The Laughing Falcon (15 page)

In addition to freedom for the martyr Madrigal, the kidnappers’ shopping list included a countrywide fifty-per-cent
reduction in the price of beans and the deportation of all gringo criminal elements, their land to be distributed to the
pobres
. Their motives seemed not all noble, their wish list also included fifteen million U.S. dollars. The note hadn’t said where the drop should be, further contact would be made by mail addressed to the U.S. Embassy.

The good news was that the junior senator from South Dakota had put his presidential campaign on hold. He announced that during a terse unsmiling speech on CNN, on location in Quepos.

“Another five cancellations today,” someone complained. On top of everything, there’d been a U.S. tourist advisory, just before the Christmas holiday rush. The warning was in fine American imperialist tradition, a gun to the country’s head, tourism was its main industry. To get the advisory lifted, the Tico government had practically given carte blanche to the Americans to run Operación Libertad, as they called it.

The raid had been well staged, according to the AP reporter who got the scoop. Halcón, their leader, was said to have been coolly in control. Slack suspected the kidnappers had vehicles, a safe house in San José. Or maybe they were heading north, up through the jungle and montane, to the Pan-American Highway. If they got across that, they’d be in the Talamanca, thousands of acres of national parkland.

It would be typical of Slack’s wayward fortunes if he found himself somehow suspected, perhaps seriously implicated. He had a history of being scapegoated by the CIA for the various crimes of the century, no wonder he was paranoid — suspicion would fall on him because of his liaison with Gloria-May, the not-so-secret sunset kayak tour. But maybe this was the kind of quirky fear that four beer inspired.

He tried to form an image of her tramping blindfolded through the jungle in her Armani wedding anniversary dress. He truly felt sorry for her, but she was a spirited woman, she
might survive. About the other, the Canadian, he didn’t know.

When he was driven outside by the smoke, his eyes watering, he chanced to see Juan Camacho pass by in his truck, glaring at him. El Chorizo had filed a
denuncia
against Slack over that minor episode in Billy Balboa’s restaurant, he was suing for a million colones. Slack figured he’d done him a favour, the nose looked better now, blunter, not as rat-like.

The skies were gathering in, another pour coming today, the rainy season showing no interest in packing it in. Wettest
invierno
on record, it was the accelerating global warming, man altering weather patterns, Niños and Niñas, the reefs dying, sea life starving, deserts encroaching. When the coastal plains were gone, when only buildings rising from the sea were left, maybe the experts would figure out what went wrong.

A helicopter howled overhead, low, descending toward La Compañía, the old company town nestled in the hills south of Quepos, headquarters of Operación Libertad. Choppers had been swarming around like bees for the last three days, Bells and Kawasakis clogging the tiny Quepos airport.

A Nissan utility van was prowling slowly down the street, a suit behind the wheel, checking faces. He braked in front of Hector’s, leaned over the passenger seat, and rolled down the window a crack, trying not to lose his air-conditioned air. Thirty or so, a shaved head, crisply trimmed law-enforcement moustache.

“You Jacques Cardinal?”

“Name is Wilder, Harry Wilder. I sell dog food.” Slack contemplated making a run for it, into the Ramus Hotel, out the back entrance.

The agent studied a photo in his hand, comparing likenesses. “Looks like you’ve gained a couple of pounds. Hop in.”

A low functionary, Latin-Am section. Slack had hoped they might leave him in peace. “Make an appointment.”

“You have one. With Mr. Hamilton Bakerfield.”

“I thought he retired.” Slack slid into the passenger seat and rolled his window down, he preferred normal air. He would see Ham for old times, he’d be pleasant, that’s all.

The company man was Theodore, all three syllables, not Ted. He remained mostly silent, the kind of guy who can’t talk and drive at the same time, respectful of government property, slowing for the breaks in the pavement, swerving from the potholes, the roads around here like an obstacle course, a maze for Mensa members.

They went not to La Compañía but up Cardiac Hill, in first gear, the local bus coming down at them, air brakes screaming, the wheezing Manuel Antonio Bluebird. A few months ago it lost those brakes on this hill, the driver yanking the emergency all the way, white-faced passengers at the windows. As Slack recounted this episode, Theodore took the shoulder, giving the bus ample room. From the hilltop they could see the ocean, the storm coming from that direction, pinpricks of lightning.

