by Moulton, CD
They talked awhile. Clint called Manolo to get any information he could find about the council. Judging from the way those two clowns acted it was no surprise they couldn’t locate people. Even if they were standing dead in front of the person they wouldn’t get information.
Clint and Emanuel walked back toward the town and waited in a restaurant not far from the bus stop until it was loading the few people who were boarding this early in the trip. There were only four. Clint and Emanuel ran to the bus as it was in motion to leave and climbed aboard. Clint greeted the people already aboard and chatted a moment with all of them. It was two men and their wives.
On the trip to Panamá City Clint made it a point to be where he could observe everyone who got on the bus. The one he half-expected didn’t board the bus. He and Emanuel made an arrangement to get the next predetermined stop set up. Emanuel wouldn’t countenance lying so Clint said he wouldn’t be lying. He would simply say that he left Darien because some people who seemed dangerous to him were there. That was true.
In Panamá City they went to an internet café where he got the next destination. The woman, Veronica, seemed very distressed that anyone was following him. She just couldn’t imagine why anyone would be interested in a missionary who was there to aid the needy. They found an out-of-the-way moderate hotel in a dangerous section of the city. Clint would go everywhere with Emanuel until they left. For Bocas Town. Home.
Bocas Town
Clint and Emanuel got off the Bocas del Toro bus at Valle de Aguas at 8:10 in the morning. Clint called Judi and said they were coming. He called Manolo as soon as they were settled in.
“Clint, there isn’t much I can find out about that council. It’s registered by a ... CIA front, if you want the truth. There are ties with Interpol et al. I do some work with them. I don’t pretend to like the implications. At all.”
“There has to be something else. A better reason.”
“I’m digging. I’ve always said the methods used by the CIA stink. They and DEA are a lot worse than most of the ones they catch. `The end justifies the means’ is a pile of oozy horseshit. You know I won’t go along with a lot of it.”
“I think I know what they’ll claim. It’ll be another pile of horseshit. Thanks, Manolo.”
Okay. Clint figured it was the CIA and that they’d claim the profits from the sale of the stolen art was financing terrorism. That was certainly on the minds of Willie and Roberto. All they were doing was seeing that these people were stopped in any way they could. No one was dead who deserved to live.
Maybe. What about that snakebite victim? What did she have to do with it? Was she just in the way? Using someone like Emanuel, who, despite the fact he was irritating and a bit obnoxious at first, was innocent was the inexcusable part. He was a person who cared about other people. That was the totally inescapable fact. They could play all the games they wanted. Both sides – but only so long as they left innocent people out of it. Involving such people crossed the line a long way. Clint wasn’t the least hesitant about setting certain types against each other. It saved decent taxpayers a bundle for one or fifty of them to knock off one or fifty others. They didn’t have to spend a million bucks apiece a year keeping them locked up.
The Robinson Emanuel was supposed to locate was here. Here or close. Why did they need Emanuel?
Because it was a very large family. There were a number of them who might be involved in art theft. There weren’t any, so far as Clint knew, who would be involved with terrorists in any way. Finding one certain individual in that family would be one hell of a hard task. They would protect one another and would put out a lot of false information. The one they were after would probably be very popular among a large group. The family was deeply involved in politics and knew how to manipulate people.
Emanuel would lay low a while until they found out a few things about the followers.
Judi came home from shopping about four o’clock and told Clint Willie and Roberto were back. Would Emanuel be the reason?
“They asked, in their own charming inimitable way, if you were here. I said I couldn’t say. You weren’t here last night.”
“If they ask again, just say I came in, am in a very bad mood and keep ranting about people screwing with my mind.”
She smirked at him. “So. How are the DEA and CIA mixed up in this?”
Clint giggled. She got that information in two minutes, probably.
“That’s what I can’t quite figure. They’re very definitely involved, but there’s one other I can’t figure from any angle.
“You know something else? I think Willie and Roberto don’t have a clue about him! HE’S why they keep running into dead ends!”
“Who?”
“Don’t I wish I knew the real answer to that.”
She laughed and said she would go on home. If they were watching they would know she came there. Sure enough. As soon as she went home they called to ask if Clint was back yet.
“He’s back and in a horrible mood! I don’t know what happened, but I damned well intend to keep away from him until he cools down! What a mood!”
“Is anyone with him? We heard he came in with someone. A man.”
“I didn’t see anyone else. He may have stashed a guest somewhere, probably in Almirante or Changuinola. It could be why he’s in such a bad mood. Someone imposing on him makes him, shall we say, a bit irate.”
She was playing the airheaded ditzo. They would figure she didn’t know anything and that they could use her to get information.
Hah! She could play them like a Stradivarius!
They soon said goodbye and hung up. It wouldn’t occur to them that she stalked out in Chiriqui Grande because she thought they were the lowest kind of scum?
Probably not. They got a lot of that.
Clint thought for a few minutes, then called Manny Mathews, a retired mafia don from the states living in the area to avoid his old life and raise a family who wouldn’t be ashamed of how pops made his. He and Clint, who arranged the retirement, were close friends. He still had ways to get information that were far above anything else.
