The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller (19 page)

I paid the bill. The sky was black. The slender tropical twilight had come and gone. The Southern Cross and the Big Dipper fought for supremacy at opposite ends of the sky. I walked down the hill to Plaza San Blas. I circled the square, looking over my shoulder. Red Cap trailed along. I gnawed my lip, headed back to the hostel.

Berta wasn’t there. A new girl had taken her place, a redhead with a thick Irish accent. She wore a V-neck wool sweater that clung to her body.

I leaned across the counter. “Got something for me?”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Better believe it, baby.”

I laughed, but the muscles were so unused to the activity that it came out a long, hacking cough. My rib cage spasmed in pain. It had been months, but the broken bone still throbbed.

She slid an envelope across the counter, room key on top. Inside I found the train ticket, and a note from Alex.

Dude,

This one’s insatiable. Wanna spit roast?

—A

I put the ticket and note back in the envelope, shoved it into my pocket. I picked up the key. “This isn’t mine.”

“No,” she said, and bent forward. I had a view down her shirt. “It’s not.”

I slid the key back across the counter. “Just my room key, please.”

She grinned, sank her chin into her palm. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She straightened up, took a key from the wall. She dangled it in the air between us. “Your loss.”

“It always is.”

I spent the night huddled in bed against the cold, nipping at the cocaine and
pisco
to stay awake. My scars itched. I kicked the down comforter off me, lifted my shirt. I lit a fresh cigarette and burned a peace sign into my abs. The closest to peace I was ever going to get.

Why did Alex have to give me this room? He couldn’t have picked another room, maybe one of the singles on the ground floor, or the rowdy dormitory next to reception? A room without memories.

I stared out the window at the twinkling lights of Cuzco. Five hundred years ago it had been the capital of the savage, continent-spanning Incan Empire. Now these feudal overlords were reduced to groveling to gringos for tourist dollars.
What goes around comes around.
I wondered if there was a lesson in there for me somewhere.

Against my will I took out Lili’s picture, smoothed the corners where they had bent. A blast of the cocaine roared up my nose in a futile quest to silence the memories.

Taste of metal on my tongue. On my lips.
Shit. Not again.
I tilted my head back. Too late. Blood splattered on the photo in my hand.
Shit shit shit.
I stumbled across the darkened room, nose in the air, banged my knee against a chair. Fucking power company. Incompetent Peruvian bastards. I fumbled for the tissues on the desk, stuffed one into each nostril. Stepped to the window, held the photo to catch the moonlight. Wiped away the drops of blood.

There she was. My baby. Six months old. Never get any older. Never go to school. Wear a pretty dress. Drive me crazy dating the wrong boys. Never let me walk her down the aisle. She was dead. Because of me.

I pulled the chair closer to the window. Slumped down into it. The photo glowed in the moonlight. I couldn’t look away. What time was it? Three, four in the morning? How long had it been since I slept? The days and nights blurred together in one long filthy smear. My eyes felt raw and itchy. Without thinking, I rubbed them with my fingers. Saw stars.

I open my eyes. Look down. A crying baby in my arms. Red-faced and small. My Lili. But how—? A miracle. Those eyes that look like mine. Fingers so tiny.
I don’t understand,
I whisper.
I thought you were dead.
Sunshine streams in the window. Katherine sits up in bed. Kate? Sweat plasters her hair to her forehead. She holds her arms out for the baby. This is our room. Our hostel in Cuzco. The midwife beams at us. How is this possible?

My stomach lurches. We’re on a bus. Steep drop outside the window. A hairpin turn. Rear wheel spins in space. Kate comforts the baby, who’s frightened by the noise and the movement. We crest a hill. La Paz spreads out before us. Greg and Luisa meet us at the terminal, sweep us back to their hostel, the Merry Mariner. A shark in a sailor’s cap greets us above the door.

They are old friends of ours, eager to catch up. We send them guests, they send us theirs. They toast us with frosty mugs of Bolivian
weiss
beer. Kate looks at me, eyes wide. I smile. Why not? She went sober when she found out she was pregnant. To make things easier on her, I quit too. After she gave birth, we were too tired to go out. Six months of midnight breastfeeding and poopy diapers. Can’t say I blame her for wanting a break.

