Some of the American princesses lost themselves because of love. Or because the promiscuity had gotten out of hand and, in their own minds, made it impossible for them to return. Or because of drugs.
With Wendy Stafford, Ford decided, it was drugs. Or maybe all of the above.
In Spanish, she said, "May I take your order?" then looked at him, pretending to focus, pretending to be surprised, and said in English, "Marion? Marion Ford? My God, it's you, isn't it!"
"Hello, Wendy."
"It is you!" Really playing it up, as if they'd met on the street or something. "Imagine meeting you after all these years. And here, of all places!" Giving the laughter a prim tone, chiding him for being in a whorehouse, letting her order pad drop onto the table as if her job was a secondary consideration; a society girl who was still above it all.
"You're looking well."
"Oh, no flattery, please. I'm a mess. I've been over on the Caribbean coast all week, working with the Miskito Indians, and you know what the conditions there are like. Then one of the poor girls who works here called me just as I got back to San Jose and asked me to fill in for her. What was I going to say?" Talking way too fast; a girl who had become very good with the quick lie; the blue eyes still darting, refusing to lock onto Ford's.
"I need to talk with you, Wendy. Privately."
"Now, you mean?
"Tonight, yes."
She picked up the order pad again, giving it meaning. "But that girl I told you about. I have to work for her. If it was just me, I'd leave right now." She laughed. "I mean, I'd have never even been here. But I don't want to get her into trouble."
Ford took a bill from his pocket, a fifty, which was more than twice what the girls charged, and slid it onto the table. "Maybe if you gave the floor manager this, he'd understand."
The woman stared at the money for a second, pretending to be slow on the uptake. "You mean . . . like I'm really one of the girls? Like you're paying for me?" The nervous laughter again. "Well, it might work. Like I'm one of the whores. Wait until I write Daddy about this. He'll be furious." A thirty-year-old woman still talking about her daddy as she took the money from the table, then stopped, thinking. "Do you just want to talk for a short time, Marion? I mean, if you want to pay for the whole evening, I think the girls charge more. From the way I've heard them talk, anyway." Lying smoothly as Ford took out another fifty, she said, "It'll go to my friend, of course. I just don't want to get her into any trouble."
"Still thinking about everyone but yourself, Wendy."
Ford watched as she crossed the deck and tried to hide herself in the shadows of the trees, giving the money to the floor manager then quickly stuffing her cut into the pocket of her jeans. Then she was back, pushing her hair from her shoulders as if she'd just gotten out of a fast boat, saying "Well, he fell for it. I've been bought and paid for. It's something my grandchildren will laugh about."
Outside, the air was balmy and the woman paused to light a cigarette, inhaling deeply, then said she didn't want to go anywhere for a drink, maybe her apartment would be better since it was so close, and Ford knew it was because the management would be checking up on her, making sure she wasn't doing a party for the price of one man.
The apartment was only two blocks away, a one bedroom walk-up above a butcher shop. He expected the place to be a mess, and it was: bed unmade, clothes thrown on chairs, and a cat meowing for food as they came in. The cat gave him a quick mental picture, a surge of Jessica, but he pushed it from his mind. There were posters on the walls, political posters calling for equality and to save the wildlife, and the air conditioner spackled into the wall had a condensation problem, peeling the paint away with rust streaks. The place smelled of the bad air conditioner and of the butcher shop below.
"Drink?" She was at the refrigerator, looking in, her face appearing somehow younger in the bleak light.
"No thanks, I'm fine."
"You won't mind if I do. God, the way they work us down there. Even on a slow night. " Then looked at Ford quickly as she took out soda water and let the door swing shut. "The way they work the girls, I mean. I don't see how they stand it." After tapping out another cigarette as she poured a tumbler half full of rum and added the soda, she took the chair across from him.
Ford said, "Three years ago I gave a friend of mine your name. He was a pilot and looking for work down here. His name was Rafe Hollins. He may have called himself Rafferty."
