The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  As he dozed on the slow-moving bus, Al went through a mental list of actions he needed to take when he arrived in Cartagena. First he’d grab a late lunch, and then see about buying a temporary cell phone. In Panama you could get a card with a certain amount of airtime on it, then you entered in the phone number and an access code, and the system credited the phone with the airtime. He hoped it was that straightforward in Colombia. It would be a lot easier than trying to find pay phones and carrying around pounds of coins.

  The issue of how best to approach Mari was tougher. He just hoped that any affection they’d shared during their year together had created at least a small amount of residual glow.

  No point in agonizing over it. He’d know where he stood with her soon enough.

  ~ ~ ~

  Carmen had been released on Monday evening, after routine questioning from the police. Her attorney had gotten her out, with the promise of charges to be pressed over the shooting – but everyone involved knew the threat was hollow, as Carmen’s contact list read like a roster of past and current government luminaries. There was slim-to-no chance she would actually be prosecuted for defending her place of business from known violent drug lords engaged in a killing spree on the premises.

  She’d put out feelers to see if there were any rumors on the street about her having double-crossed the Colombians, and there weren’t. So as she’d suspected, the threats of the man who’d questioned her about the cook were empty. As connected as she was, she would have heard within a few hours of them being circulated – so it all had been just bluster and bluff.

  Carmen had an opulent apartment in a condo development along the waterfront, and had resolved to take several weeks off while she had Esperanza cleaned and repaired. She’d contacted the contractor who had done the renovation and he’d been more than happy to get the job of repairing the bullet damage and restoring the interior to its prior glory. Work was sporadic since the economic crisis and a lot of projects had been put on hold, so he had a full crew he could throw at the brothel – they’d be back in business within ten days, he had assured her.

  Several of the girls had quit and moved to other establishments, but most stayed with Carmen, as they made more money with her than they could anywhere else. Carmen’s clientele was the higher end of the audience that paid for love, and tended to tip a lot bigger than the poorer locals or economy tourists.

  Many of Carmen’s young ladies came from Colombia, Ecuador and Peru; where beautiful peasant girls with no future at home were lured by the draw of easy money to be had in the north. Carmen went to great lengths to ensure they were treated well at her place, and not subjected to the kind of danger and violence that often accompanied a life in the trade. Still, many of the girls had drug problems – a function of plentiful, cheap cocaine. But that was true of working girls in most countries – Carmen’s weren’t any better or worse than average in that respect.

  Carmen didn’t do drugs herself and denied ever having been a hooker. She was vague on her reasons for operating a brothel, however, the prosperity she enjoyed couldn’t be denied. From her perspective she was merely tendering a service for which there was substantial demand. She was like a high-end restaurateur or an exclusive disco owner, only there was a guaranteed happy ending associated with time spent at her place.

  The girls came to her willingly – she made it clear she wouldn’t do business with the cartels that traded in human flesh. Carmen’s girls were there because they liked money, enjoyed sex, and had no other options. She had a doctor on call who routinely did health inspections, and she even helped those who were interested to open up savings accounts and calculate their career earnings required to retire. That was the dream; to work a few years, and either hook up with a wealthy regular who wanted full-time companionship, or amass enough money to open a legitimate business and go straight. Many actually did wind up with older men looking for willing, youthful beauty, although it was far from an everyday occurrence. And some did retire and open clothing stores or coffee shops.

  True, the majority eventually drifted to other establishments or to other towns, but the life was what it was. Carmen didn’t pass judgment – she simply catered to the wants of some of the most powerful men in Panama, many of whom were involved in writing or enforcing the law. So her appreciation of morality was understandably colored. There was a complete double standard for the powerful and rich. Being a woman in Latin America was like being a second class citizen to begin with. Being a poor woman was even worse. Money was a kind of power, and there few ways for a single woman of limited means to acquire any. Carmen had chosen her road and it had made her wealthy and relatively untouchable.

  As she padded around her condo soaking in the view of the ocean, she was also calculating the cost to get Esperanza back on its feet. It was a financial setback, that was for sure, but she’d get over it.

  After showering and putting on a dusting of makeup, she slipped a light cotton summer dress on and prepared to meet some friends for lunch. In the tropics, even a simple one-piece cover-up was considered appropriate during the day – it was invariably hot in May, but nothing like as muggy and awful as August or the surrounding months. The rainy season was tough but she’d lived with it all her life and so was used to it. She inspected herself in the mirror with satisfaction. She was holding up well after thirty-eight years on the planet.

  Carmen grabbed her purse and keys, locked her door and waited for the building elevator. In the lobby, she greeted her doorman with a cheery wave and breezed through the doors into the damp heat of the day.

  Halfway down the block two men approached from the opposite direction. A black sedan pulled to the curb alongside her. One of the men flashed a badge and instructed her to get into the car. She half turned to run back to her building but the second man grabbed her arm and forced her into the car. The few pedestrians on the block avoided eye contact, preferring not to become involved. Carmen decided not to fight it – it wasn’t like she wouldn’t be back on the street within a short time. This was probably just the second phase of questioning by an over-zealous detective.