She puts Lili to bed, and for the first time in more than a year savors a glass of Argentinian Malbec. Her favorite. I say nothing. She’s earned it. I sip my beer and laugh at Greg’s hearty Australian jokes. After so long without a drink, the beer goes straight to my head.

“Let’s go out!” someone is shouting.

Laughter. “Go where?”

“Come on, you bloody pikers,” Greg roars from the front door. He’s got one arm in the wrong sleeve of his jacket.

“But what about,” a hesitation, and Kate speaks for both of us, “what about the baby?”

“What about her?” Greg wants to know, chasing his other sleeve.

“We can’t just leave her.”

“I’m sure we could find you a babysitter,” Luisa says.

The night guard volunteers his sister. “You can count on Carlos,” Greg booms, slaps me on the shoulder. “Works the graveyard shift. Trust him with my life, mate.”

Kate looks like a cornered animal defending her young. “But I’ll worry.”

I bend down and nibble her neck. “Just because we’re parents doesn’t mean we can’t have fun. That what you want? A no fun life?”

I sat up in my chair and screamed. Until my chest squeezed tight and my eyeballs bulged. Then I screamed again, fists clenched at my side, as loud and as hard as I could. I yanked open the window and screamed through the iron bars at the lightless city. A passing taxi swerved, honked. A man on the sidewalk crouched over a prone figure, grasping the other’s pockets. A bloody knife glinted in his hand. He didn’t look up.

Cocaine. I needed more cocaine. I unplugged my nostrils, blasted three huge pinches of coke up my nose, capped them again with fresh tissues. Thank God the stuff was cheap down here. Unscrewed the bottle of
pisco.
Took a long swig to wash down the blood and phlegm. I coughed on the harsh liquor. So much for being fresh tomorrow. Half a pack of cigarettes on the table. I set them all on fire, puffed them hot and held the burning tips to the inside of my elbow.
Yes. That’s it. Good.
The cigarettes went out. I put them back in my mouth, lit them again. Over the stink of the memories and the vile cigarettes, I could smell my own flesh burning.

I deserved it. All of it. More. No one else was going to punish me. The cops refused to do so. Carlos bribed his “sister” out of jail. Not that I blamed her for what happened. It was my fault. I should never have trusted her in the first place. And now everyone thought it was over. Last year’s news, right? Except for me. Except for Kate. Wherever she was.

My eyelids felt like concrete slabs. Coffin slabs. The kind they used to cover Liliana’s grave. I had to get out of here. Might sleep again. I dragged on the last of my cigarettes. Let them burn out with a hiss against my knuckles.

My hands were empty. Sudden panic. I patted my ribs. Where was it? The photo. Where was the photo?

On the floor I groped in the dust. Cockroaches scuttled across my fingers, probing the fresh, gooey burns. Would have to have a talk with Alex. Why were the maids neglecting to clean under the bed? Cursed myself.
How can you even think about such trivia at a time like this?
Found the photo. Wiped off the dust and the roach shit. Pressed her against my heart, deep inside my shirt pocket.

In the bathroom I tied a noose with the rope I’d stolen earlier. I hung it from the shower rail and stuck my head in the loop.

When I was done, I ran the cold water in the sink, the mountain water freezing my fingers. I splashed my face until the skin was numb, and dry shaved against the grain. I’d pinched a razor from Alex’s stash when I raided his closet. By some miracle I didn’t cut myself. Although the red welts it left on my face made me look like a pimply teenager with a raging case of acne.

The brochure I’d picked up from Volcanic Volunteers lay on the desk where I’d left it. I studied the photo. Lake Titicaca. Isla del Sol, home of the Incan gods. I tore the brochure into tiny pieces, flushed it down the toilet. In case the CIA caught me I didn’t want them to know where I was headed.

I counted the money I had left. About four hundred bucks. I rolled up two hundred in small bills, stuffed it into a plastic bag and hid it where the sun don’t shine. The train ticket and the remainder of the cash went in a more accessible location. I wore both the sweater and the jacket. It was cold in the unheated room—I’d switched off the heating before going to bed—and it would be even colder on the
altiplano.
The brisk air nipped at my toes, stiffened my flip-flops. I might get frostbite and lose a few toes. They’d turn black and eventually fall off. That would be cool. No need to bother with boots.

