The Laughing Falcon (43 page)

He guessed Ham Bakerfield was going off like a nuclear bomb right about now, the fuckup was at it again. I don’t remember you doing a thing right, he’d said. The tradition continues. He had contracted to make his “best efforts” to secure the release of the two aforesaid female persons. These
were
his best efforts. There was even a clause that permitted him, upon request by the party of the first part, to pay to the kidnappers such sums as may be agreed upon.

But they would probably discover he had committed an illegal act, a paper crime hidden in the small print. The agency had its ways, maybe they’d just send Joe Borbón.

Here was the bridge at Paso Indios, a creaky structure formerly used by trains hauling bananas: metal trusses, the Rio Naranjo below. Once over the bridge, he turned off the road to a parking area by a low riverbank. That’s where he found Frank Sierra’s Suzuki, hidden from the road, too close to the bridge to be seen from cars crossing overhead.

Frank was sitting on a rock with a fishing pole, playing out line. Slack checked his bucket, a couple of trout.

“I have had good luck. Let us hope it is contagious.”

Frank was a true-blue guy, prepared to share the shit that was going to come down if this turned into Operation Fuckup. Slack wanted to hug him, Frank wasn’t the kind of guy you hug, though.

“I’m going to suss out the situation before I bring them the cash. You brought my gun?”

“It is under the seat.”

“Keep it handy, just in case.”

Slack unbuckled and unclasped the bungee cords that held the duffle bags, then they heaved them into the little four-wheel.

Slack checked his watch – nearly half past eleven. “I’m about fifteen minutes away from the
finca. I
may return in the back seat of Jericho’s Jeep with a gun to my head. That’s okay, I won’t blame them, hell; I’ll tell them to shoot me if the dough isn’t here. If both women accompany us, we give them the
plata
, we go our way, they go theirs.”

He waited for a car to pass over the bridge, then straddled his motorcycle and accelerated up to the main road. One more village, the sleepy burg of Londres – a couple of stores, a couple of bars, a church and a cemetery. Not many people hanging about this late at night. Upriver from the village, the road became narrow and stony, a school, a scattering of homes, now some larger
fincas
. A lot of
extranjeros
like Elmer’s pal, Abner Krock, had been moving into the area, they liked the isolation. Now Abner was in stir while Elmer was running free.

When the road took him close to the river, he saw the Naranjo flowing darkly between the trees — nearby was the starting point for his tours, though on a few occasions he’d ventured farther upstream on his own, testing his skills in narrow chutes and jets of raging water. The road switched back, barely a track now.

Somehow, ICE, the power company, had been persuaded to run a line up into this backcountry, and here, around a corner, was the last pole, beyond it a closed iron gate, the miniature
Tower of Pisa looming behind it. As Slack cut his engine he smelled the sweet greasy odour of pot. Elmer Jericho ambled toward him from the shadows.

“Hey, man, always a thrill. You bring the scrip?”

“Stashed it, not far away. I want to see the women first.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t think we’d have them dames right here for you. Like, they’re stashed, too, in a different place. Soon as I make a call, they’re free as birds.”

Slack felt not just dismay but an edge of irritability. “I think I’d better talk to someone who isn’t totally lunched.” He pushed the gate open and wheeled the bike behind the bodega, then started walking down the trail to the house, Elmer following, talking quickly.

“There’s no one there. They split, man. The idea is, me and Johnny, we’re letting the broads go as soon as we get on a plane. Like, we got a Piper Comanche waiting near the border. And then we’re out of here.” He had to hustle to match Slack’s long strides. “You take your twenty pieces, give the rest to me, everyone’s free, everyone’s happy.”

“I’m having a little trouble here, Elmer, this isn’t the deal.”

Elmer grabbed his arm, pulled him to a stop. “Look, man, you gonna show me the money?”

“No, Elmer, why would I do that?”

Elmer backed up a few paces, joint in one hand, a bulky object in the other. “Maybe because I’ve got a hog leg pointed at your belly button. You don’t want your takeout, maybe I’ll just grab it all.”

Slack willed himself to relax, stay loose, remember your training, don’t get your head jammed up. He spoke slowly and carefully. “You’re not thinking straight, Elmer. Why would you want to kill me? You figure there’s some point in that?”

