man in the desolate trenches, a young soldier who had his life snuffed out in a great conflict that was not of his making. Slowly a hush descended over the pub, and most eyes moved to the singer. The few patrons who continued to talk were shushed quiet by the others. The man at the bar who had been skeptical looked at his friend and said, “He might not look like a Monahan, but he sure as hell sings like one.”

  Judith felt slightly breathless watching him and listening to his moving rendition of the old song. She became conscious that she was squeezing her thighs together. Wrapping her hands around her water glass, she focused on his beautiful hands with the long, sensitive fingers.

  Andy Seaver mashed his cheroot in the copper ashtray, slipped off the barstool, and slipped out of the Emerald Pub. “Willie McBride” was the piece Chilebean was to sing if the drop was imminent. He hurried along Second Avenue and turned onto Fifty-second Street, then ducked into the shadowy doorway of a vacant store and unfolded his department-issue cellular phone. He punched in a number and, when the voice answered, pressed the scramble button and said, “It’s going down.”

  Alejandro finished the song. The audience surged to its feet, clapping and shouting for more. He stood there, graciously accepting their praise. Then he turned and shook hands with the singer, jumped off the stage, and went back to his seat.

  “You’re quite the actor,” Judith said as he moved in next to her.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment and say ‘Thank you.’”

  After they had finished eating, Judith picked up her fork and began to break off the remaining crust of her pie. “Why don’t you get the check? It’s time for us to leave.”

  “I’ve got forty minutes before I have to get back.”

  “Che-Che canceled your last show. He wants you to come with me, now.”

  24

  A cargo helicopter resembling some prehistoric bird lifted off the pad at the uptown heliport and flew north. Alejandro and Judith, the only passengers, sat on seats that pulled down off the bulkhead. Rows of rollers were welded to the floor. Looking out the window at the sleeping city, Alejandro followed the lights of the few cars beneath them on the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Drive. Then the helicopter veered west. They were flying over Harlem’s battered streets.

  He looked down at the tenement roofs, block after block of abandoned buildings. In his mind’s eye he could see small groups of sullen men congregated on street corners, exchanging glassine envelopes for crumpled bills. Then they were over Spanish Harlem, the broad shining path of the Hudson just beyond. He looked at the tanned face beside him and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Vamos a hacer dinero,” she said in flawless Spanish—“Let’s make some money.”

  The helicopter suddenly turned to a northwest heading. The Bronx was sprawled out below them. Soon the city’s brilliance gave way to the scattered pinpoints of light f
rom the suburbs. After thirty minutes had elapsed, they were flying over the indistinct shapes of low mountains. Judith kept peering out intently, obviously looking for a landmark. Alejandro decided that they must be somewhere over the Catskills.

  Suddenly she thrust her hand into her tote bag and brought out a pair of night-vision glasses, which she strapped around her head. She made her way to the cockpit and shouted something to the pilot over the roar of the rotors. The helicopter swooped into a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn as she checked out the terrain. Satisfied that the landing zone was safe, she ordered the pilot to land.

  The helicopter came down in a small clearing of low-lying level grassland completely surrounded by trees that showed only a darker shape against the darkness. A single faint light winked up from the clearing.

  “Quickly, outside,” she ordered as the copter settled to earth. Grabbing her tote bag, she left the aircraft and motioned to Alejandro to follow her. They ducked under the blades that were slowly spinning down. A sudden, almost deafening silence came over the area.

  Alejandro smelled the forest and heard the night sounds but saw no signs of life. Judith stood in the secluded meadow, searching out the trees through her night-vision glasses. She turned and called to the pilot, “Radio Hector we’re ready.”

  The Boeing 767 that had been skimming the deck, flying without lights, suddenly climbed up into the darkness, leveled off at thirty thousand feet, and throttled back to a near stalling speed.

  Tethered to a safety line, with an on-board oxygen mask strapped to his face and a radio headset, Pizzaro bent over the last of the Parapoint systems he had lined up facing the open hatchway of the now depressurized cabin. With his hands planted firmly on top of the first Parapoint, he waited expectantly. Hearing a single command through his earphones, Pizzaro pushed the last system up against the others. They rolled smoothly over the aircraft’s floor and toppled out one by one into the night. All ten systems fell free until they were jerked by the static lines, making the pilot chutes pop out and the Ram Air parachutes deploy and blossom. He and another doper struggled to get the door closed against the roaring force of the wind. Pizzaro had not been prepared for the almost impossible task of securing a door on a large plane in flight. He finally closed and locked the door, snapped the intercom out of its wall niche, and, panting with exhaustion, said, “Let’s go home.”