I went down to reception. Reached over the desk, yanked the telephone from the curvy night clerk’s hands. Unlike Berta and the Irish lass, this one was dark-haired, Peruvian. She protested in a violent chirping of rapid-fire Spanish.

I put my hand over the receiver. “He loves you, bitch, but I gotta use the phone.”

“Horse, that you?” Alex’s voice growled in my ear.

“Who else?”

“You off?”

“See you later.” I cleared my throat. “Maybe never.”

“Dude, listen, when you get back—”

I hung up, dialed a taxi company. When I finished, I handed the phone to the night clerk. She glared at me, put the phone back in its cradle.

“What is love?” I asked her.

She said, “Not that.”

There are two train stations in Cuzco. One for the trains to Machu Picchu, another for the trains to Puno on the Bolivian border. Arriving at the Machu Picchu station, I paid the driver the precise amount owed, ignoring his protestations that “all foreigner give tip.” The terminal overflowed with Americans and Europeans dressed in water-resistant, zip-off trousers: an army of khaki and forest green, the AARP militia armed with cameras instead of guns.

We boarded the train. I found myself sitting across from a Dallas oil tycoon.

“I call myself that,” he said humbly. “Just another Texas ty-coon.”

Within five minutes I knew his life story: the wives; the daughters; the daughters’ wives; the cancer; this was his first trip overseas. Maybe his last. The pretty young Peruvian girl at his side stared at my crotch.

The train whistle blew. We lurched, began to move. I stepped into the aisle. A pair of fingers pinched my ass. The Peruvian girl winked.

I elbowed my way down the aisle, past the conductor, jumped onto the concrete platform. I ran through the terminal, hopped into the fourth taxi in the line, held out a big piece of play money and told him to take me to the Puno train station as fast as possible.

We raced through Cuzco, cutting through the shantytowns, splashing piles of steaming donkey dung, until we jerked to a stop in front of the smaller, less elegant train station that would take me to Puno, the border, and Lake Titicaca.

The train was leaving. I lowered my shoulders and charged a Peruvian cop. Had always wanted to do that. Probably wasn’t necessary, but it sure was fun. I knocked him over, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the ground as I did so. I ran onto the platform. The train picked up speed. I caught up to the train, grabbed hold of the vertical steel bar at the end of the final car and heaved myself aboard.

“Ticket, sir?” The conductor swayed backward, eyes wide.

Sprinting at 3400m above sea level is harder than it sounds. I fought to catch my breath. “I’m sorry?”

“If your grace wishes to ride the train, he must first pay.”

I fished a hundred-dollar bill from my pocket and shoved it in his hand. “A private room. First or second class, doesn’t matter. Keep the change.”

His eyes widened. He held it to the light, creased it, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. Satisfied, he slid it into his shoe, and escorted me through the train to the second-class carriage. He opened the door to an empty compartment.

“No first class?” I said.

“So sorry, sir. It is all full. Your grace knows how it is.”

I nodded. “Very well.”

The conductor held out his hand, expecting a tip. After a hundred-dollar bill? What an asshole. I ignored it. I shut the door, slouched back into the seat and looked up into the barrel of a gun.

Thirteen

With his free hand, the man lifted his red cap and scratched his bald spot. “Right on time, Horse. Glad you could make it.”

The gun was small. Big enough, though. An automatic of some kind. He pointed it at my chest. His hand did not waver. I folded my hands on my stomach, settled myself into the worn fabric of the seat.

“Always happy to oblige,” I said.

He grinned. He pulled the cap low over his eyes. I glanced out the window. The train was passing through the outer reaches of Cuzco’s shantytowns. The snow-topped Andes surrounded us on all sides.

He said, “Open the window.”

“Why?”

“Do it.”

I stood. He nodded. I went to the window. I unclicked the latch at the top, slid it down. The stench of the passing slums filled the compartment.

“Now take your clothes off.”

I crossed my arms. “Go fuck yourself.”

Red Cap rested the gun on his knee. His eyes narrowed. “Take them off or I will shoot you.”

Infallible logic, that. I took off my jacket, the sweater. I reached up to my shirt, but he stopped me with a jerk of the gun.

“All of the buttons, if you please?”

“So you
are
CIA, then,” I said, but got no reply.