The three of us sat at a picnic table on the edge of the parking lot. Thames had bought me a pair of loose white pants, a long-sleeved yellow shirt with a decorative braided flower design, as well as a pair of the black, woven-canvas and leather-soled moccasins known as alpargatas.
“If you cut your hair and beard, you’d look like you belong here.”
“I don’t think I belong in jail. Have you notified my parents where I am?”
Robertson cleared his throat.
Thames pulled on the knot of his tie. “Slow down, sport. Tell us your story.”
As I talked, they interrupted constantly, forcing details from me that I didn’t see the relevance of. Who was Johnny employed by? What kind of weapons did Carlito and the dead gunman in the Land Rover have? How many cowboys worked at the Gutierrez farm? They asked me to describe each of Ezequiel’s guerrilla band in detail. I did, except I told them Vladimir was a student at a university in Venezuela and not Berkeley, California. I owed him for watching out for me, so the lie came easily.
When I relayed how I crossed the top of the mountain range and where I had been the last two months since the helicopter attack, I said I was nursed back to health by an old man who welcomed my company. I never mentioned Charlie or Mai, but said the old man and I had once shared a meal with a woman and a man and their goat.
“No, I can’t tell which valley I lived in. When he led me down to the main highway, we crossed over hills, climbed along ledges, crossed streams.” I smoothed out a detailed topographic map that Robertson had placed in front of me. “Maybe it was here… hmm, no... I don’t even know where I came out of the jungle.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Panando. He knew a lot about cows.”
Late that afternoon, I was lighting a cigarette when Thames slipped a photograph across the table at me and tapped it with one finger. “All right, sport, recognize this?”
The Polaroid had a thick red stain across the bottom, blocking out the lower legs of a trio of ragged men standing in a jungle clearing. Chaco, a machete resting on his shoulder, was exploding with raucous laughter. Vladimir, looking amused while acting the heroic soldier, held a rifle tightly across his chest. I stood between them, beaming a surprised smile at Chaco’s innocent play. A pistol was rammed down my pants. I remembered the barrel’s cold steel bumping against my skin.
“Your beard is shorter, but we compared it to your passport. Are you going to deny it’s you?”
“My passport? Where did you get my passport?”
“From the Land Rover at the murder site. It was still in your suitcase. Held up pretty good considering it had been there for three weeks. You ever seen what some jungle insects do to paper?”
“Was Johnny’s body found?”
“The remains of two bodies were recovered.” Thames twisted his neck, lifted his chin. He looked uncomfortable with himself for allowing me to ask questions and that he had answered them. “Why weren’t the victims in the Land Rover?”
“I had to move them that first night. The smell was overpowering me, attracting swarms of flies.” I shoved the photograph away. “Of course that’s me. I already told you I lived with them for about three weeks. How did you get this picture?”
Robertson pursed his lips, pointed at Chaco. “After the firefight, a patrol flushed this guy out from his hiding place, and he ended up dead. This photo was found on him.”
“That’s Chaco on the left. Vladimir on my right.”
“They always let you walk around with a gun in your pants, Parker?” Thames pulled a cigarette from his pack with his teeth.
“No, it was a joke. I can’t imagine it was loaded. I mean, it seemed like every other day they were having a council on whether to execute me. These two guys in the picture always sided with me in the voting.”
“Very democratic for a bunch of commies.” Thames blew smoke into my face, smiled coldly.
I shrugged and placed a finger delicately on Chaco’s arm. “Chaco didn’t understand instant cameras. He stuck the gun in my pants, and we were laughing about it when Ezequiel snapped the picture.”
“Friendly group.”
“You live with someone, you do what you can to survive. They were still human, y’know.”
The questioning went on for two more days before the cell door opened wide, and Thames snapped, “C’mon sport. We’ll finish this at the embassy in Caracas.”
After ten hours of driving, the three of us were in foul moods from the constant gruel of travel and interrogation. When a shouting match broke out between Thames and me, Robertson roared, “At ease, gentlemen.” We grumbled back into our seats as the colonel pulled the car up to a roadside cantina. We all piled out to piss and get a soda.
Leaning on the counter of the bar, Robertson opened up to me. “Look Deets, here’s the gist of what’s going on. After the car and bodies were found, the army and local police searched for you. Some loudmouth politician put forth the theory you had killed your friend and the other dead man.”
“Me, that’s ridiculous. Is that what Thames believes?”
“We’re trying to discern the truth of your story. That photograph is damning.”
“It’s bullshit. I was kidnaped, held captive.”
“Your politics would say otherwise.”
That caught me off guard. Someone had looked into my background and, with the photograph in their hands, had come to the conclusion I was Red Army or Viet Cong or a Cuban revolutionary.
“Oh c’mon. That’s nuts. You’re in the military. You know what’s going on. A lot of people are protesting an unjustified war.”
Thames came out of the bathroom, tugging at his zipper. “Filthy in there. Parker should feel right at home.”
