The Green Cathedral

by Kerry Mcdonald

  ***

  Abel walked along the smaller dirt road that ran behind Playa de Palma’s main recreational beach, the one on the left side of the pier. Midmorning had brought out many more surfers, sunbathers, and parents playing in the water with their children. Abel was surprised again at something he saw. Two lifeguard towers were on the beach, one near where he was walking and another farther down on the other end of the beach. They weren’t just cheap little things that you might find at some school swimming pool either, but big Southern California-style towers with an enclosed supply house behind two high, swiveling seats with footrests, all under a canvas shade to keep the sun off. Abel noticed two young people, a boy and a girl, each probably high school age, getting out supplies and preparing their station for the day ahead.

  Abel called up to them. “Hola!”

  The young man, dressed in standard lifeguard-red board shorts, saw him and came closer. “Hola! ¿Cómo estás?”

  “Fine, thanks, and my Spanish is shitty,” answered Abel.

  “No worries,” said the boy. “My English is near-native. How can I help you?”

  “I didn’t know there were lifeguards on these beaches. Is it like this all the way down the coast?” asked Abel.

  “Only here,” replied the lifeguard.

  “Playa de Palma has the only lifeguards on the central coast, from Jacó to Quepos,” added the girl, likewise dressed in a standard, lifeguard-red swimsuit with white boardshorts pulled over it.

  “How come?” asked Abel, genuinely intrigued.

  The two young people shrugged. “I guess they don’t have the money to pay for them,” replied the girl. “This is the only town that advertises for lifeguards during high season besides Jacó and Quepos.”

  “Interesting,” said Abel. So Monti Ruiz’s money also makes the world safe for tourists. Abel was begrudgingly impressed. “How about school? Don’t you guys go to school?”

  “Not during high season,” said the boy. “We go to school during the green season so we can get jobs and help the tourists during high season. Without tourists, Costa Rica is nothing but banana farms. We don’t want to become banana farmers.” The two laughed.

  “That makes sense,” said Abel. “So, where are you guys from, around here?”

  “She is,” said the boy, nodding to the girl. “I’m from Jacó. They’ve put me with a very nice family while I live here. Part of my pay goes to them to help pay for my food and stuff.”

  “So what do you guys know about that island out there?” Abel asked. When there wasn’t a ready reply, Abel noted that the girl was coyly shaking her head no to the boy, who seemed puzzled by her expression. Finally, the boy spoke while the girl resumed her work.

  “I don’t know anything about it, but the people around here are really afraid of it. They call it Isla del Diablo, and no one ever goes there. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

  “Huh,” said Abel.

  “I’d better get back to work,” said the boy. “Enjoy your stay here in Playa de Palma, señor.”

  Abel was now doubly interested in the island. All he was expecting to hear was that it might be covered with jungle, or maybe there was a beach there that kids went to and had parties, or perhaps Monti Ruiz, entrepreneur that he was, might have created an island tour, and they used the bigger boat at the pier to take tourists out there. But to hear now that it was a place shunned by the town, and referred to as a “devilish” place—well, that opened a whole new set of possibilities for what might be there.

  Abel continued his slow walk down the beach, stopping at several fresh fruit stands, a couple of restaurants, and several surfboard/paddleboard rental outfits. Whenever he brought up anything about the island, some version of the same reaction happened. One woman said it was cursed. Another said that it was ruled by a ghost. No one could recall how long it had been since a boat had gone there. Many just didn’t want to speak about it at all, dismissing him as soon as he brought it up and making the sign of the cross as he left.

  Too soon, it was time to return for his meeting with Monti Ruiz.

  Refocus, Abel told himself. You’ve got a job to do.

  Still, he could hardly wait to hear what Monti Ruiz might say if he should casually bring up the subject of the island.

  ***

  “This is my son, Paco,” said Monti Ruiz as he, Abel, and Paco stood in Paco’s garage.

  “We had the pleasure of meeting earlier this morning,” said Abel. “I’m assuming that at least this conversation won’t become ‘un-confidential.’”

