Blood of Paradise

by David Corbett

  He took the Walther out from under his shirt and stuffed it into the glove compartment, then backed out of the hotel parking lot. He let Lamm catch up and then pulled out into the traffic circling the redondel at the Plaza de las Américas, heading west.

  You learned quickly in San Salvador that defensive driving can get you killed. The uniform standard of aggression kept everybody safe, the invisible hand of the highway, and Jude maintained speed with the surging flow of traffic, always making sure that Lamm remained in his rearview. They negotiated the next redondel, at Fuente Beethoven, without a hitch, the traffic in and out of the roundabout never breaking speed. When they reached the next redondel, at Plaza Masferrer, Jude signaled that he’d be exiting right. Once he saw Lamm commit to follow, Jude broke left, throttling to cut off the driver in the next lane. He floored the pedal, burst ahead of the chain reaction of collisions behind him, then cut off two more irate drivers and left more wreckage in his wake as he sped south. He checked his mirror for signs of Lamm, then turned off at the Calle La Mascota, pulled a U-turn, and waited, out of sight of the main drag. It took less than a minute, but then Lamm barreled through the intersection, charging south toward the Pan-American Highway. Jude put the truck in gear, crossed the avenue, and headed east.

  He wished there were some way to follow through with Pitney, make Malvasio suffer, make all of them suffer, hold everyone to account for everything, straight down the line. But he had this one chance to save the girl and he intended to see it through. He owed that to Oscar’s mother. Owed it to Axel.

  He reached La Puntilla just before dusk, the shirtless boys chasing his pickup down the sandy lane as always with their shouts of, “¡Parqueo! ¡Barato! ¡Parqueo!” As before, he pulled into the vast thatched parking structure where the same old man in the skipper’s cap and blue shorts waited, this time in a circle of fellow boatmen, gathered about a trash fire. Jude opened his glove compartment to collect the Walther, stuck it in his waistband, slid out from behind the wheel, and locked up his truck.

  43

  Using duct tape, Malvasio fastened the holster to the underside of the table in the dining room, then slipped his pistol in. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, but he’d given up predicting which way things would go. Clara watched him, sitting on the floor in the corner and clutching the little girl to her chest. She stared at him hatefully, fearfully. He’d lashed out, backhanding her once when she wouldn’t stop nagging him about the child. He regretted that, but she’d been quiet since and he needed to think.

  The day of the shootings, he’d dumped Strock’s body out in the mangrove swamp near the abandoned soccer field. Given the heat, the body was no doubt black and bloated beyond recognition by now, not to mention crawling with bugs and getting picked apart by the buzzards. He’d tossed Strock’s belongings and the AR-15 into the estuary and that was that, the perfect crime, though you’d hardly know it the way Sola and the rest of the prissy little gangsters involved were whining.

  Malvasio had learned of their discontent from Hector over lunch at El Arriero. The news reports were everything they’d hoped for—there was even the extra bonus of the boy, Oscar, dying in the attack, something Malvasio hadn’t foreseen. He hadn’t known the kid and his mother had holed up with Consuela, and you can’t buy luck like that. Malvasio was primed for an attaboy. But there was the issue of the four survivors.

  “We aren’t too much concerned with Consuela Rojas,” Hector had said. “Her ex shares family ties with Wenceslao, and if he can’t prevail upon her to keep quiet for her own good, she’ll be reminded she has children. True, they’re adults, but that doesn’t mean bad things can’t happen to them. The woman whose boy was killed is a raving mess, we hear. By the way—have you heard anything about her little girl, the one she says was kidnapped?”

  Malvasio, his mind elsewhere, hadn’t caught his reaction in time. “There a reason I should?”

  “Relax. Just inquiring.”

  “I said it already, she hid the girl to protect her.”

  “We’ll see. If she did, she’ll be quiet about it now that her boy is dead. No sense attracting attention—she could end up losing them both. But if she didn’t have anything to do with the girl’s disappearance, my guess is we’ll hear about it once she regains her tongue. The NGOs and human rights crowd, they’ll prop her up in front of as many TV cameras as they can find.”

