by Moulton, CD
“Es verdad. Tiene aqui la pasaport de el. Tiene la visa Mexicana y timbres.”
(It’s true. I have his passport here with the Mexican visa. It’s stamped.)
“Ay! Es un problema grande! Ay!”
(It’s a big problem!)
“Possiblemente yo puede ayuda?”
(Perhaps I can help?)
“Esta ... A reunion in Panamá Bill’s a la ocho y media, por favor?”
(It’s ... Please meet me at Panamá Bill’s at eight thirty.)
“Muy bien. Su nombre?”
(Very well. Your name?)
“Es Jorge Villardes. Gracias.” He hung up.
(It’s Jorge Villardes. Thanks.)
Clint shrugged and said they’d stop by Panamá Bill’s with their dates at 8:30 and see what it was all about.
“Cripes! You take on the ones who were after me?!” Frank cried. “Clint you’re ... weird!”
“I’m curious. I want to know what’s going on. It’s something that has this Jorge character scared out of his wits so it’s probably a drug deal or something. I can maybe find out what it’s about and scare whoever off. I just have to find the right method. This could do it. I might just tell him to hide out and be more careful in the future. If it costs some drug pushers everything they have to try to hide from the cartels, tough shit!”
“Whatever works,” Frank replied.
They went to La Tipica for dinner, then on to Panamá Bill’s. Dave was playing folk stuff. He was there and some people asked him to play, so it was informal. He sat at the bar and did things like Leavin’ On a Jet Plane and 500 Miles and so forth. Two local mestizos came to look in the gate. Clint asked if one was Jorge.
“Si. El es mi hermano, Samy.”
(Yes. This is my brother, Samy.)
* I’ll translate to English – CD
“I’m Clint. What’s going on. What have you gotten into that has you so scared – and don’t equivocate. Tell me. I promise not to cause you any trouble, I’ll just give you advice.”
“Samy had a sack with, I think, much money. He did not look into it. It was sealed closed. It felt like money. He was to give it to Sr. Smith. Samy placed the sack on the shelf to call Sr. Smith. Your friend – someone who looks much like your friend, a gringo – took it and went out. Samy didn’t see him until he was near the door and went after him, but he was not there. Now Sr. Smith wants it and Samy doesn’t have it. He will kill him!”
“Who gave him the money to deliver?”
“Sra. Smith. She said it was business papers that are secret. She said to go to The Fiesta and to the phones in back to the left near the money changer cajas.”
“Do you still have Smith’s phone number?” Clint asked. Samy gave it to him as well as that of Mrs. Smith.
“Well, we’ll see what we can see,” Clint promised. “I’ll handle it tomorrow morning. You two stay with friends or something and we’ll meet at the Alcalá restaurant at noon, okay?”
They agreed and left. Clint figured he knew pretty much what it was. It wasn’t going to work. Someone who was trying to get a couple of people’s tails into a crack were going to find their own in a vice.
The night was very pleasant. Anne stayed with him and Karla and Frank went off to a place Frank knew about. In the morning Anne and Karla caught the bus to Bocas del Toro. Maybe Clint would see them in Bocas Town.
“Johnson residence,” greeted him when he called the home number of “Sra. Smith” in the morning.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Johnson, if I might?” Clint requested.
“The Mr. And Mrs. have gone into Boquete town for their desayuno.”
“Gracias. I’ll call again later,” Clint said and hung up. He headed for the terminal and bus to Boquete.
Johnson. In Boquete. Veddy inderesdink.
Clint asked a local policeman if he’d seen the Johnsons this morning. He said they were at the restaurante by the parque earlier, but had probably left. He pointed to a red four wheel drive truck and said they were still in town. Clint thanked him and went to sit in the parque to watch for them to come back to the car. He sat next to a rather overdressed man who seemed to be lazing around on that bench that was closest to the car. He didn’t fit the local atmosphere at all.
“Colombiano?” Clint asked.
“Yes. Gringo?”