Muttering, “I should have stayed in the mountains with the old man,” I leaned my head against the side door and then pretended to sleep for the last three hours of the drive to the capital city.
I lived in a room in the basement of the embassy for almost a week, undergoing more questioning, sticking to my mixture of truth and lies, never mentioning mushrooms or otherworldly creatures. Every time I stepped into the hallway to use the bathroom or drink from the water fountain, I’d catch the flat eyes of a marine guard following my every move.
Robertson’s questioning centered around the guerrillas, the terrain, and the firefight with the military. Thames was more interested in the shootout in the Land Rover, my route across the mountains, any inhabitants I came across, and my contacts with the anti-war movement, Cuba, and the Venezuelan Communist Party.
“Me? A communist revolutionary? Ha, you guys got warped imaginations.”
Thames sat across from me, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he reviewed my written statement about being contracted to illustrate the devil dancers.
“Don’t play innocent, Parker, we know your history.”
“Yeah, well, interpretation of history can be really off track. How you guys turn protesting against the war into marching with Mao and smoking cigars with Fidel is way out there, man.”
That clown, Agent Orville, is still getting in my hair. How else would I have a history? This Thames guy is one fanatic jerk-off. Gotta be CIA.
“Look, your story doesn’t hold up. Esso has no knowledge of a Johnny Matamoros, a Doctor Steel, or any contract with you. So, you want to tell me why you came to Venezuela?”
“Here’s a fact you should know—I came here to draw, and I’m tired of your nutty theories. Try talking to Doctor Steel. I think you’d get a kick out of him. Johnny was probably freelance. He was a good man. Your insinuations are insulting. Totally off the wall.”
“Your story stinks.”
“Yeah, well, your war does. You spooks are burning down villages, killing women and children.”
An eerie reptilian slit appeared where his mouth was. “Now, who�
��s feeding you that nonsense? Your Vietnamese girlfriend?”
A jolt warned me that Thames was dangerous, but the answer that popped from my mouth paid no heed. “No, try talking to the snipers and hit men that come back from Vietnam, bummed out with killing.”
Thames leaned across the interrogation desk, his eyes bulging with a zealot’s determination.
“You think you’ve outsmarted me with your lies, Parker?”
The door swung open. Robertson entered, dropping a Manila folder in front of me. He let himself wearily down into a chair, rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. “There’s a reissue of your passport and a plane ticket for you. Venezuelan authorities aren’t pressing charges. They believe your story. Two of the rebels escaped into Columbia, and sources are confirming your version. There’s a plane to New York tomorrow.”
Thames leaped up, his chair crashing over. “Jesus Christ, then he was running drugs.”
Robertson blinked. “Where’d that come from, Bill?”
“Damn commie hippie.”
“It’s going to be fun back home.” A weary laugh bubbled beneath my words.
Colonel Robertson escorted me to the gateway at Maiquetía airport.
“You may be off the hook for murder, Deets, but someone will greet you at JFK. They’ll want to ask you a few more questions.”
“Did anyone ever tell my parents I’m alive?”
“Yes, they were notified a few days ago.”
My return to civilization had been spent imprisoned, with government agents and army officers as my company, so it was heartening to see a number of American college students on the flight north, flashing me the peace sign as they wandered up and down the aisle. I overheard conversations about school and politics. Music groups I’d never heard of were mentioned excitedly, and some of the students expressed a desire to move to San Francisco.
I felt surrounded by innocence and laughter and hopeful dreams.
A young woman wearing a paisley sun dress sat next to me. Fingering my shirt sleeve, she said, “Far out threads.”
Her eyes smiled, but I looked away, feeling broken by secrets and uneasy of where they would lead me.
Chapter 35
Agent Orville flashed his badge at me as I stepped past the customs officer.
“Agent Orville, FBI. Parker, if you’d come with me, I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning your trip to Venezuela.”
“You know what happened. I was kidnaped, man. I lost everything, but survived.”
“Contact the State Department. They’ll see to the collection of your belongings once they are released.”
“The embassy didn’t loan me any bread. Do you mind giving me a ride to the Village?”
“That’s the plan. Agent Harlan’s waiting in the security parking area.”
“Yeah? What’s happening here?”
Orville’s questioning followed the same line as the interrogation at the embassy. After three months in the wild, living by luck, my wits, or the grace of miracles, the irritation of listening to Orville’s ludicrous assumptions was making me twitch. I scratched at my beard, shuffled my feet, looked out the car window.
“Christ, Orville, didn’t you get the news flash? There are no charges against me.”
“You show up in the company of communist criminals far too often.”
We had crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge and turned up Centre Street. The noise of jackhammers, horns honking, and engines idling vibrated between the cement and glass towers and cracked across my forehead. A blast of darkness from every corrupt thought and every act of violence alive in New York hit me in the chest.
“Jesus. This city feels like a heart attack.”
“Welcome home.”
