God's Favorite (8 page)

Carmen pushed Tony's hand away. “Get that away from me! What do you think—that I'm going to shoot you in my living room?”

“Do you want me to step out on the balcony?”

“Just put that gun away and leave,” she said. “And take the damn bird. It's over, Tony.”

I
T WAS NEARLY
midnight when Tony returned to his office. He was feeling a little stultified from the pasta and the wine at dinner and gloomy from his fight with Carmen. He couldn't get her out of his mind. The world was falling apart all around him, and all he could think about was Carmen! Their relationship was too volatile to last. But the thought of being without her was too awful to consider. “A long day,” he said as he sat heavily in his high-backed chair.

“I think Nicky and I have come to an understanding,” said Roberto.

“Is that right?”

Nicky made a grunt of assent. A cloud came out of his mouth in the deep chill of the room.

“Rollins called,” Roberto said significantly. “He wants to hear from you right away.”

“I really need to go for a walk,” Tony said by way of apology after a noisy burp. “Jean-Luc's chocolate mousse is a little too rich.”

Roberto bowed in agreement. The remains of his own sumptuous dinner were sitting on the desk between them.

President Barletta looked ravaged and half-starved. He was visibly shaking, partly from the cold and partly from indignation. “You have the nerve to threaten me,” he said. “You hold me illegally. And then you even threaten members of my family. God damn you, Tony—you can't get away with this!”

Tony shook his head. “Roberto is a little anxious, Nicky. He's worried because he knows I know what he is up to. He is trying to get rid of both of us. He thinks that if I unload you, pressure will be brought against me—by the Americans and everybody else. So maybe he exceeds his authority.”

“You see it, too?” Nicky said excitedly. “That's exactly what I realized myself! This whole business has been Roberto's plan! He
has been planting rumors, making people upset, scheming with the troops!
He's
the one who has been disloyal! Not me! I'm only trying to do the right thing! I just want to help you, I swear it. Together we can fix everything—it's not too late! We can make this country great, Tony! But first we have to get rid of Roberto. He's the problem—not me!”

“What do you have to say about this, Roberto?” Tony asked.

Roberto was smiling uncertainly. He realized that Tony was in a mischievous frame of mind; in any case, one could never be too confident about his support. “You know very well that Nicky has been using the Spadafora case as a way to incriminate you,” Roberto said indignantly. “Surely you cannot tolerate such disloyalty. If I have gone too far in my efforts to protect you, it is simply because of my desire to serve my country.”

Tony looked from one man to the other. “It's hard, you know. Every day people bring me their problems and ask me to solve them. Sometimes I think the whole fucking country is waiting for me to make their decisions for them.”

“Take this also into account,” Nicky said, leaning forward urgently. “If you remove me, you will be left with Tuturo Delvalle. He is the king of the white asses. Is that the kind of man you want running your country? The people won't respect him. Everybody knows he's a donkey's behind.”

“Everything you say is true,” Tony conceded. “And yet, you do not see the complete picture. This is what leadership requires, my friend. You see, there is some value in knowing that Roberto is a Judas. He cannot afford to be too clever, because we occupy the same milieu. I always know what he is up to. A man like that, he will work very hard to prove himself to me. You, on the other hand, have no such obligation. Every day of your life you will be working to get rid of me. And this is only human. I respect you for it. But I cannot allow you to stay in office.”

The phone rang. It was Rollins. Tony put him on the speaker.

“Tony, I hear you're about to make a change in government,” Rollins said.

“This is a possibility,” Tony admitted. “But to tell you honestly, Nicky says that if we remove him, the Americans will destroy me.”

“Nicky, did you say that?” Rollins asked.

“I only say that because the Americans want the same things I want—stability, a democratic government, a commitment to sound fiscal policies. And of course, justice in the Spadafora matter.”

“Nicky also says his friend George Shultz will crush me,” Tony added. “Tell me, Rollins, do you think that is true?”

“The State Department will be very upset, I can guarantee it,” said Rollins. “And he's right about Shultz—he'll want your scalp.”

