Beneath a Panamanian Moon (27 page)

“Once more, Phil.”

He kicked again and a corner of the steel separated away from the concrete floor.

“Can you squeeze through there?” Coop asked.

“Me?”

“You're the smallest one here,” Phil said.

Seeing no one but the three of us and the frozen Gorilla, I got down on my back and said, “Okay, you two push on the panel and I'll slide out the bottom. Ready? Push.”

Phil and Coop braced their feet against the steel. A gap opened wider and I stuck my head through, sideways, scraping my ear. I felt the sharp edge at my neck and said, “You'll have to push harder. My chest won't clear.”

“It won't open any further,” Coop said.

“It has to.”

“This is as far as it'll go,” Phil said.

“Okay, I'm coming back in.” But I couldn't. My head wouldn't come in and my shoulders wouldn't go out. I was stuck. “Push harder!”

“We're pushing.”

“Not hard enough.”

“Goddamn, Harp, we're pushing as hard as we can.”

“All right,” I said, “I have an idea.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, take the Gorilla there and stick him under the gap like a wedge. He'll keep it from scrunching back on my neck.”

“That's your idea?” Phil said. I could tell he didn't think it was a great plan and in that he had plenty of company.

“It's the best I got,” I said.

Coop asked Phil if he could hold the steel and Phil said he thought so. I would have preferred a bit more confidence on his part, but I was in no position to quibble. Coop backed off and the steel edged into my neck.

Phil grunted, pushed with his feet, and the steel lifted again, slightly. When it did, Coop pushed the Gorilla next to me. The dead man's face was an unattractive shade of blue and close enough for me to feel the chill radiate off his skin. “You could have closed his eyes,” I said. “He's looking right at me.”

“It's probably rough on him, too,” Coop said.

Slowly, they wedged the cold corpse into the space. Every time Phil pushed, the steel lifted and I got more wiggle room. Eventually, with pushing and wedging and me wriggling like a reptile, the space widened enough for me to slither out. I stood up in the dark, slipped off the padlock, and opened the door.

Coop and Phil spilled out, shivering. “Goddamn,” Coop said, blowing on his hands, “I can't feel my feet.”

“I don't think I'll ever be warm again,” I said.

“Pussies,” Phil said.

We looked down at the dead man's head and shoulders sticking out from under the bent sheet of stainless steel. I said, “I think they're going to know someone's been down here.”

“You think?” Cooper stamped from the AKs to the freezer door and back again. “Like maybe the guy who locked us in?”

“We can't stay in the hotel,” I said, the master of the obvious. “You guys get your shit. Phil, warn Ice about the ambush tomorrow. Coop, pack up my stuff. I'm just going to print out that guest list and I'll meet you at the car.”

I locked all the doors and went back through the kitchen. I crossed the lobby, heading for the office, when I was stopped by the sound Smith once described as the barking dog of firearms. It was the unmistakable chunk of a round being chambered into a pump shotgun. My eyes, accustomed to the dark, could make out a big man sitting in the far corner. From deep in the shadows the man said, “It must be Christmas, monkey shit.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Meat locked me in one of the basement cages. Me, cans of tomato sauce, tins of olive oil, and a rat shared the space until sun brightened the narrow window above my head. I heard the sound of the Huey, a Vietnam-era warhorse as old as Smith's socks, and I stood on a crate of canned beans so I could see outside. The Huey set down on the helicopter pad behind the hotel and the team moved out to meet it.

They checked packs, radio batteries, rifles, and other gear before climbing on board. I tried to holler, but they couldn't hear me over the whap of the rotors. I didn't know if Phil had warned the men or not, or whether he and Coop had even escaped. All I could do was watch and hope that they knew about the danger and were ready. Iceman, Hog, Hamster, Dutch, and Thumper stepped into the helicopter door, one by one, and with a change in pitch, the Huey lifted slowly off the pad, turned, and flew off toward the east on a hot burst of aerodynamic voodoo.

Meat came down the stairs, followed by Kelly and another man, a Latino who made Meat look like an undernourished kid in a magazine ad.

