The Mangrove Coast (34 page)

I said, “So convince me. Make a good case for your project, and I’ll buy.”

The shrug, the hands, the facial expression, all said no problem. “First thing, Colombia has the most beautiful women in the Americas, perhaps the world,” the Turk said. “If you sign the contract, purchase a time-share with us, what you do then is tell Mr. Merlot what you, want while you’re in Gamboa on vacation. Anything you want, I can find it for you. A beautiful Negro housemaid? A young Latina cook? Or perhaps … perhaps a teenage boy.” He held his palms up—whoa, he wasn’t judging, just giving an example. “You want all three at once … or five at once,
you can have that, too. If we get your order in advance, I find what you want in Bogota or here, in the slums of Cartagena.” The palms again. “Poor, yes, but very clean and beautiful. You pay a small fee for each and they will do anything you wish them to do. Truly, Gamboa is the place to make your fondest dreams come true.”

“So what happens if I happen to be visiting Panama, I’ve got some clients with me, but the time-share I bought is for a different time of the year?”

“As a member of Club Gamboa, you may rent by the night, by the week, whatever you want. True … on such short notice, we may not be able to provide precisely what you want. But the club’s entire staff will be made up of very beautiful women and very willing boys and they are always at the members’ disposal. But here—let me show you the kind of pleasure we have to offer.” As the screen changed, he said, “Are you sure you would not like to smoke a bit while you watch?” A. minute or so later, he said, “You don’t mind if I do?”

I wasn’t looking at the screen. Had long since turned my eyes away … not out of disgust, but out of … sadness? No, but an emotion that was close to it. More like a … hollowness.

I did not look at the computer screen for the same reason that I do not go to topless bars or strip shows or watch pornographic films. Sex? Yeah, I love sex. Love the tender anything-to-bring-her-pleasure kind and the sweaty belly-slapping variety and anything, absolutely anything else, that will make me or my like-minded partner happy. But when the debasement of an individual is viewed as entertainment, we are all diminished … plus I am always, always perplexed by a very basic question: How does it come to pass that the lives of otherwise-healthy men and women are so tragically compromised?

“Mr. Ford. Do you not find them very beautiful?”

I had signed a one-page form, printed in English and Spanish, acknowledging that Jamael Hasakah had introduced me to the glories of Club Gamboa, thereby confirming
his legal right to a finder’s fee as well as elevating me to the status of a man who deserves a respectful prefix.

Tucker had dozed off on the couch. Had his cowboy hat tilted down over his eyes, boots up on the coffee table. He’d had six or seven small beers plus the dope. He was out.

I said, “Yes, the women are gorgeous.”

“But a trifle old, perhaps?” The Turk’s words were saying one thing, but his tone was saying something else. Maybe asking me a delicate question. What?

So I played along. “Sure, maybe a bit too old.” I glanced at the screen. The two girls soaping each other beneath a waterfall couldn’t have been more than, what? fifteen, sixteen? They were cold, had goosebumps, but were toughing it out for the camera. A third woman, performing oral sex on an Asian man, looked to be about the same age.

“The girls you see here, they all work as housemaids at Gamboa. You will meet them. Very nice. I selected them myself. From Bogota!”

The Turk’s professional pride showing.

“But if you’re feeling adventurous, let’s go to Mr. Merlot’s personal room. Is that all right with you?”

“Sure. I want to see it all.”

“Then you shall!”

Click.

I looked at the screen, then looked away quickly, as the Turk said, “Mr. Merlot’s tastes are not as unusual as many people think. Perhaps you agree? Mr. Merlot enjoys and appreciates children. It was a preference that he says he learned in China when he himself was a child.

“Here … in this photograph, you are introduced to a man you will come to know if you become a member. His name is Akibar, but everyone calls him Acky. Not only is Acky” —I noted the meaningful chuckle—“quite a man, as you can see, but he is the reason why Gamboa is guaranteed to be a peaceful place. Acky looks quite terrifying, but that is not a bad thing. There will be no obnoxious drunks
or uninvited guests, you may be certain of that. Who needs policemen with Acky around!”

