Black Pomegranate

by David W. Cowles

  Pablo and Pietro also made the journey with us. As soon as we arrived in the city, they dropped out of sight, but promised to remain nearby in case we needed them.

  After checking into a hotel, the four of us went shopping. Catarina was determined to masquerade as a man—despite the consensus of opinion that she would not be able to pull off the deception—and she wanted to have her own clothes instead of wearing mine, which were not a good fit for her. Had I realized Cat was so worried about being recognized and arrested as soon as we stepped off the plane in Granada Negra, I would not have allowed her to make the trip. Her flaming fire-engine-red hair was certain to cause her to be the center of attention, her disguise notwithstanding.

  Heidi and Luther each bought an entire wardrobe, as all of their clothes had been gathered up from their villa at the Royal Mayan and shipped to the States.

  The following day, we caught a commuter flight to Granada Negra. To my immense surprise, Grenadina, capital of Granada Negra, was a most modern metropolis, replete with glass and steel high-rise buildings, wide tree-lined streets, and a bustling shopping district. I suppose I’d expected much less. My somewhat disparaging mental image of Third World countries was shattered.

  To me, Catarina still appeared very feminine, despite the business suit and tie and men’s shoes and fake mustache she wore. But, lowering her voice, she fooled the immigration officials at the airport without any trouble.

  There was a minor embarrassment at the Granada Negra Sharpton. Heidi and Luther registered first, then went to their room. We agreed to meet them later for dinner.

  “Can you give us a room near the couple who just checked in?” I asked.

  The desk clerk punched a few buttons on his computer terminal, then examined the screen. “Let me see. Yes, the room across the hall is available. But it has only one bed,” he sighed.

  “That’s fine. That’s what we want,” I told him. “A king-size bed.”

  The desk clerk gave me a peculiar look. Then, realization set in. “Yes, gentlemen, I understand. I do understand,” he smirked lasciviously, with a big wink.

  CAT AND I WALKED to a pay phone several blocks from the hotel to call Uncle Carlos. We did not want to take a chance that the number could be traced back to our room at the Sharpton. Suspecting Carlos’s telephone calls were being monitored, I got on the phone instead of Cat, to prevent anyone listening to the conversation from learning she was already in Granada Negra.

  “Hello, Uncle Carlos,” I greeted. “This is Alfredo.” I’d nearly forgotten I had ever been called anything else.

  “Hola, Alfredo. It’s good to hear from you. Are you in Granada Negra?”

  “Yes. I just arrived. I haven’t quite settled in yet.”

  “I must see you as soon as possible. Can you come to my casa for dinner tonight?”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Carlos. I’ve already made other plans for dinner. I’m traveling with a couple from the college. Perhaps you can join us at the restaurant?”

  “That might be difficult,” he sighed. “These days, I seldom leave the house, except for my stroll to the park each noon.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Yes, I’m absolutely certain. But, we must get together, so plans can be made.”

  “What sort of plans?”

  “General Villa would like all of the Perez family to join him at the head table for his inaugural dinner on New Year’s Day. It will be a very audacious affair, Alfredo, televised for the entire nation to see.”

  “Tell General Villa that Catarina and I will definitely be there. Nothing could stop us from participating in the festivities.”

  “The general will be most happy.”

  Carlos hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

  “What did my uncle have to say?” Catarina asked anxiously.

  “You were right. Carlos is being watched very closely. But he said it will be safe to meet him tomorrow noon in the park. Do you know which one?”

  “Yes. The cemetery.”

  I was confused. “The cemetery?”

  “The memorial park. He places flowers on his wife’s grave every day. Not even General Villa could prevent him from doing that.”

  I INSISTED CATARINA STAY in the hotel room while I met with Carlos. “Even though your uncle thought it would be safe to meet him in the park, something could go wrong,” I worried. “He might be followed. If you’re there, someone might see through your disguise.”

  “Did Carlos say he was absolutely certain you should meet him in the park?” Cat asked.

