Jungle of Glass

by Gerald J. Davis

  "I think so," he said. "He is always home. He is very old."

  "Can you take me to talk to him?"

  "Si, Senor. Why not?"

  He walked diagonally across the street and banged on the door so loud it sounded like he was Thor come to wreak vengeance on the unworthy. The house looked like the one we had just left, except that it was painted a long-faded blue. A girl came to the door. She wasn't more than twenty. She had a pert face with dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes and the look of a peasant.

  She stared blankly at me but her eyes opened when she saw Luis.

  "Don Luis," she said in a soft voice. "It is a surprise to see you."

  "Si, Caridad," Luis said. He pointed at me. "This is Senor Rogan. He is my employer."

  She smiled at me. A soft smile.

  I inclined my head slightly. "With much pleasure, Senorita Caridad."

  "Come inside," she said to both of us. "Don Jose is taking his siesta, but I will awaken him. He will be pleased to see you. No one comes to see him anymore."

  We stepped into a modest living room. From the street, the place looked like a hovel, but inside it was an acceptable middle-class home, with a stereo, TV and VCR. So much for external appearances.

  "Excuse me for a short moment," Caridad said. She left us alone in the room. It was reasonably cool inside the house, in contrast to the blast furnace outside on the street. The floors were tile and they dissipated the heat, or if that wasn't the reason, it was some other useful theory of thermal dissipation.

  "Caridad is the housekeeper of my wife's cousin," Luis said to me by way of explanation. Then he gave me an opaque wink and said, "Don Jose is eighty and Caridad is twenty."

  "I see," I said, for no reason.

  A few minutes later, a short man in bare feet padded into the room. He was shorter than Caridad, but his shoulders were broad and he was powerfully built. He was wearing only a white undershirt and white boxer shorts, so you could see his bow legs. He had a full head of closely-cropped white hair and a thick white mustache. He gave Luis a broad smile when he saw him. There were a couple of teeth missing from the front of his mouth.

  "Don Luis," he said with a booming voice. They hugged and slapped each other smartly on the back. Luis brought him over to me. "Don Jose, I am going to present to you Senor Rogan. He is my employer."

  Don Jose gave me a hearty handshake. His grip was still strong. "It is a great pleasure to welcome you to my house." He clapped his hands loudly in the air. "Caridad," he said. "Bring us three beers."

  This was a guy I could relate to.

  He waved us to a wicker sofa and sat across from us in a wicker armchair with thick cushions. Within a couple of minutes Caridad came back into the room with three bottles of Pilsener and three iced glasses on a wooden tray. She served them to us with a small smile, taking care to pour the brew slowly down the side of the tilted glass, and then she quietly left the room.

  "How can I be of service to you?" the old man said.

  "Don Jose," I said. "I am investigating the kidnapping of Senor Roderick."

  "I understand," he said gravely and stared into my eyes. "And how can I help in this matter?"

  "Senor Roderick's chauffeur lives across the street."

  He nodded slowly.

  "Tell me what you can about this man and his habits."

  Don Jose looked straight ahead at a point over my shoulder. I had the feeling he was composing his thoughts. His gaze was steady and serene.

  "Look, Senor," he said finally. "I have known Senor Alvarenga for many years. He is a good man. He does not drink and does not gamble or go to the whores. He works hard. He has a good position. He has been the chauffeur of Senor Roderick for many years. Once, many years ago, I saw him drunk. He had much shame for that and I never saw him drunk again. That is what I know about Senor Alvarenga." He sat back in his armchair and took a drink of his beer.

  "Thank you very much, Don Jose, for your information," I said. "Can you tell me if you noticed anything different about Senor Alvarenga or his family recently?"

  He nodded. "I am an old man. I do not sleep very well. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I walk around the house. Twice, while I stood here in the living room in the dark looking out at the street, I have seen men going into Senor Alvarenga's house."

  "And who were these men?"

  He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. "This I cannot say."

  "How many men were there?" I asked him. "What did they look like?"

  "Senor, the street is not lit at night. There is a street light on the corner, but it has not been lit for many months, so it is difficult to answer your question. Once, there were three men. The other time there were five. More than that I cannot say."

  "They were wearing regular street clothing?"

  His jaw tightened and he looked at Luis. "Si, Senor. I believe so."

  I got up. "Thank you, Don Jose, for your hospitality."

  We shook hands. Caridad appeared out of nowhere and led us to the door.

  "May you travel well," she said, almost in a whisper.

  "Many thanks, Senorita Caridad," I said.

  As we stepped out into the blinding mid-afternoon sunlight, Luis said, "Was Don Jose of help to you?"

  "More than he knows," I said.

  CHAPTER VI

  When I got back to the Camino Real, there was a note waiting for me. It was in a perfectly-formed female handwriting inviting me to dinner that evening at eight. The note was written in English and signed Marta Roderick.

