Missionary Stew

by Ross Thomas

  “Why take them?” he said.

  “I like to see if what I see is what other people see.” “And is it?”

  “I don’t think so. I think other people see more than I do. When I look at the pictures I see a lot of things I missed. That's why I use a Polaroid. I don’t like to wait. Not for anything.” She stopped, turned, and aimed the camera at Haere. He looked into its lens, unsmiling. She pushed the red button. The camera whirred and the picture rolled out. They continued walking as Velveeta Keats watched the picture develop.

  She stopped and looked from the picture to Haere and back again. “You really are sad, aren’t you? I mean, way down deep inside.”

  Haere smiled, took the picture from her, and looked at it. “Is that what you see?”

  She nodded. “I thought it was just the wayyour face grew, you know, sort of accidental. But you really are sad. Not depressed. Just sad.”

  Haere could think of nothing to say, so he gave the picture back to her. She said, “I think I’ll keep this one,” and put it away in her purse. They walked on in silence, listening to the distant gunfire.

  “How far away are they?” she asked.

  “A mile maybe. It could be less.”

  “I wonder what Morgan's doing.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She stopped again and stared at Haere. “We’re not going to let them shoot him, are we? I mean, we’re going to get him out. Somehow.”

  “Sure we are,” Haere lied. “Somehow.”

  The lobby of the Inter-Continental was jammed with print and television reporters and their crews. Most of them were Americans, but there was also a sprinkling of Europeans. They were all bunched around the reception desk, shouting their demands, elbowing each other out of the way, cursing the hotel management, and declaring their individual and corporate importance.

  “Jesus,” Velveeta Keats said. “Where’d they all come from?”

  “I guess they want in on the kill,” Haere said. He looked around the lobby and spotted a tall, mournful, almost middle-aged man who stood leaning against the wall as he sipped reflectively from a pint of Smirnoff vodka. Haere turned to Velveeta Keats. “Why don’t you go on up to your room and I’ll try to find out if these guys know anything.”

  Velveeta Keats headed for the elevator. Haere went over to the tall man and said, “You’re a long way from St. Louis, Nessie.”

  The tall man turned and from his six-foot-five height stared down at Haere. Surprise replaced his mournful look. He even smiled.The man was Nestor Leed, and for almost as long as Haere could remember Leed had covered Midwestern politics for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

  “Draper,” he said. “My God. So you’ve sunk to this—fomenting revolutions in banana republics.”

  “Not me,” Haere said. “I’m a tourist. What the hell do you know about Central America?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's a learning experience. I’m joining management next month and they thought I could use a little foreign seasoning. I suggested London, but when this flared up they shipped me off down here—on the cheap.”

  “You fly in with the rest of them?”

  “Just barely. We all chartered a plane out of Miami. At first, they wouldn’t let us land. Then the rebels took the airport and so here we are.”

  “When’d they take it—the airport?”

  Leed looked at his watch. “About two hours ago. After we landed they held a press conference—the Committee of a Thousand Years. They claim they’ll have the whole city by morning. Noon at the latest. For such a ragtag bunch, they seemed awfully confident.” He offered Haere the pint of vodka. Haere had a sip, handed it back, and said, “It should be a hell of a story.”

  Leed shook his head and the gloom returned to his face. “You know what the awful thing is, Draper? I don’t even care who wins. I don’t give a rat's ass. That's really awful, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe London would’ve been better,” Haere said.

  Leed nodded. “Yeah. Maybe it would’ve.”

  Haere knocked at Velveeta Keats's door, and it was opened by Jacques, who put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said. “There is sadness. A death.”

  “Whose?” Haere said as he came into the room.

  Velveeta Keats turned from the window. In her hand was a sheet ofpaper. Cecilio stood near her. Velveeta Keats gestured with the sheet of paper. “The embassy just sent this over by messenger.”

  “Who died?” Haere said.

  “Papa. He died. Somebody shot him in a Bob's Big Boy. Mama's lawyer called the State Department and they cabled Mr. Rink at the embassy and since the phones are still out, he sent this over by messenger.”

  “I’m sorry,” Haere said.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “In a Bob's Big Boy. Wouldn’t you just know it?”

  Jacques cleared his throat. “This changes things.”

  “How?” Haere said.

  “With the death of Monsieur Keats, we must withdraw.”

  “Your English gets better and better,” Haere said. “Withdraw from what?”

  “From tomorrow's affair,” Cecilio said. “What affair?”

  Jacques looked surprised. “The rescue of our good friend Monsieur Citron, of course. It is all arranged. Did we not say we would arrange it?”

  “Maybe, friend,” Haere said carefully, “maybe you’d better tell me about it.”

  “You must understand that we committed the entire nine thousand dollars,” Cecilio said.

  Haere smiled. “Tell me about it.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jacques said. “We will even draw you a map.”

  Morgan Citron finished reading what he had written in the spiral notebook at eleven that night. He rose from the stone bed, went to the door, and called for the guard. When the guard appeared, Citron poked the notebook through the bars.