“They’re going to be out there in the rain,” Theodore said. “Those two women.” He shook his head. “Rough.”

Slack said nothing. It was beyond remotest human possibility that he would get involved, it was laughable that they would even ask him.

They pulled into the driveway of the Mariposa, Ham had
picked
one of the swankier hotels, of course. As they took the steps down to a chalet clinging to the hillside, a panorama of Manuel Antonio expanded before them, Playa Espadilla, Punta Quepos, Cathedral Point. The beauty of it was ratcheted away by the sound of helicopters, three in formation, heading for the high Savegre.

In the chalet, Hamilton Bakerfield was sitting behind a table, growling on the phone, sucking on a Löewenbräu. He sent Theodore packing with a flick of his hand.

“Listen, this is my show, I’ve got no room for fucking amateurs. Tell your people to get back in line.” He was a bull,
grizzled now, kind of bent over, as if – however unlikely – life had somehow humbled him. But that was age, he must be nearing seventy. Fifteen years on, and he was just as crusty and foul of mouth. Hamilton Bakerfield, he’d trained Slack, run him, nearly killed him several times.

Bakerfield nudged the phone back onto its cradle. “The Secret Service is comprised essentially of assholes. You want a beer or are you drunk already?” He extended his hand but didn’t bother to rise. His grip hadn’t lost its firmness.

“That was another of your lies, the story you’d retired?”

“Special assignment. The president himself called. He likes this, it’s diverting attention from his bad polls. Yeah, I’m retired. I got a place in Minnesota, on a lake, you get northern pike and pickerel. Small world, I forgot you’d gone off to live in this little shithole. How’re you doing?”

“Can’t get it up nine days out of ten. Thanks for the disability pension.”

“You got looked after. Told you not to take it in a lump.”

Slack went to the fridge, where Bakerfield had German beer, Holstens, umlauts, the real stuff. He snapped open a Löewenbräu, settled into a chair, facing Bakerfield, who was lounging, his bare feet up on a low wicker table.

“This a CIA op?” Slack asked.

“State Department. Combined federal task force. CIA, FBI, Pentagon, Secret Service. All we’re short of is local knowledge.”

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” Slack said. “I’m out of it.”

“Naw, I just wanted a chinwag. Heard you had a little set-to the other night, Sawchuk.”

“Cardinal.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“All I did was take out a couple of thieves. One was the
jefe
of the municipality.”

“And what went on later between you and Walker’s wife?”

“She was coming on like a dive bomber.”

“She likes real men, what the fuck would she see in you?”

“Told her I was a poet, melted her heart.”

“You make it with her?”

“I spared myself the humiliation of trying.”

“Well, the senator wants her back, used or otherwise. What kind of shape do you figure she’s in? From your experience.”

“Shape? She’s a traffic-stopper.”

“In terms of fitness.”

“She might be able to hold out. Tell me about the other one.” Slack resented all the concern focused on Gloria-May Walker. What about the Canadian, anyone care about her? A goddamn hero, she’d exchanged herself for a pregnant woman. She’d been described as skinny, maybe frail. A farm girl, though, so she might be tough and innovative.

“Maggie Schneider from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.” Bakerfield emphasized each syllable, finding the place-name droll. “Writes ad copy for a TV station there. Also other stuff, romance novels.”

Slack hadn’t heard that one. He thought of petticoats and satin sheets, hearts on fire, heaving breasts. Her bravery confused him.

“So what do you think about these people? Comando Cinco de Mayo.” Ham struggled with the Spanish.

“In for the bucks. The jargon of revolution is just for the six o’clock news.”

Bakerfield wasn’t buying that. “They’re commies, fanatics. This Benito Madrigal character headed up some group called the People’s Popular Vanguard, Trots or Maoists, some damn thing like that. His nephew Vicente has been going to college in Cuba. He’s the one they call Buho. Skinny, Coke-bottle lenses, twenty-two years old, his father’s rich, owns a grocery chain.”

Slack knew some of the history, it was the stuff the pulps lap up. Vicente Bolaños alias Buho had become bitterly
estranged from his wealthy bourgeois father, sought revenge by becoming a communist, siding with the family outcast, his mother’s younger brother. Lately, he had been heading up something called Citizens for the Civil Rights of Benito Madrigal. A few weeks ago, Vicente disappeared.