I heard elevators click and whir, doors slam, people whisper, cry, scream. A thump, thump, thump from sewer pipes beneath the street played an uneven counter-beat to the click-clack, swish-swish sounds of fabric and shoes—all driving their way into my head. Communing with machinery and misery caused my skin to feel clammy. A burning bile rose up my throat.
“Man, this is lunacy. Wicked vibes.”
“Who’re you going to report to, Parker?”
The city was invading me. I tried focusing on being in the car and dealing with my immediate surroundings.
Okay, okay. Why am I here? What does this evil oaf Orville want? Aren’t there any trees around here? Or cows?
“Report to? Get real. Nobody. The Venezuelan government doesn’t believe any of the absurd theories of me being a guerrilla.” My voice came out as if I was gasping for breath.
Orville snapped, “I don’t work for the Venezuelan government.”
Harlan slammed on the brakes as we crossed Canal Street when a garbage truck turned in front of us and stopped.
“Son of a bitch cut me off.”
“We’ll be here forever. Look at that mess he’s gotta load.” Orville pointed at a pile of crates, cardboard boxes, and about ten garbage cans. “Go around him.”
“This guy on the left is blocking me.”
Orville turned in his seat to look out the back window. “Move your fat head, Parker.”
“Okay.” I flipped the door handle up and climbed out of the sedan.
“Parker, get back here.”
“I think I’ll walk.”
Orville threw the passenger-side door open, stepped quickly towards me. “We’re not finished here. You’re asking to be cuffed.”
I took off in a run, sidestepping past the garbage cans. Orville grabbed for me, misplaced a foot, and a slimy plastic bag took him down. But he was up with a quick bounce, pounding right behind me, his hand yanking momentarily at my collar before slipping loose.
“You little prick. Stop. You’re under arrest.”
I turned down a narrow passage and splashed through foul oil-stained puddles. Coming out onto a street, I ran alongside moving traffic until, seeing the opportunity, I dodged between two vehicles and into another alley. The maneuver put more distance between Orville and me. I heard him yelling, “FBI. I’m a federal agent. Stop that man. I’m in pursuit. He’s not armed.”
A siren screamed, an engine roared. I glanced behind to see Orville and a uniformed policeman entering into the shadows. In front of me, there was a guy wearing a bloody white apron. He was smoking a cigarette, standing next to an open door in a cubbyhole at the rear of the walled-in alley.
I ran at him.
“Wait, hold it, Mack. You can’t go in there.”
But he stepped out of the way, and I ran into a kitchen, almost crashing into the back of a worker in a floppy chef’s hat. The cook jerked his head around to watch me scoot by him and into the path of a woman in a black skirt. She was balancing three plates along one arm, while palming a dinner tray with her opposite hand, yet managed a graceful twirl around me and then past a steel table covered in chopped celery.
“Hey, hey, coming through. Hot soup.”
I pushed open a pair of swinging doors, and she didn’t break stride, following right behind me.
“Close call, kid, next time use the front door. You almost got onion soup down your back.”
Whipping open the front door, I heard the waitress yell once again, “Hey, hey, busy day. Where’d you two come from? First the hairy hippie and now the law.” I glanced in the streetside window. She was still balancing the plates and the tray. Orville’s eyes met mine. Hate. The guy wasn’t just doing his job. He hated me.
I eluded them for two blocks until a flashing red light cut in front of me, and a police cruiser skidded to a stop, siren still wailing. I turned around and scurried across a playground with Orville and two cops only thirty feet behind me.
“Stop, Parker, before you get hurt.”
I shot through an opening in a chain link fence, raced down another alley, clambered up
onto some crates, and, holding onto a wooden fence, kicked at the top box, hoping to dislodge it. It crashed out from under me, and on pure adrenaline, I hauled myself over the fence. On the other side, I dangled six feet above the ground, clinging with one hand.
The cops had run into a problem.
“Damn, it’s too high. We’ll have to pile these boxes back up.”
“You cracked? They’re too heavy. We’ll have to go around.”
“Parker, you hear me? Give yourself up.”
I dropped down, took a deep breath, then answered, “Orville, I didn’t face an execution, poisonous snakes, jaguars, and the jungle just to have you pull your warped crusade on me.”
Ten minutes later, I entered into an area I recognized as being just south of the East Village.
About fifteen more blocks until Monster Alley. Hope the gods are with me.
I was going to stand on that window box of a portal, twirl my fingers, and pray I landed back in Monster Valley.
Passing a record store, I was distracted by the window display of albums. Young Rascals, Beatles, Rolling Stones. I stopped, the chase blown away from my mind. There—surrounded by a purple and pink background and psychedelic yellow lettering—was Rolly, with his bristling head of hair, both hands jammed into his back pockets, wearing a silver and turquoise necklace and a soft, flowing shirt featuring a smiling moon-face. Wild Bird’s drummer and bass player stood to either side, their bodies curving up and over him, distorted by a fish-eye lens. An intricate pattern of fantastical clouds surrounded the trio. He’d done it. Recorded his own record—Levitation.
Magic (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 2) Page 23