  “Here,” he said. “Give this to your sister and her cousin and they will be two thousand dollars richer when they deliver it to the man in Los Angeles.”

  The guard thumbed through the notebook. “This is not Spanish,” he said.

  “No.”

  “It is not English either. I can read a few words of English.”

  “It is French,” Citron said.

  “I do not read French.”

  “It's a pretty language.”

  “So I have heard.” The guard put the notebook away in a pocket. “Do you want a priest?”

  “I am not of the faith.”

  “He would be someone to talk to.”

  “Thank you, but I would rather not.”

  The guard nodded. “Well, he's usually drunk by this time anyway, but if you change your mind, I can have him here in the morning.” “When does it happen?”

  “At six. I will wake you at five, if that is all right.”

  “I will probably be awake by then.”

  “Yes. That is true. Well, if you change your mind about the priest…”

  “I think not.”

  The guard tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t, and finally settled for goodnight. After he was gone, Citron sat back down on the stone bed. He thought about death and dying for a while, but found he could think of it only in abstract terms. Somehow it seemed extremely impersonal. He wondered when the fear would come. Probably about 3:00 in the morning, he told himself, when you start praying and calling for the priest. He suddenly realized they were actually going to kill him. A sense of near well-being swept over him as he also realized there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  He bent over and reached into the plastic waste bucket, took out the Rolex watch, wiped it off on his pants leg, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. If they aim for the heart, he thought, they’ll hit the watch. At least they won’t get that. He chuckled as he lay down on thestone bed, his head now cushioned by the folded jacket. The thought of the watch made him smile as he stared up at the high stone ceiling. He was still smiling slightly when he fell asleep.

  The three of them
were eating dinner from trays in the immense room in the Presidential Palace when the young captain came in. Colonel-General Carrasco-Cortes looked up from his tray and said, “Well?”

  The young captain looked uncomfortable. “A report by radio from Colonel Velasco. There will be a slight delay. A mechanical problem. With the rotor, the colonel said.”

  “How slight?” Carrasco-Cortes said.

  The young captain looked even more uncomfortable. “An hour. Perhaps less.”

  “That's cutting it awfully fine,” Tighe said.

  The general glared at him. “Any suggestions?”

  “Boat?” Tighe said.

  “That yacht of yours?” Yarn asked.

  The young captain cleared his throat. The general raised his fork, put a piece of meat into his mouth, looked up at the young captain, chewed, and nodded for the captain to speak. “The yacht was surrendered an hour ago by Admiral Beccio,” the captain said.

  “Beccio,” the general said. “That pansy pig.”

  “We wait for the chopper then,” Yarn said.

  “How long do we have, my boy, hmm?” the general asked.

  “Three hours at the most, sir.”

  “You will be going with me, you understand.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Keep us informed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The young captain turned and walked the long length of the huge room to the double doors. He turned, looked back at the three men, then opened one of the doors and went through into the anteroom, where six men stood, staring at him. Three of the men wore army uniforms. Two were majors; the other was the young lieutenant. All of the officers were armed with M-16s. The other three men, the civilians, were dressed in dark T-shirts and khaki pants. Around their necks were bright-green scarves. The civilians were armed with pistols: two .45 caliber automatics and one long-barreled .38 Colt revolver. The pistols were stuck into their belts. The civilians were all in their late thirties. None of the army officers was more than twenty-nine.

  “Well?” the oldest civilian asked.

  “They think the helicopter is still coming,” the captain said. “I told them it would arrive within the hour.”

  “And they believed you?” the older of the two majors asked.

  The captain nodded. “They continued to eat.”

  “They believed him,” the other major said.

  “Are they armed?” the oldest civilian asked.

  “The two gringos have sidearms,” the captain said.

  “And the general?”

  “A pistol in his desk drawer.”

  The oldest civilian nodded and turned to the older of the two majors. “We want them unharmed,” he said.

  The major nodded. “I understand.”

  The oldest civilian nodded at the young captain. He turned, grasped the knobs of the huge doors, and flung them open. The two majors and the young lieutenant raced through the doors and into the room, their M-16s aimed at the seated men at the room's far end. Carrasco-Cortes had just forked another piece of meat into his mouth. He looked up, obviously surprised, even shocked. He chewed once on the meat, then bent forward and spat it out onto his plate.

  The oldest civilian moved past the long library table. “You are under arrest, all of you,” he said. He had the .45 automatic in his hand now. The hand trembled noticeably.

  “Under arrest?” the general said.

  “By order of the Committee of a Thousand Years,” the civilian said, rolling the name out a bit self-consciously.

  Yarn was twisted around in his chair, staring up at the officers and the civilians. He looked at Tighe. “Well, shit, partner,” Tighe said.

  CHAPTER 35

  At just before dawn, the fat chief warder of the federal prison, Major Torres, strolled down the stone corridor toward the sleeping guard. In his right hand was a toothpick, which he was using to divest a molar of a bit of bacon. In the crook of his left arm was a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun.