  Then she noticed the passenger in the front, next to the driver.

  Jenkins.

  “Hello, Carmen,” he said. “Seems like we have a lot more we need to chat about.”

  She felt a sting on her arm – the man who’d climbed in next to her had injected her with something. Her vision blurred and everything went dark.

  The car pulled from the curb and accelerated around the corner, onto one of the large main streets.

  ~ ~ ~

  “She hasn’t told us anything we don’t already know,” Jenkins said to Richard on his cell.

  “So she’s sticking to the story?” Richard asked. “This was just a chance encounter? A simple cook who was looking for a cheap way across the border without paperwork, escorted by a down on his luck embassy simpleton?”

  “That about covers it,” Jenkins replied. “She swears she only used Al because of his diplomatic passport – and because he worked cheap.”

  “Do you believe her?” Richard inquired.

  “I’m not sure what to believe, Richard. The account hangs together and makes a certain sense, but on the other hand, she’s clearly a skillful liar; look at the business she’s in,” Jenkins observed.

  “We need to get everything out of her.” Richard paused. “Whatever that takes.”

  “I understand. We’ll get it,” Jenkins assured him. “I can be very persuasive.”

  “I know. But there’s a limit to how far we can go and still release her. She’s connected, and we don’t want to stir up any more local trouble,” Richard warned.

  “You need to make a decision, then. How far are you willing to go?”

  “As far as you need to in order to be confident you got everything,” Richard replied.

  “That could get messy. Just so you know.”

  “Sometimes you gotta break some eggs...” Richard mused.

  “..
.To make an omelet,” Jenkins concluded. “Okay then, I’ll get cracking on it,” Jenkins said, his tone flat.

  “Call me once it’s over,” Richard said.

  Chapter 34

  Cartagena turned out to be a large, vibrant metropolis, much more developed than Al had expected based on his experiences with Turbo and Monteria. This was a bustling cosmopolitan ocean-side city, perhaps not modern by first-world standards but definitely not the boonies, either. Traffic clogged the streets and thousands of pedestrians milled about in the city center.

  The bus arrived at the depot and Al stepped out of the climate controlled interior to be assaulted by the inevitable humidity and heat. Even though they were near the ocean, the equatorial swelter was never far off. It had rained several times a day almost the entire time he’d been in Panama, and apparently Colombia wasn’t much different.

  Al walked down what appeared to be one of the main streets and soon found an electronics shop that featured cell phones in its display. Inside the store, he quickly discovered that while the phones were more expensive than in Panama, they weren’t that much more. He selected a small Erikson that cost under $50 and also bought a hundred minutes of talk time on a card. The woman behind the counter was amenable to charging the battery for him so he could use it immediately. Al killed the required battery-charging hour by grabbing some grilled fish and beer at a neighborhood restaurant next door. Upon his return to the store, he peered at the array of sundry technological marvels on display in the window. He wondered whether he could sell the video camera and just keep the storage medium, and quickly thought better of it. With his luck it would surface like a bad penny and lead the bad guys straight to Cartagena.

  Once the cell phone was fully charged the woman handed it to him, complete with the box, the manual and charger. Al dutifully packed it into his satchel and walked back out onto the hot sidewalk.

  It was the moment of truth. He couldn’t believe it, but his stomach was tightening up from anxiety. The whole world wanted to kill him and he found that less stressful than calling an old flame...

  Al suspected this was only one of the myriad ways he was really screwed up.

  He carefully entered the number the PI had given him. The phone rang four times, followed by a generic machine-created voice advising him in Spanish to leave a message. He hung up, checked the number again – and got the same recording. This time, he waited for the beep and began his fumbled message…

  “Ahhh...hi, Mari...at least I hope this is Mari...I know this is probably very strange, but this is a voice from your past...it’s Al...hopefully you remember? I...uh...I was hoping to talk to you...I have a number you can call...” Al left his cell number and stood dazed in the hot sunshine, staring stupidly at his new phone.

  Well that kind of sucked. He had no way of knowing if it was even the right number, and certainly no way of knowing whether she was in town or not. He dimly recalled that her mother and sisters lived in Cartagena too, but not much else. Those years had been effectively blurred by time and an ocean of rum.

  So now what? It was two o’clock and Al had nothing to do; no plan other than hoping Mari would call him sooner rather than later. Ordinarily he might have wandered around the town but his feet were still largely out of commission. He didn’t want to shred the barely healed skin any worse than he already had. And finding the nearest bar in which to get obliterated seemed like a poor idea, even to him. He needed to keep what few wits he had about him.

  Then again, one more icy cold cerveza couldn’t hurt.

  Al walked down the block and spotted a cafe with plastic tables on the sidewalk in front of it. The small green awning over the picture window advertised Bavaria beer, so Al figured they’d know how to serve a frosty one.

  He sat at a shaded table. Moments later a teenage girl emerged and took his order. Al watched her reenter the restaurant with interest – no matter how old he got or what country he was in, cute girls always had that special appeal.

