Coffee (47 page)

He
looked left and right, and across the deserted street. No one
around. A chunk of cement about fist size had fallen off the
crumbling foundation. He weighed it in his hand, and turned it to
get the best grip. He checked around him again.

The
door had thick metal screen across the glass, but he found a small
window that he figured was wide enough to allow his shoulders to
pass. He positioned himself with a wide stance, ready to heave.

What
little light there was in the store didn’t shed on the area
directly below the window, but a glint caught his eye as he held the
rock up to swing it. He lowered his arm, squatted down and placed
his eyes close to the glass to peer in. Now he made out two dull
glints. He continued staring to allow his eyes to adjust. Like a
revelation, the picture suddenly came clear - he was staring
directly into the eyes of a dog, only a few inches on the other side
of the glass. He neither barked nor moved, but Warren jerked back
anyway. His awkward squatting position couldn’t withstand the
sudden movement, and he fell back on his bottom. His head butted up
against hard steel.

“What
the...” he said, at first not understanding how he could hit
something, until he realized he bumped into the pointing barrel of a
rifle. A man, obviously just awakened and in a foul mood, held the
trigger. Warren scampered up, and dropped the cement block. He
nervously wiped dirt from his pants and then tried to address him in
exaggerated non-threatening terms. “Oh I’m so sorry! I
fell, how stupid. Really, you don’t need that thing, I’m
just passing by.” The gun remained trained on his chest. It
occurred to him that the guy probably didn’t speak English,
which explained his total lack of reaction.

No
use talking to this guy, he thought. Warren started backing up,
continuing his friendly hand gestures, until he was adjacent to the
entrance to a small alley. The gun remained. Warren suddenly
pointed at something across the street, and yelled like it was
horrible. The man turned to see, and Warren ditched down the alley.
A blast tore a large hole in the side of the next building above
his head. Warren dodged back and forth, sprinting with all his
strength. More shots exploded around him, sending sparks and broken
glass asunder. He hurled himself around the next corner out of
range.

He
kept a fast clip down the main boulevard, past a continuous line of
fancy hotels and casinos, swearing to himself at every step. “I
can’t believe I got myself into this.” He pulled into a
few of the hotels hoping for camera carrying tourists. He tried the
beach. He paid a cover charge at an all night strip show. He
wandered through slot machine filled gambling rooms. No cameras.

Yes,
it was part of the plan to allow for backing out at any time, but it
bothered him to no end that he would fail at his first and simplest
task. He imagined hearing Bryce’s wild story of stealing a
billion dollar military aircraft, while he couldn’t even pick
off a simple hundred dollar camera. Then he spotted a news van
parked in front of one of the hotels.

Emblazoned
on the sides, in large ‘electric shock’ type face, was
the magazine’s name,
Know It All.
He walked full around
the special van, outfitted with an advanced looking ray gun-like
transmitter on the roof. He looked in the windows. It appeared
empty. He stood at the back and knocked on metal doors. Groaning
sounded from within. He knocked more, and eventually the doors
creaked open. The man inside had obviously been aroused from sound
sleep. His hair stuck up in bunches and his eyes squinted even in
the light of a distant street lamp. “What the fuck do you
want?”

Warren
noted a foam rubber mattress behind him, and shelves on one side
filled with photographic paraphernalia - cameras, film, and rows of
attachments. He spied a crumpled copy of
Know It All
, and he
could tell from the cover and the headlines that this was an English
language tabloid, the kind of rag that berated the rich and famous.

“I
want to buy a camera from you. I’ve got U.S. dollars, cash.
The bidding starts at two thousand.”

The
man rubbed his eyes like he was trying to decide if Warren was real
or dream. “I don’t think so, dick head. Now buzz off
and leave me alone.” He started to slam the door, but Warren
shoved a shoe in.

“I’m
not kidding, a big chance for some serious money. Three thousand.”

The
man opened the door enough to look Warren in the face. “I’m
on assignment. We got some big names coming in here tomorrow. I
drove from Rio for this gig. You think I’m going to sell you
my equipment?” He tried to slam the door.