The abruptness of that made her take a drink, and she gave it some time, calculating, as if trying to remember. "I don't know, Marion. The name sounds familiar, but I'm not sure."
"Your name was in his address book. This address, so it had been updated. He said you told him why the Department of Immigration didn't have me listed as a temporary resident."
She smiled, leaning back with her cigarette. "Marion Ford, secret agent man. So how are things going at the ol' CIA? Invaded any small countries lately?"
"You were wrong then and you're wrong now, Wendy. I never worked for the CIA. Now I don't work for the government at all."
"Then why the detective routine? Why so free with the big bills if you just wanted to talk to me? Some people might consider that offensive, ol' buddy."
"Not if the questions are strictly business. Rafe Hollins was a friend of mine. He was flying Mayan artifacts into the States and making one hell of a lot of money at it. But he's dead now and it leaves a nice little void. I'd like to pick up where he left off, only I don't know who his contacts were. I thought you might be able to help—for a price, of course."
"Rafe's dead?" She reached for her drink again, not hurt by the news but surprised.
"Then you did know him?"
"He came to see me. It was interesting, having someone come to me using your name as a reference. At first I thought you might be trying to sneak in one of your CIA buddies on me. But then I figured he would have never used your name if he was. Besides, he just wasn't bright enough—not that your organization only takes sparkling intellects."
"Rafe was no genius." Playing along with Hollins's hick routine, finding it useful. "But even if I was involved with the CIA, why would I send an agent to court you?"
"Oh, come on, Marion. Don't play dumb. I've always been involved with the cause—" "Cause" said as if it should be capitalized; swirling her drink as she peered over it, starting to feel important and letting her guard drop just a little as the rum began to take hold. "You had to know that. You knew I was trying to get information for my people, that's why you told me so little.
Why do you think I slept with you those times? Like a game." This said with a nasty edge that she seemed to enjoy.
Ford shrugged. What he remembered about it was Wendy getting sloppy drunk, groping his leg under the table while fighting not to slide out of her seat, that's how ready she was. He said, "No, I didn't know. But it doesn't matter now."
"The cause still matters, Marion. The revolution. It matters to me." But the mechanical tone in her voice told him that it didn't; not really.
"And money doesn't?"
"My family's wealthy, don't you remember?"
Ford did a stage survey of the apartment with his eyes. "It looks to me like your family cut you off a long time ago, Wendy. And I'm here to make you a fair business proposition. If you provide me with names and locations of Rafe's contacts, the people who were providing him with the artifacts, I'll give you five percent of the net for the first year, two percent for the next two years. That should come to something like a hundred thousand over the three-year period, cash. Just for information. Tonight."
The blue eyes weren't darting now. "This doesn't sound like the Marion Ford I remember."
"We all change, Wendy. I got real tired of being one of the have-nots. Of taking orders from other people, cleaning up their messes while they cashed in. Idealism starts to seem a little childish if you get kicked around enough."
She said, "Whew, you don't have to tell me, buster," and Ford knew that he had
hit the mark; watching her as she stood, stretched with the weariness of it all, then crossed the room toward the bottle. "A hundred thousand just for telling you Rafe's contacts?"
"And where I can find them. The information has to be good. It has to be accurate. Later on I may ask you for one or two other favors, but nothing big. Logistical stuff."
"How do I know you're not still working for the Company?
Maybe this is a scam so you can get me to help you smoke out my comrades up in the mountains."
"For one thing, I didn't quit my job. I was asked to resign. I was in Masagua and they decided I was trying to help Juan Rivera more than their puppet Balserio. They were right. Check around if you don't believe me." Which was a lie, but Ford knew she would never get around to checking.
She considered that for a moment, wanting to believe him, wanting the money. "My God, the All-American boy helping a communist. Maybe there's hope for the world after all. But so far I haven't heard you mention any advance. Just the promise of money, like I'm supposed to trust your fair bookkeeping."
