Beneath a Panamanian Moon
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Authors: David Terrenoire
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Contents
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To Jenny, who is good when times are good, and when times are bad, she's even better.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank: My draft board, who inadvertently started this adventure. Richard Abate, a great champion, and Peter Wolverton, my patient editor. My mother, who always knew this would happen. Jerry Nutter and Richard Cerilli, who treated me like a writer even when I wasn't writing. Critical readers Melanie Raskin, Jim Palmer, Daun Daemon, Ken Alexander, Connie Riddle, Soren Palmer, and Nick Puryear; early supporters Laurie Harper, Kellie Johnson, Amy Bagwell, John Douglas, Luke Dempsey, and Jay Acton; and all those in my family who helped make this possible. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a book.
CHAPTER ONE
The old man's never more entertaining than when he's pissed, which is most of the time.
“They searched me down to my goddamn socks in Beirut,” he said. “Then I got wedged between a fat man and a gum snapper all the way to Munich.” He sneezed. “And I think I picked up a bug from a sticky little bastard at Heathrow.”
Jackpot.
I watched him in the rearview as he wiped his nose, refolded his handkerchief, and tucked it away. That reminded me to reach across and pull the revolver, snug in its holster, from the glove compartment. I handed it back to the old man. He took a moment to empty the cylinder, work the action, reload, and then clip the piece to his hip.
Smith was one of the last guys on earth to pack a .38. A wheel gun, he called it. Once, when I asked him why, he said he'd never felt comfortable carrying a .45 cocked and locked. “I might shoot off something I'd miss,” he said. “Besides, it's not the caliber of the gun, but the caliber of the man behind the gun.”
Smith was full of sayings like that, like a fortune cookie with hair.
Settling back into the seat, the old man pulled a flask, took a drink, and then dropped the top on the floor. He disappeared as he snagged the cap, and when his bullet-shaped head reappeared in the mirror, he was as red as a ham.
He caught me. “What's so goddamn funny?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“You hand a man a gun and then laugh? Not too smart, Harper.”
“No, sir.”
He sniffled. “Damn season,” he said. “Damn snow. Damn ice. Damn airplanes. Damn government cars.” He glared at me in the mirror. “Sweet Christ, boy, turn up the goddamn heat and keep your eyes on the road.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cold as a hooker's heart,” Smith said. He took another pull from the flask. “I don't know how you stand living here. Like a goddamn Rotary Club, up to its keister in glad-handing boyos with nothing on their minds but money and ass.” He sniffled again and coughed.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know who I miss?” Without waiting for me to answer he said, “Reagan. The man had style. And the rumor is, his wife gave the best goddamn head in Hollywood. That's impressive, considering the competition, don't you think?” Smith pulled out the handkerchief again, coughed something wet into it, stared at that for a moment, and then tucked it back inside his suit.
“Son, you know what a dialogue is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I say something then you say something back?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just checking. Thought maybe you'd gone to sleep on me up there.”
“Watching the road, Mr. Smith.”
“Right.” Smith settled back into the seat again and we let the rumble of government tires on federal asphalt fill the car.
Smith coughed again and said, “You picked him up? At the airport?”
“Yes, sir. This morning, right on schedule.” I had done Smith this favor, knowing that he would try to talk me into something or out of something before the day was through, and I was working up the strength to say no.
“You bug him?”
“I'm retired, sir. You know that.”
Smith coughed again. “That doesn't answer my question.”
“Yes, sir. I did. One on his person and one in his bag.”
“Good boy.”
“You didn't say who would be recording.”
“That's right. I didn't say.”
“But someone is recording him while he's here, right?”
“When I want to be interrogated, Harper, I'll see the wife.”
“Yes, sir.” I pulled around an SUV the size of a small family farm and gave the driver, a young woman on a cell phone, the evil eye, which she ignored.
“So you saw him, you talked to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, impress me with your powers of observation.”
“I'm retired, sir.”
“You said that.”
“Just so you know. This is just a ride.”
“So, you didn't see anything, huh? The guy was just a fucking vapor. Maybe you've gone soft, Harper. Maybe you should think about retiring.”
“I am retired.”
“Oh, right, you said that.”
I'm embarrassed to admit that I wanted to show off for the old man. “He came in from Miami,” I said, “which doesn't really tell me much, but it does narrow the airlines and embarkation points. From his accent I'd say he's originally from the Midwest, probably Chicago. His suit's off the rack. He wore a wedding ring, and a West Point class ring, the same year as yours, so I figure you were classmates.”
