Blood of Paradise

by David Corbett

  He got up, closed the door, and climbed the stairs. Rapping on the bedroom door, he called out, “Axel?”

  The door edged open. Consuela peeked out, dressed in a cotton falda, her hair held back from her face by a broad white band and her skin smeared with cold cream.

  “I need to see him alone a minute.”

  Consuela glanced over her shoulder. Axel sat on the bed, already stripped to his boxers. Nodding, he rose wearily and stepped barefoot into the hall. Closing the door behind him, he crossed his arms, covering the down of white hair on his chest. His voice was soft but strained: “I had an idea you’d be coming up.”

  “Tell her to stay away from the window.”

  Axel started, “Jude, what—”

  Jude reached past him, opened the door, went in, and switched off the bedside lamp. “Stay away from the windows,” he told them both.

  Axel, still standing in the doorway, said, “You’ve told us that already.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Jude—”

  “If you have candles, use them. The shadows on the curtains won’t show so clear. And put your vests on. I’ve told you that, too, haven’t I?”

  Consuela stared, alarmed at his tone. Finally, she reached down to pick up the vest from the floor beside the bed and strapped it on. Jude collected the second vest and handed it to Axel, then pushed past him and hurried down to the living room, where he gathered his own from beneath the couch. Hurdling back upstairs, he knocked on the back bedroom door and went in.

  The boy sat on the floor beneath the window, folded up like a knife, clicking his teeth. The curtains hung motionless above him as he gazed at his mother, curled up on the bed. Her eyes were savage, a rosary in her fist. Jude repeated the same directive—lights off, use candles, stay clear of the windows—then he crossed the room, knelt down before the boy, and told him to lift his arms. As he attached the Velcro straps in place, he told the boy not to take the vest off, no matter how hot it became.

  Back in the hall, Axel waited, looking ashen. Above the rim of his vest a wisp of white hair tickled the hollow of his throat. “My God, what is it? I saw something in your face, earlier, at the table. Something’s wrong, obviously. I should have asked but you seemed—”

  “Come downstairs. Please.”

  They settled in across from each other at the dining room table. Jude had no idea how to frame the thing, so he just launched in—from his father’s days in the Eighteenth District to Malvasio’s recent contact, Jude’s trip to Chicago to bring Strock back, everything learned since. As the words rushed out, he flashed on what he’d always told Axel, the importance of hiding nothing—for his own good. The irony of the role reversal felt shaming, especially since all this candor came far too late, but for once he refused to let that stop him.

  “I have no idea,” he said, “beyond his taking Oscar’s sister away, what Malvasio has to do with Estrella. As for Strock, he’s a wild card at this stage. But I think we should assume the worst, prepare for it.”

  Axel sat there, a look on his face as though his brain had begun to tick. He said, “Give me a moment, please,” then glanced down at the tablecloth. Shortly he reached out, as he had before, and absently smoothed the fabric until he caught himself and drew back his hand. Glancing up with a sort of pitying dismay, he said quietly, “I’d wondered, ever since McGuire first brought up your father, what the whole story was. It must have been pretty rough, going through all that. And excuse the dime-store psychology, but I’d venture a guess that the roughness of it most likely explains why you got involved with these men again. To show you’re better than they are.” The dismay and pity melted, only to be replaced a moment later by something colder, more demanding. “It’s not the noblest motive, you realize. And certainly not the smartest. But I suppose you’ve figured that out.”

  It occurred to Jude it might be best if he stepped aside. “I’ll understand,” he said, “if you call Fitz, get someone to replace me.”

  Axel recoiled. “Who—Bauserman? Please.”

  “I’m sure they can find someone capable.”

  Axel waved off the idea. “I don’t believe merely capable will fill the bill at this stage, do you? Certainly not after the song and dance we handed Fitz. And another lie to cover the last will hardly make anyone safer.”

  Jude felt as though a pile of ashes had formed in the pit of his stomach. He nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Still—”

  “No, Jude. I’m afraid we’re in this a little deep, my friend.” Axel glanced over his shoulder toward the upstairs bedrooms. “And I don’t mean just you and me.”