  “Yes. But, suppose someone was listening to the phone conversation. Wouldn’t they understand what the phrase means?”

  She laughed. “No. That’s a code used only by our family and my father’s closest, most trusted confidantes. No one else is aware of its special significance.”

  “Regardless, I’m going to the cemetery alone. You’ll have to tell me how to get there and what your Uncle Carlos looks like, so I’ll be able to recognize him.”

  Cat must have realized my decision was final. “Take a cab to the Granada Negra National Memorial Park. You will have no trouble identifying Uncle Carlos. He is a very handsome man. He looks exactly like a combination of Joseph Stalin and Fidel Castro.”

  “Somehow, I kind of thought he might,” I chortled.

  “Why do you say that, Alfredo?” Cat asked, her nose wrinkled.

  “I dunno. Maybe from the way he sounds on the telephone.” Or, maybe it was my preconceived stereotype of all Granada Negra men.

  THE CEMETERY was a half hour drive from the Sharpton, on the northern outskirts of the city. Uncle Carlos was waiting for me just inside its large iron gate, a colorful nosegay in his hand.

  “Alfredo, my nephew-in-law-to-be,” he greeted me with a bear hug. “Come, we must talk quickly. I may have been followed today.

  “Have you seen my brother, el presidente? Is he well?”

  “Yes. Cat and I were at his hacienda just a few days ago. President Perez is in perfect health.”

  “And how is my darling niece?”

  “She’s fine, too.” I wondered how long it would take Carlos to finish the pleasantries and get down to business.

  We walked briskly through the marble orchard. Finally, Carlos talked. For the most part, I merely listened.

  “General Villa has pronounced publicly—and prematurely— Presidente Perez is dead. Villa has also told the citizens of Granada Negra the Perez family wants him to exhume the presidency in Mario’s place. Naturally, that’s—how do you say it?—bulldung,” he sputtered. “But, no one in Granada Negra has the corsage to disrepute him. The general’s a very effluent man. And, extremely hideous in appearance. It would be quite difficult to find someone uglier.

  “Villa threatens that if Catarina and I do not sit with him on the daisy at the inaugural banquet, he will have me killed immediately. Maybe even sooner. And, when he finds Catarina, she will be turned over to Cesar Toro. Toro will throw Catarina into a dudgeon and use her as his love slave.

  “But even that vile threat is a deception. Villa’s indentions are much more sinister and evil. He knows Mario Perez is still alive and greatly fears what Mario will do to him if he harms anyone in the Perez family or makes himself el presidente of Granada Negra.”

  Carlos placed the bouquet on the grave of his late wife, said a short prayer in Hebrew, then continued with his monologue.

  “So, Villa has conceived a devious plan. I’m an old man, no value to anyone, though I do want to die a natural death of old age. But, Villa knows Mario would give his life for Catarina, and that is exactly what Villa intends to make him do. It’s a feudal situation, I’m afraid,” he sighed.

  “If Villa finds out where Catarina is before the inauguration, he will capture her and garter her freedom for Mario’s life. Then, with Mario truly dead, Villa can rule the country without fear of ever being found out. Of course, he cannot take a chalice Catarina or I will spill the frijoles. We will be kil
led in a grizzly accidente of some kind, and Villa will shed crocodile tears at our funerals.”

  “What about Cesar Toro?” I asked.

  “He is another wild card to be dealt. Something must be done to exasperate the problem with Toro. As you know, he was not killed. That story was concocted to bring Catarina out into the open, but it backfired on them. Catarina was very smart when she demanded Toro’s ear.”

  “Whose ear was in the guava jelly, anyway? Who did they really kill?”

  Carlos roared with laughter. “They did not kill anyone. That ear was a prosthetic device. Plastico!”

  Catarina and I had already discussed what had to be done. “All right, Uncle Carlos, here is what you are to tell General Villa. Tell him Catarina is not in Granada Negra yet, but she will arrive in time to attend the inaugural banquet. Have Villa set places at his table for you, Catarina, me, and two of our friends from the United States. We will show up just as the banquet begins. Not before.”