I looked just long enough to commit to memory the face of a man who appeared to be Afro-Asian; half Vietnamese, perhaps, or half Chinese. His face reminded me of the face of an ant but in human form. Big cheekbones like mandibles, skin tight over the bones, black piercing eyes. Big man, probably well over six feet tall, though his height was difficult to gauge.

He was standing before a teenage boy….

But a very powerful man; with the body of a steroid-user, a weightlifter. I remember Amanda telling me about the showdown with Merlot. How Merlot’s roommate was there, pissed off at her and Frank, ready to fight.

So say hello to Akibar, the giant ant. That’s the way I thought of him. Merlot’s enforcer and roommate … and who knew what else….

I had to ask: “Merlot and his friends—they don’t find it embarrassing being part of a show like this?”

“Not at all. Mr. Merlot feels it’s important to set an example. In any healthy culture, my own country, for instance, what you are seeing is perfectly acceptable behavior as long as it is done … quietly. I myself occasionally enjoy a child who is utterly pure and without experience. Men loving children. Where is the harm in that? If the adult is kind and thoughtful and not abusive? Something else is, Gamboa Country Club will be a clothing-optional village. The pool, the beach they’re building on the canal, the spa.”

The smell of the salon, plus the heat, was getting to me. How much longer could I stand to be in the same room with this man? I said, “What do you mean, ‘Gamboa will be clothing-optional’? The place isn’t open yet?”

“On a very active but limited—only slightly limited— basis. There are still a few Zonians who live in that part of the village—a section called The Ridge. Still a few occupied houses. They run the tugboats until the transfer’s complete, but they won’t interfere, don’t worry. And
they’ll be gone soon. All of them, all gone. And we’ll have the pleasures of Gamboa all to ourselves.”

The Turk wasn’t done with it. “But the point is, why shouldn’t the club’s founder appear nude on his own Web page? Besides—” Laughter …
sniff!
“I think Mr. Merlot enjoys being what some might consider a porno star. He doesn’t exactly fit the mold, does he? Such a big man but not what many would consider to be attractive. Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed—and I would never mention it to him—but he is always … well … he’s never aroused in all these many photographs. Quite the opposite! So … let’s just accept this as part of his sexual fantasy. Nothing wrong with that. Not a thing! It’s what Gamboa is all about. Truly, it’s a dream come true for a certain type of man. The type of man who often has to travel the world to find what he needs. I think Mr. Merlot and his closest friends fit that description. Perhaps you do, too, Mr. Ford!” Laughter …
sniff!
“Let’s look at his personal collection, and I will show you what I mean—”

My head swiveled automatically; the screen came into quick focus.

Just as quickly, I turned away … but too late.

It is unfortunate that I was unprepared … no … make that too damn dull to realize in advance what the subject matter would be. Had I stopped to think even for a moment, the general content would have been obvious … which is why I would have been spared the specific vision of something I did not want to see.

But I have a maddening gift for being inept or just plain dumb at precisely the worst possible time.

True to form, I charged ahead without consideration. I looked at the screen. Of course I looked! And what I saw will forever haunt me….

For a photograph that was nearly twenty years old, the resolution was excellent. It contained an Easter egg-bright fluorescence that was painfully, painfully familiar. It possessed the bright colors common to Polaroids of that period … the kind of Polaroid that a devoted wife and
young mother might have had laminated to send to the man who was the love of her life … if the love of her life happened to be stationed somewhere in the monsoon jungles of the Back of Beyond.

But a loving wife and mother would have never taken or sent this picture.

No …

Probably couldn’t have even imagined such a nightmarish vision.

Nor could I.

But I didn’t need to imagine it because there it was in front of me.

“Mr. Ford. Mr. Ford? Are you all right?”

The cigarette-butt stench of marijuana, plus the heat and the diesel fumes, now seemed nearly overpowering. I had to take shallow, careful breaths to keep from vomiting.

To the Turk, I said, “I’m fine. Feel great, but I could use a beer. So … I’m going to head back to the bar. You can shut down the computer—I don’t need to see any more.”

“You like? What you’ve seen pleases you?”

I could feel sweat pressing through the pores of my forehead. Could feel the blood vessels throbbing beneath my skin, as beads of sweat traced their way down my cheek.

