God's Favorite

by Lawrence Wright

  Tony stared at North in disbelief. “You and I have an arrangement, Colonel,” he reminded him. “You came to me. ‘General Noriega, we need your help in Nicaragua. We want to stop the spread of communism.’ And I said, ‘This is also Tony Noriega’s goal. Together we will fight to make our part of the world a haven for freedom.’ So I gave you what you wanted.”

  “Yes, sir, you did.”

  “And when the CIA asks to set up special companies to do espionage in Panama and launder money, I say yes to this as well—even though we know these are illegal activities in Panama. I don’t call the prosecutor! I even permit Contras to be trained at SOUTHCOM, which is against the treaties. All these laws I broke—for you! To help my American friends.”

  “You are a special friend, all right. And we appreciate it. No kidding.”

  “So this is what you offer in return?” Tony thundered. “Your politicians slander me in Congress, they make up charges against me, they even pursue me in the courts? And they send you to insult me in this fashion—you, a man who has asked me for so many favors? Now you should be doing favors for me instead.”

  North nodded and looked guiltily at his pile of ribs. “The truth is, General, I’ve got some legal problems of my own.”

  The two men were quiet. A school of dolphins rolled past the yacht, drawing the excited attention of the stewardesses, who raced to starboard, pointing and throwing canapés after the indifferent creatures.

  “I’ve got a proposition,” Tony finally said in his most reasonable tone of voice, “a goodwill gesture. You take it to my friend George Herbert Walker Bush. We can get rid of these Sandinistas in one—what do you say? One sweep? One swoop?”

  “One fell swoop.”

  “One fell swoop. I have men there, as you know—good men, in Managua and the countryside—waiting for my command. They will do what I say. You know this is true.”

  “I’ve seen it,” said North, remembering with awe the one-eyed demolition expert that Noriega had provided for a top-secret raid that North had organized out of the White House basement. The little guy was a genius at explosives and a stone-cold killer. He and his gang of mercenaries had managed to blow up a military complex and a hospital in Managua. The hospital, of course, had been a regrettable mistake, and luckily no one had been killed.

  “Give me a little money for these men, and they will kill the comandantes,” Tony said cheerfully. “A dozen heads will roll. Tomás Borge, the Ortegas—the whole bunch! One fell swoop.”

  North grinned in admiration. “I gotta hand it to you, General. I mean, it’s such a neat idea. But I just—”

  “You take care of my problems, I take care of yours.”

  “Can’t. I just can’t do it. It’s against the law.”

  “Are you being . . .” Tony groped for the term. “Amusing?” He spat the word out of his mouth. “Your whole fucking war is ‘against the law.’ So why is it the only one who gets indicted is your good friend Tony Noriega?”

  “I wish I had a good answer for you.”

  “You will wish it very much before all this comes to an end,” Tony promised darkly.

  THE POLICE substation on Avenida Central was a noisy and confusing place. A rowdy procession of small-time criminals passed through the informal booking procedure and then disappeared into the basement holding cells, where they would await trial or else simply await . . . nothing. People spent months and even years here with no resolution or even an official hearing. Without pressure from important families or influential personages, a prisoner in the substation was likely to remain there indefinitely, until the system finally noticed him and either brought him to trial or arbitrarily expelled him.

  Finally the steel door in the back of the substation opened and Teo Sánchez appeared, looking rumpled and disdainful and wearing cheap imitations of brand-name American clothes.

  “So what are you going to do with me, Father?” he asked, but his tone reflected little interest in the answer.

  “What if I take you to lunch?”

  Teo looked surprised and a little suspicious. They walked down to the Kentucky Fried Chicken around the corner. It was midafternoon, and the place was nearly empty except for the flies. A radio behind the counter played a salsa tune by Rubén Blades.

  In jail, Teo had grown out the wispy hairs of his mustache, which was so thin that Father Jorge had not noticed it until he was seated directly opposite him. He was a good-looking child, like his mother, except for the hardness in his features. He ate the chicken greedily, without looking up; and when Father Jorge didn’t object, he helped himself to both rolls.

