Beneath a Panamanian Moon (13 page)

Hog tugged at my shoulder.

I stood up. Silence hung over the range like a blanket. Hamster picked up the grenade. Hog blinked, and brushed dirt from my cheek, which was wet. “I've never seen anything like that,” he said, his voice a whisper edged in wonder. “You jumped on that grenade.”

“I fell,” I said, still unsure if I was whole or halved. “I didn't jump.”

“He jumped,” Hamster said. “I saw him.”

“He jumped on a live grenade,” Ice said.

“No, really, I fell.”

The men behind the earthworks were all silent.

Hog said, his jaw unhinged, “We've done this to a hundred guys, and no one has ever jumped on the grenade.”

“Most guys wet themselves,” Hamster said.

“But you jumped on the damn grenade.” Hog's face pulled itself out of surprise and into wide-eyed, illuminated appreciation of something he'd never seen before and probably didn't ever expect to see again, like Elvis pumping gas along Route 666. “Goddamn, New Guy,” he said, “that was in-fucking-credible.”

“He looked like a monkey,” Phil hollered, “jumping on a coconut.”

The word “monkey” swept through the group, English and Spanish speakers alike. Laughter followed like rain and washed away the remaining tension.

“A fucking monkey man,” Hamster said.

Hog gave me a one-armed hug and said, “Monkeyman, you got some damn brass balls, I'll give you that.”

The thought drifted through the blind haze of the adrenaline rush. “You mean this was a joke?”

Hog was decent enough to be embarrassed. “It's how we break in the new guys. A hazing, kind of. We never expected anyone to do that,” he stammered, his hand wheeling about, searching for words to describe what he had just seen. “To jump, to throw himself…” He trailed off.

I stood there in the bunker as, one by one, men walked past and shook my hand and called me “Monkeyman,” my new name already polished by their respect. There was still rushing in my ears and my knees trembled. I felt like I might throw up, or let go of my bladder, but I didn't. Instead, I held on to a bright and shining thought of hunting these men down, one by one, and killing them in cruel ways as payback for the strain they had just put on my heart.

CHAPTER TEN

I walked dazed to my room, lay down on my single bed, and stared at the ceiling. In what might have been minutes or hours, Eubanks, the clerk who had replaced Ren, knocked on my door. “Monkeyman,” he whispered, “you got company. A girl.”

“What?”

“She's in the lobby. Says you told her to come.”

I looked at my watch and remembered Marilyn. She had promised to help me today, but that was before Ren had brought us the bad news about Zorro and before I had thrown myself onto a live grenade. I pulled myself together, threw some cold water on my face, and went down to the lobby.

Marilyn was sitting beside a potted palm, reading a paperback, a wide straw hat on the seat next to her. She wore shorts, flip-flops, a bikini top, and sunglasses. At her feet was a woven beach bag big enough to carry twins.

“Marilyn. I'm glad they let you in.”

She looked up and smiled. Without the mascara and crimson lipstick she looked like the brightest girl in her freshman class. “I told them I was here to see you and they let me through the gate, no problem. You must be a very important man.”

“Oh, yeah,
muy importante
. I'm surprised to see you,” I said.

“You asked me to come. Last night.” Marilyn whispered. “You gave me the money.”

“But after what happened—”

“I'm sorry about your friend. And I am grateful you didn't tell the police about me. But if you want me to go home, I will.”

I held up my hands and said, “No, no, please, I want you to stay.”

“You look awful,” she said.

“It was a long night. And a long day.”

“I can come back.” She gathered up her hat and bag.

I ran a hand over my face, hoping there would be a new one under there, one that was better-looking. “No. In fact, today is perfect.”

She grasped my hand and pulled me to her, kissed my cheek, and whispered in my ear, “I brought the camera, like you told me to.”

I nodded and glanced at Eubanks sitting behind the front desk. He was staring at Marilyn standing on her tiptoes, the curve of her backside moons peeking out from beneath her shorts. Caught, he gave me an attaboy smile.

