The Consummata (2 page)

It was as simple as that.

Up ahead a pack of little
muchachos
let out a howl of bird squeals as they came tumbling around the side of a building, racing toward me with another pack in pursuit, playing one of their crazy kid games. I paused while they flowed around me, then edged myself toward the wall so the second bunch of brats wouldn’t have to use me for an obstacle course.

But suddenly I had become part of their game.

They had me surrounded, with half of the pack pushing and the other half pulling, and somehow under the yelling I could make out a tiny voice whispering, “Go in,
señor...
go inside,
rapidamente
!”

I had time for one quick look around and spotted the first bunch of kids piled up in front of the pair of tails who were trying to pick and claw their way through the mini-mob hanging onto their legs and arms when an adult hand grabbed my shoulder, hauled me through the doorway beside a grocery store, and shoved me into the gloom of a corridor.

The sun outside had been so blinding that the transition threw me into total darkness for a second, but I followed the hand that tugged at my coat, stumbled twice, recovered, then felt myself being guided into a recession in a wall. To call it a closet would be generous.

The voice said, “Stay there. Be quiet,
señor
.”

Then something was slammed in place—not a door, more
like a panel—and I had just enough room to feel like I was in an upright coffin.

Out there somewhere, a woman was screaming in anger, her lung power fantastic. She was the lead instrument in a raucous symphony that included babies bawling, kids yelling, feet pounding, furious voices barking orders in English, and only getting in return a chorus of excited Spanish.

A husky male voice said, “Damnit, you people—
shut up! You
, lady...cut that yelling,
now!
Jesus Christ. Lou, will you tell them to speak
English
, goddamnit!”

A younger, higher-pitched voice rattled out commands in fluent Spanish and answers came from a dozen mouths. The screaming woman took over after a few seconds, demanding in her shrill, distinctive fashion to know who these invaders were.

In the momentary lull, I knew the feds must be flashing their fancy credentials.

In Spanish the woman intoned in a mix of sarcasm and resignation, “So—the militia. Your type, they are here only two ways—when they are not needed, or when they are too late. Where were
you
, when that crazy
gringo
came running in here and knocked everybody and everything over? The children, too! Did you see what your madman did to our little ones? Knocking them over like dolls? But,
no
—of course you don’t see!”

“Ma’am....”

“No, you stop in the street to play
games
with them. Should we thank you for such attention? You play games, then finally you come pushing in here and make all the noise, and now the
bambinos
, they will
never
get to sleep. The customers, they will stay away today because of the crazy white one running through, knocking over things and people! You militia, you are of such
great
help...”

“Take it easy,
señora
. Take a breath, and tell us what happened.”

She took the breath. “He ran out through the back. What do you think? If you had been here, you would see!” She paused, perhaps to point the way. “And that is what happened while you were playing games with our children. Now you stand here and waste even
more
time...”

Somebody swore, then the husky voice again: “Jesus, lady...stand here and listen to your nonsense and we
are
wasting time...Jack, Roger, go out there through the back, where she indicated. Lou, call the locals to close in around the area. I’ll take Marty and Pete and shake this place down.”

The one called Lou said, “Relax, Bud. Everybody’s converging. We’re on top of this.”

“Are we really? You could fool me.”

“Bud, a bat couldn’t fly out of here now.”

A disgusted grunt. “You must think we’re playing with a kid, Lou. Did you read the damn data? This Morgan character’s a regular Houdini. How do you think he engineered that
last
escape?”

“This isn’t the last escape.”

“No, it’s a brand-new one.” A deep sigh. “Special Agent in Charge Crowley made it clear—he wants Morgan caught, and turned over. He wants some other agency to hold the damn receipt for Morgan’s body.”

Standing there in total darkness, like a tin soldier in a too-tight toy box, I felt my mouth twist in a grin.

So it was Crowley—the guy who was supposed to have delivered me back into a thirty-year stretch, after I did Uncle Sam that little favor that cut my sentence in half. Or
would
have, if I hadn’t escaped instead.