  Malvasio hadn’t known what to say, so he’d just kept quiet. He’d hired four guys he thought could handle the job. It didn’t turn out that way. Jude sniffed out the attack before it got started and things took their fated course. Look at the bright side, he’d wanted to say. Listen to the news.

  “The young American woman who was wounded presents a similar problem. She’s out of the picture for now but nothing guarantees that will last. She was hanging around with that reporter. Even so, none of that is as bad as the bodyguard.”

  “He hasn’t said anything.”

  “That hardly means he won’t. He can make himself out to be the hero.”

  “Heroes don’t get fired. And we can always cloud the water by bringing up his role in bringing Strock down here. Clara will confirm he dropped Strock off at the rancho, she saw the weapon, the ammunition. He’ll be too busy trying to prove he hadn’t been in on his own guy’s murder to point the blame at you.”

  “That just confuses things. We don’t want a second scenario suggested for the killing. That would just open the thing up again. People would start asking all the wrong questions. Right now guilt lands right where we want it, on the maras. It serves more than one purpose. You’re missing the bigger picture by not seeing that. The Americans are already talking about additional aid. CAFTA’s been given a new boost—fight crime through jobs, just what the efemelenistas are always bitching about. And the way it stands now, nobody will bat an eye if the government not only renews La Mano Dura but makes it more severe. You get it? All that benefit provides protection. Take away the gang angle on the killing, it disappears.”

  “Like I said, if it turns bad, tie him to Strock, you can dig up the clippings from Chicago. Plenty of talk about gangs in those. Beyond that, let’s get serious. Only a fool hands out guarantees in a thing like this.”

  “Do yourself a favor, my friend—don’t say that again. At the very least, the bodyguard should have died. Why wasn’t he shot at the same time as the hydrologist? We hear it would have been easy, they were standing right there together in the street. But no one fired. Why is that?”

  “It was too late. There were already people nosing out of their houses into the street. The hydrologist dies, that’s a quirk. The bodyguard dies right after, that’s a pattern. People would see, they’d remember, they’d make a point of telling what they saw, and then the cover-up goes to hell and, like you said, that’s the whole point of the thing.”

  Malvasio knew at the time he’d come up with that ruse that he couldn’t keep it alive forever. A part of him knew he hadn’t killed Jude because he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d watched the kid grow from a scrawny mope to a young man, muscle up, play ball. Ray had always said he’d never come to much, too inward, too cautious, but Ray had been wrong. Pop Gun had given up on his own kid—no surprise, he’d given up on himself. And so it was Malvasio who’d seen what Jude was truly made of—a far better enemy than anyone would’ve guessed. It created a kind of bond. Malvasio felt proud for him. But that wasn’t why he’d spared his life.

  Looking through the scope, he’d watched the thing go bad like a drunken scrum, and in its unraveling symmetry he’d recognized a simple truth: His luck had run out. It had been turning by degrees the past few years, but he’d always believed that you don’t step away from the game when that happens, you ride out your streaks. He couldn’t afford to live that fiction anymore. Time to find a way out. He’d need Jude for that.

  The bell at the gate rang out. That would be the boy from the pueblito. Malvasio had told him to come running when he saw the old man’s lancha
pull up at the dock on the estuary. It meant they had five minutes.

  He went over to Clara, who remained hunched on the floor against the wall. The infant was sleeping in her arms. Clara kissed the little girl’s head and stroked her hair. Malvasio extended his arms. “Dámela.” Give her to me.

  Jude recoiled when Clara opened the wood door at the rancho gate. Her left eye was swollen shut and the skin was darkening. Fresh blood glistened from a cut on her cheek.

  “Lo siento, señor,” she whispered. She came toward him and with the gentlest of hands patted him down, finding the Walther tucked into his waistband. She glanced up into his face, eyes pleading. “Con permiso.” Everything in her eyes let him know he’d lost the advantage long before he’d even shown up. He pulled out the gun and handed it to her. If it came down to a fight, he’d use his hands. She held the pistol awkwardly but with her fingers clear of the trigger. Turning back toward the door, she gestured for him to follow her inside.

