The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller

by J. M. Porup

  “Hey!” I shouted, and reached for it.

  He held it overhead. “Who’s this from?”

  “From Kate. Give that back!”

  “Who’s Kate?” His eyes scanned the note.

  “My wife.”

  “Your what?”

  I grabbed for the postcard again, but he held it out of reach. “My almost-wife. Or never-wife, as she called herself. We were engaged.”

  “And what’s this—‘End the guilt’? What is that all about, man?”

  I slugged him as hard as I could. He bent over and I retrieved the note.

  He chuckled through his pain. “How can you even think about getting married, bro?” He flung an arm at the stage. “There’s so many chicas here in need of good gringo loving. How can you pick just one?”

  A security guard with a hand cannon on his hip appeared at the table. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Is everything alright?”

  “Fine.” I put on my innocent gringo grin. The guard reluctantly strolled away. I said to Pitt, “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  His laughter faded quickly. “Of course I’m an asshole. How many times I got to tell you?”

  “Yeah, well. You don’t have to be that way with me.” I took out my lighter and flicked it on and off. On and off. On and off.

  “My shrink says I’m numb to the world. A real insensitive blockhead.”

  I nodded. “It’s alright, man. I’ve been hanging on to this goddamn thing for too long anyway. Maybe I can learn a thing or two from an insensitive blockhead like you.” Lighten the ten-ton load on my shoulders by half an ounce. I held the lighter to a corner of the postcard. It caught fire.

  “What are you doing?” He snatched it from me and smushed it out in the wet circles that coated our table. “Why don’t you go to her? It sounds like she’s found a better way to cope than you.”

  I shook my head. “She’s a reminder of my crime. I could never find peace with her.” I stood. “Come on.”

  Sergio moaned his pleasure. While the dominatrix continued to whip him, a whore knelt before him and loosened the zipper constraining the bulge in his pants.

  Pitt followed me to the exit. He still held the postcard in his hand. “Sure you don’t want this?”

  “You keep it,” I said. “Burn it. Wipe your ass with it. Just so I never see it again.” I burst out into the foul air, the streets swarming with human vermin. “Now let’s get a move on. The night is young, and so are we, and we have our bodies to destroy.”

  Sergio said, “We’ll finish after lunch.”

  He unbridged his fingertips, bent a smile from his crowbar of a frown. He flicked his ponytail off his shoulder and stood, buttoning his suit jacket. He led the way out of the conference room. I followed, Shanti right behind me, three ugly ducklings in a row.

  No sooner had he closed the glass door to his office than he grabbed a hairbrush and faced me, brandishing it like a rapier. “What would Ambo say?”

  Ambo was Pitt’s father, the American ambassador to Peru. One drunk luncheon by the beach Pitt had dubbed him “Ambo,” and despite the frequent paternal threats of physical violence, the nickname stuck.

  I shrugged. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Shanti’s broad shoulders rolled and flexed, as though preparing for round two. I said, “Ambo doesn’t know.”

  “Yes, well. You say that now. He has ways of finding out.”

  The room was simple. Spartan. No. Not even. It was actively uncomfortable. There were no chairs for guests. Papers lay scattered across a beat-up metal desk, the kind I had in my own classroom. A broken fold-out chair served as Sergio’s throne. In the corner stood a cheap plywood cabinet. A heavy lock dangled from its latches.

  Sergio ripped a black hair tie from his ponytail and flicked his hair over his head, a sixteen-year-old girl in the throes of pre-prom grooming.

  I said, “You must have some idea where he is.”

  “I assure you, it is a mystery to us both.” He attacked his hair, scraped the brush from neck to forehead.

  I sat on the edge of his desk. “But you have an idea.”

  Sergio tossed his hair back. It surrounded his head in a cloud of gray. He pointed the brush at me. “Pitt resigned effective immediately.”

  “What do you mean, ‘resigned’?” I asked. “Why would he resign? This place was perfect cover.”

  “Never showed for work. That’s all I know.”

  Pitt worked a fly-in, fly-out schedule. Two weeks in the altiplano at the mine. Then a week in Lima raising hell. Among other things.

