Ford rested the gun on the gear shift console, within easy reach of Tomlinson. "You'll never get much closer. It's only about three miles from here, hidden away. But I can't let you see it." Then he left the gun there, taking his hand away, letting the lie settle; turning away, as if looking out the window, but watching Tomlinson.
"Hell, man, if you say you can't, you can't. Just seems a damn shame, me being a scholar, that's all. Maybe I could see it later?"
"No. No way. Sorry. I think you'll be a help getting the boy. But I can't let you get involved any more than that."
Tomlinson was assuming an expression, contemplating, but he had still made no move toward the gun. Ford said, "I've got to take a whiz. Be right back." He stepped out into the jungle and the car door swung shut so that now he could see only Tomlinson's outline. He stood behind the vehicle for a time, watching as Tomlinson slowly leaned forward, reaching for the pistol. Ford crouched slightly and, in three steps, was at the passenger's side. He pulled the door open, but before he could do anything Tomlinson swung the automatic toward him . . . holding it with two fingers, like it was a soiled diaper, and said, "Doc, I'll help you with the boy, but first you've got to agree to something." Ford stood motionless, waiting, as Tomlinson added, "You've got to agree to put this thing someplace where I can't see it. Bad vibes, man; very bad vibes. It really disturbs the fucking thought processes. And take the bullets out, too."
"You want me to hide the gun." Ford's heart was pounding, the adrenaline really pumping through him, even though the automatic contained an empty clip. Empty weapon or not, it would have gotten nasty had Tomlinson tried to force him to retrieve the book.
Tomlinson said, "Right. I hate to be so firm, but this business about shooting border guards is just asking for bad karma. You shoot a border guard and, next thing you know, the whole trip is going to start getting weird. Take my word on this one." Tomlinson was holding the automatic by the barrel, wanting Ford to take it.
Ford said, "Tomlinson, let me just ask you outright: Did the CIA send you to keep an eye on me?" as he accepted the gun back.
"The CIA?" Acting as if he were giving the question serious consideration, but in a patronizing way, like dealing with a crazy man. "Ah, no-o-o-o, but it would be an easy mistake to make. Could happen to anybody."
Ford stared at him for a moment. "You don't work for them, do you? You really are exactly what you appear to be. Amazing."
"See what happens when you think about killing border guards?" Tomlinson said kindly. "It sets all the negative ions in motion. Really destructive stuff, man. I've got some books you should read."
"Okay," he said. "All right. I believe you."
"See, we all got auras, man—these sort of electrical fields around us, only you can't see them—"
"Auras, right, uh-huh." Relieved, Ford put the automatic back in the briefcase, gathered himself for a moment, then took out a fake passport as Tomlinson rattled on.
"These auras are made up of ions; positive, negative, you know, basic physics man. "
"Right. Hey, give me your passport for a second."
Saying, "Now, normally you have a real positive aura. I mean the best. That's why people are attracted to you." Tomlinson fished his passport out of his back pocket and handed it to Ford. "The moment I met you, I thought, 'Now this guy's been down some unmarked channels. A real karmic hipster. "
Ford said, "Gee, thanks," as he used a knife to cut the photograph from Tomlinson's real passport and then trimmed the yellow masking to size. Tomlinson was watching now, interested, saying he was real impressed the way Ford did that, as if he'd done it before, and don't be hurt about his asking no questions, he'd ask a lot more from here on out.
The border guards waved them through with a quick glance at the passports, more interested in collecting the tourist tax, which Ford knew they would pocket, and getting back to sleep. There was a village beyond: tin-roofed shacks and shabby bars, then more jungle. The roads were bad now, rock and mud. It was the rainy season and the bridges not washed away were bare planks thrown across gullies. Twice Ford had to get out and sound the depth of a creek before driving through it. Then Tomlinson decided that should be his job, wading into the next creek up to his beard before calling back they'd have to find a better place to cross. Between creek crossings, Ford told Tomlinson the truth about the Kin Qux Cho.
"Then you really don't know where it is?"
"Not for sure."