The last time I saw Crowley, he had a wild, surprised look, finding himself stretched out on the cabin floor, a look that got even more surprised as I bailed out over the ocean....

Crowley. I’d have to keep him in mind. At the time, he’d struck me as a guy with the bland face of a professional who would kill if necessary and who you couldn’t easily fake out.

A top hand—and he’d
have
to be, if they’d selected him to take delivery on Morgan the Raider. My mission had been a joint venture of the CIA and FBI and assorted other government alphabet soup, and losing a prisoner this important was not going to help out Crowley’s career path...

Maybe I’d been wrong about the capture priority. Maybe everything
was
on the line now, and this time Crowley wouldn’t worry too much about taking me alive, forty mil or no forty mil. After all, that receipt just specified my body.

Being alive or dead wasn’t mentioned.

I could only wonder how long I was going to have to play mummy in this sarcophagus. Hours ago I had gotten cramped from remaining immobile and managed to work myself into a half-squat, knees and back jammed against the sides of the enclosure to relieve my aching muscles.

The passage of time I could only figure from the smells.
Two times the odors of cooking drifted into my tiny compartment, so I must have been stuffed in there for the rest of the day—thank God I’d emptied my bladder before leaving the safe house this morning.

At first the food smells had been a source of annoyance, thick and spicy enough to be an irritant, making me want to sneeze. Now they were tantalizing tempters because my stomach was flat in its emptiness and what at first had seemed distasteful now seemed potentially delicious.

I had lived with thirst before and knew how to control it. Right now, though, I could use a drink, and it wasn’t water I wanted, but a tall, cold beer in a frosted glass with the suds running down the sides....

For some reason the cramped quarters weren’t as stifling hot as I had expected them to get. The floorboards didn’t join and a coolness seemed to seep upward, musty but easy to live with, like being stuck in an old root cellar.

During the first eight hours, dozens of feet had tramped through the premises, adding to the confusion of voices. Somebody was continually chasing the kids out, trying to mollify the protests of the residents. Twice, agents had stood right outside my cubicle and discussed the search, angry voices muffled but very audible.

“These spics snowed us,” the husky-voiced one called Bud had said. “They were
in
on it.”

“You think these people arranged Morgan’s escape?”

That was the one called Lou, and I found myself grinning. Bud and Lou. Abbott and Costello. I began picturing them that way.

“That’s what I think,” Bud said.

“How the hell did they manage it?”

“The kids were in on it.”

“Get serious! The kids? They’re too little, too young. They couldn’t organize a burping contest.”

“Those little bastards did it, Lou, I’m telling you.”

“No
way
, Bud—there wasn’t time to plan.”

“
They
didn’t plan it, Lou—the grown-ups did.”

“Bud, kids don’t react to orders like that! Not in a matter of seconds. Morgan spotted his tail, took advantage of the situation, used those kids for cover, and somehow got through the cordon.”

“But
how
did he get through the cordon?”

Who’s on first?

A neighborhood house-to-house search was instituted and the feds went through the routine again. Then I heard a voice that echoed back from the recent past and I felt that grin pull at my mouth again.

Crowley.

The big cheese had taken personal charge and everybody was catching hell. As a matter of policy, they were going to station some people around in case I was still holed up, but their own damn self-assurance in their techniques was going to screw the pooch for them.

“It’s just precautionary,” Crowley said, referring to keeping a minimal presence in the neighborhood. His voice was as bland as my memory of his face. “Morgan’s gone. He knew he was being tailed, and walked us into an area where he had allies and resources, and he’s far, far gone. You all know his dossier—if
we want him back, we have to start from scratch.”

So I stayed where I was and listened to the sounds coming back to normal. It would be dark out now, and supper was finished. Faintly, the sounds of a television program came through to me—seemed my saviors watched Johnny Carson, like all good Americans, so I knew it was after eleven o’clock.

I waited.

I changed positions a few times.

And I waited some more.