  "Where is San Benito?" I asked Luis.

  "It is the colony with the biggest houses."

  I showed him the note. "I have been invited to dinner tonight. Do you know this address?"

  "Si, Senor. It is the house of Senor Roderick."

  His grin was full of lust. "Senor, you are a lucky man. Nina Marta is a beautiful woman."

  "We'll see about that, Luis." I winked at him. "Beautiful women don't affect me."

  "We shall see, Senor," he said. "If this is true, you are not a real man."

  "Pick me up at seven forty-five. Then we will see."

  I went up to my room and called a number Broadbent had given me. Broadbent had said this man was a colonel in the army who would be helpful. The colonel wasn't there so I left my name and number and a message to call me.

  I didn't know what else to do before dinner. I flopped down on the rack, turned on the TV and switched around the dial until I got CNN. There was a segment about the best chocolate-chip cookie, which turned out to come from Bloomingdale's and which cost two bucks apiece. Two bucks for one goddam cookie. That was the daily wage for the average laborer in this country. One day's hard labor for a cookie. Go ahead and try to figure the economics of that equation.

  I kicked off my shoes and propped a pillow against the headboard. The hum of the air-conditioning was enough to knock me out. Inside of two minutes I was sleeping the sleep of the untroubled.

  ***

  The phone woke me. I looked at my watch. It was ten to six.

  "This is Colonel Mayorga. What can I do for you?" The voice was softly sibilant and oddly soothing.

  "Jim Broadbent of the US embassy gave me your name. He said you might be able to help me in an urgent matter."

  "Of course," he said. "I understand. When can we meet?"

  "I'll be busy from eight to about eleven tonight. Can you meet me after that?"

  "Certainly." His voice had the distinctive Salvadoran accent, but he lisped so it sounded like he came from Spain. "Can we meet at eleven-thirty?"

  "Sure," I said. "Where?"

  "Do you know the Hotel El Salvador?"

  "I can find it."

  "Good. I will meet you in the hotel parking lot."

  "How will I know you?"

  "Don't worry," he said. "I will know you."

  He hung up.

  CHAPTER VII

  The address was on Avenida las Acacias in one of the most expensive parts of town. The house itself was h
alf the size of a small town and the grounds were three times as big. It stood far back from the street at the end of a softly-sloping rise behind a ten-foot brick wall with cut glass embedded in the cement on top. The cut glass wasn't there to keep the birds off.

  The style was modern with Spanish influences, but it was kind of jarring. Like the Naked Maja in a thong bikini.

  It cost Luis the better part of a gas tank to drive all the way from the front gate to the steps of the house. A maid in starched whites swung open the oversized wooden door all by herself and led me down a long corridor to the sala. The house was a quadrangle with an open atrium in the center. The atrium had a large garden with lots of brightly-colored tropical flowers that you could see through glass walls. The only plant I could name was a Bird of Paradise.

  Luis was right about Marta. She was a good-looking woman. And she did have an effect on me. But to tell you the truth, she wasn't as good-looking as her mother. There must have been too much of her father’s rough-hewn Irish heritage that coarsened her mother’s delicate features.

  As the maid led me into the sala, Marta came to greet me. She had a head of angry red hair, full and long, and flashing blue-gray eyes. There were freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had a strong jaw and bright even teeth. She looked to be in her late twenties. She was wearing a dressing gown that hung open because she hadn’t bothered to tie it up. It didn't look like the kind of dress you wore to a dinner party.

  "Mr. Rogan," she said as she walked up two steps to where I was standing and gave me her hand. "I didn't expect you so early." She was a tall girl, and she wasn't bashful about her height.

  "Your invitation said eight."

  She laughed. It was a hearty laugh. Nothing feminine about it. "Yes. But here, eight means nine."

  I shrugged. "I'm a gringo. To me eight means eight."

  "And you're wearing a suit."

  "I always wear a suit. It's my work uniform."

  "You will find it is uncomfortable to wear a suit in the tropics. You will sweat like a stuck pig."

  "I learn by experience," I said. "Sometimes I learn the hard way."

  Her English had that same inflection her mother had, but it sounded less formal coming from her. Another generation, another crop of idioms.

  "Let me at least take your jacket. You'll be more comfortable that way."

  "I'd rather not," I said. "Comfort is way down on my list of priorities."

  Her gaze went to the bulge under my jacket. "I see," she said and her smile tightened. "Well, then let me offer you a drink."

  She picked up a bell from a table and shook it a couple of times. Another maid in white appeared. There seemed to be a lot of little women in starched whites, scurrying all about. "Bring the Senor a ..." She waited for me to finish her sentence.

  "Let's talk first before the others get here," I said.

  Her answer surprised me.

  "What would you like to talk about?"

