Nature of the Game (41 page)

“He knew the risks,” said Braxton. “That's the life. Things got crazy out there, out of hand, off the clock.”

“You were in charge,” said Jud. “Responsible.”

“I still am,
cowboy
,” Braxton said as he dialed a number. “And you got fifty-eight minutes to get saddled up so we can ride.”

Jud found Willy taking his pistol from the toilet tank. “No more time in this zone with just my dick in my hand.”

An hour after they'd arrived, Jud and Willy stood with Braxton at the curb outside the hotel. Willy and Jud had shoulder bags, wore suits but no ties. Braxton's suit and tie were perfect. He carried a briefcase. Three uniformed soldiers standing sentry at the doors paid them no mind. A tank rumbled down the street.

A gray sedan pulled up beside them. Three Chilean men in civilian clothes climbed out. A passenger stayed in the backseat. One of the mean handed Braxton a piece of paper and the car keys. As the Chileans walked away, Braxton tossed the keys to Willy, climbed in the front seat. Jud sat in back, next to the passenger.

The passenger was a man Jud's age. Black curly hair, pasty skin, and a dark stubble. He wore somebody else's civilian suit over a tan shirt. He smelled of sweat and smoke. His eyes were red and his hands trembled.

“You are Americans, yes?” he said, his voice eager yet shaky. “We are allies, yes? That is a good thing. My name is Rivero, Lt. Javier Rivero.
Perdón
, I have been promoted: captain. You can call me—”

“That's fine, son,” said Braxton from the front seat. “
Estamos todos amigos aqui
.”

“English,
sí, yo hablo
… I speak English. I studied with your military. In Georgia.”

“Get me on that midnight train,” said Willy.

“Roll,” ordered Braxton. Willy steered the car onto the empty street. “We're going to an apartment in a neighborhood called Providencia. Then after dark, the four of us are going to take a plane ride to Paraguay. Corporate jet, a favor from some friends.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Javier. “It is important I go.”

“One step at a time,
amigo
,” said Braxton. “First we get to a cool-out place, stay low and rest. No big deal, right? Do you know how to get to Providencia?”

“Of course!” Rivero answered. “This is my home! This is my city! This is my country!”

He gave Willy eager and complex directions.

“Anything you need,” said Rivero, “just ask. I will help. I will do what must be done. I can. I can.”

“Fine by me, Tonto,” said Willy, making enough sense out of Rivero's frantic directions to navigate the car.

“
Quien es tonto?
” asked Rivero. “In Spanish,
tonto
means fool.”

“Different language,” said Braxton. “Different meaning.”

Rivero slumped back beside Jud.

“I'm a soldier,” he told Jud. “A good soldier. Not fool.”

Rivero pulled cigarettes from his pocket. When he tried to shake one out of the pack, his hands wouldn't stop trembling and the white death sticks fell all over his lap. Jud put one between Rivero's dry lips. The cigarette bobbed and weaved in front of Jud's lighter flame as the car rolled over Santiago's smooth streets, but finally caught, smoked. Rivero nodded his thanks.

Willy switched on the car radio. The stations were on again, still only martial or patriotic music. No Beatles, no jazz. Announcements, but no news. Willy drove with his yellow card between his fingers, his hand high on the steering wheel. They were still stopped at police roadblocks—two men in a car with long hair and beards, two men who didn't fit with them—but the magic yellow cards parted all the guns.

They drove with the windows down. The warm air carried the stench of charred stone, napalm.

Chilean flags hung everywhere, from many of the closed shops, from apartment balconies, from light poles. The buses weren't running, traffic was light. A few people gingerly trod the pavement, looking for open grocery stores, trying to get home during the free transit period. Troops and police were everywhere, cruising in jeeps, at roadblocks, squads patrolling the sidewalks.

“We won,” said Rivero. “We won.
Viva Chile!
”

None of the Americans answered him.

They stopped for a traffic light. Suddenly, they heard cries, shouts, looked to the left.

On the sidewalk not twenty feet away, soldiers held a woman as an officer used a bayonet to slash her pants legs to ribbons.

“In Chile,” yelled the officer, “women wear dresses!”

The soldiers threw the woman into the gutter. The officer looked at the car with four men in it. Braxton and Willy waved their yellow cards. The officer saluted, and they drove on.

Rivero craned his neck to watch as the soldiers tied the hands of the woman in the gutter. The officer spit on her. Rivero's mouth was open, his eyes wide.

They had to detour twice to avoid firefights between leftist sympathizers and junta troops.

The apartment was on the fourth floor of an eight-unit building. The old woman they saw in the lobby quickly looked away as they entered the stairwell running up the building's center.

The apartment was crammed with tasteful family heirlooms. Willy found a baked chicken in the refrigerator. He and Jud fell on it like sharks. Braxton and Rivero said they weren't hungry, but Rivero took one of the cold bottles of beer.

“This dude lives,” sighed Willy, sipping his beer.

“There's two bedrooms,” said Braxton. “Willy, grab the first shut-eye.”

“Gone, keemo,” said Willy, disappearing into a bedroom.

Rivero claimed he wasn't tired. Braxton shrugged, told Jud, “I'll be on the phone in the other room.”

Rivero sat on the couch, beer bottle shaking in his hands. Jud dropped into an easy chair across from him. Smiled.

“You are American,” said Rivero.

“Yes.”

“I love my country. Do you love your country?”

“Yes.”

“I am a soldier, that's what this is about, yes?”

“Yes,” said Jud. “Being a soldier.”

“I have a job. A duty.” He shook his head. “I don't mind talking about it.”

The windows at the end of the living room overlooked the city. A helicopter chopped its way over the rooftops.

“You have been many places in the world?” asked Rivero.

“A few,” Jud told him.