  “You want some dessert?”

  Teo didn’t argue. He ordered a large cone of chocolate ice cream. “They don’t feed you much in jail,” he said.

  “Your mother doesn’t know about this. She’s been very worried.”

  “She worries,” Teo said. “She doesn’t know what else to do, so she worries. Look where it gets her. She’s working in a whorehouse.”

  “That must be very upsetting.”

  Teo shrugged.

  “Do you ever give any thought to what you want for your own life?” Father Jorge asked.

  “Yeah. Every day.”

  “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  “Just, I’m not going to be poor, that much I know. You got to take what you want in this life.” He said this with absolute conviction.

  “The police said you were selling stolen shoes.”

  A cross-eyed beggar stood in the window watching Teo eat his ice cream. Teo looked at him indifferently. “It’s a good business. I can make some real money.”

  Father Jorge stopped himself from trying to counsel Teo, although the boy’s future was dismally clear to him. His view of the world was already formed, and there was little that anyone could do to change it. Nor was Teo inviting Father Jorge’s advice, at least not now. The most he could hope for was to establish a tiny ledge of trust. And yet the priest deeply believed in the flexibility of human nature. He always assumed that God offered life-changing moments of decision, even to the most jaded person. Teo would make a choice between a life on the streets or something better. Father Jorge believed it was the choice between damnation and salvation. He could see how circumstances forced young men to make appalling choices about their lives, and he wanted to be there if Teo needed someone to show him a way out. He felt a sense of urgency that was difficult to explain. He had dealt with other boys as hard and hopeless as Teo, but with indifferent success. Perhaps he had kept a couple of them alive when circumstances might have led them down a more dangerous path. More often than not, however, his ministrations had had no effect. Chorrillo was a mistress to despair. There were thousands of Chorrillos and thousands of Teos inside them—and so little hope for change. Even one priest with one boy was overmatched. In any case, Father Jorge was conscious that he had nothing to offer now, and Teo was in no mood to receive it if he had.

  “Look at your number, Father,” Teo said in a moment. “Maybe you won.”

  Father Jorge looked under the bottom of his Pepsi cup as Teo had done.

  “What does it say?”

  “It says, ‘The Force is with you. You win a free action figure.’ ”

  “How about that, Father? You going to cash it in?” His voice betrayed a bit of envy.

  “I don’t need an action figure. Why don’t you get it?”

  Despite himself, Teo’s eyes brightened. He returned in a moment with a small plastic doll. “Which one is it?” Father Jorge asked.

  “Boba Fett.”

  Teo set the doll on the table and studied it closely. He is still such a child, Father Jorge thought, feeling a surge of anger at the world that Teo lived in, which had so little space for innocence.

  “I’m afraid you can’t come back to the parish,” said the priest. “We have a policy—”

  “They told me the rules, Father. I know all about it.”

  “I’m sure your mother wants you to come bac
k home.”

  Teo didn’t answer. He seemed to be weighing the truth of that statement. “Will you take something to her?” he finally said. He took a wadded-up bill from the watch pocket of his Levi’s and carefully smoothed it out. It was twenty dollars. “Tell her this is for Renata. She’s going to need a dress for her First Communion.” He seemed to be very proud as he placed the money on the table.

  If Teo had given that money to the policeman, Father Jorge thought, he might not have gone to jail.

  “What shall I tell her about you? She’ll want to know where you are.”

  “I got friends. They’ll take care of me.”

  The priest stopped himself from responding. He knew who Teo’s friends were—delinquent boys, like Teo himself, who ran the gangs in the street. He wanted to save the boy, but he knew that Teo had to be willing. That might never happen, but if it did, Father Jorge hoped he would be ready for him. There was something about the child that called to him. He was still capable of love, unlike some of the toughs that Father Jorge had dealt with. But the more the priest tried to close the distance between them, the farther away Teo seemed to be. It was like running after a train. The child was on his way to some awful destination, and Father Jorge was unable to pull him back.