“Yes. Clint Faraday.”
The man knew the name. “Alex Sandia.”
“Your stuff the Johnsons are trying to, shall we say, keep?”
He got the stare again. “What do you know of it?”
“The people they’re accusing are friends. They didn’t lose anything and they didn’t take anything.”
Alex studied him for a minute. “So it is a trick to take my money?”
“Well, let’s see. Samy is hired by the Mrs. to deliver a package to a VERY specific place at a VERY specific time. Someone grabs the bag as soon as Samy puts it on the shelf and looks down to the phone number of the Mr. Samy doesn’t see him behind the machines until he is near the door. Samy runs to the door, but he is not there and not on the street. I wonder if that car (pointing) was driving away at just that moment?”
“Yes. It seemed suspicious to me. I will promise your friends will not be harmed in any way. I cannot say the same about the lovely Mrs. Johnson and her amiable husband. When one plays dangerous games and gambles he must be prepared to lose now and again. I know from experience. It is expected in business, but the sum should have been less. One doesn’t shrug off being tricked out of three quarters of a million dollars.
“I have heard of you. You are as direct and honest as reported. I like you. I will now be instructed to take my business elsewhere and deal with others?”
“That would be advisable, but with the understanding that it applies to Panamanians who are innocent of skulduggery, not gringos or Europeans who should know better,” Clint replied with a grin. “It can serve to rid us of some very low-class people here – such as the, as you just called them, lovely Johnsons.”
“Oh, I won’t get rid of them for you ... but maybe I will, indirectly. Perhaps they should return to their homeland to avoid unpleasantness here. I certainly can make them consider that a particularly wise choice. Deal?”
“As my friend said recently, ‘Whatever works.’ It could work. I think I could like you, too. No bullshit.”
“But you don’t like my business,” Alex stated flatly.
“No, but there would be no supply if there was no demand. I’m beginning to see what’s going on and why. As a friend who writes SF says, repeatedly, drugs are just an escape from a given society or a sense of hopelessness. If the society doesn’t do things to make escape a necessity there wouldn’t be any drug problem. It’s a combination of too many people and a sense of frustration against governments that have descended into a huge set of personal greeds among the leaders. Looking back at the states I can see just how decadent they’ve become. I would like to keep the harder stuff out of Panamá – but that’s not realistic.”
“Is that supposed to be deep or merely simple conversation?” Alex said with a laugh. “I will not supply anything to Panamá because of one of your simple realities: It is not a profitable market. There’s too much local competition and the amounts to supply the market are not enough to make it worth the trouble.”
“The local stuff is actually pretty disgusting,” Clint pointed out. “Panamá Red was THE weed of choice in the late sixties and seventies, now the stuff here is ... crap. Of, course, there never was any Panamá Red. It was something from a book.”
“Oh? You use pot?”
“Not to any extent, but I tried some of the stuff sold in the parques. As I said, it’s crap.”
“Here come our lovely Johnsons. Care to speak with them?”
“We’ll see what we can do. Maybe I can drop a few little bombs on them for you.” They went over to the man and woman getting into the car.
“Just a short word, Mr. Johnson. We have not met
in person before. I am Alex Sandia.
“Did you actually have the lack of sense to think this trickery would work?”
“Er?” Mr. Johnson replied. “Trickery? The funds were stolen from my carrier! He is a man I have the greatest regard for. He is totally honest. There is no trickery!”
“I’m Clint Faraday. Why the unholy hell were you so stupid as to use this ostentatious car to get away? Don’t you have any sense at all?”
“Er?” he replied again. “What did..!? Samy did NOT see this car! He was inside ... I mean, it wasn’t there! How could he say he saw it? Preposterous!”
“He didn’t – and he’s not a trusted friend. You hired him off the street. What? You think those two snotty doorman didn’t see you? Were they supposed to be inside where they couldn’t, too?”
“EEP!” Mrs. Johnson exclaimed.
