Tampa Burn

by Randy Wayne White

  Tall Man and I had met only twice, but I’d heard his voice many times. During the Revolution in Masagua, I’d heard him give impassioned speeches over jungle radios, and from the balcony of the presidential palace. I’d listened to his voice enough to know there was no mistake.

  Now I heard the voice say, “Keep your weapons pointed at this lying son-of-a-bitch. If he moves, if he raises a hand, shoot his kneecaps off. But make goddamn certain you don’t hit me, you fools.”

  There was a rustling from behind, then the sound of a big man walking toward me through the brush.

  I wanted to throw myself to the ground, tumble, and come up running. Take my chances with the shotgun and the Uzi rather than stand there and let him put a knife or bullet in me from behind. He was certainly capable of murdering me like that. In fact, shooting someone in the back was exactly the man’s style.

  So I gambled. I kept my hands on my head, but turned toward the three men, a confident smile on my face, and said as if surprised, “My God. Is it really you? General Jorge Balserio? Why didn’t you say so. We haven’t talked since the Revolution. You look great.”

  Like we were old long-lost friends.

  The expressions of momentary confusion on the faces of the bodyguards were encouraging. But they weren’t bewildered enough for me to attempt to run. And Balserio was still striding hard toward me, his eyes glassy, fists clenched.

  “Dr. Marion Ford, you . . . you shit pile. I swore I’d find you one day—now I have. You cheating, sneaking whore of a man. You screwed my wife. You touched my woman. Now you’re going to pay!”

  I was looking at the bodyguards, trying to read them, hoping I could risk dropping my hands to defend myself. But then Balserio squelched that possibility, repeating, “Idiots! I tell you again: Move closer with your guns so you won’t hit me. If this pig touches me, shoot his feet, his knees, but don’t kill him yet. That’s an order.”

  He was banking out around me to give his bodyguards a cleaner angle of fire. I turned at the same pace, continuing to face him. The guards were moving toward me, too. White Shoes, I noted, had pulled a little semiautomatic handgun from somewhere, choosing to use it rather than risk hitting his boss with shotgun pellets.

  Balserio’s face was flushed a monoxide purple, his expression demented. He was digging in the pocket of his slacks. I watched him pull out a bone-handled knife. He snapped the blade open, still striding toward me, eyes still blazing. Jesus, now he was grinning, a coyote sort of leer on his aristocratic face.

  During the Revolution, Balserio had been the subject of whispered rumors. His temper tantrums were legendary. The bloody atrocities supposedly sparked by them were infamous. Twice, there’d been formal inquiries from investigators with the International Human Rights Commission.

  In Central America, giving people nicknames is a cultural pastime. One of his was the Crazy Machete.

  I’d had an affair with Balserio’s wife. Now here he was, coming at me, waving a knife in his left fist. All those years of hating me seemed to be shunted into that stainless-steel blade, and it glittered like a laser. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  I went from feeling shock to a strange, energized numbness. It was as if electricity had immobilized my nervous system. No weapon scares me more than a sharp steel blade. Fight someone who’s armed with a knife, and even if you manage to win, you’re almost sure to come away with ruined hands, holes in your skin, damaged tendons.

  Years ago, they taught us the techniques, how to survive that kind of attack by using rubber knives and a multitude of scenarios. Made us train for hours. I’d never been in a position desperate enough to need the training, thank God, but I’d seen men who’d actually fought and survived knife fights.

  The memory sickened me.

  But now I either had to run and risk being shot—or wait meekly while this crazy man started hacking away.

  I’d called 911 twice. Where were the cops?

  Desperate to buy time, I said in Spanish so his bodyguards would understand, “General—stop right where you are or you’re not going to get the half-million dollars. I don’t have it here. But I’ll take you to it. Put that knife away, I’ll cooperate. You and your two men, you can have it all—”

  But the Crazy Machete had snapped.

  “Screw your money! Do you think we came to find Pilar because of money? I have all the money I need, you worm!”

  They weren’t after the money? Then why follow Pilar? Survival, though. That’s all I could think about. If I survived, maybe I’d get the chance to find out.