I knew the next satellite flyover wouldn't be for an hour, giving us time to capture candid portraits of all of the horny guests lounging around the patio. I had seen their response to the waitress, and counted on it with Marilyn.

We went out the hotel's front door and around to a quieter part of the beach shaded by overhanging coconut palms. I spread out two towels and took a disposable camera from her bag.

Marilyn stepped out of her shorts. She shook loose her hair and said, “Now what?” She put her hands on her hips and posed in the tiny swimsuit. “Is this okay?”

Marilyn had a gymnast's body, as if she'd spent the past ten years spinning around parallel bars and bouncing past tables full of Eastern European judges. Her skin was the color of café mocha, her bikini the color of bananas, and I was reminded that I'd skipped lunch. “Marilyn, you look good enough to eat. Let's move into the sunlight,” I said.

We walked down the beach toward the rear of the hotel. A few of the men, some lounging in the shade of patio umbrellas, some sitting in the sun, watched Marilyn as she scampered along the waterline, kicking rainbows from the surf.

A single male slumbered on the sand, oiled up and as brown as a saddle. I posed Marilyn so that the man's profile was just over her shoulder and said, “Now give me a big smile.” She did and I snapped her picture. “Now I want you to stand there,” I said, putting her in front of the man, and she did, placing one hand behind her head and the other on the small of her back pushing her breasts toward my camera lens.

“Very sexy,” I said, and snapped another picture.

“Now, let me get the patio in the background,” I said, and Marilyn bent over, her hands on her knees, and stuck her backside up at the guests, her face up to me.

As soon as I raised the camera, every man on the patio raised a newspaper or magazine. I tried a few more shots but caught only the covers of
People
and
Time
. Marilyn huffed and shook her head. “It's no good. No man wants to see me. I am too brown, not like that.” She pointed up the beach and said, “That is what they want.”

I saw Kris walking toward us, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail and her skin pink from the sun. She bent at the waist and, two-handed, lofted a beach towel into the breeze and let it float easily down to the sand.

I said, “Make like Tyra Banks. Let them see just how beautiful a Panamanian woman can be.” I snapped a few shots.

Marilyn was reluctant at first, but I pushed her, telling her that next to the gringo girl, pale as a coma patient, she was a jungle flower full of light. “You are a café delight,” I said, throwing out metaphors like Mardi Gras beads, “and any man who prefers plain vanilla to chocolate is a philistine.”

She giggled, but tossed back her hair. I snapped another shot and moved, winding the camera. Marilyn followed me, smiling, loosening up. She started snapping off poses as quickly as my thumb could advance the film. The patio was behind her and the men were all looking in a single direction, their faces bare, their eyes locked on the reclining
rubia
in the blue two-piece.

I quickly snapped all twenty-four exposures and, Marilyn on my arm, waded back to our shady spot on the beach. Marilyn dropped to her towel, sulking. I put the camera in the bag and stretched out next to her.

“Thanks,” I said. “You did great.”

Marilyn sat up. “Did you see those greasy old men? And their fat bellies? All staring at that girl?”

“They saw you,” I said.

“No they didn't. I could have been naked, my
chucha
in the breeze, and they would not have looked away from her, that girl.”

I rolled to my side and put my fingers on Marilyn's shoulder. “You're just as beautiful as that girl.”

“Bullshit.” Marilyn shrugged my hand away.

“Hey, Monkeyman!”

I shielded my eyes from the glare off the water and saw Hog standing over me. Meat stood a few feet behind him, his rifle in his hands, a very ugly smile spread beneath his mirrored shades.

“You've been taking pictures,” Hog said. He shook his head. “I'm going to let that slide because you're new, and because of what happened at the range. But I have to have the camera.” He held out his hand.

“But I was just taking pictures to send back home.”

Hog waggled his fingers. “Come on, man. Let me have it before Kelly finds out. Pictures are a breach of security. The camera, please.”