  Mari had certainly been cute. Among many other things. Her face was very reminiscent of J-Lo, with a body to match. Al had always marveled at how stunning she looked and how lucky he was to have her – but not enough to commit, obviously. No, surrendering himself to a sort of boozy purgatory had been a far better choice than having a serious relationship with the best woman he’d ever met.

  Al was great at making those kinds of tough choices.

  When his beer arrived he dropped a bill in the girl’s hand and told her to keep the change. She smiled at him with polite disinterest, no doubt thinking, Grandpa with a lobster head and effeminate facial hair, on sale here, special price today...

  Wallowing in self-pity was hardly a good substitute for a plan, so when he’d finished his beer and still gotten no call from Mari he decided to check out her neighborhood, and maybe stop in, just in case the phone number had changed.

  She lived in an area by the beach called Crespo; which was on the northern side of town near the airport – according to the cab driver he’d just flagged down. It would be a twenty minute ride and cost five dollars.

  The cab pulled up to a twenty story white high rise condo development across the street from the beach – which was gorgeous, even by Miami standards. Al paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk, savoring the crisp sea breeze as it rippled inland. Now this was more like tourist country.

  Studying the address, he realized that the new building wasn’t his destination – Mari had to be on the other side of it. He proceeded to explore further down the block and spotted a more traditional, two story home, also painted white. The number on the wall matched the paper in his hand.

  He swung open the gate and entered the front courtyard, and taking a deep breath, mounted the three stairs and knocked on the front door. His heart skipped a beat.

  Nothing.

  Al knocked again and listened carefully, alert to any sound coming from the interior of the house.

  Silence.

  He turned and descended the steps, and halfway to the gate, froze.

  Mari stood in the gateway. Holding the hand of a small child. A little girl, by the looks of her locks.

  Al stammered a greeting. “I...hello, Mari...I...I know this is a surp–”

  Mari approached him from her position at the gate and slapped his face as hard as she could. Al saw stars for a moment.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing here? How did you find me?” she hissed at him.

  “Mari. I’m sorry. I know this is probably a shock. I called earlier, but nobody answered. I left a message...” Al offered.

  She slapped him again. Not quite so hard, but it still stung.

  “Get out,” she said, barely controlling her voice. “Get out of my life right now, and don’t come back. Ever.”

  The toddler started to cry.

  “I...Mari, please. Let me explain. I don’t mean to disrupt your life. Really,” Al blurted, and then addressed the child. “Shhhhhhhh. Por favor. No problema. Shhhh...” He returned his attention to Mari. “God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any drama. It’s just that I’m in really bad trouble and I had nowhere else to go...I...I’m sorry, Mari. For everything. You’re right...this was a bad idea. I’ll go now.” Al’s marginal fortitude had deflated with each syllable. He should have never come.

  What had he been thinking?

  Fearful of another of Mari’s well executed blows, he sidestepped her and the infant and stumbled to the gate. “You look great, Mari. I hope you’re happy and you found someone who deserves you. I’m sorry for coming...” he apologized again, then closed the gate behind him.

  Mari and the toddler stood watching him limp down the sidewalk back towards the big condo development, clutching his knapsack, defeated. Mari kneeled in front of the little girl and dried her tears with the hem of her skirt as the wind off the ocean tugged gently at their hair.

  Mari returned to the gate, closed and bolted it and they slowly walked back towards the house, the scar
y red-faced man now just a bad memory for both of them.

  Mari withdrew a key, which was suspended on a necklace around her neck, and bending down, unlocked the deadbolt. The little girl ran inside and Mari slammed the heavy wooden door behind them.

  ~ ~ ~

  That could have gone better, Al reflected. He rubbed his face, which was now adorned with two bright red handprints, and considered his next move. It was pretty safe to say that any assistance he’d hoped to get from Mari was a dead end.

  This was obviously the worst day ever to quit drinking.

  He decided to continue down the beachfront road, watching for the telltale bright yellow that would indicate a taxi. There was plentiful traffic, but no cabs. That figured – it was now rush hour and people were heading home in droves. This was a residential area with no hotels he could see, so there wouldn’t be a plethora of cabs loitering about hoping for gimpy Gringo fares.

  After several blocks of hobbling he came upon a seafood restaurant – a little neighborhood place whose business obviously came from the locals. He limped through the doorway, to the ting ting of a bell, sat down – and ordered a beer.

  Mari was still in good shape, at least judging by the force she’d brought to bear behind her slaps. He couldn’t take that away from her.

  He replayed the look on her face, part horror and part something else; something difficult to define as she stood with the ocean in back of her, the breeze tussling her flowing mane. Mari was still beautiful – if anything even more so over the intervening three years. Al, on the other hand, was bald, sunburned and sporting a peculiar goatee, along with a couple of extra pounds. He swallowed the beer in three gulps and ordered another. She didn’t know what she was missing. Broke, bald, fat, running from the law, no prospects and no future, a boozehound with commitment issues and a pronounced limp...

  Maybe she did have a fair idea what she was turning down.