  He was nearly within arm’s reach now. I was backing away, hands still on my head, eyes focused on the knife that he was now passing between his left hand and his right.

  Was that supposed to confuse me? The knife always ended up in his left hand. When he made a move, I knew it would be with his left.

  And he soon would.

  Balserio was working himself into it—he was going to kill me, that was clear. He was ranting as he began to circle. Ranting that I’d been naked with his wife, that I’d humiliated him. Ranting that I was finally going to get what I deserved. There was only one punishment that fit my crime.

  “It’s something we do to pigs,” he said. “You’re a pig, and now I’ll make you a sow.”

  Castration.

  Jesus . . .

  Was he serious?

  Oh yeah—I could see it behind his eyes: something freaky in there fired by hatred. And ready to do it right now as he extended the knife blade slowly toward my chest, getting ready to charge me—I could see that, too; could read it in his muscle tension, face, and forearms.

  I had to do something. The bodyguards had their guns aimed. I knew I’d rather be shot than stand there and let him stab me, but . . .

  Make a decision, Ford . . .

  I risked backing away faster as Balserio continued his purge, taunting me, “I’ll do the same thing to that bastard son of yours, too, when I get the chance. He’s next. On the day he was born, I should have had him drowned like the mongrel he is—”

  That did it. Suddenly, I was moving, no longer in doubt.

  I stopped backpedaling and dropped my hands. Surprised, Balserio froze for just an instant. In that instant, I lunged toward him, shooting in low on one knee, trusting instinct and muscle memory . . . just letting it happen . . . and I caught his left wrist clean with my right hand as he tried to drive the blade into my face.

  I was already snapping his wrist and palm skyward as I stood, locking my fingers on his left elbow, which added lift and leverage. I could have broken his arm without much effort, which made it easy to spin Balserio so that his body shielded mine from the guards.

  “Shoot him!”

  The bodyguards were shouting for him to duck, to get down, and I expected to hear gunfire. Instead, all I heard was Balserio’s whistling scream of pain as I brought his left arm up behind him, then grabbed a handful of his hair for additional torque.

  “He’s hurting me. Fire!”

  I’d hoped he’d managed to hold on to the knife. I had a vague notion that if I took the knife from him, then held the blade to their boss man’s throat, maybe I could bully the bodyguards into dropping their weapons.

  But nope. No knife. He’d lost it when I popped his wrist askew.

  Even so, I still had their general . . .

  As the two guards moved cautiously toward me, their weapons raised, I shifted my grip from the man’s hair and arm to a modified choke hold, so that my forearms cradled Balserio’s head.

  As the General wrestled with me, again commanding, “Shoot him! You idiots, kill him!” I said to the guards in a much calmer voice to make certain they listened: “Come one step closer, I’ll break his neck. I know how to do it, believe me.”

  I could have done it, too. But for what?

  It was a bluff, and it didn’t work.

  The bodyguards had finally maneuvered themselves so that there was one on each side of me. Now Panama Hat touched the barrel
of his Uzi submachine gun near my temple, and said in Spanish, “Yeah, dude, that’s cool, go right ahead. You break his neck, I shoot your head off. Then you and the General can go to hell together and finish your fight. People down in that place are probably already selling tickets, man, making bets.”

  Panama Hat was far more subtle and articulate in Spanish.

  I had no choice. I released Balserio, pushing him roughly away. He turned immediately and charged. He kicked at me once, hard—I blocked it with my hands and hip—and then he began to slap wildly at my face with his open hands.

  “You think I’m done with you? I’m not done with you.”

  As he slapped at me and kicked, I covered my head with my arms, ducking and weaving until his men pulled him away.

  But when Balserio then dropped to his hands and knees, searching furiously to recover his knife, it occurred to me: Maybe I shouldn’t have bluffed.

  He seemed determined to use the damn thing.

  TWELVE

  PANAMA Hat was Elmase. White Shoes was Hugo. The men could communicate without speaking. Eye movement, a shift of the shoulders, a re-angling of the jaw. That’s all it took.

  They had some history, judging from their easy familiarity. Way more going between each other than with the General. Were probably partners in some intricate way. Maybe family.