  “That’s all you know,” I said. I crossed my arms and stared down my nose.

  “My dear boy, I assure you it is.”

  I went to the door and opened it. “Thug dude. Hammer back?”

  Shanti bent his yellow-and-scarlet frame into the room. Sergio looked up at the man through a haze of hair. “What’s it for?”

  “New trick you, uh, might enjoy,” I said.

  “Oh, darling.” He nodded to the bulldozer. “Let him have it.”

  I took the hammer, closed the door and walked over to the cabinet. With both hands I smashed the hammer down on the padlock. The latches ripped from their flimsy moorings and crashed at my feet.

  The office door opened. I dropped the hammer to the floor and flung open the cabinet’s plywood doors. Strong hands encircled my wrists and drew my elbows back at a painful angle.

  Inside the cabinet, five shirts dangled from paper-shrouded hangers, draped in dry cleaner’s plastic. Five suits of various shades of gray jostled for space. At the bottom, a pair of black shoes, a tin of shoe polish, a dirty rag. A tie rack spat fistfuls of colorful silk.

  Sergio poked at a hole in my filthy brown sweater. “Looking to improve our wardrobe?”

  “What are you afraid of?” I asked. “Since when do you use bodyguards?”

  “I’ve told you what I know,” he said. “Now get out.”

  Shanti frogmarched me to the door.

  “Be sure to check behind the suits,” I said. “You’ll find it worth your while.”

  A vase beside me shattered, spilling a dozen plastic birds of paradise at my feet. A hairbrush bounced off my shoe. “Bloody hell. I’m going to have to move them now.”

  “Move what?” I asked. “Good help hard to find?”

  A sharp hiss of breath. Sergio said, “Let him go.”

  Shanti released my arms. He put his palms together, bowed. “Forgive me,” he said. “Peace be unto you. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  Sergio massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He sighed. “I’m sure you will.”

  I returned to the cabinet, pushed the shirts and suits out of the way. Venetian blinds fluttered and whirred, as Sergio sought escape from the prying eyes of his employees. The back of the cabinet had no obvious cracks.

  “Must you do this?” he asked.

  “I can break it if you want.”

  He felt under the pile of silk. A button clicked. The back of the cabinet slid down.

  To one side, a variety of dildos and butt plugs. A Fleshlight. Hanging from one hook, a small whip; on another, a cat-o’-nine-tails. A third hook sat empty. I lifted the cat. From each of the nine ends hung a twisted spike of barbed wire. Dried blood and chunks of gore caked the spikes.

  “Something missing on that hook,” I said.

  “On back order. Are we satisfied?”

  I studied the empty space. Blood stains marred the plywood where another implement had hung. “Tell you what,” I said. “Be bad enough, I might just use this on you.”

  Sergio shuddered. “Don’t say that.”

  I lifted the cat, slashed it down on his desk with a loud crack. Sergio jumped across the room. Slammed the door shut as Shanti began to enter.

  “Not now,” he wailed. “Don’t come in unless I call you, understand?” He locked the door, rested his weight against the frame. The blinds crackled.

  I held the cat to my nose. It smelled of bloo
d and sweat and sex. I stifled the urge to vomit. “You were telling me why Pitt resigned.”

  Sergio lifted a trembling hand to his lips, wiped a strand of saliva from his chin. “He sent me a note, you see,” he said, not looking at me. “Pitt did.”

  “Still got it?”

  His open palms trembled in front of him, a saint beseeching the empty heavens for salvation. “I don’t understand what it means.”

  I lifted the cat in the air. “You got it or don’t you?”

  His head twitched sideways, unable to look away from the cat. “No,” he mumbled. “I threw it away.”

  “What’d it say?”

  His entire body spasmed now, his eyes fixed on those barbed spikes. “My dear boy, I don’t understand what it means. Or didn’t. Not at the time. I swear. Some rubbish about ending his guilt.”

  Ending his guilt… Was BDSM Pitt’s solution? Had he changed his mind? Hard to believe. If that was his answer, he was barking up the wrong tree. Still…

  I pointed to the cabinet, the empty hook.