  Carlos fretted. “If we cause any trouble for Villa, he will have us murdered dead on the spot. Have no doubt about it, Alfredo.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Not with all of Granada Negra watching on television. But, don’t worry. Nothing will happen that we cannot handle. I’m absolutely certain.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right.” Carlos glanced at his watch. “I must go now. If I’m away from my casa too long, Villa will get superstitious.”

  “I’ll take a cab back to the hotel. Can I give you a lift?”

  “No. That would not be wise. We might be seen together. I live but a short stroll from here. Keep in touch, Alfredo. But be very careful what you say on the telephone.”

  “I will, Uncle Carlos.”

  “Vaya con Dios.”

  “Vaya con Dios.”

  Carlos hurried off. I waited until he was out of sight before leaving the cemetery. A Mercedes 600 was parked just outside the gate.

  “Do you need transportation, Señor?” the uniformed driver asked politely.

  “Yes. Can you take me to the Granada Negra Sharpton?”

  “Of course.”

  The dark-complexioned man stepped out of the black limousine and opened the rear door for me. It was not until we were on the road that I noticed his left ear lobe was missing.

  Twenty-Eight

  The Toast

  “DO YOU HAVE RELATIVES in this cemetery?” the limousine driver asked, as he started the engine.

  “Not exactly,” I replied. The man’s question made me uncomfortable, but some sort of explanation was obviously required in order to satisfy his curiosity. I suppose if I’d been in his shoes, I’d also be curious why an American tourist had visited a remote cemetery in Granada Negra. “My future uncle’s wife is buried here.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Oh … so you are getting married? To a Granada Negra woman?”

  “Uh, yes, that’s right.” Why was I answering the man’s intrusive questions so willingly? It was none of his business who I was going to marry.

  “Soon?”

  “We haven’t set a date yet.” That was better. That was noncommittal.

  “I see. Are you enjoying your visit to Granada Negra, Señor?”

  “It’s too early to say. We just arrived in the country yesterday.” Damn. I wished I’d said I, not we.

  “And you’re staying at the Granada Negra Sharpton?”

  “Yes.” I might as well admit it. That’s where I told him to drive me.

  He stopped for a traffic light. “Will you be here for the inauguration?”

  “What inauguration?” I’ll just play dumb on that one.

  “Our former presidente was killed by the revolutionaries. General Pancho Villa will be our next presidente. You’ve heard of him, perhaps?”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” I lied.

  “General Villa will be sworn in on New Year’s Day. Afterwards, the entire country will rejoice and celebrate.”

  “That’s nice,” I muttered. Not if Cat and I have any say in the matter, I thought to myself.

  I was becoming more paranoid by the minute. I recollected Uncle Carlos’s warnings. “Beware of swarthy strangers in black limousines,” he’d said, repeatedly. I’d always thought Carlos was referring to Pablo and Pietro, but, in retrospect, that didn’t make any sense. No sense at all. Not even as a bad joke. Their old black sedan was far from being a limousine, and they weren’t strangers to anyone except me, and that was only in the beginning.

  But now, I was riding in the back seat of a black limousine being driven by a swarthy stranger. Moreover, the man fit Catarina’s description of the notorious Cesar Toro to a capital T—even down to the missing ear lobe, the one she’d bitten off.

  During the rest of the ride to the hotel, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I could feel adrenaline pumping through my veins. Still, I thought, the driver hadn’t really said anything threatening and he hadn’t made any overt gestures of hostility and he did seem to be driving me straight back to the Sharpton. Perhaps I was overreacting. Could it be that what I perceived as nosiness was merely an attempt to be friendly to a foreigner and an effort to earn a larger tip?

  I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief when the limo stopped in front of the hotel and the driver courteously held the door for me while I stepped out. I handed him an American twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

  “Gracias, Señor,” he thanked me profusely, with a bow. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

  “DID YOU AND UNCLE CARLOS have a pleasant visit?” Cat asked, when I returned to the room. It was not intended to be a “pleasant” visit and both of us knew it, but Cat has a way of asking questions obliquely.