“The others, we don’t have any intelligence. A couple of them could be dangerous, guy they call Zorro, for one. What’s that mean?”

“A kind of possum, they get into your attic and it takes a ten-megaton bomb to get them out of there.”

“Yeah, he’ll be the headache, a serious agitator. He came on sulky about U.S. Immigration, so we’re checking deportation records. Any idea who this Halcón might be?”

“Not a clue. What were they using? “Why was Slack asking such an irrelevant question, as if he was interested.

“Skorpions, Brownings, couple of Russian choppers, RPKs.”

“Those the new Kalashnikovs?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re out of touch.” Slack’s nose crinkled as Ham lit a cigar. He had an aversion to them, especially the big coronas, maybe Freud could explain it.

“Some of these people Nicas, do you think?” Slack asked.

“Zorro apparently had a Nicaraguan accent. Ex-Sandinista, ex-Contra, who knows? But Kalashes are a dime a dozen at the border. Glut on the market.”

“Yeah, well, your pal Walker created that market.”

“No pal of mine. Guy’s a bit marginal even for me. You been up there, the Savegre headwaters?”

“I’ve tramped around there. Years ago.”

He’d once lugged a hardshell on his back all the way to the Savegre cloud forest. He’d been tough then, lean. Class four up there, even five, an amazing run. But the river was impassable now, except near the headwaters, a beginners’ course, class one. The high river had got torn up by a hurricane a few years ago, left clogged with fallen boulders, dead trees.

Bakerfield toyed silently with his cigar, then turned and studied some high-resolutions taped to the wall, the upper Savegre country.

“We never figured out how they got from A to B, but we found their base camp this morning, an abandoned farm. One of the local rustics rode thirty miles on a horse to the nearest town for supplies, happened to mention he’d found a mess of boot prints. We flew a crew in, but they lost the scent. Too much rain; the dogs got confused.”

“You don’t need dogs. Hire a campesino to look for machete hacks.” Slack could imagine the search party — preppies from Northwestern or Baylor. Hire an ignorant local? What a novel idea.

“You think you might want to help us on this?”

“I’m dying to.” He batted away the second-hand smoke. Bakerfield was still trying to find ways to kill him.

“Feel you’ve been fucked around, don’t you?”

“Right up the waste tract.”

“You’re lucky you got anything. At the end, we didn’t know who you were going to blow up next, us or them. Lots of people thought you had rolled, maybe a mole all along, ever since Cuba. Others thought you were totally nuts. And the rest figured you were just a general all-around fuckup. Count me with them, because I don’t remember you ever doing anything right.”

The last one had been a classic débâcle — CIA agitators in the Green Party, their names exposed, flushed faces in Washington, the French government huffily ordering the U.S. ambassador to pack his bags. Twelve years later, Slack could almost remember it with pleasure.

“Well, I guess you know what you’re doing, Ham.” He slugged back his beer. He could take Ham’s insults. The old man was looking put out now, his goading was going nowhere, Slack wasn’t rising to the bait – it was an old trick, prove what a man you are.

Slack rose. “Good luck.”

“For Christ’s sake, you’re broke. We can come up with a few bucks, make us an offer.”

“Your brain for my ass.”

“I can’t help wondering if you’ve lost it, Sawchuk. Even a lady romance writer has more guts.”

An empty appeal to his vanished pride.

“The name is Cardinal. I do kayak tours.” He rose and stretched. “Time for my nap. I’ll take one for the road.” He helped himself to another umlaut.

“You got a problem, pal.”

After Theodore drove him back to town, Slack considered dallying longer at Hector’s, but decided against it. A mood had come over him, maybe dangerous, another beer might send him over the edge. Had he always been this neurotic? No, it was a learned thing, all those years of working as a spook had driven him halfway to the cackle factory. And now they have the gall to ask a favour. He’d spent too many years burying those memories, he wasn’t going to unearth the coffin.

He retrieved his Land Rover, and as he set out for home the skies opened. Rumbling past the squat, swearing at his useless windshield wipers, he thought he saw El Chorizo’s truck parked down there, his Isuzu. What was he up to?

Then he noticed three tin shacks in a new clearing, right on his property, ten yards from his house, some young mangoes cut down, and a guapinol and a roble on which he’d been growing orchids. What infuriated him most was that they had killed a mother armadillo and her baby, they were hanging dead on a rope.