  Balserio was a mental case, and they seemed to recognize it. Or maybe he was just acting crazy, playing out years of despising me, but taking it beyond the edge.

  This was the General who’d imported a sociopath into his own country for political gain. A serial killer who set people on fire. Did they know?

  Maybe. I noticed that they distanced themselves from Balserio in subtle ways. One was by demonstrating exaggerated patience.

  The General was still on his knees, crawling in the tall scrub where the knife had vanished. There were plant colonies I recognized as giant leather ferns—ancient sporangia coated—and alligator lilies with stalks toothed sharp enough to cut skin.

  Balserio had cut himself a couple of times, cursing, then sucking blood off his fingers.

  “You don’t have knives? One of you has to have a knife!”

  “No, General. We have guns. Why would we need anything else when we have good guns? We can shoot off his cojones, if you wish.”

  From the tone, the flat subservience mixed with sarcasm, I got the impression they wouldn’t have admitted carrying knives if they had them.

  Balserio was practically frothing. “I’m paying fools like you? Then grab that pig’s arms while I find my knife. Tie him to a tree and strip his pants. I’m going to cut his balls off. I swore I’d make him a sow if I ever got the chance. I’ll do it now. Then we’ll find Pilar.”

  Elmase and Hugo looked at me, expressions mild but now interested, a bedrock contempt held in ready. To be terrified was to be debased. Maybe contempt shielded them from the humiliation of other men they’d seen begging. How would I react?

  Hugo said, “Then I guess we’ll need some rope. Do we have rope in the car?”

  Elmase said slowly, “No, but there’s tape. We could tape his arms and legs to a tree. Tape could work . . . if you’re sure you want to do this thing.”

  Neither sounded enthusiastic. More silent communication was taking place. Their focus on me, though, remained intense. How would this man react when threatened with the ultimate male humiliation?

  I was furious. Too enraged to be frightened. Furious that Balserio would not only threaten me, but also threaten to maim my son. He intended to do it. Really wanted to cut me. Tomlinson has written a few things that’ve stuck with me. One is, To make a fool of a tyrant, refuse to submit.

  It had a brand of kiss-my-ass wisdom that now flooded through me.

  So my reaction was aggressive, and it wasn’t an act.

  The bodyguards had put some space between us. White Shoes—Hugo—had slipped the pistol back into his pocket and was relying on the shotgun again.

  When he said, “Yes, then I guess you should get the tape. I’ll hold the big man while you do his hands first, then his—” I silenced him, snapping, “Enough. Stop right there. Not another word.”

  Both paused, looking at me, expectant.

  I pointed my index finger first at Hugo, then Elmase, before I continued, “Don’t waste your time with the tape. What you need to do is, go ahead and shoot me. I mean it. Do it right now. Because I’m not going to let you lay a finger on me. No one’s tying me to a tree. And that lunatic’s sure as hell not getting near me again with a knife. So go ahead and shoot.”

  I jabbed my finger at Hugo for emphasis. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. You’d better aim high and shoot straight. And you’d better hope my hands don’t live any longer than my brain. If they do, you’re gonna die with me.”

  Hugo sobered for a moment, his contempt fading as he translated the meaning of that. He and Elmase exchanged facial expressions, then a shrug.

  The exchange seemed to go: Is he acting?

  No . . . he’s for real.

  Then: Yeah, man. I’d die before letting any man take a knife to my private parts, too.

  Hugo looked at me with his wide face and began to chuckle. Then Elmase began to laugh, too.

  “If your hands don’t die before your brain,” Hugo said. “Man, that’s a good one. Like in this old movie I saw. This hand go running around on its fingers, choking dudes. Scary. And the way you said it. That was kinda scary, too. Like you could make it happen.”

  We’d locked eyes, my eyes telling his: Yeah, I can make it happen. Still furious, I believed it.

  I didn’t look away until Hugo had turned to Elmase, who was saying, “Yeah, but the Yankee is so right. Take the bullet, man. Before I even let some dude put his hands on my balls, I’d take the bullet. Shit, I’d grab the gun and do it myself.”