  I regurgitated the conversation Carlos and I had at the cemetery in detail, as accurately and completely as I could remember it. But I deliberately left out my suspicions about the limousine driver. They had come to naught, and there was no use in burdening Cat with another worry.

  Someone knocked on the door. “That must be Heidi and Luther,” Catarina surmised. “Will you let them in, Alfredo? I’ll be ready in a minute,” she said, running into the bathroom.

  Cat was mistaken. It was not Hazelhorst and Martin at the door. It was the limousine driver. But there was no mistaking the Walther semi-automatic pistol in his hand. It was pointed directly at me.

  “I said perhaps we would meet again, Señor Hobson,” he gloated. “As you can see, I was right.”

  “I didn’t think it would be quite this soon, Señor Toro.” Apparently my assumption about his identity was accurate. He did not contradict me.

  Cat bounced into the room. When she spotted Toro, she stopped in her tracks. A hand rushed to her mouth to help stifle a shriek. “Toro! How did you find us!”

  Toro grinned malevolently. “Didn’t your fiancé tell you? I drove him here from the cemetery—which is where both of you will be, permanently, if you do not cooperate fully.

  “But how I located you doesn’t matter. What is important is that I did so before the inauguration of General Villa.”

  “If you think you’re going to be able to trade me for my father, you’re dead wrong,” Catarina told him, stomping her foot. “He will see right through your evil plot. He knows you and Villa will never let me live, even if he surrenders to you.”

  “Oh, but you’re the one who’s wrong, Catarina,” Toro rebutted, a sadistic grin on his face. “I do intend to let you live. I have already prepared a special place for you—for us. You will never be able to leave it, but you will want for nothing, as long as you do whatever I command of you.”

  “If you try to touch me ever again, I will bite off more than the tip of your ear,” Cat warned.

  “We shall see, Catarina. There are ways of making you change your mind. Total isolation, drugs, torture, a diet of nothing but fast food hamburgers—” he threatened. It was obvious Toro received immense pleasure from the thought of having his way with Catarina.

  Someone started
knocking on the door.

  “Don’t open it,” Catarina demanded. “Those are our American friends. There’s no need for them to become involved in Granada Negra politics.”

  “If we do not open the door for your friends, they will think something is wrong,” Toro decided. “They might have the hotel manager come up to investigate. And then, many more innocent people will be hurt or die. Go ahead, Señor Hobson, unlatch the door and invite the people in. We will have a little party, all of us.”

  Toro shoved the pistol into the top of his trousers and camouflaged it by buttoning his jacket. I was tempted to rush him then and there, but quickly thought better of the idea. He could retrieve the gun and shoot me before I could reach him. Perhaps I would have a better opportunity later, with Heidi and Luther there to help distract him.

  But they were not at the door. It was Miguel, wearing a red hotel uniform with gold braid epaulets and carrying a tray on which was resting a bucket of champagne on ice and four champagne glasses.

  “Room service. Please sign here,” Miguel said, handing me a check and a pen.

  Miguel appeared not to recognize us or realize the pickle we were in. I thought he was trying to play a gag on Cat and me by dressing like a bellman and bringing champagne to our room. I hoped Miguel would keep a straight face and leave quickly, for his sake.

  “Go ahead, Hobson,” Toro prompted. “We will need much champagne to help us celebrate. Give the young man a good tip, please. His timing was excellent.”

  I did as I was told, wondering what was coming next. After I handed Miguel the signed check, he turned and left.

  “That was very kind of you not to say anything to the boy,” Toro snickered. “I don’t want to have to kill any more people than necessary.”

  Toro popped the cork off the bottle and poured three glasses of champagne. He handed one to Cat and one to me, then raised the remaining glass in his right hand. “Please join me in a toast to Presidente Villa’s new regime,” he insisted, downing his glass of champagne in one gulp.