  AT LEAST HE’S ALIVE,” Gloria Sánchez said, when Father Jorge appeared at her apartment. She wasn’t surprised to learn that her son had been arrested. She took the twenty dollars without a word and placed it in a plastic glass in her cupboard. As she did so, Father Jorge allowed himself a glimpse of her legs, which were slender and shapely. Now that he had seen her as a prostitute, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her body. She had already been the subject of several memorable dreams.

  “Who cuts your hair, Father?” Gloria asked unexpectedly.

  “I suppose I do.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She laughed lightly.

  Father Jorge touched his hair self-consciously. It was long and disorderly—in fact, the Nuncio had recently made some critical remark about the need to maintain a tidy appearance. “I guess you think I should give it a trim.”

  “Let me do it. I need the practice.”

  “Are you planning to be a barber?”

  “That’s my dream. I’m saving to open a shop.”

  The priest hesitated.

  “Look, I’ve already got the tools,” said Gloria. She showed him a kit with an electric trimmer and several pairs of scissors.

  “Well, it’s one thing they didn’t teach us in seminary,” Father Jorge admitted.

  She made him take off his glasses and bend over the sink while she washed his hair. Her fingers were firm and sure, and his scalp tingled with pleasure. Then she toweled him off and sat him in a kitchen chair with paper napkins tucked into his collar and spread over his shoulders. “How long do you want it, Father?”

  “Whatever you think is right.”

  Gloria stood in front of him and sized him up. “I think shorter is better.”

  Father Jorge had not had his hair cut professionally in years—not since Spain, in fact. It was such a small service, he thought, but disarmingly intimate. There was no mirror for him to look into, but he could sense Gloria standing behind him and imagine what she was doing and the look of concentration on her face. His damp hair fell like fronds from a tamarind tree. He struggled against the erection that announced itself with a rude lurch.

  “Your hair is very thick,” Gloria said admiringly. “It’s got a lot of body also. I would kill to have hair like this.”

  “Your hair is okay.”

  Gloria laughed. “ ‘Okay.’ ”

  “I mean, you have beautiful hair,” he said, feeling deeply embarrassed by the erection, which was now quite obvious.

  “Well, it’s not my best feature, but it doesn’t embarrass me.” She moved to his right side and began trimming around his ear. He was extremely conscious of her skin and her breasts, which were so close to him and somewhat more exposed because of her bent position. She was wearing shorts and a halter top. She smelled like coffee and cinnamon. His nerves were so acute that he could feel her touch even before her fingers actually reached him. He could feel her hands moving in the air. He could also feel the throbbing in his penis, which was like a gorilla pounding its chest. He closed his eyes and made a quick plea to God to put the beast to sleep.

  “Did I hurt you?” Gloria asked.

  “No, no,” he said faintly. “I was just wondering where you got this talent for barbering. I can tell you have a gift.”

  “Well, thank you. Hugo used to tell me I was born to make men happy, which I guess is also a talent.”

  “Hugo?” the priest said in surprise. “Did you cut his hair as well?”

  “Yeah, you could say that, Father.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be indiscreet.”

  “I don’t mind. He was a wonderful man. He was always very good to me, and he often sent money for Teo. Don’t you think he favors him?”

  “Is Hugo his father?”

  Gloria set her scissors aside and brushed the hair off the priest’s neck. Her manner seemed a little brusque. “Hugo didn’t claim him,” she said. “I don’t blame him, it wasn’t possible to know for certain. But I always believed it was Hugo, and I think he didn’t mind. I just wish Teo could have known him. Maybe he would have a little pride, you know what I mean? Instead, he’s so hurt inside and so angry at the world. He thinks I’m responsible for all the bad things that happen.” Her voice broke, and she turned away.

  “I’m sure he loves you, he just can’t show it,” Father Jorge said. “It’s obvious to me. He just doesn’t want to be a child anymore. He wants to take care of you. Give him a couple of years, you’ll see.”

  Gloria took the electric trimmer and began to buzz the back of his neck. The cool metal made him shiver. “I’m going to tell you a fashion secret, Father,” she said. “When you start getting gray hair, you should grow a beard. It’ll make you look like a saint.”