Then I heard the scratching at the boards in front of my face. I had been in the dark so long my night vision was at its fullest and I saw the section move and slide outward and looked at the funny little guy with the scraggly mustache in the loose light-blue short-sleeve shirt and baggy darker blue pants, standing there trying to peer inside like some fool searching for a missing cat.

He said, “
Señor
...?”

“I’m here.” After all those hours, my voice was scratchy.

His bandito mustache rose in a big smile. “Ha, I knew you were not going anywhere,
señor
! But at first I thought you might have lose the conscious...or maybe you were wounded and we did not know, and some terrible thing happen and...”

“
Amigo
, I’ve never been better. Nothing wounded but my pride.”

A relieved sigh.

Then he pulled the boards back farther. “Come out now, quickly, please. It is all right.”

I shouldered through the opening, watched while he fitted what appeared to be part of the wall back in place. Then he
shoved a carton of garbage up against it and I followed him through a grocery storeroom and up a dark flight of stairs, and into more darkness.

After he bolted the door behind us, he flicked on a yellow-shaded lamp beside an ancient radio console. The room was small but not tiny, with adobe-type walls, second-hand furniture and Catholic wall decorations.

Then my host turned to study me, his face bright with pleasure.

His half-bow was almost comic. “Allow me to present myself,
señor
. I am Pedro Navarro, formerly of Cuba, but now a citizen of your country by choice.”

“I’m Morgan,” I said.

That smile blossomed under the mustache again—somewhat yellow, like the lamp shade. He was a smoker—the smell of cigars was on him. Well, he
was
Cuban....

We sat on a couch whose springs were too tired to complain, and cold beers were drawn from a cooler, ice cold, sweaty in a good way, and he let me swallow one down before he got me another. I was just nursing that one when he picked up the conversation.

“
Señor
Morgan, of course I know who you are. The man with but one name. Morgan the Raider, the militia keep calling you. A pirate for our day. But we do not reveal what we know of you in front of the intruders. We think that is more wise.”

Being known at all was something I wanted no part of. Why did a bunch of Cuban exiles know who the hell I was? There were too many possibilities, none of them good.

I said, “Why should you know me, Pedro? I’ve kind of
made a point of staying under the radar. Only cops and crooks know who I am...or anyway, that’s what I thought.”

“It is more a matter of knowing
of
you,
Señor
Morgan. Until now, none of us have had the pleasure of meeting you. But we are glad to do so now.”

“Why?”

He caught the look in my eyes and smiled again. “Some months ago you did our neighboring country, Nuevo Cadiz, a great service. There you have become a legend. They sing of you in the cantinas, they write your name on the wall.”

“Not restroom walls, I hope.”

He didn’t get the joke and seemed momentarily dismayed. “No, no, you are a
hero
in that country!”

I had to smirk. “Probably not to everybody.”

“This is true,
Señor
Morgan. To certain people connected with the former corrupt government, to mention your name to them is to make them ill in the stomach, no? They talk of you in Cuba, too, where the people hope and dream that perhaps one day you might honor them with your presence, your talents, and give those thieves in control...” He paused and spat on the floor with vehemence. “...the taste of
death
they deserve.”

“I have no business in Cuba,
amigo
.”

His head nodded in sad agreement. “A man’s business is his own. His choices are his to make. We all know this.”

“Good.”

“But,
señor
, to Cubans, you are still a symbol. Someone to be admired, even to be...imitated. A great hero makes small heroes out of others, and enough small heroes can be...”

“An army of revolution?”

“Yes. And those heroes, they will arise when the time comes.”

I tried to make sure my smile didn’t seem patronizing. I owed this guy, and his people.

“Friend,” I said, “you’re talking to a man with a price on his head and the police at his back. I’m about as helpful to you right now as a rabid dog. If the
federales
knew what you did for me? Hell, they’d slap you in the pen so fast your eyes would cross.”

His smile blossomed again, but melancholy now. “Ah, again true. But the people who helped you, who look up to you, they do not care. They brush up against a real hero, and they help this hero, and they feel good about themselves and each other.”