“You will get the money, all of it, and deliver it to me immediately,” Alex demanded. “You will then spend the rest of your lives in Panamá wondering when you might have a serious or fatal accident. People here fall off mountains or get trapped in a burning house or have traffic accidents or are murdered by ladrones far too often. It might be wise to go back to the states where you will be much safer from retaliation by persons you have been dishonest with.
“The money. Within the hour. I have to return to Colombia shortly.”
“WHAT..?! You can’t threaten ME! I’ll call the police!” Mr. Johnson yelled. Clint waved to the officer who he’d asked about the Johnsons earlier. He started over.
“You can tell him about it while I’m here to say that all he did was warn you about the dangers of doublecrossing people.”
“One hour,” Alex said. “Here in the parque. All of it. You get no cut after this.”
“Oh, dear! We had to spend two thousand for ... oh, dear!” Mrs. Johnson cried.
“Okay. You keep five thousand and get the rest here,” Alex demanded. They agreed and drove off.
“Well, I’ll head back to David. Got to get to Bocas,” Clint said. “Maybe we’ll meet again when there is no business to be conducted by either of us. I think you’d like Bocas.”
“You would invite me there?” Alex asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Sure! Might be useful to have a drug lord friend!” That got him a laugh and the finger.
Down Under
Clint Faraday saw the ambulance going out the road to Bocas del Drago, but didn’t think much of it. After all, it was the only road to the main island. If you went out you used it – except by boat, of course.
He poured another cup of the coffee he’d bought from a roadside vendor up by the big dam on the road from David. It was from a local grower and was the best he’d found in Panamá – and Panamá is known for producing some exceptionally fine coffees. He always added a little chocolate to most, but this didn’t need it.
What to do today? Fishing? Scuba diving at one of the many reefs? Catch up on his paperwork – no. This IS the land of tomorrow. He was only about three months late on it so was just up to date local custom!
Walk into town to see what was happening lately. Don Chicho’s for more coffee and some carne fritas sounded good. Patacones. Some fried bread. Gossip – almost never negative when you considered the local lifestyle. God! He loved this place!
Bob Seger’s “Face the Promise” was playing on his computer. He grinned and nodded, threw on some shorts and a tee shirt, his flip-flops, turned off the comp and headed out. Judi was just coming in and waved to him, then called that he would probably get a call to go to just a bit south of Drago. Two bodies. Drowned. No reason for anyone to drown there in four feet of water with almost no current.
He sighed and went on toward town. Javier, a local Indio transvestite/drag queen, waved and came to tell him his wife just had another baby. A boy. That made one of each, which was all he wanted.
Clint congratulated him and asked if he was going to keep up the transvestite thing now.
“No. Cecy conocer esta gay, pero con dos hijos es mejor no mas transveste,” he replied seriously.
(No. Cecy knows I’m gay, but with two children it’s best I don’t be a drag queen.)
Clint congratulated him again and went on. It sometimes seemed that most people here were bisexual. Javier would probably be mostly straight now with only one or two men he was especially fond of.
Gloria and Suzana were on their way to work. He walked along with them for a ways, swapping a few jokes and some gossip about the trouble Amanda was having with her husband’s drinking. They were saddened that such a good man was addicted to the sauce. He had almost hit her this time. It would be over if he actually did. Her brothers would probably kill him. (They would beat him almost to death, not actually kill him. Some could get away with hitting a woman, but not with her family.)
He saw Flora and Don were cleaning The Plank’s verandah as he passed. They had live music last night and were open late so cleaned early in the morning today. The regular crowd was at Don Chicho’s. Fernando, the local government translator for English-speaking people greeted him warmly and asked how things were going. These people were honestly interested in people and things outside of themselves.