“Do you think … Would the communists have taken our children to schools in Cuba? Made the women … And the church, they would have destroyed the church. They do things like that everywhere, right?”

“I haven't been everywhere,” said Jud. He nodded. “They're bad people.”

“Yes.
Yes
.”

They could hear Braxton mumbling into the telephone in the other room.

“My countrymen,” said Rivero, “some were misguided.”

“It happens,” said Jud.

“He should have surrendered,” said Rivero.

“I mean,” he said, a skull grin on his face, eager eyes, “look at it logically. Look at it like a soldier. There was … He was surrounded, we had him pinned down. No relief forces for him. Our superior firepower. No advantage to gain, he … Logically, he should have surrendered. There was a plane waiting for him, safe conduct guaranteed! The word of the military! He should have surrendered! Taken the plane!”

“Like us,” said Jud evenly. “Like we will. Tonight.”

“Yes. Yes.” He shook his head. “I am a soldier. I follow orders. I do my best. I do my job. I have duty. Loyalty.”

His hands trembled, but he lit his own cigarette.

“Your cross,” said Rivero. “Do you believe in God?”

“Sure,” lied Jud.

“Redemption. Forgiveness. Just as long as you believe.” He shook his head. “Maybe you don't even need Jesus as long as you
believe
.”

“Take it easy,” said Jud. “You're tired.”

“It was a military battle,” insisted Rivero. “An air strike, and then I, my men, we were ordered to attack. They shot at us! Machine guns and tear gas, it was all … Battle is chaos, you know? Instinct and insanity.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jud.

“You are a soldier. That is what it is all about, being a soldier. The Moneda, the shooting and fighting and running, I couldn't be sure what I saw and they turned to me—not my uniforms—and I fired. I fired. He fell.”

“Later, we found him …”

“What difference does it make if it was suicide or not?” said Rivero. “
Of course it was suicide!
He stayed in there against overwhelming odds. Wouldn't surrender. He doomed himself. What difference does it make if he put Fidel's machine gun under his chin or … or I shot him? Suicide, it was suicide and he is dead.”

A great weight rolled through the man on the couch, left him trembling. Jud leaned toward him, but Rivero waved away.

“I am a soldier. I did what had to be done. That is all. I am not an assassin! I am not!
I! Am! Not! An! Assassin!
”

“I know about assassins,” said Jud. “You're not one.”

Braxton carefully walked into the living room, his eyes on the man who'd been screaming.

Rivero saw the American commander's disapproving look, dropped his voice. “It will be better for history that everyone understands it was suicide that killed the President. Not us. Not me. Suicide. He chose to stay, so he chose to die, and that is suicide. Choosing. Like that. The last choice, eh? We welded the coffin. But it is better, because it is true, it was suicide.”

“Yes,” said Jud, “I suppose it was.”

“That's why I have to go away,” said Rivero. “To keep history true. If I stay, I might … I could slip or … I must go.”

“I understand.”

“Do you think … When will I get to come home?”

“Just as soon as possible,” said Braxton.

“I wish I could call my mother. Do you talk to your mother?”

“No,” said Jud.

“You should. You should.” Rivero shook his head. “There are so many
shoulds
. So many
should nots
.”

Willy wandered out of the other bedroom. “Man, I'm all dexed up, I can't sleep for shit!”

“I am tired now,” said Rivero.

Braxton whispered to Willy, “Phone in there?”

Willy shook his head no.

“Captain, why don't you go lie down? We'll get you when we need you.”

Rivero nodded. Wandered into the bedroom, turned around and looked at these three strangers.

“My country,” he said. Then he closed the door.

For a while, the men slumped around the living room listening to sobs from behind the closed door. Braxton made more phone calls in the other bedroom. Willy and Jud stared numbly at the walls, mouths slack, eyes open, minds gone. Time stood still.

“What's that?” said Jud suddenly.

Willy was on his feet, revolver drawn. “What!”

Silence. Rivero's door was locked.

“Braxton!” yelled Jud, and he kicked in the door.

The bedroom window was open.

In the street four stories below lay a crumpled form.

“Dude should have waited for the airplane,” said Willy.

“We're out of here
now!
” ordered Braxton.

On the sidewalk, a handful of people had emerged to stare, but not get too close. A squad of soldiers ran toward the disturbance of law and order. Braxton nodded to Jud when they reached the street. “Check it out, be sure.”

Jud glared at him. “The man didn't have a chute!”

Braxton looked at Jud's face; barked, “Willy! Do it!”

Without a glance, Willy slid away to follow orders.

“I am in command here,” snapped Braxton.

“Of what?” said Jud. “Of who? My orders say I'm to do a job to facilitate a situation. Well, that's done,
boss
, and you've been a great help. But your command is over.”

“That man was part of the mission, and until we got him to Paraguay, so were we!”

“So was Luis, and you fucked him up, too.”

Braxton blinked.

“Who are you, huh?” asked Jud.

By the body, they saw Willy look toward them, snap a quick thumbs-down, and stroll away. A soldier stopped him, but Willy flashed his yellow card and walked to the car.

“You want to know who we are, hero?” snapped Braxton. “We're the guys scheduled to take a plane to Paraguay tonight. We were supposed to have him in tow. We're the guys who were gonna run a debriefing session with some friends, talk it all out with our no-chute Captain Rivero.

“Only don't call him that,” said Braxton. “Call him Lee Harvey. Call us Jack Ruby.”

Braxton climbed in the car.

And Jud remembered the Stadium, the firing squads. The woman in the street. The Watergate White House. Being a soldier.

Slowly, Jud got in the car.

That night, after the Gulfstream jet landed the three of them in Asunción—
stand down, all clear
—Jud bought a bottle of Scotch and drank himself into oblivion.