  Paco smiled and winked at Monti. “Yes, well, of course,” said Monti. “I want to assure you, Señor Forrest, that a sizable amount of contraband has been set aside for you in a very suspicious place, which will allow you to confiscate both product and weapons to put in the newspapers and the Internet and leave us more than enough plausible deniability to retain our reputations. And I’m confident that it will not be necessary to strong-arm anyone to get it.

  “I’ve also secured your beach guesthouse at the Best Western. It should be ready by the time we finish here.”

  “I’ll be sure to thank Faviola,” replied Abel.

  “I wouldn’t try it,” retorted Monti. “She’ll probably slap you as soon as you open your mouth.”

  “Maybe I could include a couple thousand dollars,” returned Abel.

  “She’d still slap you, but maybe not quite so hard.”

  Abel chuckled. Monti didn’t.

  “I’d like to take a look at your warehouse up near the highway,” said Abel, getting down to business.

  Monti and Paco exchanged a glance.

  Clearly, Abel thought, they don’t know how I know about it.

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” said Monti slowly. Abel raised his eyebrows. “You doing so would violate our arrangement with the DEA. Just as I don’t confiscate all your things when you arrive, search through them, and maybe decide that you’re a DEA agent who is trying to destroy my business, you do not pry around in places where we do not give you permission and decide that we are a drug cartel that needs to be eliminated.”

  Abel put his hands up plaintively. “Just curious,” he said.

  “Curiosity kills more than cats,” replied Monti. “Now that we understand each other, I have some information for you.”

  “I’m all ears,” replied Abel.

  “There are several new Colombian cartels that are reaching out to us, asking for help moving their product up the coast on their way to destinations in Mexico. They have become frustrated with the cost of doing business across the Caribbean—they say their losses are beginning to outweigh their profits—and are looking for new ways to get product to buyers in Mexico and the US. They feel that using ships or subs and planes in the Pacific would ultimately be more profitable even though the route is more expensive because, in the Pacific, there is so much less chance that their shipments will be seized.

  “What they need from us here in Central America are waystations where their boats and planes could refuel inconspicuously. Islands are highly preferred, and, of course, Costa Rica has a large number of coastal islands, many of which are not occupied by anyone at all.”

  “Including one that’s just, what, a mile and a half or so off your own little part of the coast here,” inserted Abel.

  “That is another matter which I may discuss with you at some other time,” Monti said dismissively. “Now, most of the cartel dons there in Colombia do not have enough money at this time to buy ships, subs, and planes. They’re exploring possibilities, though, and working hard to get together the needed funds. But there is one who seems eager to get started. His name is Don Vicente Galvan, who is the head of the Clan de Cartagena.”

  The name caused a reflexive chill to go through Abel like someone had poured cold water down his spine. He hoped that it wasn’t too notice
able.

  “He lost a shipment off the coast of Cartagena just a few weeks ago. It was a really big deal for all the DEA posts in the region,” commented Abel, hoping to cover his dismay. Don’t these cartel guys ever go away? He’d just gotten back to some semblance of emotional normalcy, and now here he was again, Don Vicente fucking Galvan. No wonder everyone called the cartel guys cockroaches. “That’s probably what’s got his beehive all stirred up. What’s his play here?” Abel asked.

  “He’s offering millions to help any of the local dons who are near suitable islands to develop them into all-inclusive waystations, complete with piers, docks, refueling equipment, even airstrips. Don Vicente tells them that, if they cooperate, they will be partners with him, and they will both share in the profits of running the waystation, which would be used by other cartels for huge fees.”

  “Sounds like quite a plan,” observed Abel. “Any takers around here yet?”

  “No, not so far,” answered Monti. “There is not much stomach on the Costa Central for partnerships with the snakes from Colombia. We all value our tourist trade too much. If the DEA could pressure this Don Vicente and somehow force him out of business, we would all be grateful. It is only a matter of time before someone cracks and goes for the money, and then we’ll all be in danger.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring it up with Commander Lopez as soon as I contact him,” said Abel. “They’re having the same problems in Panama. We don’t want it getting any farther north.”

