Blood of Paradise (15 page)

“And slapping ourselves on the back just a little, no?”

Lili shook her head and looked away. “You don't understand.”

No, Eileen thought, I do understand. But that was what Americans always said. The ones who came down, wrung their hands, pledged solidarity, then ran back home. “I'm still thirsty. Let me get us a couple more drinks.” She excused herself, realizing this was but one more gesture of convenience—walk away from the hard part, spend a little money to smooth it over. It was impossible, knowing what to do.

Passing through a cloud of flies, she came up to the
chalet
just as the old woman with the wheelbarrow concluded her transaction—she'd sold five coconuts—and she and the little girl with the towel umbrella trudged off again, heading toward the turn in the road where Lili sat in the shade. Meanwhile, one of the
areneros
got up from the table, peeling away from his group to buy another round for the crew. Eileen was scouring her jean pocket for money as he came up behind her.

“You're an American.” His English was melodic, the kind of accent you heard from Latino movie stars back home. Sensing her surprise: “I studied at San Diego State.” He was fair-skinned, ginger-haired, with a lanky build and spaniel eyes. Smiling, he extended his hand. “My name is Armando.”

It was one of those excruciating moments, not wanting to be rude but knowing Lili was watching. Manners won out—discretion and valor and all that, she thought, taking his hand. “Eileen.”

He gestured expansively. “Let me buy the drinks for you and your friend. We're celebrating, as you can see.”

“That's very kind,” Eileen said, “but unnecessary.”

His smile flagged as he glanced over at Lili, who was negotiating with the old woman and child for a few
cocos
. “And if I insist?”

Eileen handed a dollar to the Indian woman and gestured that the change was hers to keep. “You'll force me to be impolite, and that in itself would be discourteous. Then we'll both be to blame, won't we?” She turned to go. “Very nice to meet you, Armando.”

He let her walk a few steps, then said, “We're not the devils they make us out to be, you know.”

Pausing, she replied over her shoulder, “I certainly hope not.”

She felt his gaze on her back like a scald but continued on, crossing the hard-packed dirt toward Lili, who waited in her oasis of shade, now in possession of three
cocos
. Attempting humor, Eileen said, “I'd say we have sufficient fluids now to last us to San Miguel.” She handed the
fresco
to Lili, who plunged the pointed straw into the plastic sack and sipped, watching the old woman point her wheelbarrow toward San Bartolo Oriente. That was where, Eileen remembered, Jude and his hydrologist were doing whatever for whomever in the name of whatever—hard-nosed realism, maybe. Funny, she thought, how in a place like this—how did the World Bank put it:
catastrophic but improving
—everything began to feel either insidious or naïve, even pragmatism.

Lili said, “Do you know what that little girl told me?” She nodded down the road, where the youngster with the towel over her head plodded behind the old woman. “They live in a village ten miles or so down that road. A woman who lived in the next village over noticed the water in their well turning bad, so she complained to one of the citizen councils in San Miguel. Now the woman's gone. No one's seen her since yesterday.”

Her voice was dull, her eyes impassive, as though this story wasn't something she'd just heard, but a tale from long ago, repeated so monotonously it no longer merited feeling.

Eileen said, “Gone as in how? Has anyone told the authorities?”

“I didn't get a chance to ask any of that,” Lili said. “The old woman—the girl's grandmother, I think—told her to be quiet. Then she asked me to forget what I'd heard. She said the girl was wrong in the head, a liar, she makes things up. She apologized, and promised me the girl will get a beating when they get home.”

14

Jude and Strock sat in a sports bar at O'Hare, waiting for their flight to Los Angeles. From there, they'd catch the red-eye to El Salvador.

All in all, Jude felt relieved—there'd been no need to ply Strock with half as much drink as he'd feared would be necessary. They'd gone to the clinic for his vaccinations and picked up a new cane, then bought a few beers at a package store to down with sliders over an early lunch. After that it was on to collect some clothes and a bag—not because any of it couldn't be had far cheaper where they were going, but only a jihadist or an imbecile shows up for his flight in this day and age without luggage—then a few more brews before leaving the car at the rental drop, and now a cold one or two before takeoff. On reflection, it did seem like a bucket of suds, but he'd never felt things skidding out of control.