  Jude found Malvasio seated at the dining room table, cradling a little girl in his lap. Oscar’s sister, Jude supposed. The child seemed alert, even startled, but not upset. Clara showed Malvasio the Walther and he nodded.

  “I can understand why you brought it,” Malvasio said. “But you won’t need it.” He nodded to Clara and she went to the doorway, stepped out onto the patio, and pitched the gun over the wall, onto the windy beach beyond. Jude considered asking Malvasio if he was armed but realized he wouldn’t believe him if he said no.

  “Have a seat. We’ve got a lot to talk over.”

  Jude took a chair across the table from Malvasio. Clara found a spot against the wall and slid down to the floor, holding her skirt modestly so it didn’t flare out, the whole time never once taking her eyes off the little girl.

  “You look well,” Malvasio said. “All things considered.”

  Jude mentally judged the rough-hewn table’s weight, wondering what it would take to flip it. He didn’t want to hurt the child, though. He nodded toward Clara. “What happened?”

  Malvasio adjusted the infant on his lap. “I told her the little girl belongs to her mother. Clara, she’s grown fond. Too fond.” He sighed. “It’s a story.” He shot her a look that seemed both scolding and contrite. “Any event, she wouldn’t let go.”

  Jude leaned forward and reached across the table. “Why not hand her to me now?”

  Malvasio responded with an oddly sunny smile. “Not yet. There’s a few things to talk through. I’m going to need your help.”

  Jude felt a sudden jolt of rage. Or guilt. “That’s a lot to ask, all things considered.”

  “You still think I had something to do with what happened. I didn’t. I swear.”

  “I get it. That’s your story. Help you how?”

  “It’s not a story.”

  “Help you how?”

  “I want to come in.”

  Jude sat back and cocked his head. “And you think—”

  “You can help. I try to connect on my own, or, God forbid, show up at the embassy, I just end up in prison. That’s not a place you want to be when you’ve been a cop.” He resettled the child in his lap again, clearly awkward holding her. “I’ve got information. I told you about the people I worked for. Well, you’ve figured out they may have had a hand in killing your guy—”

  “Axel.”

  “Okay. Axel. Like I said, I wouldn’t be surprised if Strock got dragged into it somehow, and I suppose that’s my fault but my point is I’m tired. I’m done. I want to make you a deal. I’ll hand this little girl over so you can get her back where she belongs. In return you bring me in.”

  “To who?”

  “There’s a guy, an American, on the edges of this. His name is Lazarek.”

  Jude couldn’t help it, he laughed. “You don’t say.”

  “You know him?”

  “He works for ODIC. Or says he does.”

  “He’s got a lot to lose, word slips out what his people down here have been up to.”

  “He knows?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I never met him. I just heard his name used. But I wouldn’t be surprised. He knows but he doesn’t know—understand what I’m saying?”

  “What would he want from you?”

  “I’m insurance. He has me in his pocket, he knows everybody’s secrets. That’s power. The upper hand.”

  Jude leaned forward again. “Bill, I don’t know how to say this—”

  “Jude, you don’t know how this end of the world works. I do. Guys like Sola, the judge, the colonel, even Hector, they’re never gonna pay—not here. You want them to suffer, you’ve got to find a way to drag them into court in the States. Or at least have that hanging over them.”

  “I thought you didn’t know they were involved in Axel’s murder.”

  “I don’t. Not for sure. But I know something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “No. Come on. That’s Lazarek’s deal to negotiate, not yours.”

  Beggars can’t be cheaters, Jude thought, one of the old man’s favorite cracks. “You want me to front for you, but I have no clue what it is you’ve got to hand up. Or if it’s even real.”

  “Lazarek will know. He’ll have an idea. And it’s real.”