Elmer didn’t seem sure, time stretched as he pondered the logic. Slack thought he heard a noise from behind him,
from the road, a vehicle, he thought, but likely just the wind in the trees.

“Where’d you hide the bread, man?”

“Not sure if I remember. I guess you
are
going to have to shoot me, Elmer.”

Elmer took a moment to work through the implications. “We’ll split it. Hey, man, you can fly out with me. Twin Comanche, man, it’ll be there waiting for us, it’s all arranged.”

“Who’s the pilot?”

“An amigo, a Panamanian, I’m connected.” A pilot for Cocaine Air, Slack presumed. “Let’s forget Johnny. He’s a son of a bitch.”

Slack was getting the picture now. “He kiss you out?”

A long pause, then Elmer took one last suck off his roach and flicked it. He began softly swearing.

“The slimy fuck. I should of figured, a lawyer, they do it to you every time.”

“They’re all gone?”

“Yeah, man.”

“You check inside for a note?”

“Johnny took the keys.”

“Know where they went?”

“Maybe.”

Johnny Falcon had said something about backup locations, Elmer knew where they were. But this was more unwelcome news, Slack had slipped the posse only to stumble into a dead end. Halcón hadn’t fully trusted his partner, he had reason.

“Let’s check out the house. Maybe we can jack those bars apart. Put away the goddamn piece, Elmer. The money’s safe, you’ll get your share of it, maybe Johnny’s, too, okay?”

Elmer lightened up at that suggestion, finally tucked the gun in his belt. He stuck out his hand, his grip a little clammy. “Partners, okay? Jeez, you’re my bud, Slack, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

Slack found that wanting in credibility, Elmer saw his main chance was to ally himself with the paymaster.

“It’s the acid, man, maybe I shouldn’t of done the acid.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

“A little dot, hardly feeling it yet. It’s when I get confused, I like to try a little purple passion, straightens out the head, gives a new perspective. Hey, man, I think everything’s gonna be all right now. I kind of went off the edge there.”

These fraught-filled ramblings continued until they entered the clearing, then Elmer started in on moons and planets and stars, about how everything was “whirling around in circles up there, man, expanding, collapsing. All that shit up there, it’s from the big bang.” Slack told him to shut up.

The big bang was bright tonight, a full canopy, and the light of a rising three-quarter moon had begun to slide through the trees, he could make out the darkened second storey of the house. Elmer’s Jeep was parked under a lemon tree. Slack remembered he’d seen tools under the back seat, so he borrowed the flashlight, rummaged about, retrieved a sturdy jack and tire iron.

“You have some interest in this piece of land, Elmer? It’s a nice spot.”

“Tell you the truth, I scored it cheap off my buddy a few months ago, but it’s like being held by him in trust so my name ain’t attached. I got his power of attorney. Eighty hectares, man, the whole mountain across the road.”

Slack shone the light through the front window, no sign of life, no note. Dishes were stacked on shelves, the tile floor swept, everything organized and tidy. There was something charming about the building’s general state of wonkiness, a neurotic could be comfortable here.

From somewhere, from the trees, maybe the house, came a sound like a cough or a clearing of throat. Maybe you hear things when you’re on edge, or maybe someone was in the house.

“Give a shout upstairs, Elmer, I think I heard a sound.”

Slack set out for the back of the house, where the ground was higher, easier to access the windows. Elmer banged on the front door.
“Upe
. Hey, man, anyone here?”

To Slack’s amazement, that was greeted with a shout from above: “Yankee swine, go home!” Benito Madrigal was upstairs. Slack nearly fled his skin as Benito let off a deafening roar of automatic gunfire.

Now he was astonished to hear a different voice, not Elmer’s: “Hit the dirt, men!” The yell came from out front, the area of the orchard.

Slack didn’t wait to sort out what was happening, he dashed to safety, behind the back wall of the house, the jungle close by in case he had to bolt.

Benito was now singing the national anthem at the top of his lungs. He was armed with a chopper, that’s what it sounded like. There came a loud voice over a bullhorn, English-accented Spanish: “Put your guns down. Everyone come out with their hands on their heads, and no one gets hurt.”