Strock had been strangely open to the pitch. He found the prospect of work, regardless of where, appealing, and this would be tax-free, an extra bonus. “My little girl, a little money might help out,” he'd said, something in his doghouse tone suggesting it might ease things with Peg, too, if she'd allow it. He'd go down to the tropics, get tan, dry out, come home flush with cash and in the pink. A changed man. His gaze turned inward when he talked about it. Beyond that, Strock stayed relatively mum and he seemed to take Jude's spiel at face value. At least until now.

“I haven't brought this up yet,” Strock said, “but I've been wondering—you remember Bill Malvasio?”

They were watching college hoops on the TV over the bar. Despite himself, Jude flinched at the name.

“Sure. He worked with you and my dad.”

“He and your dad were tight.” Strock held up his hand, his fingers crossed.

“My dad was tight with you, too.”

“Not like with Malvasio.” Strock got the bartender's attention and signaled for another round. “Rumor has it Big Bad Bill ran south when the worm turned, down to where we're headed, actually. You ever hear that?”

It came out more like a prod than a question.

Jude said, “That was what, ten years ago?”

“I wasn't counting.”

“You think he'd still be down there?”

“I didn't say he was down there. I said that was the rumor.”

Jude checked the impulse to chew his lip. “Okay.”

“You seen him?”

Jude laughed. “Okay, now you said it. Look, like I told you, it's been ten years. You don't really think—”

“That's not an answer.”

Jude glanced up at the TV screen as a point guard in dreads nailed one from downtown. Groans and cheers and hand claps rose up among various clusters of men around the bar. Tell him, he thought. The truth, all of it.

And accomplish what?

“Seen him? No. The embassy hands out fugitive lists from time to time, I caught a peek once and saw his name.”

“No fooling.”

“It doesn't mean anything, except they're looking.”

Strock sat there, puzzling him out. It took a while, then: “You're not the poker player your old man was.”

Jude turned to face him square. Their eyes met. “You heading somewhere with this?”

“Wherever it goes.”

“It's not going anywhere.”

Strock grinned, like he wanted a fight. “Asshole gettin' a little twitchy there, Jude?”

“You're sounding like a drunk now.”

“Malvasio put you up to this.”

Jude glanced out into the terminal, the dull-eyed crowds chugging back and forth down the endless white corridor. “You're scaring me with this, know that?”

“Just tell me the truth.”

“If you're gonna go off half-cocked, make stuff up, I'm not handing you over to the people I know. It's my reputation on the line. I vouched for you. And given what happened with you, my dad, and yeah, Malvasio, that took some doing.”

It was a decent line of bullshit but Jude feared his voice had given him away. Strock sat there, a gnomish gleam in his eye.

“Remind me again, these people are who?”

“I can't believe this.”

“There something more pressing you want to talk about?”

“I've told you already. A guy I know runs security for people who own a coffee plantation in the highlands. They're gearing up to build worker quarters and he's gonna need a man who knows how to use a rifle to protect the construction site.”

“They couldn't find themselves somebody with the same skills down there?”

“Of course they could. We've been over this—my buddy asked me, I thought of you, remembered what my old man used to say about you. I thought maybe you could use the work. You don't want it, fine. But give me your ticket if you're not coming. I'll redeem it down there.” Jude held out his hand. Not the poker player my dad was, he thought. We'll see.

Strock barely seemed to breathe. “You swear on your old man's grave Malvasio hasn't got a thing to do with this.”

“My old man's grave is a shoe box with a plastic bag of ashes in it, stuffed somewhere in my mom's house, and I doubt even she could tell you exactly where it is. But yeah, I'm telling you the truth.”

Strock studied him a little longer, then twitched from fatigue. A massive yawn convulsed his whole body. “Sorry, I just …” He shook his head to clear it. “Know what we used to call him? Bill, I mean.” He gave Jude a second to guess. Then: “Streetlight. 'Cuz he wasn't gonna move till he saw green.”

Jude wasn't sure what to make of that, but he welcomed the conversation's new tack. “And you and my dad were motivated by what—honor?”

