The Geronimo Breach (27 page)

As she padded around her condo soaking in the view of the ocean, she was also calculating the cost to get Esperanza back on its feet. It was a financial setback, that was for sure, but she’d get over it.

After showering and putting on a dusting of makeup, she slipped a light cotton summer dress on and prepared to meet some friends for lunch. In the tropics, even a simple one-piece cover-up was considered appropriate during the day – it was invariably hot in May, but nothing like as muggy and awful as August or the surrounding months. The rainy season was tough but she’d lived with it all her life and so was used to it. She inspected herself in the mirror with satisfaction. She was holding up well after thirty-eight years on the planet.

Carmen grabbed her purse and keys, locked her door and waited for the building elevator. In the lobby, she greeted her doorman with a cheery wave and breezed through the doors into the damp heat of the day.

Halfway down the block two men approached from the opposite direction. A black sedan pulled to the curb alongside her. One of the men flashed a badge and instructed her to get into the car. She half turned to run back to her building but the second man grabbed her arm and forced her into the car. The few pedestrians on the block avoided eye contact, preferring not to become involved. Carmen decided not to fight it – it wasn’t like she wouldn’t be back on the street within a short time. This was probably just the second phase of questioning by an over-zealous detective.

Then she noticed the passenger in the front, next to the driver.

Jenkins.

“Hello, Carmen,” he said. “Seems like we have a lot more we need to chat about.”

She felt a sting on her arm – the man who’d climbed in next to her had injected her with something. Her vision blurred and everything went dark.

The car pulled from the curb and accelerated around the corner, onto one of the large main streets.

~

“She hasn’t told us anything we don’t already know,” Jenkins said to Richard on his cell.

“So she’s sticking to the story?” Richard asked. “This was just a chance encounter? A simple cook who was looking for a cheap way across the border without paperwork, escorted by a down on his luck embassy simpleton?”

“That about covers it,” Jenkins replied. “She swears she only used Al because of his diplomatic passport – and because he worked cheap.”

“Do you believe her?” Richard inquired.

“I’m not sure what to believe, Richard. The account hangs together and makes a certain sense, but on the other hand, she’s clearly a skillful liar; look at the business she’s in,” Jenkins observed.

“We need to get everything out of her.” Richard paused. “Whatever that takes.”

“I understand. We’ll get it,” Jenkins assured him. “I can be very persuasive.”

“I know. But there’s a limit to how far we can go and still release her. She’s connected, and we don’t want to stir up any more local trouble,” Richard warned.

“You need to make a decision, then. How far are you willing to go?”

“As far as you need to in order to be confident you got everything,” Richard replied.

“That could get messy. Just so you know.”

“Sometimes you gotta break some eggs...” Richard mused.

“...To make an omelet,” Jenkins concluded. “Okay then, I’ll get cracking on it,” Jenkins said, his tone flat.

“Call me once it’s over,” Richard said.

Cartagena turned out to be a large, vibrant metropolis, much more developed than Al had expected based on his experiences with Turbo and Monteria. This was a bustling cosmopolitan ocean-side city, perhaps not modern by first-world standards but definitely not the boonies, either. Traffic clogged the streets and thousands of pedestrians milled about in the city center.

The bus arrived at the depot and Al stepped out of the climate controlled interior to be assaulted by the inevitable humidity and heat. Even though they were near the ocean, the equatorial swelter was never far off. It had rained several times a day almost the entire time he’d been in Panama, and apparently Colombia wasn’t much different.

Al walked down what appeared to be one of the main streets and soon found an electronics shop that featured cell phones in its display. Inside the store, he quickly discovered that while the phones were more expensive than in Panama, they weren’t that much more. He selected a small Erikson that cost under $50 and also bought a hundred minutes of talk time on a card. The woman behind the counter was amenable to charging the battery for him so he could use it immediately. Al killed the required battery-charging hour by grabbing some grilled fish and beer at a neighborhood restaurant next door. Upon his return to the store, he peered at the array of sundry technological marvels on display in the window. He wondered whether he could sell the video camera and just keep the storage medium, and quickly thought better of it. With his luck it would surface like a bad penny and lead the bad guys straight to Cartagena.