  Behind us, Balserio was on his knees still searching for the knife, frustrated now, and yelling, “Didn’t you hear me? I told you to take him and tie him to a tree. That’s an order.”

  Hugo made a waving motion with his hand, not dismissing the man but evading. “That’s what we’re doing, General. But first . . . I think, we need to check out this dude’s car. Who knows? Maybe your wife’s hiding in there. Or that giant dude with the tattoos—if he’s around, he’s so big, we’d have to shoot him ten, twelve times to bring him down. Like those rhinos you see on TV. Be cool, General. Be cool. We know our jobs.”

  Spanish profanity can only seldom be translated literally into English. Try, and it sounds silly. That’s because it relies on so many simple, inoffensive words that, when used with subtle or sinister emphasis, become offensive. The words cork, rope, papaya, and bug, for example, can also be graphically profane.

  Balserio knew all the words and subtleties, and he pelted me with them as Hugo and Elmase steered me at gunpoint toward the rental Ford. He used the foulest, sickest phrases. Translated, though, he was telling me that I was a billy goat who slept with young billy goats on rusty mattress springs in my mother’s house.

  Something perverse in me found that funny—or maybe I was just crashing emotionally after being threatened and assaulted—and as my anger dissipated, I began to laugh. Really laugh.

  I was a cabrón? A billy goat? The man who might soon be president of Masagua was calling me animal names.

  Hilarious.

  Hugo and Elmase seemed surprised, then puzzled. I might not be tied to a tree, awaiting the Crazy Machete, but they still had me captive at gunpoint.

  But then Elmase stopped walking, head tilted because he heard what I’d already heard: the raceway sound of cars revving too fast around a curve.

  “What’s that noise, man?”

  “Shit! Cars coming, hide your gun!”

  Then we could see them, white cars heading our way, seeming to flatten themselves at speed over the gravel road: county sheriff ’s vehicles, green on white, no sirens or lights, which is procedure when a person calling 911 says he thinks he’ll be killed if the
bad guys hear help coming.

  To Hugo and Elmase, I now said, “You’d better throw your weapons down. Quick.”

  When they didn’t react immediately, I added, “When the police jump out, see you two guys dressed like pimps, holding automatic weapons—down here in the Everglades? They might think you’re dangerous.”

  Convinced, they swung their guns into the bushes as I added, “But you’re going to jail anyway. I know you helped me out with that crazy asshole, but it’s still gotta be jail.”

  Elmase seemed not to hear that, replying, “Pimps? Dressed like pimps? That’s not a very nice thing to say. These clothes got style, man.”

  Standing there in his white Panama hat and metallic shirt, neon pink and blue, offended. About to be arrested, but his expression still telling me: You hurt my feelings, man.

  DIAL 911 and tell them you’re a respectable Sanibel Island resident crossing the Everglades in a car being pursued at high speed by strangers who are shooting guns, and the dispatcher will send out the cavalry.

  The cavalry had assembled: sheriff’s deputies, state troopers, and plainclothes detectives in unmarked cars, all vehicles jumbled in a line, the Loop Road blocked shut, emergency lights strobing high in the shadowed domes of cypress trees on this late South Florida afternoon.

  Sunset was at a little after eight P.M. Probably less than an hour away. No way for me to know for certain, because I was handcuffed. Couldn’t see my watch.

  Back on Sanibel and Captiva, the ceremonial cocktail crowds would already be gathering at South Seas Plantation, the Mucky Duck, Casa Ybel, among others, and at our little Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Same would be true up and down the Gulf Coast of Florida, Key West to Pensacola Bay.

  It would soon be social hour in the dawdling May heat. The pearly time when friends meet with cold drinks in small, local places to watch the sun orbit into the Gulf and spark its universal blaze.

  I wanted to get back to Dinkin’s Bay for sunset. Wanted to share some stories and laughs with Mack, Jeth, JoAnn, Rhonda, all the fishing guides, the live-aboards, and the rest of the marina community. That’s exactly what I needed to neutralize the image of Balserio coming at me, knife in hand, with that leering grin on his face.