Dave, the local odd-ball author, came to wave. He was carrying his laptop. On the way to the free air internet at Bohmfalk’s. The place was closed this early, but Bill left the internet connection on and had tables where patrons could sit on the porch anytime to use it. He came over to say there were a couple of DB’s out near Drago. Could be a hit, but didn’t really feel like it. He went on. Clint got a large coffee and some empanadas, foregoing the carne. He got some patacones with them and sat on the porch to talk with Fernando and some locals. Jorge went by and called, “Oye, Clint!” Clint replied, “Oye! Co da coin metare!” and continued chatting. (Hi, Clint!) (Hi! Good day! – Indio dialect.)
The police truck went by, saw Clint and backed to ask him if he had the time to run out to a murder scene with them. He agreed and told his friends “Hasta luego!” and got into the truck.
*Rest translated – CD
“Good morning, Clint,” Basilio Flores, special criminal investigations, greeted. “It would seem we have a bit of a problem with a couple of dead bodies. Germans. Man and woman. Hans Graf and Gretta Frankmeyer. There’s something fishy about their passports, but they seem to check out pretty well. Drowned in shallow water and were here for reef surfing, so could swim very well, actually. Doctor Gonzales says they drowned, but not in the sea there. Something about lung content or something.
“It’s getting bad, Clint. We never had murders here a couple of years ago, now this is the second this year.”
“It’s about the same all over, but here you get the foreigners. The local stuff is mostly among teens and early twenties. Violence in TV, games, movies ... what have you. Glorified. Makes me sick to see so much coming here.”
Basilio nodded and sighed. He said Clint could talk to the doctor and maybe see something. The victims were staying at the new hotel near Drago. They would go there to ask questions after Clint learned what was to be learned at the scene.
Clint wanted to know who else was there and for what – and he wanted a look at those passports. Basilio was sharp and had spotted something fishy.
The victims were in their early thirties, in very good physical shape and were more than average goodlooking. Very Aryan, blond, blue eyes, etc. The tiny scars from plastic surgery were showing from the water exposure.
“What’s the verdict, Doctor?” Clint asked.
“Water in the lungs fresh. Scalp had small very close-to-time-of-death bruises. Probably drugged or something and held underwater in a pool until they drowned.”
“Swimming pool?”
“Not much chlorine, but with the rains the last couple of days, could have been. I’d say not at the hotel, though. There’s always someone around there to be sure kids don’t fall in while their parents are asleep or drunk or whatever. Trouble is there aren’t so many poo
ls. All of them at hotels out here.”
Clint nodded. There weren’t many other pools, either. Those would show in the water tests on what the doctor extracted from the lungs. The ponds would have mud and such from the rain wash.
Basilio said they could go to the hotel if Clint liked.
The Caribbean’s Best Hotel was one of those overdone things tourists paid a hundred bucks or more per night for a twenty dollar room. The restaurant would be expensive and so-so. The bar would be pouring cheap booze and charging high prices for it. The staff would be downright obsequious. After all, only idiots stayed in those places. They didn’t know any better.
Hans and Gretta (Clint thought, Hansel and Gretel. He had an idea what it would be about – or what the two were doing there, anyhow.)
“Did they have any special friends?” Clint asked Wil Lariez, the general gofer-boy in the lobby and around the swimming pool. He was in his thirties, but was trying to look like a twenty-year-old. Worked out a lot. Hair a bit long and bleached. His Spanish was a bit too perfect, but the gigolo types would come from somewhere else and try to look local. He was naturally dark, but not the same type of dark as the natives.
“The surfers. Nobody special I noticed.”
He was going to get short answers.
Wil looked expectant. Clint nodded and walked away. Now he looked confused.
“I want to know a lot about the lobby bum cum pool boy there,” he said to Basilio. “Where’s he from?”
“We’ll check everyone here. He said something about Panamá City, so he could be from there. I’d say a Colombian who’s lived most of his life there.”
“Huh-uh! What do you know about Hans and Gretta?”
“We’re doing a close trace of their passports. I think there’s already some question. What did you see that we missed about them?”
“Scars,” Clint replied. Basilio looked surprised, started to say he hadn’t seen any scars, thought, and grinned.
“Why the plastic surgery? Bone structure says they were rather handsome without it.”