"Then why did you lie to me, man?"
"It was a test, for God's sake!"
"Goddamn, some test. Next time just send me a telegram saying my parents got blown up by Iranians or something, but leave the guns at home."
"I had to be sure."
"That sort of thing is bad for the heart. I almost wet my drawers."
"Okay, okay, just drive."
Tomlinson drove in silence and, after a long time, asked, "Did that woman, Pilar what's-her-name, really do that to you? Coitus interruptus, armed-guard style?"
"Just afterward. Almost like she pressed a button beside the bed. I didn't even have time to get my clothes."
"What a bitch, man."
Ford said, "No. She had her reasons."
"You're sticking up for her? You must still be in love with the lady, man." When Ford did not answer, Tomlinson said gently, "It'll pass, Doc. It may not seem like it now, but it'll pass. I know. I've been through it."
Ford said, "I'd like that."
Much later, replying to a long monologue by Tomlinson, Ford asked, "And that's when they institutionalized you?"
Tomlinson said, "Yeah, they had to. It's hard to believe now, but for a while there I was what you might call insane. ..."
The half moon was waxing, but the jungle seemed to lure in, then absorb all light, so that the frail moon above only emphasized the darkness. The roads became narrower, pale ribbons in the overhanging foliage, ascending, always climbing, and at the top of each ridge the forest spread away in striations of silver mist with shapes of gigantic trees protruding through the haze. Sometimes, on a far mountainside, Ford could see lights glittering in tiny coves: campfires of Mayan villages. The fires touched the air with woodsmoke long after they had receded into the gloom. Ford took the wheel as the eastern horizon paled and the sun, still unseen, illuminated the high forest canopy with citreous light.
At 10 A.M. Ford said, "I think we're almost there." He had been following one of the maps, marking their progress, while Tomlinson sat peering out the window, pointing at monkeys and wild parrots.
"This guy Zacul's camp?"
"No. A place where we can get breakfast. A little village called Isla de Verde. I want to see someone else first."
"You know best, man. I just hope they sell corn flakes. I have corn flakes every morning."
Isle de Verde had once been an agricultural outpost, a settlement of people drawn into the forest so that they might get rich tapping chicle trees and selling the sap to U.S. chewing gum manufacturers. No one ever got rich, and when the manufacturers found a synthetic chicle, which was cheaper, the agricultural outpost became just an outpost, a clearing in the jungle with bamboo huts and plywood tiendas where stray dogs dozed in the road. As Ford drove down the mud street, people turned from their work to watch, then turned away again, showing no expression. Unlike the more traditional Maya of the higher mountains, the villagers here wore Latino clothing: simple white pants or pastel skirts, light blouses and scarves. But the high cheeks, dark eyes, and earth-toned faces were unmistakable: pure Mayan.
In a village such as this, merchants did not need signs because everyone knew what was to be bought and where. The place where a meal could be purchased was a simple bamboo chickee with a tin roof and bottles of beer and Coca-Cola on display in the front window. Ford knew of the restaurant because he had been in Isla de Verde several times before, but coming always from the north, not the south. He parked the Land Cruiser beneath a tree where two sway-backed horses and a goat grazed.
The propr
ietor—a slender man with the knowing eyes of a priest—acknowledged Ford with the slightest of nods, remembering him but saying nothing, motioning them toward the smaller of two tables in the tiny room. "You would like coffee? Or perhaps a beer?" Standing there with a towel over his forearm like the maitre d' of a great hotel.
Ford said, "Coffee, yes. And a meal. A breakfast, if it is not an inconvenience."
"It is my great pleasure."
"Perhaps there is something else you could do for us."
The proprietor shrugged, a noncommittal gesture. "If it is possible."
Ford took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. "I would like this message delivered to a friend of mine. A man who lives in the hills. I will pay you and the messenger for your trouble, of course. "
The proprietor took the paper, glanced at the name on the outside, then stuffed the note in his pocket as if it were a matter of indifference to him. "I will bring the beverages," he said, then walked quickly to the kitchen.
Tomlinson said, "I hope he brings a menu, too."