  Sergio pressed his knees together, like he had to go to the bathroom. Confessed with a jerk of his head. “He stole my favorite cat.”

  “Stole it? Why would he bother?”

  “These cats are handmade in a factory in Tibet by Buddhist monks. They are rare, and exceedingly valuable.”

  “So?” I said. “Pitt’s got money. You know he does.”

  “Online purchases can be traced. You know this as well as I do.” He glared at me. “So much more subtle than you. At least he picked the lock. Broke in when I was gone.”

  “But pain is not his scene. You know it’s not. How can you be sure it was him?”

  Sergio said nothing, swung his head from side to side. I cracked the cat on his desk again.

  The little man hopped like a puppet on a string. “How could I possibly? It was only when he disappeared that I knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  He bit his lip. His eyes darted around the room, looking for some escape from his perversion, finding none.

  I lifted the cat again. “Knew what?”

  He tiptoed across the room, leaned into me. God, what a smell. He’d shat himself. The stink made me choke. He whispered into my ear, “Bat guano.”

  “Bat—”

  “Shh!” He clamped a hand over my mouth.

  I held up an open palm, nodded. He withdrew his hand. I mouthed the words: Bat guano?

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “What about it?”

  “Go ask Ambo.”

  I slashed the cat down on the desk, the metal frame booming with the impact. “I’m asking you, slave.”

  “Oh God, oh please.” A turd slid from his pant leg onto his shoe. He pressed his palms together between his thighs. “I’d tell you if I knew. I swear I would.”

  “What else?”

  “Pitt was involved. He was key.”

  “Then it wasn’t you who made him vanish.”

  “Me?” His face exploded in outrage. “I’m a businessman who dabbles, not the other way around.”

  “The dabblers are the best,” Pitt had said that day on the beach, the ocean waves rolling into shore, as though to punctuate his point. “You pay them with the thrill. They’re desperate for action. You give them less than what they want. Keep them hungry. Wanting more.”

  “I see.” I put the cat on his desk. He eyed the blood-encrusted barbed wire.

  He said, “One thing more.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “The whole plan fails without him.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Ambo’s looking for him.”

  “Is he now.”

  “Since a month ago.”

  A month ago. A month head start. Hadn’t even mentioned it to Lynn. And if he didn’t want his mother to know… The thought erupted in my brain. Pitt had gone rogue. I walked to the door, unlocked it.

  “Wait!” he screamed, dialed down the volume mid-word. He picked up the cat and held it out.

  I said, “Any idea where to find him?”

  “Ask his wife. She might know.”

  For the second time that day I did a double take. “His what?”

  “Five years, four kids. House in San Isidro. Didn’t you know?”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Sergio shrugged, bounced on his toes, the cat held out in one hand. A second turd stained his other shoe. “Maybe you don’t know your friend as well as you thought.”

  My mouth hung open. I stared at the wall. His wife.

  Unbidden, Sergio set the cat down and scribbled on a sticky note. The pen clattered on the desk. He slapped the yellow square to my chest.

  “The address.”

  I read it. Closed my mouth. Peeled the note off my sweater and shoved it in my pocket. I opened the door.

  “Wait!” Sergio pawed at my elbow and pointed at the cat on his desk. “You promised,” he whispered.

  I thought about it. Give him a whipping. What he deserved. But what about me? What do I deserve? I can’t even save myself. How was I supposed to save him? I’d punished myself for a year now. Three times over I’d burned my body from neck to toes. How much was enough? When will I have paid the penalty? The rest of my life? Tomorrow? Next week, next year? Will I ever be free to live again?

  “No,” I said, loud enough for the cubicle-dwellers nearby to hear, “I won’t give you a blowjob. That’s disgusting.”

  The door clicked shut. The bodyguard and I ignored each other. I walked toward the exit. Through the glass wall I heard the slashing sound of leather and metal on flesh, followed by a soft, high-pitched groan. Two overweight expatriate engineers discussing basketball scores sat up straight, frowned. It was the sound of pain. Of well-deserved punishment.

