The Laughing Falcon (40 page)

“Spill it all. You know what? I don’t care. You have to write the truth because that’s the way you are: honest. You’re a heap of work, honey. You’re so damn guileless and generous and straight, so fucking good and loving, that I want to scream. What’s with this broad, I ask myself. I, on the other hand, am
not
an honest woman – write that.”

“Good, I want to.”

“Go ahead, I’ll take it as a favour — Chuck won’t get to be president and I’ll never have to be first lady. Can you see me serving tea in the White House to the Pro-life Ladies’ Guild of Podunk, Oklahoma? Hobnobbing with bank presidents and slumlords at fundraisers?”

“Then that’s what you deserve. I
don’t
feel good or loving; I’m angry and I’m jealous. I had a chance to leave here; I didn’t because I was worried about you, I cared for you.”

“I truly am sorry, sweetheart.”

“I’d like to be alone.”

Churning dreams scattered as Maggie was woken by an altered pitch in the night: an approaching sound, low and guttural. Sitting up, she saw headlights blinking through the trees: the white delivery van, Gordo at the steering wheel, alone.

Muffled voices came from below, then she heard the clank of keys and saw shadowy forms on the patio: Halcón’s crew carrying bags to the truck.

Now she heard Halcón and Tayra conversing outside her door. She opened it, and was able to make out Tayra descending the stairs, Halcón clinking his keys. “It is time,” he said.

“Why is it so dark?”

“I have cut the power. We are abandoning the Darkside for the Caribbean coast. Are you feeling well enough to travel?”

Maggie just shrugged.

Outside, Zorro was pumping air into mattresses with a foot pedal, then throwing them into the back of the truck. However tempted she was to ride off on one of those mattresses, she knew that if she remained in the pull of Halcón’s gravity she would crash again.

“I will leave while you get dressed.”

“Come in for a minute.”

He hesitated, then entered.

“I won’t be going with you, Halcón.”

“I do not blame you for being angry at me.”

“I’m more angry at myself.” She sat on the edge of the bed.

“This is not how you planned to write it.”

“Actually, I haven’t got the ending figured out yet. This isn’t fiction; I can’t control reality. I can only hope for you, Halcón. I’ll even pray for you — though I’m not that firm a believer.”

She felt the bed shift as he sat at its end. “I believe. The universe is too strange and wonderful to have happened by accident. There must be meaning; otherwise there is nothing to hang on to, only anarchy. What am I carrying on about? Have I heard you right? Of course you must come.”

“I will stay here, Halcón.”

He sighed. “But you would not be alone; Benito Madrigal must also stay. He needs medical help. That cannot be denied.”

“He isn’t dangerous; we relate well. I’ll look after him.”

“My comrades would feel uneasy if we did not lock you inside. And there will be no electricity.”

“We’ll use candles. There’s propane; there’s plenty of food.”

“I have run out of arguments. I have disappointed you deeply. I regret that with all my heart.”

She stood and grasped a window bar, steadying herself, looking down on the play of light and shadow from the headlights of the truck.

“I wasn’t hiding it very well, was I?” She could make his features out dimly and saw sadness.

“I am to blame; I did not discourage you. I found you most attractive – but for me, you were a lady, and I feared dishonouring you. As a modern woman, maybe you do not accept that, but … it’s my old-fashioned attitude.”

“Why is it so different with Glo?”

A helpless shrug. The answer seemed too obvious: Glo was street-smart, vivacious; she made a fit with him that schoolteacherish Maggie Klutz could never match. “I’m twenty-nine, and you’re the first man I’ve truly loved. I guess I waited too long, and it built up, then came crashing down on top of me.”

“I am honoured. A few times I have felt the sting of love, and each time swore the tragedy would not be repeated.”

“I used to be afraid of you, but I never disliked you. Glo did at first, though, and you shared the feeling. What happened?”

“God knows.” He rose and came beside her, and they stood silently at the window. Gordo, still with a slight limp, was packing a submachine gun and several pistols in the cab, behind the front seat.

“In two or three days, I will send a message telling them where you are.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll have to tie Glo up.”

“She will come without protest.”

“Protect her.”

“With my life. There will be dangers ahead, and I admit to some relief that even as brave a spirit as yours will not have to risk them.”

Maggie found herself smiling, however weakly: this honey-tongued rogue remained relentlessly charming to the end. “What is the plan now? Or do you dare tell me?”

“But I must. Of all persons, I trust you most closely, my prisoner but also my confidante. So I ask of you, when you have the ear of Slack Cardinal, give this message. Tell him Limón, Sloth Park, at nine o’clock on the night of this coming Saturday. Tell no one else.”

“I promise.” She was right to assume that she would remain his friendly conspirator: she had lost her heart to him. She again wanted to tell him: do not trust Slack Cardinal. But let his paramour deliver that warning.

Outside, the truck engine had started.

“What’s going to happen, Halcón?”

“I am no longer sure. My thoughts are confused by … well, it is better left unsaid.
Hasta la vista
, Maggie. Now we must begin a long journey. We will find our way to heaven or to hell as God wishes.” He took her hand, kissed her fingertips, released it. “Ciao.”