  38

  Before turning in, Jude sat with Consuela on the living room couch and had her map out the houses in the neighborhood and name and describe everyone she could, down this block and on the next street behind. There were both areneros and efemelenistas, even a few die-hard Christian Democrats, but by and large the neighbors were simple working people, a baker, two mechanics, a widow hairdresser, several teachers, a pair of evangelical missionaries from Chile, a music professor (there were whispers he was a mariquita, a ladybug: “Homosexual,” she explained), a retired bank teller who was also a bit of a gossip. None enjoyed the social station needed to rub shoulders with the likes of Judge Regalado or Wenceslao Sola, Consuela said, nor could she imagine any of them being thoughtless enough to dare any involvement with a man like Hector Torres.

  “But one never knows,” she said helplessly. “After the war, you learned things about people you’d never suspected. Never. And I’ve only lived in this neighborhood a few months.”

  She asked if Jude was going to speak with anyone, and he said no, that wouldn’t be wise. It would just pique their curiosity about Consuela and whoever was staying at her house. He just wanted to know who was who as best he could, plot out the most likely sources of trouble. He thanked her for her help, then wished her goodnight.

  Jude stayed up awhile longer, opening the front door and standing there sideways, to form a harder target, studying the houses he thought, given what Consuela had told him, were most likely to harbor unfriendly folks—the gossipy old teller, the arenero mechanic, the professor with a secret. The entire neighborhood was dark and still, not so much as a stray dog slinking about, and after five minutes he returned inside, heading for the back door now. Standing at the edge of the garden, he repeated the routine, peering up and over the high wall, listening for movement. The heady fragrance of the veranera blossoms hung thickly in the close heat, and from one of the nearby houses the fleshy gargle of deep-throated snoring rumbled softly into the night from an open window. He listened for another minute, trying to guess the weight and girth of the snorer, then came away from the back door and settled in on the couch.

  He hardly slept. His mind was a zoo and the blood sang in his veins from the adrenaline, his thoughts riddled with doubt and guilt. Whenever he did, at last, drift off, he entered flickering dreams thick with voices. Then, just before daybreak, he opened his eyes and felt startled to confront a middling sense of clarity. No scathing inner voices. No countering robotic vigilance. It’ll have to do, he told himself as he switched on the lamp. He dragged the Remington out from under the couch and filled its magazine with nine-shot, then loaded extra clips for his .22 and the second Sig Sauer. He wanted to make sure, in his absence, Axel was prepared for anything.

  He dressed and then, for the next hour, sat at the back screen door to the tiny garden, watching the glow of daylight swell like mist inside the high vine-covered walls as he thought through what he’d say, plotted out what he’d do, preparing for every twist he could think of, every wrong turn. He felt strangely clearheaded and calm. Meanwhile, upstairs, the others gradually rose and shuffled or thumped groggily back and forth, their bedrooms, the bath. Then, about eight o’clock, someone knocked at the front door.

  Jude collected his pistol, released the safety, and went to the dining room where, keeping the gun out of sight, he edged back the curtain to see who wa
s outside. Dressed in a sleeveless embroidered cotton shift, Eileen stood there alone in the soft morning light, clutching a grease-stained bag.

  “Tamales for breakfast,” she said. “That down-home tropical treat.”

  Jude holstered the pistol and draped it with his shirt, then went around to open the door. He pulled her inside, then looked up and down the street to see who might be watching.

  “My God,” she whispered, “what’s wrong?”

  Jude closed the door. They were standing very close in the hallway, face-to-face. “We’re just being extra cautious from here on out,” he said. It sounded coy.

  She searched his eyes, then leaned in and delivered a swift dry peck on his cheek. “Well, I’m not the enemy, okay?”

  They warmed the tamales in the oven until the late risers tottered downstairs, everyone but Axel wearing a vest—he’d given his to Oscar’s mother. Jude met Axel’s eye to suggest they discuss this, but the older man just fiddled him off as though to say he’d made up his mind—he intended to be a gentleman and that was that. And if you die, Jude wanted to say, what becomes of getting that little girl back? But he knew Axel would just turn the argument around, point out that Jude’s safety was just as crucial but his vest now protected Oscar. Meanwhile, Eileen shot Jude a curious glance of her own at the sight of the vests, and he responded merely, “Like I said, we’re being extra careful.”