Once the cell phone was fully charged the woman handed it to him, complete with the box, the manual and charger. Al dutifully packed it into his satchel and walked back out onto the hot sidewalk.

It was the moment of truth. He couldn’t believe it, but his stomach was tightening up from anxiety. The whole world wanted to kill him and he found that less stressful than calling an old flame...

Al suspected this was only one of the myriad ways he was really screwed up.

He carefully entered the number the PI had given him. The phone rang four times, followed by a generic machine-created voice advising him in Spanish to leave a message. He hung up, checked the number again – and got the same recording. This time, he waited for the beep and began his fumbled message…

“Ahhh...hi, Mari...at least I hope this is Mari...I know this is probably very strange, but this is a voice from your past...it’s Al...hopefully you remember? I...uh...I was hoping to talk to you...I have a number you can call...” Al left his cell number and stood dazed in the hot sunshine, staring stupidly at his new phone.

Well that kind of sucked. He had no way of knowing if it was even the right number, and certainly no way of knowing whether she was in town or not. He dimly recalled that her mother and sisters lived in Cartagena too, but not much else. Those years had been effectively blurred by time and an ocean of rum.

So now what? It was two o’clock and Al had nothing to do; no plan other than hoping Mari would call him sooner rather than later. Ordinarily he might have wandered around the town but his feet were still largely out of commission. He didn’t want to shred the barely healed skin any worse than he already had. And finding the nearest bar in which to get obliterated seemed like a poor idea, even to him. He needed to keep what few wits he had about him.

Then again, one more icy cold
cerveza
couldn’t hurt.

Al walked down the block and spotted a cafe with plastic tables on the sidewalk in front of it. The small green awning over the picture window advertised Bavaria beer, so Al figured they’d know how to serve a frosty one.

He sat at a shaded table. Moments later a teenage girl emerged and took his order. Al watched her reenter the restaurant with interest – no matter how old he got or what country he was in, cute girls always had that special appeal.

Mari had certainly been cute. Among many other things. Her face was very reminiscent of J-Lo, with a body to match. Al had always marveled at how stunning she looked and how lucky he was to have her –
but not enough to commit, obviously
. No, surrendering himself to a sort of boozy purgatory had been a far better choice than having a serious relationship with the best woman he’d ever met.

Al was great at making those kinds of tough choices.

When his beer arrived he dropped a bill in the girl’s hand and told her to keep the change. She smiled at him with polite disinterest, no doubt thinking,
Grandpa with a lobster head and effeminate facial hair, on sale here, special price today...

Wallowing in self-pity was hardly a good substitute for a plan, so when he’d finished his beer and still gotten no call from Mari he decided to check out her neighborhood, and maybe stop in, just in case the phone number had changed.

She lived in an area by the beach called Crespo; which was on the northern side of town near the airport – according to the cab driver he’d just flagged down. It would be a twenty minute ride and cost five dollars.

The cab pulled up to a twenty story white high rise condo development across the street from the beach – which was gorgeous, even by Miami standards. Al paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk, savoring the crisp sea breeze as it rippled inland. Now this was more like tourist country.

Studying the address, he realized that the new building wasn’t his destination – Mari had to be on the other side of it. He proceeded to explore further down the block and spotted a more traditional, two story home, also painted white. The number on the wall matched the paper in his hand.

He swung open the gate and entered the front courtyard, and taking a deep breath, mounted the three stairs and knocked on the front door. His heart skipped a beat.

Nothing.

Al knocked again and listened carefully, alert to any sound coming from the interior of the house.

Silence.

He turned and descended the steps, and halfway to the gate, froze.

Mari stood in the gateway. Holding the hand of a small child. A little girl, by the looks of her locks.