  “Gracias, señor,” replied Monti. “And now, mi amigo, I leave you to get yourself settled in your beach house and enjoy the many wonders of our little town. And should you wish to explore the coast in one of our boats, perhaps do some fishing, feel free to choose any on the pier for your pleasure. They all belong to me.”

  “Really?” Abel smiled. “Any one in particular that you’d recommend?” He suspected that this might be more than just an invitation to explore or go fishing.

  “Actually, the bigger one at the end of the pier is mine only because it was parked there a few nights ago, and no one has come back to pick it up,” said Monti with a grin. “The keys were still in it and I think you might especially enjoy this one. I have not had the chance to use it yet, but it looks like a fine launch. Perhaps you can let me know how it performs after you go for your little ride.”

  “Hmm.” Abel chuckled. “I’ll be sure and do that. Muchas gracias.”

  All three laughed as Abel left, Monti especially at how Abel massacred Spanish words with his very American accent. Once Abel left, though, and Paco watched until he was out of sight, Monti and Paco closed the door and spoke again between themselves.

  Monti said, “Now, what’s so urgent to talk about before I’ve even had my lunch?”

  Paco took Monti over to the small office area that included his desk. He lifted the lid of his laptop computer. “I thought you’d want to know about this,” he said, pointing to the screen. It was open to a website for their business account with a bank in the Cayman Islands. A new deposit had been made—two million dollars. The two looked each other in the eyes.

  “After your lunch, you can sleep on this for your siesta,” said Paco.

  10

  —

  Abel found his car in the now very crowded parking lot across from the bus depot and squeezed it through the mostly unmarked lanes of parking spaces and out onto the road that ended at the pier. Making a right, he continued down the beachfront, an area a little less crowded than the beach on the other side of the pier because this part of the beach seemed to be reserved for the guests of the motels that lined the road.

  Then he skidded to a stop as he passed a restaurant with a sign that screamed “All-American Food.” He pulled in and ate his lunch at an outside table: a really greasy cheeseburger with fresh lettuce, tomato, and pickle on it; even greasier fries fresh out of the deep-fat fryer; and a chocolate milkshake made thick and creamy with real ice cream behind a classic soda-fountain counter. The whole meal cost about ten dollars, but Abel doubled that with a tip for the expat who ran the joint. His name was Ron. A retiree living on a modest schoolteacher’s pension, he’d still wanted to fulfill his lifelong dream of living on a beach, so he’d come to Costa Rica where he could do that and even afford it. He’d missed American food, though, and lots of tourists he’d met felt the same, so he’d opened up the only totally American food restaurant in Playa de Palma. Soon, he met an American woman, Elaine, who’d run a diner in a small Midwestern town, and she’d really put pizzazz into the place. They’d gotten married and were both happy as clams. Abel took some pictures of the establishment with his phone, including one of himself and the owner underneath the “All-American” sign (which Elaine had taken), then told them he’d stop by some morning for scrambled eggs and hash browns.

  Now stuffed, he went on over the Rio Palma bridge, parked in the Best Western’s asphalt parking lot, and headed in. There in the airy, spotless lobby behind the registration desk stood a young male desk clerk. Abel introduced himself and told the young man, probably in his twenties, that he had a reservation for one of the beach guesthouses. The young man excused himself for a moment, made a very short phone call, then checked through his reservations on the front desk computer. As he did, a family with young children tumbled out of an elevator nearby. They all laughed and giggled as they sat in the lobby, apparently waiting for something.

  “Is there some problem, Javier?” asked Abel, reading the clerk’s name badge.

  “Oh, no, sir, not at all. Will you excuse me for just one moment?” The clerk went into a room behind the front desk, and a brown-skinned, middle-aged woman in a business suit with the sternest face that Abel had ever seen on any woman appeared from the room and took the young man’s place.