  They sat down to eat. Oscar’s mother merely picked at her food, her dark eyes seeming to sink farther into her skull each time Jude glanced her direction. For once, though, the boy dove in, stripping away the steamy corn husks, devouring the soft hot cornmeal with its cheesy filling and licking his fingers afterward. Consuela made a pot of her anemic coffee and Jude threw back three cups before it dawned on him that Eileen’s presence solved a problem.

  He asked her to join him in the garden. Along the way, he dragged the shotgun from under the couch.

  Inside the high-walled enclosure, dragonflies skittered back and forth between sun and shade. Jude said, “I have to go somewhere. I need someone who can use a weapon to stay behind, look after everybody. Axel has a pistol of his own and he can handle it okay, but I was wondering—” He held out the shotgun. “I don’t know why, but I’ve got a feeling you know how to use this.”

  Her eyes bulged, moving from him to the gun, back to him again. “No, no, wait.” She cocked her hip. “Back up.”

  “Please. Do this for me, I promise, I’ll fill you in on what’s been going on the past two weeks or so.”

  “Like that’s a gift?” Then her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been lying.”

  “There’s a lot to tell.”

  “But you’ve been lying.”

  “I haven’t been entirely candid, no. But I haven’t lied.”

  She looked away, rocking foot to foot, testy in that way of hers, then turned back and eyed the shotgun again. Taking it from him, she measured its balance in her hands, then brought the stock to her shoulder and aimed down the barrel. In her white dress and glasses, she looked like Annie Oakley’s improbable sister. He remembered that first night together, the two of them swaying naked in her hammock. It seemed a million years ago.

  “My dad had a Remington pump,” she said, lowering the weapon from her shoulder.

  “So you know how to handle it.”

  She sighed morosely, as though it were a curse. “Don’t ask me to hit a duck.”

  He took the shotgun back, set it aside, then handed her the .22. “I’m going to take my Sig with me just in case, but I won’t be needing this.” Her hands were almost too big for the thing and she fumbled with the safety and magazine release. “Just a heads-up,” he said, “Oscar’s had his eyes on these. I wouldn’t leave them out of your sight.”

  “You really think all this is necessary?”

  “I’ve got this theory. Well, superstition actually. The more you plan for something, the less likely it is to happen. But don’t open the door for anybody, I don’t care who it is. I mean that. I’ll explain later.”

  “I want to know where you’re going.”

  “Let me borrow your car, I’ll answer all your questions when I get back. I promise.”

  He got Axel and Eileen to trade places, and now it was Axel’s turn in the small sunlit garden. Jude said, “It’s time to do this.”

  Shading his eyes, Axel furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “I’ll go get ready.”

  “No. You stay here. I’ll handle it.”

  “I’m more than willing—”

  “I know that. It isn’t the point. I had a lot of time last night to think it through. What have we got to trade for that little girl? You. What’s in your head, anyway. Be stupid to lose it in the first face-to-face, wouldn’t you say?”

  Axel blanched. “You’re taking too much of this on your own shoulders.”

  “No,” Jude said. “I’m not.”

  The gravel parking lot for El Arriero was bordered with towering, shaggy conacaste trees and packed with dusty cars. It was Holy Week and the shrinking Salvadoran middle class was on holiday. A limp white banner strung above the restaurant’s brick archway announced:

  ¡SEMANA SANTA! ¡ESPECIAL! ¡LANGOSTA!

  Jude lingered in Eileen’s VW wagon, looking things over. Two guards manned the entrance, bulging out of their uniforms, sporting wraparounds and armed with MP5s. He tucked his Sig Sauer into the glove box, realizing he’d never get past the door with it anyway. And if Hector Torres meant to do anything truly serious, he wouldn’t do it here. He’d send somebody along afterward, cut Jude off on the street and hustle him out of the car, drag him off to somewhere remote, where it wouldn’t interfere with lunch.