Ford said, "I don't think they have menus here. I can check if you want."
"You guys lose me, the way you jabber away in Spanish like that. I've got to learn the language, man. I've got to learn those glyphs better. I've got so damn much work to do on this project of mine, it's great. You know, stimulating." He looked at Ford. "No corn flakes, huh?"
"I wouldn't get my hopes up."
"Did you already order?"
"You pretty much take what he brings you. It'll be good, though."
It was, too: fried plantains, eggs, black beans, rice, and thick slices of bacon. Tomlinson didn't eat the bacon—he didn't eat flesh, he said—but he ate everything else. Then they went for a walk, past the neat houses with their swept lawns, down to the river where they watched children playing in the sun while their mothers washed clothes on the rocks, knotting and beating the clothing as women had for a thousand years.
Ford never saw the messenger the proprietor sent but, an hour later, four men on horseback rode into the village towing two saddled horses behind. They wore T-shirts, not uniforms, but each carried an automatic rifle and the lead man said to Ford, "You are to come with us, Señor."
Ford said, "We have a vehicle. We can follow."
"No, Señor. You are to ride with us. It is his wish."
Tomlinson said he'd never been on a horse before and Ford said it was a little like being on a sailboat, only drier—but Tomlinson, upset by the weapons, did not smile. They rode single file into the mountains, then stopped on a ridge above a shallow valley. Below lay the shapes of tents hidden among the trees and a huge clearing covered with camouflaged netting. Tomlinson whispered, "What they hiding under there, man? Artillery? A landing strip, maybe?"
Ford said, "Watch. Watch the soldiers. They're rolling the netting back now."
There was part of a grass runway covered by the camouflage. So were two mobile units of antiaircraft artillery, old Yugoslavian M65s from the looks of them. Mostly, though, the camouflaged netting was being used to hide a baseball diamond.
THIRTEEN
Dressed in khaki fatigues and cap, his black beard showing splotches of gray, Juan Rivera stood outside the HQ tent and threw his arms wide apart, smiling as Ford rode up. "Do my eyes deceive me? Is it the great Johnny Bench? Is it the ugly Yogi Berra? No . . . no, it is my old comrade Ford come to help us in our time of need." Joking with Ford, but performing for the men around him, too, which was Rivera's way: a showman, always speaking to a crowd even when there was no crowd to hear.
Ford said, "It's been a long time, General Rivera," enduring the guerrilla leader's bear hug, but relieved, at least, that Rivera hadn't had him arrested. With things the way they were in Masagua, there had been no way for Ford to know in advance how he would be received.
"You and your friend are hungry? I will have a meal prepared—"
"We ate in the village, General."
"Then you are in need of a bath. Or sleep, perhaps? You have traveled far—"
"A bath would be nice, but later. After we've talked."
"A woman, then?" His arm thrown over Ford's shoulder, leading him toward the headquarters tent, Rivera was speaking confidentially now, making a show of being a host who anticipated all needs. "Finding a healthy woman in this time of many diseases is not such an easy thing, but I have several here you may find pleasing. Volunteers, dedicated to the cause. " His wink was both humorous and wicked. "I have been accused of choosing my volunteers for their beauty, not their brains, a thing I will not argue."
Ford said, "You are widely known for your taste in women, General, but I'm not in need right now. Thanks anyway."
Rivera stopped and put his hands on Ford's shoulders. "You are fit, then? You are well?"
"I'm just fine."
"And your friend? Forgive me, but I am wondering why a man such as you is traveling with this . . . this hippie." Meaning Tomlinson, who was back with the horses. The people of Central America still distrusted the long-haired late Sixties wanderers they remembered as ne'er-do-wells and bums, and Rivera, Ford could see, wasn't eager to extend his hospitality.
"He's a business associate. He's fine, too."
"Then you require nothing?"