Clint asked which Robinson had stolen art. Manny said he’d call back in fifteen minutes. When he did, he started with, “Two of them. Yveth and Fabio. Here and Changuinola. Also a Taylor and an Arauz are into collecting such items.”
They chatted for a few minutes, then Clint went to Emanuel to ask if he knew which Robinson he was after.
“I’m not yet certain. I have to find ... I would have to meet them to determine which one. I know a little about her to make the connection, you see. I would tell her that Beth Chandler from San Diego said to drop by if I was in the area. That is true – according to Veronica.”
Clint nodded and said he could probably determine it was an Yveth.
“Contact Veronica and tell her that you couldn’t deliver the message because Yveth is the only one it could be and she’s not here for another two weeks. She’s in Costa Rica visiting a cousin.”
“I can’t say that!”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Oh. I see. You checked and found that. You are not asking that I prevaricate. I understand.”
Clint nodded. Maybe Emanuel wouldn’t lie about anything. He would!
An hour later, after spending the time on the computer e-mailing a number of his friends, Emanuel said that Veronica suggested he go to Panamá City to see if he could aid a Fernando Harris D’Angona. The man was in spiritual crisis and would be able to fund a clinic if he could be convinced that it would assuage his soul of past mistakes. He was using another name, but he would know Norman Donaldson from Atlanta, Georgia, USA. Use the name to help convince Mr. Harris of the sincerity of wanting to help him find the true blah, blah, blah.
Clint sighed. He called Air Panamá to book them on the morning flight. They would be damned sure no one knew about that trip. Clint had worked with the police here on several cases and they had strict instructions about what might happen
if anyone let out information concerning Clint Faraday and anyone working with him.
Clint decided not to go to town that night. It would be in character for him to stay home if he was in a bad mood. He would never take a bad mood out at night. He got a good night’s sleep. He and Emanuel (in enough of a disguise that he might not be recognized by anyone who didn’t already know him) got to the plane at the last moment and went aboard. Clint studied the other passengers by going along the aisle before take-off to say “Hello!” to all he knew. Judi would tell Willie and Roberto that Clint and some friend from the states went to Panamá City on the early flight. He felt that Emanuel was having more excitement and fun from all this crap than he ever knew before in his life.
Panamá City
They landed at Tucumen where Clint called Jerry Ames, a friend who had a condo in the city, to have him and Emanuel picked up and taken somewhere where Emanuel wouldn’t be found. Clint would stay at the Hotel California, as usual.
Next step was to contact the police there. He had worked with them on several cases and had established a reputation of being honest and practical as well as a person who had a good slant on many things.
“Fernando Harris D’Angona. A contact name to identify him is Norman Donaldson from Atlanta, Georgia. I don’t think they have any idea what name he’s using here. Something about Emanuel would make him come out of the woodwork, so to speak.”
Oscar Pinela nodded. “I think I know, within ten people, who you seek. I don’t know why you think he would have an accident if he’s located.”
“There’s a long history of people contacted by Emanuel who have fatal accidents within hours.” Clint told him about a few.
“And you say he isn’t responsible, that he is being used?”
“I’m fairly certain of it. I could be wrong, but he’s a better actor than anyone in the flicks or on TV if he’s doing any of it.”
He nodded again. “What kind of thing connects the victims?”
“Stolen art.”
“Then it will be Rodrigo Lordes, Francisco Dariez, Flaco Gorda, or Jorge Maestro. They are the only ones who are rich enough or who have the necessary contacts to locate such things. They are the only ones using an alias here. We watch such people without letting them know we are aware they are not who their identification says they are.”
“Flaco Gorda?” (“Skinny Fat?”)
He shrugged.
Clint found the places he might run into the four and went out. The closest place was the Rosa de la Noche, a legal house of prostitution. Francisco Dariez often came in, but after eight at night.
The Top Place Billiares # something-or-other was next. Rodrigo Lordes was playing eight ball for a dollar a ball. Clint bought in and played a couple of games, winning four dollars on one and seven on the next. He mentioned a person named Norman Donaldson, in Atlanta, Georgia, knew some people who played pool very well here. He told Clint about it a while before Clint moved to Panamá.
“I think I do not play pool so very well!” he cried.
“Oh, I know the game. Norm said I’d find a challenge here. You’re a lot better than most. I just sort of have a natural talent for it.”
He grinned and bought them both beers. He said he knew the hustling game. Clint was good at it.
“Got to eat!” Clint agreed. He laughed and said playing against Clint was a good way to end up starving.
The next place was dominoes, which Clint wasn’t at all good at. He watched them play for a few minutes and stood at the bar when Flaco Gorda came to get another beer. He wasn’t flaco (skinny) or gordo (fat). He was fairly well constructed in a slightly less than bullish way.
Clint asked if he knew anyone in the states. Georgia.
“A couple,” he replied in very good English. “I spent two years there. Came home last year. You can have the states.”
“I thought I saw you there! You were with that Norman character!”
“Norm Donaldson? He’s, as you say there, quite the trip, isn’t he?”
“Good for business contacts, though,” Clint said.
He got a studied look, then a small grin. “I would never figure you for the type who collects antiques.”