  He locked up and headed across the gravel lot beneath the wilted trees. In the shadow of the brick archway, the two guards patted him down, more like they were hoping for cigarettes than searching for a weapon, then they waved him on—that quick, he bored them.

  Inside it was hot and deafening—a hundred wood mallets slamming against tabletops, the tang of steamy brine.The open central courtyard and a large dining room beyond were both jammed, the locals having turned out in force—men in swim trunks and T-shirts, boys in tank tops and ball caps, women in culottes with their hair pinned up, ponytailed girls in halters—everyone bedecked in sloppy white bibs. Those not hammering away or sucking meat from splintered red claws fanned themselves with their menus or threw back tumblers of cold beer or soda—Estrella, Jude noticed, wonder of wonders.

  Amazingly, despite the noise, the lobster feed came with entertainment. At the far end of the courtyard, a guitarist sat perched on a tall wood stool, slumping toward a gooseneck microphone, struggling to be heard—a throwback to a lost trend, Jude thought, long hair and wire glasses, denim shirt and jeans. Glancing up, the musician spotted Jude—an American!—and hastily abandoned the bachata ballad he’d been torturing, fiddled with his keyboard drum machine, slowed the beat to a mushy Boom-bapbap-Boom-bap and started in at the top with “Yesterday,” butchering the English so farcically Jude couldn’t tell if he was being welcomed or mocked.

  Love was up and he’s ashamed to pay.

  The shapely morena hostess at her podium smiled coquettishly, revealing a gold tooth, and asked if Jude was dining alone. He smiled back and told her in Spanish he’d come to see Señor Torres. “I’m a friend of Bill Malvasio.”

  Like that, her face clouded over. The gold tooth vanished.

  “Please.” Jude said. “Let Señor Torres know. It’s very important.”

  The hostess fussed with some papers, excused herself, then stepped primly in her flowing slacks and backless sandals along the edges of the thronged courtyard, disappearing behind a thick wood door. The pounding racket continued. Jude could feel his irritation ticking upward, and the singer wasn’t helping. After a second listless verse, crooned above the din, he bailed on “Yesterday” and switched to “Black Magic Woman.”

  Got a black plastic woman …

  Finally, the hostess stuck he
r head out and waved for Jude. He followed the same path she had, skirting the crowd, garnering stares from various tables. As he approached, she stood aside in the doorway, eyes down. Once Jude passed, she fled, unable to vanish fast enough.

  Put a smell on me, baby.

  Jude closed the door and it clicked shut. A grainy haze filtered in from a dirty skylight, revealing a small, strong, gnomic man with a singularly ugly head counting money from a register drawer as he sat beneath a slowly turning fan. He wore a lot of gold, a pair of cheaters, and a bracelet of rubber bands, his arms matted with thick black hair.

  Jude stepped forward. “Señor Torres.”

  The man did not glance up. “Adriana said you wished to speak to me.”

  “Yes. I’m a friend, I guess you’d say, of Bill Malvasio.”

  Torres licked his thumb. “I don’t know who that is.”

  The sound of a glass shattering came from beyond a side door leading to the bar. Torres looked up.

  “Strange. Bill told me he worked in your security detail.”

  “I know the men who work for me.” Torres returned to his counting. “I know them each by name. Most, I know their wives and children. The name you gave is not familiar.”

  “Perhaps I misunderstood him. It may be Wenceslao Sola he works for.”

  Torres stopped, lifted the reading glasses off his nose, and set them down on his ledger. He had quick dark eyes, a man with a temper. Jude realized, then, this wouldn’t take long.

  “You want something, Mr.—”

  “McManus. I work for Axel Odelberg.”

  Torres considered that, then let go with a plaintive sigh. “Mr. McManus, I have two hundred lobsters on ice. Ever smell two hundred lobsters go bad? I need to sell them. To do that I need to make change.” He held up the bills remaining in his hand. “And for that I need to count this out, so I beg you—”

  “Some pictures have shown up.”

  Torres froze, almost despite himself. Then, recovering: “I don’t understand.”