Warren
thought fast. “All right, I’ll come clean. I saw
Madonna down at the
Recife Palace
, and ...”

“Madonna?
Cindy Crawford is coming ... where did you see Madonna?”

“She
just drove up in a huge limo, and went right to the beach. Middle
of the night and all, I swear to you, she took it all off and jumped
into the surf. I figured a shot of her would be worth millions.”

The
guy’s eyes lit up as the wheels started to turn. “Yea,
they do that up here. Damn.” He looked back into the van to
assess his situation. Then he stood up and pulled some jeans over
his jockey underwear. A flabby belly wobbled out from under the
bottom of a stained T-shirt. “How do I know you’re not
yankin’ my chain?”

“I
guess you don’t. How about a rental - a thousand an hour.”
Warren pulled out a stack of hundreds. The man stopped dressing to
look at the wad of currency.

“You’re
serious. That makes it worth a look.” He pulled on some
socks and shoes, and snapping together equipment. “Now beat
it, asshole.”

Warren
continued to block with his foot. Then he grabbed the handle and
yanked it open. “I want a camera. I’ll steal it from
you if you don’t let me buy it.”

The
man could see his pesky visitor needed more persuasion. Accustomed
to all types of thieves and thugs from his years on assignment, he
quickly reached for one of the many hand guns he had stowed
throughout the truck, and drew it on Warren. “Get out! Or
I’ll kill you,
and
take your money.”

Warren
had one foot already up on the back of the van. His right hand
gripped the shelving, which he had planned to use to pull himself
in. The photographer stepped closer, holding the gun at Warren’s
face. Warren felt a hand sized lens on the shelf. He took a hold of
it, and started to back down. “Easy does it, fella. I’m
leaving. Just hoping you were interested in a little investment
deal.” With a single fluid motion, he let go of the shelf,
hurled the lens into the man’s face, and dived to the street.
The lens hit him low, grazing his chin, slamming into his adam’s
apple with the force of a powerful punch. The man held his neck in
pain, losing his grip on the gun enough for Warren to jump up and
easily remove it. Warren simply booted him out the door onto the
street, and slammed it behind him. He latched the bolts, locking
himself within the dark truck.

Within
seconds, the man banged on the rear doors, while screaming
obscenities. Warren found a small access door to the front, and
jumped into the driver’s seat. Keys in the ignition! Now the
man’s face appeared in the driver’s window, and he beat
on it so hard Warren feared it might break. He screeched away,
leaving the man waving frantically.



He
drove onto the main road at 6:30am. He figured the trip to
Clorice’s island would take 30 to 45 minutes, leaving him less
than an hour to break in and do his assignment. He felt pleased
that at least he could boast of a truck full of photo equipment,
even if he did have to pull out before taking any pictures.



When
the sun rises in equatorial areas, it hits the horizon going
straight up, and seems to jump into the sky. The truck’s
headlights still beamed as he pulled up to the Clorice Island
bridge, while the sun blazed around him like high noon. Almost 7:30
- only fifteen minutes left! He hadn’t figured on congested
roads and numerous detours around construction sites.

Driving
onto the bridge, the formidable gate filled the view at the other
end. As he advanced, guards took up positions in front of the metal
doors. By the time he pulled up, no less than ten men at attention
with rifles stood before him. An official looking man stepped up to
the window and spoke in a foreign tongue.

Warren
had contemplated a number of different plans on his way there -
everything from using the truck owner’s gun to blast his way
in, to bribing the entire ranks of guards, but none suited him.
Desperate for something as the officer waited for a response, he
settled on the simplest of all. “Oh excuse me, I was trying
to get to the beach. I was looking for some local people to
photograph for our International magazine.”

The
officer stepped back to read the writing on the side of the truck.
Warren wasn’t even sure if he spoke English, but the official
now responded fluently. “What kind of magazine is it?”