"I'll give you . . . five hundred tonight, and send you another thousand if your information turns out to be good." Standing as he counted out the bills, putting them on the table in a stack in front of her.
She looked at the money, touching her tongue to her lips, as if she were hungry. Ford wondered how much heroin five hundred would buy in Costa Rica. Or cocaine. Yeah, cocaine: no track marks on her arms. In Costa Rica, it would buy a lot of cocaine.
"Do you have a map?" she asked.
"I have several maps. What country?"
"Masagua, of course."
Ford took out the good topographical map that Herrera had provided and spread it out over the money. She hunched over the map, touching it with her index finger, concentrating. "Have you ever heard of Julio Zacul?"
"I've heard of him. That's the guy you're worried I might sic the marines on?"
She looked up at him, still thinking of Zacul, a brief look of pure hatred. "For that bastard, you can call in the marines, the gurkhas, anybody you want. After what he did to me. The bastard. I was worried you were after Rivera."
"It sounds like you know Zacul pretty well."
"I should. I lived with him for three months. Followed that son of a bitch everywhere. I did things for him ..." She shivered slightly. "Things I can't believe I did. Things he made me do. He's sick, Marion. An animal—if you're one of his women, and there aren't too many of those. He prefers your type—or boys."
Ford felt his stomach turn, one of his boys, not wanting to hear any more but still listening. She went on a quick talking jag, close to losing control, telling him about this man she hated and why until Ford finally took her arm, calming her, and said, "Show me where he is, Wendy. Point to it on the map."
She downed the last of her drink, throwing her head back as if it were medicine. "It's just that I've never been the same since I was with Zacul. Bad things have happened to me. Like a curse. The things he made me do seem like a crazy bad dream now. Like those Mexican girls in the cheap films. The animal." She was still shaking.
Ford said, "Then you won't mind making some money off him."
"No, I won't mind at all. But I'd rather see him dead. When you find him, though, watch yourself. Rafferty flew authentic artifacts out for him, but Zacul sent a lot of fake stuff, too. He has his men make it. The first stuff he offers you will be fake. Just a warning. He'll judge what you know by the way you react to the first stuff he offers."
"Zacul was the only one Hollins was flying artifacts for?"
"I don't know. How should I know? But probably, yeah. He was the only guerrilla I know who dealt in that sort of thing. On a big-time basis, anyway."
It didn't take her long to describe how to get to where Zacul was probably camped. Ford knew that section of mountains very, very well. She kept saying Zacul would have her killed if he found out. Ford pumped all the information he could out of her, about the way Zacul arranged his camp, his routine, how best to deal with the man on a business basis, because now he was admitting to himself what he hadn't wanted to admit before: Julio Zacul had Jake Hollins.
As Ford folded the map to go, the woman stood up, swaying slightly, a little drunk, and leaned against the bathroom doorway, her head tilted to one side. "Do you have to leave so soon?" Trying to look seductive, but looking sad and defeated instead. "I was going to take a shower. A nice long, hot shower. Maybe you'd like to join me. I can wash your back. You've already paid for it, you know."
Ford said, "I can't, Wendy. I'm in a hurry," after repressing the urge to say "Maybe another time—when I'm feeling real dirty."
He was glad he didn't say it. As he opened the door, she was sitting on the couch four rums gone, knees together, arms pressed over her breasts, and she said in the voice of a dazed little girl, "I'm not pretty anymore, am I, Marion?" Crying, too, but not making any noise; looking straight ahead, her eyes glassy.
Ford set the satchel on the steps, went to her, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "It's time for you to go home, Wendy. You should take that money and buy a ticket home."
"They'd never take me now, Marion. On the phone Daddy said—"
"On the phone is one thing, Wendy. He can't look into your face and refuse you."
"Do you think so, Marion? Really?"
"I want you to call tonight, Wendy. Will you do that?"
She had still made no reply when he closed the door behind him.
Tomlinson was calling "What? What? Who is it, man?"
And Ford, standing outside Tomlinson's room, said, "Let's go. It's time to get going."