“I work for someone who does. I couldn’t care less about art. Take a photo of anything with a ten megapixel camera and save the canvas and paint. Lasts forever and doesn’t fade and chip so you gotta spend a grand having it cleaned. Print out fifty copies anytime you want.”
He laughed. “You can’t get the handwork that way, but I agree. Spend the dough on something you like. It’s investment. Something for the grandkids.”
“That’s about as soon as you can cash in that CD!”
He laughed again and said he had to get back in the game. His luck was about to change. He could always feel it.
So. He was as good as Emanuel for locating these people. He would contact Manolo and get the next on the list.. According to Emanuel they said there were about ten people who needed their attention. Emanuel was getting a bit turned off by these people and the way they were using him.
He went back to the hotel and told Emanuel to e-mail Veronica and tell her D’Angona was using the name Flaco Gorda and was a deeply troubled soul who hid his shame behind a facade of what looked like a somewhat swollen ego.
“He will be safe?”
Clint shrugged. He said it was likely he would be protected, but he wasn’t responsible for what happened to those people. They knew the rules when they forced themselves into the game.
Emanuel looked worried. Clint said the object of the locating was taken away, but no one knew that. He was fairly certain there was plenty of time to make Flaco Gordo reasonably safe from anything except the law. He was a dealer in stolen property.
They went out to a good restaurant. Clint got a disapproving look when he ordered a beer. He said the Bible taught moderation, temperance, not abstinence. He thought about it for a minute, said he’d never tasted beer and ordered one.
He didn’t like the taste so Clint ordered a red wine for him. He sipped it, said it wasn’t much better, then said it had a sort of nice aftertaste, didn’t it?
“The good ones do. This is one to make a meal more pleasant. The cheap ones are to get drunk. I very seldom allow myself to get drunk.”
“Please see to it that I practice temperance and don’t get drunk.”
The night was rather pleasant. Emanuel wasn’t half bad when he dropped the religious part. Before the night was through he said maybe he was beginning to see how people saw him. He was a royal pain in the ass, wasn’t he?
“Not nearly as bad as some. Tonight you’re a good companion.”
They turned in fairly early.
In the morning the phone woke him at four forty two. It was Oscar.
“Flaco Gorda? He was the one?” he said when Clint answered.
“Yeah. He ... was the one?”
“He had a bit of an accident. Got drunk and fell into an already broken plate glass window. It cut his throat almost professionally.”
“When? And where?”
“About an hour ago. Near the causeway.”
“Will it get any publicity?”
“I do not believe it will. He was not that important and was not well known.”
“Good. I have to check some things and it might be a great help if no one knows he’s dead.”
“I see. Someone you suspect will say the wrong thing to show you that he knows things he can’t know except one way.”
They talked for a minute. Clint went to check Emanuel’s room. The causeway was far enough away that he couldn’t very well get back in an hour. He would definitely not use a taxi who might remember him.
He was there, sleeping. Clint said he always forgot that most people didn’t get up when he did. He apologized for waking him and went down to the restaurant – that wouldn’t open before six thirty.
That gave him an idea. To get in before six thirty you had to ring for the clerk to buzz the lock
open to the door. No one had left after two ten AM and no one had come in since then, either.
Clint went out and to an all-night restaurant for a fairly decent breakfast. He went back to the hotel at seven thirty and called Emanuel, who said he was up. That was the time he got up every morning. He came down and they went to another restaurant. Clint had coffee and a slice of melon. Emanuel had an omelet and orange juice. Then they went to the internet café not far away.
“Veronica said she was glad I got to speak with D’Angona, and was he among those they could hope to salvage?” Emanuel reported. “I said we do what we can. Some people can be most difficult, but there is always hope. I think possibly we managed to reach him enough that we may be successful in saving him from damnation.
“She said, if I could squeeze in the time and it won’t be too much of an inconvenience, could I go to a place in Bocas del Toro called Mali. Do you know it?
“I told her it was never inconvenient to help show the path to another lost soul.
“I sound obsequious to myself! Great lord!”
Clint laughed. “You want the truth? You look actually human this morning.”
He reached to touch Clint’s hand. That said it all.
“Who and how? Mali?”
“Oh. Virgil Patterson. A woman he knew in the states, Nancy Killian Moore, recommended I contact him. She doesn’t know why he would change his name, but he did. She has become very worried that he had gone far astray down here.”
“In these dangerous savage pagan lands,” Clint finished. Emanuel looked a bit shocked, then a slow grin spread over his face. He gave Clint the bird, though he didn’t quite get it right. It wasn’t a thing he’d used before.
“You know something? I think I can be normal ... well, what will pass as normal. All I have to do is `loosen up,’ as they say.”
Clint agreed. “I have an errand to run while I’m here. We can get a bus to Mali at eight. I’ll be out there so I’ll get the tickets.”
“I think I want to see the city through open eyes. Eyes that aren’t clouded with preconceived ideas. I really do like the Panamanian people. I’ll feel a little guilty. The council is paying my way so I told Veronica that I was out of funds and going so far was costing much more than I anticipated. She will send me five hundred dollars by Western Union. It will be there before three o’clock.”