“It’s
a fashion and lifestyle magazine. I’m leaving the country
today, and I have to go back with a cover story or I’m dead
meat.” He reached behind him and found an old copy of
Know
It All
crammed in between the seats. The cover showed a
gorgeous woman clad in a string bikini, sitting on a hard hat
touting construction worker’s knee. Warren elaborated while
the officer reviewed it. “That cover’s been seen by
millions, maybe billions, of people all over the world.” He
looked into his rear view mirror as if he was about to back up.
“Doesn’t look like I can get through to the beach from
here, so I better get going.”

The
official placed his hand on the driver window sill. “What
kind of cover story?”

‘Gotcha’,
Warren said to himself. “Oh, local people doing things - best
if they’re not tourists, but people who live and work here. I
need pictures, you know, some shots to fill the pages.”
Warren noticed the man’s fingers squeezing more tightly on the
sill.

“Interesting
... “

‘Time
to reel in,’ he mused. “Hey, you guys wouldn’t
want to pose for a few shots, would you? I mean, I know it’s
probably not ...”

The
official interrupted. “That would be fine.”

Warren
jumped out of the truck and started looking around like he was
trying to find the perfect angle. The normally stiff guards
followed him wherever he went. “This is pretty good. We’ll
take a few right here.” He ran back to the truck, and fumbled
through the cameras. There were more attachments than he knew what
to do with. He found a Nikon that looked easy enough, and cases of
film. He knew to use high ASA for low light and found a box full of
400 film. He popped open the back of the camera, only to find it
was loaded. He wondered what titillating shots he might have just
erased. He wound in a new roll.

The
guards had already created a pose by the time he exited the truck -
two lines of them, the shorter men first. The leader stood out in
front with a puffed out chest. As he snapped some shots, he
surveyed the gate itself, and looked through the bars to the tree
lined main island road beyond. He noticed a parade of people half
running up toward them. Soon, more faces emerged in the group of
guards - women and children. They each took places in front of his
camera, arranging themselves in a mob pose, frozen in big smiles.

Becoming
more bold, some requested special shots. “Here! Take me!”
“No, over here!” Frustration showed in the head
guard’s expression. He had lost control of the crowd, and the
central focus of the photographs. He began shooing the crowd away,
even rattling his rifle.

Warren
capitalized on the moment, and stepped up to whisper in his ear.
“Is there a way we can get just you, with one of the pretty
girls? We need a better backdrop too, are there any buildings that
show the kind of work they do here?” Warren looked at him
innocently, and could tell the man was considering something
slightly beyond the rules. Before he could talk, Warren clinched
it, “It’s best if we’re alone, I want to be able
to focus on you - you know, for the magazine cover shot.”

The
officer obliged willingly. He waved a path in the crowd, and
pointed to one of the guards near the booth to open the gate. He
made sure the truck wasn’t carrying any dangerous cargo, with
a perfunctory glance through the back door. He tapped a lovely
young teenage girl on the shoulder and helped her into the passenger
side.

The
girl’s brown-sugar legs and bare feet pushed up next to the
stick shift. Warren took Etty’s map from the dash board,
hoping they hadn’t noticed, and quickly reviewed it before
balling it up like a piece of trash. “What kind of place is
this?” Warren asked.

“A
coffee processing and headquarters compound. I’ll take you to
our main plant. Please don’t mention the name of the company
in your article though. Meneer Clorice might not want the
publicity.”

“Meneer?
Who’s that, the foreman?”

The
guard seemed surprised that Warren was not familiar with John
Clorice, the most powerful man in the northeast. “No, the
owner of Clorice Coffee.”

The
officer pointed left at a “Y”, but Warren continued
right. The guard protested, “Where are you going, you must go
over there!”

Warren
found the thin overgrown side road to the old storage facility and
turned down. “I need something more rustic -what’s down
here?”

He
relaxed when Warren didn’t head for Clorice’s
headquarters building, and seemed resigned to the old facility,
frankly pleased that it was even more out of the way than the main
plant. Before the truck had come to a full stop, the man was
already out the door, rushing toward the perfect backdrop.