"It's morning already, man?"
"Close enough."
Tomlinson swung the door open. He was wearing salmon-colored long johns—long johns? Yep—standing there with his scraggly hair and beard, digging a fist into his eyes. "Christ, Doc, it's still dark outside."
It was just after midnight, 12:08 A.M.
"You know what they say: Early bird gets the worm."
"Feels like I just went to sleep."
Ford said, "I've got the Land Cruiser all loaded. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes."
"Far out, man. Far out. Up with the farmers. ..."
TWELVE
On a rhumb line it was 150 miles to the border of Masagua, but the mountain roads of Costa Rica, though they were good roads, followed no line. They followed rivers through the high cloud forests, and Ford drove while Tomlinson slept beside him, the lights of the vehicle tunneling through fog into the darkness. After three hours the terrain began to change. The rain forest began to draw in, thicken, and the road narrowed, like driving through a cave. He had to use the wipers to clear the windshield of condensation and, with the windows down, he could smell the cool hollows and the tannin-stained rivers. He could smell the jungle and knew Masagua was near.
Then there was a sign that said it was ten kilometers to the border station, and Ford slowed until he found an old logging trail and turned off the road, bouncing and jolting. He shut off the engine and pushed the door open so that the dome light was on. The chirring of frogs was like one long scream in the darkness.
Tomlinson stirred, awakening slowly.
Ford reached into the backseat and unzipped the leather satchel. He took out the forty-five-caliber automatic and waited. He waited until he was sure Tomlinson was awake, then he punched in a clip, slid the breach back, and watched Tomlinson's eyes flutter and finally open wide, seeing the pistol.
"Holy shit!"
"Take it easy."
"What's with the gun, man? There fucking tigers around here or something? Restless natives?"
Ford said, "We need to have a talk, Tomlinson."
"Talk, yeah, sure." Getting as far from Ford as he could, his back against the door, not frightened but nervous with a pistol between them in the narrow confines of the Land Cruiser. And trying hard to wake up quickly. "Christ, watch it, that thing could go off. You got bullets in there?"
"Just seven. The border guards are up ahead. About six miles."
"Border guards ... I thought we were going to bribe the bastards. Hey, Doc, I got to be frank—I don't like this gun business. And bullets, too. Guns give me the heebie jeebies."
"But we need to have a talk. I keep wondering why you're so quick to follow along, Tomlinson. I keep wondering why you don't ask me more questions about this trip." Holding the forty-five in his right hand, not pointing it at Tomlinson but keeping it between them.
"Questions?" Looking really uncomfortable now, Tomlinson had begun to tug at his hair, as if he were trying to come up with a quick question or two. "Well, you're an awfully early riser—I was going to ask you about that, but we all have our quirks." He paused, looking at the pistol . . . then at Ford. "That's what this is all about? You want me to ask more questions? I mean, we can definitely work something out in that regard. It's your vacation, man. I'll try to help brighten it up any way I can."
Ford studied him for a moment, doubting if anyone so smart could be so vacant. He said, "I didn't come for a vacation, I came to get the boy."
Tomlinson nodded quickly, anxious to understand. "I know,
I know. Little boys are nature's gentlemen. I was just joking about the vacation thing. You know, trying to lighten things up."
"There's something else you should know. One year ago I helped steal the Kin Qux Cho from the Presidential Palace in Masagua."
That made him sit up. "The book, man. You stole the book that has all the old Maya ceremonies in it? Rituals of the Lake? You?"
"That's right, me."
"Come on, now you're joking, right? Like April Fools, only it's not—hey, maybe it is April. I've been losing track—"
"It's no joke, Tomlinson, and this is no game."
"Goddamn, Doc, you're really serious, aren't you?" Tomlinson was looking at him, the slow smile turning into delight. "You, a thief; who in the hell woulda thought it? There are depths to you, man. Stuff I never guessed was there. And you really know where the book is? Damn, I'd give anything to see that book."
Sanibel Flats Page 18