“This picture … ? It’s great.” I had to ask: “Who do you think Merlot got to … to take a picture like this? Of him and the little girl?”

The Turk considered the screen with professional objectivity. “Such cameras, even the older ones, I think, have those little timer buttons for self portraits. Press the trigger, then hurry to get into the shot. He probably took it himself. That is normally the way with such pictures.” He was still considering the photo. “An unusual-looking child, is she not? The eyes are very interesting.”

I was forcing myself to read and reread the piece of paper I’d signed; concentrating on it. “Oh yes, lovely. This Gamboa project, the entire presentation … I’m very impressed by what Gamboa has to offer. If the housing’s nice, I’ll buy. You’ve made yourself a commission. Might
as well call the head guy—Merlot’s his name?—might as well call him and let him know I’ll need a tour. A personal tour, if he doesn’t mind. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“He can count on it.”

“No … I’m afraid I can’t arrange to fly you to Gamboa for at least two days. Maybe three. Our company plane is busy—”

“I don’t remember asking for your help. I’ll find my own transportation.”

I paused. Had I spoken too sharply? Tomlinson once told me that the truly insane fear only that their madness is transparent to the world. That’s how I felt at that moment. Transparent, out of control. How could the Turk have missed the fury that was cauldroning in me?

I added amiably, “I mean, it’s no big deal, I’m happy to book my own flight. I’ve got nothing better to do” —made myself smile—“and I can’t wait to get to Panama.”

“Your friend will visit Gamboa with you … I say ‘friend,’ but perhaps he is a relative.”

“The old man? He’s a pain in the ass is exactly what he is. You don’t mind, I think I’ll leave him here, let him sleep it off.” I was still fighting the nausea. “I don’t know if you heard me or not, but you can shut down your computer. I’ve seen enough.”

Finally, he did. But the nightmare image lingered: the grotesque lard-white nudity of a much younger Jackie Merlot, his sausage hands violating the innocence of a pretty, copper-haired child … the surprise of what was happening and the pain of it showing on the child’s face and in the depths of her wise and lovely eyes; eyes that I liked, had always liked; one of them slightly off center, a wandering brown eye.

The shock of seeing her with the fat man was like a whiff of ether … and with that came the realization of another stupidity: Tomlinson had immediately realized what I refused to consider. Amanda’s childhood photos hadn’t been misplaced, they’d been stolen. By Merlot, on
the chance that those boxes contained innocent photos of the two of them together, the cross-eyed child and the deliberate stranger. All photographs almost certainly taken with the same camera.

I wondered what kind of ruse Merlot had used to send the young mother off on an errand while he “baby-sat” her child. Or maybe he had sufficiently charmed Gail so that, for a time, he was little Amanda’s regular baby-sitter. A nauseating thought. So get the child alone, use the mother’s instant-print camera, hide the prints. What fun!

Merlot had been lucky enough to discover that Amanda’s memory of him had scarred shut. The proof was when she’d surprised Merlot at her mom’s house. Amanda genuinely believed that she’d never seen the fat man before. Even so, he couldn’t risk further association between himself and the daughter … or allow a chance encounter with an old photograph to key the memory electrodes….

T
he man behind the bar said, “Hello there, mate, you must be the Yank that Fernando was tellin’ me about.” I’d taken the bar stool in the far comer, the one nearest the door. Wasn’t feeling very talkative. I listened to him say, “You got a face like Iowa, so it’s not much of a guess … and from that expression, I’d say you either just screwed the pooch or the Turk’s been showing you some of his video toys.”

It was a little before 7:00 P.M. and a jungle breeze came off the water carrying aromatic little pockets of open sea, of jasmine and frangipani blossom … and of the city, too. The Old Walled City was just across the bridge. Narrow alleys of cobblestone, little markets that hadn’t missed a morning in three hundred years.

Even this far away, there was a hint of mangos plus crushed pineapple in the wind … and the odor of water on worn stone.

After my time aboard
Moon of Kiz Kulesi
, the breeze smelled pure, wonderfully uncontaminated. Can there be virtue in the fragrance of moving air?

“You’re name’s Ford, right, mate? Turns out we’ve got several mutual friends. Here—have a beer on me.”

That was a surprise. Apparently, some of my former associates had been on the telephone.