  When he reached the guard, Major Torres nudged him with the shotgun. The guard awoke and looked up sleepily. He started to rise, but Major Torres used the shotgun to pat him back down. The major put the toothpick away for later, reached into another pocket, and brought out a $100 bill. He handed it to the guard.

  “You will sleep, my friend,” he said. “You will sleep for the next hour with your eyes squeezed shut. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” the guard said. “I understand. Perfectly.” To show that he did, he put his head back down on the small wooden desk, cradled it in his arms, and closed his eyes so tightly that he frowned.

  Major Torres moved down the corridor until he came to Citron's cell. Through the bars, he could see Citron sitting on the edge of the stone bed. Citron looked up at him.

  “Well, spy,” Torres said. “It is time.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The guard said six. It is not six yet.”

  “The guard was wrong,” Torres said as he unlocked and opened the cell door. “He's a simple fellow and often wrong. Otherwise he would not be a guard. Come. Hold out your hands.”

  Citron rose, moved slowly to the open cell door, and held out his hands. Torres, the shotgun pressed against his side by an arm, clicked a pair of handcuffs around Citron's wrists.

  “Just you and I?” Citron said.

  Torres smiled. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. More people, I suppose.”

  “A doctor. A priest. Guards. A firing squad. A slow walk down a badly lit corridor. Like in the cinema, true?” “

  Something like that,” Citron admitted.

  “Sorry,” Torres said. “Just you and I. And Carmelita here, of course.” Torres patted the shotgun.

  “A sawed-off,” Citron said.

  “Painless, I assure you. Let's go.”

  They went down the stone corridor, Citron in the lead. They passed the guard, whose head was still down on the desk, his eyes squeezed shut. When they were ten feet past the guard, he opened his eyes and sat up. He looked at the disappearing backs of Torres and Citron. Then he looked at his left hand, which was clutched into a fist. He opened it slowly. The $100 bill was still there. The guard crossed himself slowly.

  It was just growing light when Citron and Major Torres came out of the building that held the cells and entered the exercise yard, which was not much larger than two basketball courts. The yard was surrounded on three sides by the prison buildings, and on the fourth by a stone wall that was at least twenty feet high.

  Citron looked back over his shoulder at Major Torres. “Where to?” he said.

  “The wall,” Torres said and indicated the spot he wanted with a gesture of the shotgun.

  They walked slowly across the exercise yard until they reached the wall.

  “I will take the watch now,” Torres said.

  “What watch?”

  “The gold watch that goes with the gold band that you gave the guard for food and drink. I can take it now or later.”

  Citron reached into his shirt pocket with his manacled hands, removed the watch, and handed it to Torres, who smiled. “A gold Rolex.”

  “A gift from my mother.”

  “Poor woman. She has my sympathy.”

  “She would only reject it.”

  “Turn, please, and kneel, facing the wall.”

  Citron turned and knelt. He closed his eyes. He could hear the hammers of the shotgun being cocked, one at a time. And then he heard a familiar voice. “Hey, Morgan,” the voice said.

  Citron looked up. It had to be a dream, of course. For he knew that only in a dream would a sad-faced forty-two-year-old man in an immaculate three-piece blue pinstripe suit, white button-down shirt, and neatly knotted tie be straddling a prison wall with a coil of green plastic garden hose in his hands.

  “Catch the fucking hose,” Draper Haere said and tossed one end of it down.

  Citron rose slowly. He turned and looked at Major Torres, w
ho had twisted away to light an after-breakfast cigar. Citron turned back and grasped the garden hose with his manacled hands. Slowly, laboriously, with much puffing and cursing, Haere pulled Citron up to the top of the wall. Once astride it, Citron looked down at Major Torres, who was now leisurely strolling back toward the door that led into the exercise yard. As he strolled, Torres waggled the shotgun without looking around. It was his good-bye wave.

  Citron looked at Haere. “You sure you’re not a dream?”

  “No dream,” Haere said. “A nightmare maybe. Let's go.” He indicated the aluminum ladder whose top was propped against the wall and whose legs rested on the roof of a tan Dodge van.

  Citron was first down the ladder. Haere followed him and tossed the ladder down between the wall and the van, where it landed with a clatter. Both men jumped from the van to the ground and hurried around to the van's right-hand door. Velveeta Keats was behind the wheel. The engine was running.

  “Hi, Morgan,” she said.

  “Well,” Citron said. “Velveeta.”

  “Get in,” Haere told Citron and opened the door. Velveeta Keats's Polaroid camera fell to the ground. Haere picked it up. Citron climbed into the van. Haere slammed the door shut.

  “See you, Morgan,” Haere said as the van moved away.

  Velveeta Keats drove no better than she ever did, but Citron said only, “Haere's not coming?”

  “No,” she said. “He's got something else to do.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “The nearest border,” she said and glanced at him with a happy smile. “Surprised to see me?”

  “Yes,” Citron said. “Very.” And to his surprise he found he reallywas.

  Draper Haere walked back to the main gate of the prison. It was nearly a two-block walk. When he arrived at the gate, a guard asked him what he wanted.