I waited for a word of encouragement. Instead he growled, “It's not about me, boy.”
“Yes, sir.” Satisfied, I went on. “The Christmas tan means he either spends time under the lights or he's someplace warm.”
“Which do you think?” Smith watched me in the mirror as I answered.
“The beach, sir. That's what I think.”
“Why?”
“He wears eyeglasses and he had tan lines at his temples. You don't wear glasses on a tanning bed, sir.” I gave it a pause. “But that's just a guess. As I said before, I'm retired.”
Smith nodded. I let the glow distract me and I drifted across the lane. I jerked the car back, tossing my passenger across the rear seat.
“Goddamn, Harper, you're a fucking menace.”
“Sorry, sir. Maybe you should buckle your seat belt.”
He growled again.
I pulled into the right lane to let the faster cars zip by. It was past morning rush hour, but the highway was crowded, as it always is around Washington.
“Okay. So, besides the ring and the tan, what else did you see?”
“Well, since you two know each otherâ”
“He said that?”
“No, sir, I just figured you were classmates at the Pointâ”
“Anyone can buy a ring, Harper.”
“So he wasn't a classmate?”
“I'm telling you not to assume anything or you'll end up wearing your ass for a hat,” Smith said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Even though you're retired,” he said.
I looked up into the rearview and thought I caught a small grin sneak across his lips. “But with all I saw, and you telling me to plant a bug on him, and the line of work you're in, I figure he might be the real thing.”
“The real thing?”
“Like you, sir.”
“You think I'm the real thing?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
Smith ran a hand over his face. The trip from wherever he'd been had tired him and I could tell he was losing interest in the game, his mind already on the meeting ahead. “Don't believe everything you hear about me, Harper.”
“No, sir.”
“So what's your conclusion about our visitor?”
“His hands are soft, sir. Someone else does his humping for him. He works someplace warm, he came in from Miami, and looking at the flight schedules into Miami, I'd guess he came in from Honduras, but maybe not. He could have flown in yesterday and spent the night.”
“Not bad,” Smith grunted. “For someone who's retired.” He shook the flask next to his ear, judging from the slosh how much he had left. He hit on the neck again and looked out the window.
The gray Potomac rolled by and across the river the top of the Jefferson Memorial gleamed as white as ice cream. When we crossed Memorial Bridge Smith asked, “What did he say when you didn't take him to the Pentagon?”
“He asked if we were heading into the city, sir. I told him we were.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, in that noncommittal way that tells me nothing.
I turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
“You're too young to remember, but Lafayette Park was once full of hippies telling us Uncle Ho was going to kick our ass.”
“Yes, sir.” I hoped he wasn't going to talk about Vietnam again. Smith could talk your ear off about his glory days. “And Uncle Ho did kick your ass,” I said. “Sir.”
Smith burned the back of my neck with his glare. “But Uncle Ho's dead now, isn't he?”
“Last I heard, sir.”
Smith laughed. “And how's your new life working out, Harper? You and that piano, I bet you're up to your keister in congressional wives.”
“I like my work, sir.”
“I bet you do. Well, get it while you can, boy, because when you're as old as I am, the only thing you'll regret is the tail you didn't get. Trust me on that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What have we got in the park today? A couple bums,” Smith said.
“It's the day before Christmas, sir,” I said.
“Really?”
I knew Smith, and I knew he thought of time as just another element of battle, as real and weighted with consequence as hills and weather, but the calendar, except for the turning of seasons, always seemed to catch him by surprise. I often enjoyed reminding him of holidays and anniversaries, just to hear that genuine grunt of astonishment. It made Smith seem fallible.
I pulled up to the brick town house, got out and held the door while Smith unfolded from the rear seat.
“Thank you, Harper. This shouldn't be long.”
“I'll wait, sir.”
Inside the car, I adjusted the volume on the radio. I heard someone say, “Major Snelling, he's here.”
“How's he look?” I recognized the voice of the man I'd picked up at Dulles.
“Like he's eaten snakes for breakfast.”
Snelling laughed. The rustling of mic on fabric followed, a door opened, another door, and then his greeting, as big and as unproductive as summer thunder. “Jim, it's damn good to see you. Called the wife yet?”
“I was hoping this would be a pleasure trip,” Smith said.