Kelly looked at me through the cage wire, working his jaw. His forehead sported a bandage, which made me feel better. As if reading my mind, he said, “I don't like you, Harper.”

“I can live with that, sir.”

He smiled. “But not for long.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

Kelly paced back and forth in front of my cage. “That is what we've been discussing, Harper. I want to give you to Meat. The boy needs a pet.”

Meat lifted his lip and snarled at me through the wire.

“But the Colonel has other plans. You see, he promised to bring a piano player to a party.”

“I play piano,” I said, “or perhaps you didn't know.”

Meat slammed the cage wire and said, “Shut up.”

“That'll do, Meat.” Kelly stopped and stared at me for a long time. “You've proven to be remarkably resilient, even ingenious, which makes me worry about letting you live any longer than it would take to frog-march you into the bush. But, for the time being, the Colonel is in command and he wants to show off his performing monkey. So I'm sending you to the party, along with Ricardo.”

The big Latino smiled, revealing a set of gold teeth.

“He has orders to kill you, slowly if he can, quickly if he must, if you even look like you're about to escape.”

“That hardly inspires a great performance, sir.”

“It would be wise to play your best, Harper. Ricardo can be an awfully harsh critic.”

Meat leaned in close. I could smell the onions on his breath and a splash of cologne. “And when you get home, monkey nuts, then you and I get to play some games I learned.”

“He needs practice, don't you, Meat?”

“Yeah.” Meat smiled. “The last piano player died way too quick.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

They stuffed me into a tux and pushed me on board a Bell 407, aqua blue with enough amenities to soothe a jet-lagged Saudi prince. The Colonel sat across from me and the family-fun-sized Ricardo sat beside me. When the chopper lifted off I said, “Ricardo, have you ever read
Heart of Darkness
?”

Ricardo stared at me.

“No, probably not.”

Strapped into the executive seats, we flew north, following the Canal to the Atlantic Coast. In Panama, we had to fly north to get from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Why? Because the country is seriously twisted, that's why.

The plan was for me to work a small reception for a visiting general. Musicians call these gigs “casuals,” which didn't cover the way I was feeling at all. I was to play some tasteful background while important people mingled on this, the last day of the old year. Ricardo would protect the crowd from unruly caterers, pianists, and other troublemakers. This would go on until seven when the VIPs would fly off to Panama City for dinner, gambling, and a New Year's Eve revolution. Not that I was invited. When the party was over, I was to fly back to the hotel where Meat was waiting to show me his mad skills with electricity.

Ricardo wore a rented tux, the jacket barely large enough to hide his MP-5 automatic rifle. I asked Kelly if I could have a pistol, too, and he declined. He said he didn't trust me with a firearm, and I didn't object. I didn't trust me with a firearm around Kelly, either. Accidents can happen.

As the Bell cruised over Gold Hill, where I had been with Kris only a day before, I asked the Colonel who the party was for.

“A General Guzmán, from Colombia.”

I swallowed hard and my ears popped. “You mean Omar Guzmán?”

“Don't tell me you know him,” the Colonel said.

“I met him in Washington.” I tried to make the next question sound very casual, almost an afterthought. “Is his aide, Major Cruz, going to be there?”

“Probably so. Why?”

“No reason. Nice guy,” I said. I didn't say that the Major wanted to kill me. Today, the Major would have to stand in line.

The helicopter flew low over the Canal and I watched the water flash by beneath us and I toyed with the notion of jumping out. It would be less painful than whatever Meat had in mind, I was sure. We passed over Gatun Dam, and the locks, and out into the harbor. Long breakwaters held back the turbulence of the Atlantic and kept the inside of the harbor as placid as a koi pond. The sun was bright and the temperature a comfortable seventy-eight degrees with a nice breeze blowing in off the water. Dozens of ships, large and small, private and commercial, waited their turn to traverse the Canal, and from all of the ships and boats at anchor, I picked out what had to be the General's yacht. It was black and gray with a helipad on the aft deck. The pilot received permission to land and set us down as gentle as an egg.