“Ouch.” Strock twiddled his cane with a sad, chesty laugh. “Fair enough. I'm an adult, I did what I did. Your old man, too. We knew what we were getting into. But listen—you bust the same mutts week in, week out, see them make bail in a heartbeat, worst of the bunch get right back out there, all cash and flash. Laughing at you. You can't do the job when the punks are mocking you.”

“So you decided to make bank instead.”

“Oh, yeah. Shoulda called ourselves the Scratch Masters.”

“I'd call twenty grand an okay sum. And that was just my dad.”

“You're joking, right? On the street, twenty, that's laugh-out-loud money.”

“I didn't hear the FBI call it that when they found it hidden near my bed.”

“Okay, yeah. We taxed them, sure. Same way the rat packers taxed their goddamn neighborhoods. Don't talk to me about money, junior. You weren't out there like we were. You put your life on the line, day in, day out, you deserve some respect at least. But cops? Politicians wipe their asses with us, judges think we're morons, lawyers think we're trolls. And the community? Get this—there is no ‘community.' Just a pack of scamming loudmouths, make out like we're the problem. We're the crooks. That's the system. Well, we decided fuck the system. Fuck it all.”

Jude let a moment pass, then said, “I watched my old man come home after his arrest like a bomb had gone off inside his head. Maybe not everybody had such a clear conscience.”

“And what, you want me to feel sorry for you?”

“I'm not saying that.”

“Pop Gun wasn't the daddy you thought he was. Pisser, ain't it?”

A woman's voice on the PA announced pre-boarding for their flight. Jude asked the bartender for the tab then settled up, using Malvasio's cash. He counted out two hundred dollars more from what was left and set it out on the bar in front of Strock.

“Know what? I've made a mistake. Here's your cab fare back to Gary or wherever. We'll go our separate ways.”

Strock looked at the money like it was a trick. “Thought you wanted to do your old man proud.”

“I wanted to help you out.”

“I don't need your charity.”

“Fine.” Jude took the money back and stuffed it into his pocket. “I'll take that to mean you'll find your own way home.” He picked up his carry-on and started to walk away.

Strock leapt after him, grabbing his sleeve. “Okay. Look, I'm sorry. I'm gonna need that cab fare.”

Jude laughed. “Listen to you. Here's an idea, give Dixie a ring. You know, the old bottle job across the hall? Have her come save you. Won't be the first time—will it?”

Strock sat there like an invisible hand had reached up and grabbed his throat. “You mouthy little prick.”

“I've got a plane to catch.”

Jude turned to walk away again. This time he didn't feel Strock's hand on his arm. Instead, the wood cane whipped down hard on his shoulder. The pain lanced through his back, but he ignored it as, on instinct, he spun around and gripped the cane's wood shaft. He found Strock staring at him with vacant eyes—giving up the cane, swaying on his feet, then clutching the bar as he murmured something Jude couldn't make out. In the background, the bartender froze, everybody in the bar stared. From down the bustling white corridor, two security guards strode toward them.

Jude locked his arm around Strock's shoulder in a rough but chummy embrace and steered him back to his stool, pressing the cane into his hand. “I understand,” he whispered. “I do. I understand. Let me handle this.”

Within seconds three more guards joined the first two, all of them chunky or small. The battery part was easy—Jude told them it was his complaint to make and he didn't intend to make one. Just a misunderstanding. But he had to tap into a long neglected reservoir of wild Irish bullshit to get them to back off public drunkenness, and not just on Strock's account. The adrenaline racing through his bloodstream helped concoct a veneer of sobriety but his tongue refused to play along, here and there slurring a crucial word. And the guards weren't the most experienced bunch; they seemed terrified of thinking for themselves.

Jude showed his passport and work ID, spoke to them as one of the tribe, saying he understood their concerns. He promised to personally guarantee that none of them suffered for taking a little initiative, demonstrating some judgment and letting him and Strock catch their flight. On the other hand, if they were delayed, forced to miss their plane, there would be damages in the thousands of dollars, his employer would be obliged to recoup the loss. That meant lawyers, paperwork. Scrutiny.