  “Appearances don’t always tell the truth.”

  Gloria put some lotion in his hair and combed it back. Then she stood back and looked at him. “You better be careful, Father,” she said. “I may have done too good a job.” She said it as a joke, but he noticed that her eyes lingered on him as she put her scissors back in the sheath.

  CHAPTER 7

  GILBERT BLANCARTE, the famous Argentine psychic, was in a trance. Tony could just see the whites of Gilbert’s eyes through the peroxided braids that draped the witch doctor’s face. Gilbert wore a red chiffon scarf over his naked shoulders, which glistened with sweat in the small, still room. The scene was a little spooky, even to Tony. Sometimes he thought it was all so ridiculous, but whenever Gilbert entered the spirit world, Tony felt surrounded by ghosts.

  In the legends of the Afro-Cuban gods of Santería, Tony found a divine echo of his own life story. His personal orisha, or guardian angel, was Oshún, the yellow goddess of the rivers, who was primarily worshiped by women because she looked after childbirth. But she was also the goddess of beauty and sexual power. Vain and amorous, she gave away her children to her younger sister, Yemayá, just as Tony’s dying mother had given him away to his godmother, Mama Luisa. Tony revered Yemayá, but he wore the amber beads of Oshún. In the end, he had to worship beauty.

  Few people knew about Tony’s secret studio in Chorrillo, but then it was a district where people didn’t ask many questions. Tony could be alone here when he needed to conjure. On the walls were bottles of special potions, herbs, exotic medicines. A chicken carcass was being drained of its blood in the corner, plop-plop-plopping into a mayonnaise jar to be used later. Obviously Tony was going to need all the help he could muster to counter the massive Cuban wanga that the Colombians were putting out. A shrine to Shango and to Saint Barbara dominated one corner, and on a low altar before it was a soup tureen filled with polished stones and cowry shells. Facing the tureen were the pin-filled dolls of Tony’s enemies, a pudgy Pablo Escobar and besp
ectacled Jesse Helms, which Tony had personally constructed out of burlap and papier-mâché.

  “A fat man from Colombia,” Gilbert muttered in his high-pitched trance voice, which sounded as if it were floating on helium.

  Tony looked at the Escobar doll. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to have you killed.”

  Tony shuddered. “You’ve got to protect me, Gilbert.”

  “Are you wearing your ribbons?”

  “Of course!” Tony raised his pant leg to show Gilbert the red ribbon tied above his ankle. But Gilbert’s eyes were focused inward, on another plane entirely.

  “There is another disturbance.”

  “What? Who?”

  “A rival.”

  “I have many rivals.”

  “This man is a slave to women.”

  “Is his name Roberto?”

  “Roberto,” the witch doctor repeated. “This could be.”

  “Roberto is a problem, I agree. But he is useful to me.”

  “He can cause you much trouble. Beware of him.”

  Perhaps Japan, after all.

  “Who is this?” said Gilbert. “Another powerful figure arises in the spiritual realm. He is wearing robes.”

  “Robes? Like a priest?”

  “He is a very high priest.”

  “The papal nuncio? He provides refuge to the opposition, but I did not think of him as an enemy.”

  “He is big,” said Gilbert.

  “He is very tall,” Tony agreed.

  “I mean, spiritually, he is big,” said Gilbert, sounding a little vexed despite his trance. “Much mojo.”

  “Really? We’re talking about the Nuncio? Old man with bushy eyebrows? I thought he was harmless.”

  “He can be treacherous, like the tides. Do not go over your head with this man—he will sweep you away!”

  With that pronouncement, Gilbert suddenly coughed up a wad of black goo. Then he sprang back into present reality, delicately wiping the foam from his lips. “So, bad reading, huh?” he said in his normal lisping voice. “Sometimes it goes like that.”

  “You can help me, though?” Tony tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice. Gilbert was so vain about his powers that it wouldn’t do to let him know how much Tony depended on him. There were so few people he could trust.