  Or was it merely masochistic pleasure?

  FOUR

  I stared at the address Sergio gave me. Three stories of moldy stone cast menacing shadows on the sidewalk below. A pair of gargoyles hissed their disapproval from above. Black mildew crept down from the gutters. I rang the doorbell.

  I’d stopped off at an internet café to look up bat guano. There’d been a war over the stuff. In the 1880s. Apparently it made great fertilizer. Farmers paid big money for it, before they invented the synthetic variety. Peru and Bolivia fought Chile, some dispute over tariffs. That was back when Bolivia still had a coastline. Although what a war over bat guano had to do with Pitt, much less his wife, was beyond me.

  A woman in a niqab answered the door. Black silk covered her from head to toe. Only her eyes were visible. I looked at my yellow sticky note, then at the address. They were the same. I crumpled the note. Sergio had been a real bad boy this time.

  “Sorry,” I said in Spanish. “My mistake.” I turned to go.

  The woman rested her head against the door frame, a buzzard eyeing the final moments of dying roadkill. She said, “You’re at the right address.” She spoke in English, the accent a clear, unmistakable Boston twang.

  Her face was a mere strip of white behind the silken armor, her eyes blue balls of fire. Another cock-hungry American whore. I knew her type. But what was the deal with the sheet?

  “Your name Pitt?”

  She laughed. “No, silly.”

  “Well then.” I stepped backward down the stairs.

  “My husband’s name is, though.”

  I lost my footing, banged my knee. “You’re Pitt’s wife?”

  She shifted in the doorway. The silk stretched tight across her body. Was she wearing any clothing underneath?

  “You with the company?” she asked. Her eyes darting below my belt.

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean no. That is, I’m a friend of Pitt’s. I need to find him.” Damn. That came out kinda lame. You got a horsie, act like it for chrissakes.

  She cocked those balls of fire sideways, as though taking aim with a shotgun. “Since when did Pitt have friends?”

  I lifted my eyebrows in self-defense. “Sin
ce when did Pitt have a wife?”

  A child’s voice broke the spell. “Who is it, Mommy?”

  She shouted over her shoulder, “Friend of Daddy’s!”

  “But Daddy doesn’t have any friends!”

  She held out a hand, exposing a slender wrist. I snorted at the sight, a bull aroused by a moving cape. The hand was soft, and the touch of her skin sent a jolt of fire to my groin. Resisting this woman was going to be tough.

  She squeezed my fingers. “Janine. Janine Watters.”

  “Horse.”

  “What, like the animal?”

  “It’s Horace, actually. But people call me Horse. As in hung like a.”

  “Are you really?” she asked, her voice a throaty purr.

  “You’re nice to me, you might find out.”

  She laughed. “You better come in.”

  As I walked past, she pressed her breasts against my arm. They quivered, nipples like pebbles under the thin silk.

  Toy with her, I told myself, ignoring the bulge in my pants. That’s all. You don’t need to add “cheating on your best friend’s wife” to your list of sins. Of course, he wasn’t my best friend anymore. And fucking his mother wasn’t exactly high on the list of noble activities. Crap. I adjusted myself as subtly as I could. Which for me was difficult.

  I stepped into the main room of the house, a large atrium. Unlike the mortuary facade, the interior overflowed with life: primeval ferns hung from hooks along the walls, dripping their damp and steamy essence on the tile floor. The walls of the house were clad in teak. A pyramid skylight caught the weak sun. Mirrors of varying shapes and sizes hung from impossible angles, scattering light into the far corners of the building. The second and third floors loomed above me, balconies encircling the space below.

  “Your fly is open, by the way.”

  “Is it?” She caught me off guard. I yanked at my zipper. I must have forgotten to close it after talking to the albino receptionist.

  She padded barefoot ahead of me. “Don’t want your horsie popping out now, do we?”

  A long table stretched down the center of the atrium. Beneath it, three young children played with an orange tabby. An infant cried in a nearby crib. The newfound agony of its existence shattered in mournful echoes against the wood-paneled walls.