We were shown into the party area just off the aft deck. The room was large enough for a grand piano, but the General didn't wish to appear too ostentatious, so he'd settled for a baby grand, a white Yamaha, quite sufficient for an afternoon of diplomatic party chatter and alcohol consumption.

Ricardo checked out the yacht and the boats at anchor around us. I kept my head down, just another invisible servant. My sunglasses, worn to cover my black eyes, gave me a little cool anonymity.

As I warmed up with a simple one-four-five blues progression, a woman, willow thin and so beautiful she gave strong men whiplash, joined the party with apologies. She was stunning in a white blouse and green silk pants. I thought the emerald earrings and necklace were a bit much for an afternoon party, but Mariposa was never a slave to protocol. And when she turned and looked at me, I saw that Mariposa had changed her eye color to match the emeralds. Nice touch.

At first, she looked right through me. I was of no more importance than the cut flowers in the crystal vase. Then, as her eyes focused, her mouth formed an
O
and the blood drained from her cheeks. Quickly, she looked to see if her husband had seen what she'd seen.

The Major, in full-dress uniform, was schmoozing a Panamanian colonel, unaware that the uneviscerated piano player from Washington was a mere fifteen feet away, testing the ivories aboard the General's party barge.

Mariposa was giving me high-voltage eye beams. Whether she was saying she wanted to talk, or whether she wanted me to jump overboard, I couldn't tell. I opted for the former, and when Mariposa excused herself and went down the corridor, I gave her a few minutes and then I stood up. Ricardo placed a hand the size of a small pony on my chest.

“El baño,” I said. “Servicios, sanitarios. Inodoro. Orinal,” I said, grasping my privates.

Ricardo looked at me through narrowed eyes, deciding whether to let me pee or make me suffer. He nodded and jerked his head toward the corridor. As I was leaving he grabbed my shoulder, put two fingers to his eyes and then pointed at me. I got the message.

As I searched for the bathroom, Mariposa popped out of one of the cabins and pulled me inside.

“If the Major catches you here, he will kill you.”

“I could slip into one of your dresses, but that's how I got into this trouble.”

That earned me a smile. Whether it was because she thought it was funny or she remembered me in better times, I didn't know. I opted for the latter. “How have you been?”

“I've been so worried about you, John.” She removed my sunglasses and her newly green eyes darkened. “John, what have they done to your face? You look terrible.”

“I ran into something hard.”

Mariposa placed her hand on my cheek and said, “You have no idea how awful my life has been since I saw you last.”

Apparently, the discussion of my problems was over.

“But I have something for you.” She searched through her Louis Vuitton bag and pulled out a CD. “I don't know exactly what this is, but I think it is important.”

I took the CD and put it inside my jacket. “What's on it?”

“It's a list of men in Panama. They're in groups of four and there are addresses for each group. I have also added a list of Panamanian officers who have been calling the house recently. And lately, my husband has been referring to General Guzmán as ‘el Presidente,' I don't know why. He says it and laughs, like it is this funny joke he and the General have. It is so obnoxious. Oh, and the Major hasn't heard from Renaldo Cardinale since he came to Panama.”

“Is that the big guy with the broken nose?”

“Yes. He said it was a racquetball accident. Who plays racquetball on Christmas Eve?”

“I did that. I broke his nose.”

“You? You play racquetball? I didn't know that, John.”

“No, I mean I hit him.”

“But why?”

“It was a literary disagreement.”

She looked confused, and then didn't care. “This information I got for you, John, does it help?”

“Mariposa, my sneaky little butterfly, I could kiss you.”

“After the Major is dead. Not before.” She touched my lips with her fingertip and I knew that I'd never have enough money to be in Mariposa's league. The Major's health had nothing to do with her unwillingness to bed me.

“I have to get back.”

“I must also. Since you left Washington he has watched me like a dog watches his supper dish. I can't even go to the bathroom without him knocking at the door every three minutes, asking if something is wrong. Be careful, John. I don't think my husband likes you as much as I do.” She turned on the heel of her Manolos and slipped out the door.