Nicky shook his head meaningfully.

“So what do you think the White House reaction will be if we make this change?”

“The president will have to disapprove in very strong terms,” said Rollins. “Just make sure it's constitutional, Tony. As long as it's constitutional, you'll be okay.”

“Of course,” said Tony. “In fact, the legislature is already assembling to consider the matter of Nicky's impeachment.”

“Well, then, it's an internal matter,” said Rollins. “None of our business.”

Nicky seemed to collapse in on himself, like a ruined soufflé. “Very impressive, Tony,” he said. “You've covered every base. Even the Americans have washed their hands of me.” He laughed in disbelief—an empty, despairing laugh. “But you still have the problem of Hugo. Getting rid of me won't change anything. People are demanding justice. They won't let you get away with this.”

“I think you would really rather resign than be impeached,” said Tony. “I tell you this as your friend. Think of your family. Think of your future. Why don't you sign the letter Roberto has prepared? Then perhaps we can all go to Naomi's and spend some time with the girls.”

F
ATHER
J
ORGE
sat in the antechamber of the massage parlor, feeling like a spy. He rarely wore a Roman collar, except in the confessional and during Sunday services, and because he was dressed very simply, with no outward indication of his vocation, he supposed the women responded to him as they did toward any other potential customer. He had expected either boredom or else highly exaggerated interest. Although they looked at him, of course, simultaneously sizing him up and selling themselves with their eyes, they were mostly polite and familiar, accepting him as if he were a classmate or a cousin, which left him with the disconcerting sense of being entirely at home in their company. Once they determined that he did not want to make a selection right away, they went back to watching cartoons on the cable. Father Jorge and the whores watched and laughed companionably. He tried not to think about the fact that he could pick one of the women, have sex with her, then return to the next Roadrunner cartoon without causing the least comment. No one would know but God.

A businesslike older woman came out of a small room that Father Jorge guessed must be an office. She introduced herself as Naomi. Unlike the other women, who were dressed in nightgowns or tank tops, Naomi wore a dark suit. “Have you made a selection?” she asked. “Or are you waiting for someone in particular?”

“Actually, I am here on personal business. I'm a priest,” he added, feeling an odd sense of embarrassment. But the whores did not even look up from the cartoons.

“We service all kinds, Father,” Naomi said.

“I've come to talk to one of your employees. Her name is Gloria Sánchez.”

“If this is Church business, you should meet somewhere else.”

Father Jorge explained that he had only been given the address
on a form. “Believe me, it's a very important matter or I wouldn't be troubling her at work.”

Naomi considered for a moment. “She's with a client. You can wait for her. But please conduct your business in private.”

Presently, a man buttoning up his bus driver's uniform came out of the dark hallway that led to the other rooms. Behind him was a woman whose hair was fluffed into an airy bouffant, and her almond-shaped eyes were highlighted with purple mascara and gold glitter. Father Jorge would not have recognized her except for the lime green fingernails and crucifix ear studs.

“This gentleman has been waiting to see you,” said Naomi when the bus driver had departed.

Gloria looked at Father Jorge and smiled in recognition. The priest silently wished that someone would be shocked by his presence.

“It's about Teo,” he said in a low voice.

Her expression immediately changed. She led him down the hallway to a small room lit with a black light. There was a water bed and a massage table and a cabinet full of oils.

“He left the dormitory last night,” Father Jorge said in answer to the urgent questions in her eyes. “Frankly, we've been having some trouble with him. He was suspected of taking money from the collection. It happens all the time,” he hastened to assure her. “Boys in the mission don't have an income. We try to get them odd jobs, but occasionally they steal. It's never much. But when I tried to talk to Teo about it, he became very agitated and refused to discuss the matter. He didn't admit anything, he simply left. I was hoping he had come to you.”

“He wouldn't come to me. He has gone to his friends in the street.”

“If he's still in Chorrillo, I am sure I will find him,” said Father Jorge. “But unfortunately he cannot return to the church. He has violated our rules.”

The glitter above Gloria's eyes shone like neon in the black
light. “God must be so angry with me. He makes me suffer by punishing Teo.”