That was the unmistakable no-nonsense voice of Colonel Chuck Walker. Through the wide, facing windows, he saw lights in the distance, from the area of the bodega and the road, one of them was a blue strobe. God knows how, but Walker and his Rangers had followed Slack here – but without telling Ham Bakerfield, who’d so confidently announced he was running this show.

Now he saw a figure speeding toward the trees to his right, a panicky mind-blown Elmer making a run for it, yelling, “I’m a friendly! I’m a friendly!”

The advisers were no doubt armed and antsy, Slack figured it wouldn’t be a dazzling idea to lope across the clearing to talk to them. They were still a long way from the house, not taking any chances of exposing themselves. The situation augured disaster, someone was going to get killed, Benito the prime candidate.

He whirled the tire iron, and the jack caught tight between two vertical bars, they were half-inch steel, he had to use all his strength to twist. Sweating and grunting, he finally heard the ping of a broken weld.

“Johnny Diego,” came Walker’s amplified voice, “are you prepared to negotiate?”

Another burst of automatic fire from the second floor. “We will never surrender!” Benito began singing again: “Hail, oh gentle land, hail, oh mother of love.”

The bars began to bend apart. Another weld gave. He rested, panting with the exertion. This was going to take a dangerously long time.

He held his breath — he wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw something move within the house. He gripped the bars, peering in, trying to make out shapes in the darkness.

“Jacques?”

There, on the stairs, Maggie Schneider, brandishing a broomstick like a baseball bat. Long thin legs, wide eyes behind her lenses.

“Yeah, it’s me, don’t be scared,” he said in a low, deliberate voice. “Get on the floor, I’m making an opening for you, it’s going to take a minute.”

She kneeled close to the window ledge, she wasn’t wearing much, just a long T-shirt, flip-flops on her feet. She smelled of the soft essences of sleep. He stank, sweaty with his exertions.

“They’re all gone. They left a gun behind, Benito found it.”

The bullhorn again: “Let the women go free, we will not hurt you.”

Slack massaged his aching arm, then started twisting at the jack again, telling himself to stay collected and vigilant, praying Madrigal’s macabre standoff would buy him time.

“They took Glo. What’s going on?”

“Some kind of shitstorm, everything has got gummixed up. Those guys are vigilantes, Walker’s gone off half-cocked, I think he’s trying to be a hero, and it’s blowing up in his face,
and when he figures that out, he may not want the story told by witnesses. I’m not taking chances with these characters, they used to run assassination schools.”

Another ping, another burst of fire from above. “Send your tanks, send your airplanes! Here we will stand, here we will die!”

Slack wouldn’t have time to deal with Benito, he had to focus on Maggie, lead her to safety. “Is there a trail out of here?”

“There’s a path to the river.”

A final twist, another inch wider. “Think you can get your head through that?”

She sat up, positioned her head against the gap. “Yes.”

He released the jack. She took her glasses off, handed them to him, then poked her head through.

“All right, arms out next, and try to make your shoulders vertical.” He took her under the armpits, began pulling her gently through the opening. “Thank God you’re as skinny as a thief.” That wasn’t what he meant to say. “Slender. I mean you look good.”

A spotlight lit the front of the house, but they remained in shadow, in tight embrace at the window. As her hips wedged in the hole, he tugged, and she popped through with a sound of ripping fabric, sprawling on top of him. She was shaking, and he held her for a moment.

“You okay?”

“A little scratched.” She lifted her T-shirt and inspected her underpants, they had opened, exposing one reddened cheek. He tore his eyes from that gentle curve of rump and took her hand.

“Lead me to the river, Maggie.”

A second spotlight, soon they’d have the whole area lit up like a casino. “Produce Mrs. Walker and Miss Schneider, we want to see them at the window. Repeat, no one will be harmed.”

Hand in hand, crouching beneath the windowsills, they crept toward the far corner of the house. Now he could see, shadowed from the light by trees, a row of stone slabs that meandered down the hill.

Benito called out again. “All great history is written with the ink of blood. This, Señor Walker, is my answer to the lies of the ruling cliques.” He fired off another round.

This time he was answered by a couple of shots from the fruit trees, they were followed by Walker’s frantic bellow: “Who’s that asshole? Cease firing! Clear the area, I want all the civilians back on the road.”