  Jude realized he was right. It explained things. Lazarek had gone to bat for some dubious men and they’d fucked him. It happened all the time in the third world, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t want to make an example: Ask Noriega. Ask Saddam. Today’s amigo, tomorrow’s abomination—one must remember who swings the bat. That kind of thing was as old as empire. Lazarek and the men he answered to would make it look like they cared about the rot at the top, intended to kick ass and assemble dossiers, but soon enough everything would fall back into place the way it had been. Normalcy. Order. Progress.

  But what was all that to Jude?

  “You said you were tired, Bill. Me too. I came out here thinking I could do a good thing. But that little girl’s mother? She was half out of her mind before her boy was killed, and I’d be amazed if she could even function now. She’s dirt-poor besides. Maybe the little girl’s better off here, with Clara, after all. Regardless, it’s not my problem. I’m with you, I’m done.” He rose from his chair. “Work out whatever you have to. But leave me out.”

  Malvasio regarded him with his head cocked back. Smiling. “You’re bluffing.”

  Here we go again, Jude thought. “Suit yourself.”

  He turned and walked through the kitchen, then down the narrow hallway to the door. He noticed the bullet holes in the wall this time, wondering why they hadn’t registered on the way in, then remembering he’d been focused on Clara holding his weapon. He didn’t see blood on the wall but, even so, he quickened his step to get out.

  He was through the door and halfway to the gate when Malvasio called out from behind: “I can tie all these people to a child prostitution ring that leads to Houston and Phoenix. That means they can be indicted in the States. Understand what that means?”

  Jude turned. Malvasio stood in the doorway, still clutching the child. She was writhing in his hold and whimpering but not crying. Not yet.

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s run from the judge’s plantation. The colonel gets the kids across the borders, deals with the police and hands out bribes. He also manages the security with help from Hector. That’s Hector’s expertise, muscle. I know, I help collect his taxes. Sola’s the one with connections in the States, plus he and a handful of other men in his circle run the brothels around the country. It’s insanely easy to do here. Wiretaps are illegal so you’re never going to convict anyone in a conspiracy case, it’s a joke. And the PNC’s supposed to handle alien smuggling, but the clowns over at the Municipal Guard have jurisdiction over child prostitution, and neither side’s known to break much of a sweat trying to coordinate. Meanwhile, tricking itself isn’t even illegal and, when it’s kids, the government just considers it a social service problem and hands it off to the N
GOs. Seriously, you could grow old, die, and spend some quality time in purgatory before anybody but the usual handwringers said so much as boo about it here.”

  “Were you involved?”

  Malvasio looked off, thinking that one through. “You know what’s funny, Jude? You think I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but you’re wrong. You’re hoping this is some kind of test. Like a puzzle. If you can just frame the thing right, visualize the pieces, it’ll all fall together and you’ll see it. A way out. But you crossed a line, you did it that first day, when I said let’s get together and you said sure. A whole lot of bridges went up in smoke that day. You can’t go back. They won’t let you. And you know that, you’ve felt it—you know what I’m saying. You may not want to admit it, you may hate yourself—and I’m sure you hate me—but you understand, deep down, this is right where you belong. You’re going to help me. Don’t bother with why, because why is a snake pit. I mean, you think it through and you realize all this work, this fucked-up misery, this trouble—Christ, I don’t know what to call it—it’s all about what: Kids? Water? Money? Why go there—it doesn’t solve anything, knowing that answer. Just help me get to Lazarek so he can cover his own ass making these fat-cat fuckers pay to the extent they’re ever going to, and be glad for that and stop trying to find someone or something to blame.”

  Jude had trouble putting the voice, which he’d known most of his life, with the increasingly addled words he was hearing. “Sound a little loose on deck there, Bill.”

  Malvasio chuckled drily. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m serious, Bill. You sound like you could use some sleep.”

  “Now that’s observant. You should’ve been a cop—anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Yeah,” Jude said, feeling tired himself suddenly. Everything around him seemed liquid in the hot, windy moonlight. “You did, among others. A long time ago.”

  Malvasio switched the little girl from one arm to the other. “You wisely ignored me.”