Marilyn reached into her beach bag and handed me the camera. I handed it to Hog. Hog handed it to Meat, who dropped it into the sand and stepped on it with the heel of his boot. The plastic snapped. Meat picked up the broken body, pulled out the ribbon of film, and threw it all as far as he could into the water. It floated for a moment, the Kodak yellow on the sparkling swell, and then disappeared.

“I won't be able to cover your ass another time,” Hog said, “so don't do that again.” He shook his head. “You could be in big trouble if Kelly knew.”

“I wasn't thinking,” I said. “Thanks, Hog, for cutting me some slack.”

“I wouldn't have,” Meat said.

“That's because you didn't see what he did this morning,” Hog said. “The guy's all right.” Hog looked at Meat, one corner of his smile turned up, and said, “I remember what you did when Hamster dropped that frag. Should we tell 'em what you did, Meat?”

“Shut up,” Meat said, as quick with a witty reply as his name suggested, and turned away.

When they were gone, I lay back and closed my eyes. After a few minutes I said, “Is the camera safe?”

“The camera is safe.”

“You did give me the right one.”

Marilyn huffed. “Of course I did.”

“And what was in that camera he destroyed?”

Marilyn giggled. “Twenty-three pictures of my feet and one of the dog who lives downstairs.”

“Very good.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, until the sand fleas drove us off the beach. I walked Marilyn to the parking lot. She got into a small blue car, its fenders and hood round and fat with 1950s excess, and rolled down her window.

“Where'd you get this thing?”

“It belongs to my neighbor. He lets me borrow it sometimes.”

“What is it?”

“A fifty-four Hillman. It's English.”

I circled the car. “Does it run all right?”

“No. My neighbor calls it the envy of Sisyphus because he has to push it every day. Do you know who Sisyphus is?”

“Yeah, the guy who pushes the rock up the hill.”

Marilyn's eyes twinkled with mischief. “You're pretty smart,” she said, “for a musician.”

“Is there FedEx here? A way I can send this back to the States and have it arrive tomorrow?”

“Yes, UPS. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Oh, right. Monday, then.” I dug into my pocket. “How much do you think it'll cost?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

I stopped, my hand still in my pocket.

“I have expenses,” Marilyn said.

I pulled my money out and handed it to her. “Here's eighty-five. It's all I've got. You'll have to scrape by on that.” I gave Marilyn a business card along with the cash. “Send the camera to that address.”

She put everything into her bag, slipped on her sunglasses, and said, “Will I see you tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“I'd like that, Monkeyboy.”

“Monkey
man,
” I said.

“You'll have to prove that,” Marilyn said and touched my cheek. The engine started with a rattle like small change in a beggar's cup, and Marilyn drove off in her cartoon car.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When I returned to my room, it was clear that someone had searched it, careful to put everything back in the right place, but careless about the matchbook corners I'd stuck between the dresser drawers and the frame. There were four drawers and four paper triangles on the floor. The electronic bugs were still taped in their hiding place, but my laptop had been opened and someone had broken my password, I don't know how, and read my e-mail. There was nothing but the usual promises to enlarge my penis and other come-ons that were intended to shake loose my self-esteem and any cash I might have in my pocket.

I logged on to a Viagra site, one of Smith's little jokes, and hit the contact button. Up popped an e-mail form and I typed in:

I don't give out my credit card number on-line. Watch for money to come by UPS Monday. Don't know how many pills I'll need as the New Year's party has not been confirmed.”

I logged off and went to a Web site dedicated to exotic birds. I downloaded a high-res picture of a toucan from the splash page, enlarged a section of his neck, and isolated the map in the feathers' texture. I memorized the map and closed the site.

Find out who is here and what they're up to. Do that and I can go home, Smith promised. He made it sound so easy.

My stomach rumbled, I looked at my watch and saw I was hungry. I showered and changed, thinking a trip into town for a decent meal would be a nice reward for a productive day. I went down the steps, and as I was crossing the darkened ballroom, I heard the piano again.

The rising moonlight poured light through the windows. A lone figure sat at the keyboard, intent on her song.

“Hi, Kris.”

“Hi, Monkeyman.”

“News travels fast.”