“Buena suerte,”
she said.

She listened to his footfalls on the stairs, then heard the front door being locked. She saw two shadowy figures walk toward the van, talking, smoking; she heard Glo’s throaty laugh. She felt devitalized, drained of feeling.

S
lack showered the sea salt from his body, not a bad day, two tours in the morning, another just finished. Twelve days had passed since his visit to the Darkside, and he was sliding back into familiar routines, but this evening he was feeling the nervous edge of anticipation: the ransom monies had finally been put together, Elmer Jericho would be making contact tonight – by phone to Bar Balboa. He wasn’t sure the proprietor would be there, he’d seen Billy in town, lit up like neon, one of his all-day drunkaramas.

His own lines were tapped, so he’d given Elmer the number at the bar and a time, eight o’clock, two hours from now. He hoped Elmer had got that straight, he’d been almost comatose during the drive back to the hidden
moto
. Slack had to take over the wheel while Elmer and Gordo slept.

Physically, he was in reasonable shape, he hadn’t been beaten up for a few weeks, his ribs no longer felt as if they had been roughly welded together. Only one snag had marred his return to Quepos – the discovery that Joe Borbón was cuddling in a bedroom with Camacho’s kid sister, an inviting young woman who had invited her uncle and cousin over to sort through Slack’s belongings. He had walked in just as they were grubbing among his CDs.

He’d fired Borbón on the spot, which is why Slack was now doing all the tours – a hassle, he’d had to hire a local layabout for some of the driving chores. Ham, too, had been disappointed in Borbón: the pursuit of love softens you, that’s how stone killers lose their edge.

Frank Sierra was Slack’s new henchman, they’d met clandestinely several times, trading suspicions, speculations – they shared something deeply felt: a brooding distrust of their overseers. Slack had straight-faced lied to Ham, telling him he hadn’t a clue where he’d been taken, a campesino farm in the boondocks.

Senator Walker had looked shocked when presented with the photo of his wife hamming it up on Slack’s lap, and nearly popped a collar button when Slack dumped the full refund on a table. Ham Bakerfield suffered one of his rare losses of composure, sputtering, “Never seen anything like this. Never. Who does this guy think he is?”

Johnny Falcon. What style, give this man the gold medal for chutzpah.

Everyone had been amazed at how deep Slack had penetrated. Walker, his faith in the master spy oiled and greased, had been spurred to come up with four million. Halcón would be happy with that until he was collared about ten minutes later.

He pulled on cut-offs and went out to the balcony to take a piss in the general direction of the squatters’ village. The big shudder a few days ago had collapsed some shacks, but they were going up again. Foundations for the church were being poured. You got a church, ipso, you got a town – Slack was feeling the fight go out of him, resigned to it, world over-population had arrived at his front door.

A tourist microbus was parked outside Billy’s restaurant, and Slack could hear noises of confrontation from within. About a dozen men and women were crowding the bar, giving Billy a bad time, the Chattanooga Kinsmen Club, according to their badges.

“Go away,” Billy shouted. “We are closed.” He seemed barely able to stand, eyes glazed over, smelling like a fermentation plant.

“Look here now, we
reserved
. We have drink vouchers.”

“Maybe tomorrow we open.”

“We would like to speak to the owner of this establishment,” said an amply endowed woman, a Kinette, Slack thought that’s what they were called.

“He’s not here, lady.”

“We made reservations with a Mr. Balboa,” said the tropical shirt. “Is that you?”

“No, it’s some other guy.”

His chef and headwaiter were conversing at a table, unsure what to do. The waitress, a young woman with an insatiable addiction to inane chatter on the telephone, was tying up the line. “Okay, back to work,” Slack told them. The cook butted a cigarette and returned to the kitchen.

He helped Billy onto a cot in the back room, then promised the rebellious customers an extra round on the house. The Kinsmen, happy to see a white guy take charge, took their coladas and margaritas off to the balcony and began taking photos of the sunset, which was turning out to be a non-event, a cloudless sky, earth’s life-sustaining star plopping onto the horizon like a ripe tomato.

Elmer might be trying to get through, Slack hollered at the phone junkie, interrupting her breathless account of her second cousin’s unexpected pregnancy. When she didn’t hang up immediately, he drew a finger across his throat.

He checked the reservation list, all seven tables booked on a Tuesday night. Two names stood out, Woodrow and Beverley Schneider, Maggie’s parents. He was supposed to instruct them to mend their marriage, but he’d been forbidden to approach them. “They’re out of the loop,” Ham had said.

Four old toughs came in, tried to claim the best table. Slack apologized, it was reserved, and settled them elsewhere. These were new faces, older and beefier than most of the bulls around here, but lawmen of some kind, you could always tell, the swagger, the shifting flickering eyes, the presumption of
authority. Maybe this was a SWAT squad, they had that look about them, maybe marksmen.

The bar stools began to fill, a few locals, some media types, one of them Ed Creeley, the AP reporter who’d been on location at Eco-Rico, they shared a distaste for Senator Walker.

“Double Black, straight up. I think he’s going all the way, Cardinal.”