“God does not punish the children for the sins of the parent,” the priest said.

“Then why does he punish Teo? Why does he give him such a difficult life? This is a good boy, at one time he was a very good boy. But nothing works for him.”

“God has given him a life. It is not all bad. Many other children have more difficult situations. It is up to Teo to take advantage of what is offered him.”

Gloria began to cry softly and unself-consciously. “If you want, we can say the rosary,” the priest suggested.

Gloria got her rosary out of a drawer in the cabinet with the oils. Father Jorge took her hand. As they prayed to Mary, he thought how strange her hand felt in his, as if he were holding a rare and delicate bird.

T
HERE WERE
only six limousines in Panama, so when the long black Cadillac snaked up the hillside of Via Porras, a stream of children playing in Omar Torrijos Park ran after it, waving and loudly demanding that the windows be lowered so they could see inside. But the smoky windows stayed shut, and the limousine left the howling children behind.

Policemen in their coffee-colored uniforms watched respectfully as the limousine slowly passed by. In the manicured yards, oversized purebred dogs stuck their muzzles through the fences, as if they smelled trouble. The limousine turned on Calle Andre into Golf Heights. Here lived the drug barons and the upper ranks of the PDF in tacky stucco mansions set behind tamarind trees and high walls draped with bougainvillea and crowned with shards of colored glass. Immense satellite dishes crowded the rooftops, with their receptive faces raised to the sky. Torrijos had believed that the best way to gain the loyalty of his officers was to make them rich, and it was a policy that Tony grudgingly continued. The more loyalty an officer displayed, the larger the unaccountable, untaxable cash bonus he received in his monthly brown envelope.

The grounds of Casa Noriega were surrounded by a low stone fence behind a bed of petunias. The house itself was large and U-shaped, also built of stone. One entered through a broad foyer that housed Tony's extensive collection of porcelain frogs, which were his talisman and spirit guide. The kitchen and large public rooms were on one side, along with a handsome chapel; on the family side, there was an art gallery, a library, a beauty parlor for Felicidad, a dojo where Tony practiced karate, and bedrooms for the Noriegas and their three daughters. Mangoes and hibiscus filled the courtyard between the two wings. The girls' old playhouse was still there, and a toy windmill, and a reproduction of the Liberty Bell that was given to Tony by some American fundamentalist Christians for promoting democracy in Central America. Crimson-backed tanagers and social flycatchers could usually be glimpsed flitting about in the foliage. More exotic birds occupied the aviary in front of the house, in a grove of orange trees, where Tony kept his prize parrots and macaws. In a cage by himself was his vicious battle-scarred rooster, Fusilero.

A policeman slumped in a wicker rocker at his post in the guard hut at the front gate, his automatic weapon lying at his feet. He was snoring loudly, unmindful of the distant cries of children or the barking of the hysterical Dalmatian across the street. But a light tap on a car horn brought him splashing back into consciousness. He licked the crust off his dry lips and shielded his eyes against the blinding Panama afternoon and the fiery sheen of the limousine.

The guard slung his weapon over his shoulder and regarded the limo with wonder. The window lowered.

“Take this to your boss,” said the man inside the cool puddle of gloom. The guard saluted and accepted a package the size of a shoe box wrapped in green foil.

F
RANKLY
, R
OBERTO
, you have never struck me as a military man. It is not your special gift, in my opinion.”

Roberto Díaz Herrera shifted uncomfortably in the stiff cane-back chair he had been offered in Tony's game room. It was Tony's aerie in the treetops, which could be reached only by way of a spiral staircase from his second-floor library. Through the windows one could see the city and the Gulf of Panama and the verdant hills of the Canal Zone. “Tony, I do not have to defend my military record—it speaks for itself,” Roberto said indignantly, ignoring the chuckle of Ari Nachman, an Israeli intelligence agent and arms merchant, who was sorting through Tony's record collection. In the background, the Dallas Cowboys were playing the Pittsburgh Steelers on a fuzzy giant-screen TV.