Al stammered a greeting. “I...hello, Mari...I...I know this is a surp–”

Mari approached him from her position at the gate and slapped his face as hard as she could. Al saw stars for a moment.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here? How did you find me?” she hissed at him.

“Mari. I’m sorry. I know this is probably a shock. I called earlier, but nobody answered. I left a message...” Al offered.

She slapped him again. Not quite so hard, but it still stung.

“Get out,” she said, barely controlling her voice. “Get out of my life right now, and don’t come back. Ever.”

The toddler started to cry.

“I...Mari, please. Let me explain. I don’t mean to disrupt your life. Really,” Al blurted, and then addressed the child. “Shhhhhhhh.
Por favor. No problema
. Shhhh...” He returned his attention to Mari. “God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any drama. It’s just that I’m in really bad trouble and I had nowhere else to go...I...I’m sorry, Mari. For everything. You’re right...this was a bad idea. I’ll go now.” Al’s marginal fortitude had deflated with each syllable. He should have never come.

What had he been thinking?

Fearful of another of Mari’s well executed blows, he sidestepped her and the infant and stumbled to the gate. “You look great, Mari. I hope you’re happy and you found someone who deserves you. I’m sorry for coming...” he apologized again, then closed the gate behind him.

Mari and the toddler stood watching him limp down the sidewalk back towards the big condo development, clutching his knapsack, defeated. Mari kneeled in front of the little girl and dried her tears with the hem of her skirt as the wind off the ocean tugged gently at their hair.

Mari returned to the gate, closed and bolted it and they slowly walked back towards the house, the scary red-faced man now just a bad memory for both of them.

Mari withdrew a key, which was suspended on a necklace around her neck, and bending down, unlocked the deadbolt. The little girl ran inside and Mari slammed the heavy wooden door behind them.

~

That could have gone better, Al reflected. He rubbed his face, which was now adorned with two bright red handprints, and considered his next move. It was pretty safe to say that any assistance he’d hoped to get from Mari was a dead end.

This was obviously the worst day ever to quit drinking.

He decided to continue down the beachfront road, watching for the telltale bright yellow that would indicate a taxi. There was plentiful traffic, but no cabs. That figured – it was now rush hour and people were heading home in droves. This was a residential area with no hotels he could see, so there wouldn’t be a plethora of cabs loitering about hoping for gimpy Gringo fares.

After several blocks of hobbling he came upon a seafood restaurant – a little neighborhood place whose business obviously came from the locals. He limped through the doorway, to the
ting ting
of a bell, sat down – and ordered a beer.

Mari was still in good shape, at least judging by the force she’d brought to bear behind her slaps. He couldn’t take that away from her.

He replayed the look on her face, part horror and part something else; something difficult to define as she stood with the ocean in back of her, the breeze tussling her flowing mane. Mari was still beautiful – if anything even more so over the intervening three years. Al, on the other hand, was bald, sunburned and sporting a peculiar goatee, along with a couple of extra pounds. He swallowed the beer in three gulps and ordered another. She didn’t know what she was missing. Broke, bald, fat, running from the law, no prospects and no future, a boozehound with commitment issues and a pronounced limp...

Maybe she did have a fair idea what she was turning down.

The waiter brought his second beer. He picked it up and skillfully quaffed half of it in a single gulp.

A muffled warbling sound emanated from his pants.

Al coughed his second glug of beer through his nose. Eyes streaming, he tried to arrest his choking, struggling for breath while he fumbled for his phone in his pants pocket.

He retrieved the little cell phone, but it was silent.

Maybe he’d hit a button when he’d shifted to swallow the beer.

It started warbling again.

He stabbed at the green call button with urgent anticipation. He put the cell to his ear.

“What kind of trouble?” Mari asked.

~

Al opened the gate, being careful to close it behind him. He approached the front door and mounted the steps. He braced himself and knocked. A few moments later the brightly painted door swung open. Mari stood in the doorway, eyes red, tears streaking her face.