"I would like to talk with you—"
"Hah! It is always business with you! It is a bad thing, a very bad thing to think of nothing but work." They were inside Rivera's tent now: a high room of canvas with Coleman lanterns hanging from wooden supports and sandbags piled chest high around the inside perimeter. Ford stood while Rivera went behind a great metal desk and began to rummage through a box, but still lecturing. "You should use me as your example, Marion. I am about to lead my army into a great revolution. I am about to assume command of my beloved country. I have a thousand things to do; ten million people depend on me, but I make sure that I take the time for recreation." Rivera took something from the box and placed it on the desk: a pale-gray uniform, folded. A baseball uniform. Then he added a hat and a catcher's glove to the pile. "This hippie friend of yours, does he play the game, too?"
"You want to play baseball? Now?"
"In honor of your arrival. Unfortunately, my best team is out on maneuvers—yes, even my finest players bear arms for the cause. We will make do with reserves and scrimmage my third team, me pitching, you catching. This hippie friend of yours, do you think he is a player of quality?"
"I doubt if Tomlinson's ever touched a ball, but I really don't think—"
"Ah, then he will not need a uniform. He will play on the opposing team. It is only fair that the third team be handicapped in some way since my own team is not at full strength."
Ford said, "Juan, I haven't played since the last time I was here—" Dropping the formal address with only the two guards outside the tent to hear.
"Tut-tut, Marion, no excuses. I have something to show you. Something new. Very important!" Rivera lowered his voice, sharing a secret. "It is a new pitch, my friend. A pitch I have developed which, I say in all modesty, no hitter in the American major leagues could touch. But I am anxious for you to judge. You, my favorite catcher, will evaluate this pitch of mine fairly."
"The reason I'm here, Juan—it can't wait while we play nine innings."
"Just seven, then. A short game." Looking at his watch, smiling through his beard, Rivera said, "Did you know that the Giants of New York once drafted Fidel as a pitcher?"
Fidel as in Fidel Castro, and Ford did know because Rivera mentioned it every time they met. Rivera continued, "Do you realize that no American major league team has ever made me—probably the greatest pitcher in all of Central America— even the smallest of offers? Does that not seem odd?"
Ford said, "We've talked about this before, Juan. I think it's because major league scouts shy away from war zones."
"It is purely politics," Rivera countered severely. "The capitalist dogs of your country have conspired against me so that I may not spread my influence through fame earn
ed playing your national sport." He looked at Ford, calculating. "Do you still count the manager of the Royals of Kansas City as one of your friends?"
Ford said, "He managed the Royals' Triple-A team and now he's with Pittsburgh, in the majors. Yes, we still stay in touch."
"In the major leagues?" Rivera wagged his eyebrows, impressed.
"Yes. Gene Lamont. A third-base coach."
"Then I will leave it to you to judge this new pitch of mine. If you are excited and feel it necessary to contact your friend who coaches in the major leagues, I will not object. But I warn you, I am no longer interested in their offers—though, even at the age of thirty-seven, I feel certain I could win twenty games."
Ford played along. "But General, if this new pitch is as effective as you say, I will feel obligated. The game of baseball makes certain demands upon its fans."
Rivera was stripping off his shirt, showing his massive hairy chest. "Perhaps. But I warn you again, their offers are a matter of complete indifference to me. I live now only for the revolution."
"The Pirates of Pittsburgh will be disappointed. As will the Dodgers of Los Angeles. "
Rivera stopped undressing, one leg still in his pants. "It is possible that your friend might communicate the information to the Dodgers of Los Angeles?"
"Both teams are in the National League, and you know how baseball players love to talk. "
The guerrilla leader considered this for a moment, then threw his pants into the corner for his orderly to pick up. "If the Dodgers of Los Angeles are to be disappointed, you will leave it for me to disappoint them. You will communicate only what you see. It is not necessary for them to know I live only for the revolution and would refuse their offer anyway."
Ford said, "As you wish, General Rivera," and followed one of the guards to his billet, where he suited up.
Monkeys watched them warm up. They came down out of the high forest canopy, a whole tribe of howler monkeys hanging from the lower branches, babies clinging to their mothers' backs, big males swinging by their tails and throwing small green mangoes, imitating the players.
Sanibel Flats Page 19