  “So you are Caleb Forrest of the United States here on vacation,” said the woman in an equally stern, almost too-loud voice. “And you have reserved one of the beach guesthouses.” She clattered away on the keys of the front desk computer.

  Faviola, Abel surmised. No doubt about it, and she was everything Monti had promised.

  “Fine,” said the woman. “I am Faviola, the house manager, by the way. I was told to give you our most special treatment and accommodations, so I have you in Guesthouse Number One for the week, just down the sidewalk out on the beach. If you could just initial where I’ve indicated and sign below, that will be fine. Also, enter your vehicle information and tear off the parking permit at the bottom, which you should display on your vehicle’s dashboard each night you’re here. Your accommodations are already paid for, so there will be no charge.”

  Abel took the paper and started to initial items, noting that the lobby seemed to have gotten very quiet even though the young family was still there. Then he did a double take at the paper, then a triple take. Something was weird about the items he was initialing. One said, “Ass-wiper.” Another, “Son-of-a-bitch,” and still another, “mother-farter.” Under the line where he had to sign his name were the words “Caleb Forrest—Ugly Americano,” and on the vehicle registration sheet, the kind of vehicle was already filled in. “Shit-mobile.” He looked up, and Faviola gave him a look as cold as an Arctic iceberg. “Will a couple thousand dollars make things any better?” he said.

  “Probably—for them.” She indicated the family behind him. “This is the family that had reserved Guesthouse Number One for the week before I was told to give you our most special treatment and accommodations. I thought you might want to make some sort of accommodation for them since they graciously gave up the house they’d reserved more than three months ago. So go ahead, give it to them—now.”

  Abel pulled out his roll of cash, which was getting uncomfortably small for his taste. He peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the man who looked to be the father of the family. “Here. Thanks, muchas gracias.”

  “Do not take that!” ordered Faviola to the fa
ther. He stopped and looked at her. Faviola glared at Abel. “The gentleman mentioned to me a couple thousand dollars. I’m sure that he miscounted when he offered you his money since he was only giving you one thousand dollars. You should not take the money until he has recounted and made it the proper amount.”

  Abel grimaced. “Oh, right. Sorry for the mistake,” he growled, eyeing Faviola, who stood like a proud peacock behind the front desk, and then seeing the stony faces of the father’s family watching his every move. Abel counted out ten more one-hundred-dollar bills, added them to what he’d already counted, and handed it all to the father.

  “There you go, señor. Two thousand American dollars,” groused Abel, trying his best to smile.

  “Gracias, señor,” said the father, who accepted the money with a little bow and a “gotcha” sort of smile. “Muchas gracias.” Then he and his family romped out of the lobby toward the beach as if nothing had happened.

  “Yeah, ‘muchas gracias’ yourself,” Abel grumbled. He moved to leave.

  “Don’t forget your copies of your registration and your vehicle permit,” called Faviola. Abel swung back around and grabbed the papers off the counter.

  “Breakfast is served every morning from six until ten o’clock in the room right around the corner. The pool is open daily from six a.m. until ten p.m., and you can get free coffee, bananas, and chocolate chip cookies here in the lobby twenty-four hours a day. Parking is in designated spaces only, and please use caution on the riverside of the property. There are American crocodiles that sometimes lurk along the banks, hunting.”

  “Which ones are worse, the ones along the river, or the one behind the front desk?” quipped Abel.

  For the first time, Abel saw Faviola smile, though not very widely. “I will leave that to you to decide,” she said.

  Abel gave her a wry grin, then headed out, found his Jeep, and drove it down a narrow asphalt pathway that led through a tiny arm of the jungle and opened into a small parking area behind Guesthouse Number One. Abel grabbed his two bags of gear and entered through the back door. He found himself in a small utility room with a compact washer-dryer arrangement as well as a showerhead with a concrete drain under it, obviously a place to wash off salt and sand before entering the house. Impressed, he opened the door to the rest of the house and stepped into a place that even he, as callous as he was, thought was simply majestic.