  "Your father," I said.

  "Oh, that."

  "Yes, that."

  "OK," she said with a shrug. She waved the maid away with the back of her hand. "Let's talk."

  I looked into her eyes. Something there said she was playing with me.

  "Who do you think took him?" I asked.

  She fingered a lock of her hair, twisting and releasing it. "His enemies?" she said. The way she said it, the words sounded like they came from a California valley girl.

  "Which enemies?"

  She gave me a perverse grin. "How can I begin? Let me count the ways."

  "Are you a fan of Robert Browning?"

  "Sure. I've read all his poems. ‘How do I love thee?’"

  "How many enemies did he have?" I asked.

  She held up her hand, palm toward me. She touched the tip of each finger in turn. "Business. Political. Angry husbands. Angry fathers. He was a man of prodigious appetites. You are not talking about Little Lord Fauntleroy here."

  "And you have no idea who did it?"

  She shrugged. It wasn't a nice gesture.

  "You don't care what happens to your father?"

  "It's a matter of supreme indifference to me."

  I waved my arm around the room. "Didn't he give you all of this?"

  She offered me an amused look. "It depends on how you define the word 'give'."

  I wasn’t in the mood for semantics. "Listen, Sugar. Don’t play with me. Your father's been kidnapped by men who are very serious — he may be dead soon, if he’s not dead already. I need some help from you instead of goddam word games."

  You could cut her sarcasm with a buzz saw. "I didn't know you cared so much."

  "You should be the one who..." I didn't get to finish the sentence. Three people came walking toward us, their reflections preceding them on the polished tiles.

  Marta took a step backwards. "Shit," she said. "I have to get dressed. I can't stand around here half-naked chatting with you."

  I didn't think she was half-naked. Maybe slightly underdressed, was all. She turned abruptly and said to me over her shoulder, "Introduce yourselves. I'll be back in a sec." That valley girl again.

  I looked down the hallway. Jim Broadbent was in the lead, followed by a couple in their sixties. The woman was short, dark and appeared to be a Salvadoran. The man was European, big and fat, with a bulbous nose and a thick white walrus mustache. He had a flowing shock of white hair, parted down the middle. He was wearing a white embroidered guayabera, one of those shirts men in the tropics wear over their pants.

  Broadbent grabbed my hand. "Hello, Hardcase. Where's the hostess?"

  "Crying her eyes out," I said. "She's overcome with grief."

  Broadbent wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "I guess I should've warned you about that bitch. This is a family that doesn't like to broadcast its emotions."

  "Tough to prove it to me," I said.

  Broadbent turned his attention to the couple next to him. "Allow me to present Ed Rogan. He is here from New York." He said to me, "Ed, this is Mr. and Mrs. Hoag. They're friends of long-standing."

  I shook hands with them. Mrs. Hoag smiled pleasantly enough but didn't say a word. Mr. Hoag took my hand between his beefy paws and shook vigorously. "I am extremely pleased to meet you, Mr. Rogan." His accent was middle-European, from somewhere between the Rhone and the Danube. His voice was gravelly and breathless. Obviously a life-long smoker. "You are here to investigate the disappearance of Sr. Roderick?"

  I looked at Broadbent. "The whole town knows why you're here, Ed," he said. "There are no secrets in San Salvador."

  The room was very hot and I was starting to feel real thirsty. "I should've taken Marta up on that drink," I said.

  Just like a genie, she appeared by my side with that damn bell again. This time she was wearing a full-length sleeveless black dress with a slit in the front that ran all the way up to her crotch. "Let me offer you that drink again," she said. She shook the bell and a maid appeared with a silver tray.

  While the maid waited, Marta gave Broadbent a hug and kissed him on both cheeks, then she did the same with Mr. and Mrs. Hoag.

  "What will you have to drink?" she asked Hoag in Spanish.

  Hoag said, "Thank you. My wife will have white wine. I will have a double Johnny Walker Black with a cube of ice. No water." He pronounced the J in Johnny like a Y. Broadbent said he would have a gin and tonic and I took the same. The maid left and came back with the drinks and a couple of plates of appetizers. They looked like thick potato chips.

  Marta led us to a sunken pit in the living room and we sat on sofas built into the sides of the pit. She took the plates of chips and passed them around. They were good but they had enough grease to lubricate your average sixteen-wheeler.

  "What are these?" I asked.

  "They are deep-fat-fried pig's intestines," Marta said, overemphasizing each artery-clogging syllable.

  I kept on chewing. "You didn't see the latest press release on the federal nutritional guidelines, I guess."
/>   Broadbent raised his glass and pointed it at Hoag. "Mr. Hoag used to be a partner of Roderick in some business ventures," Broadbent said to me. "They go back a long way together."

  "Is that a fact? And when did you split up with Roderick?" I asked Hoag.

  He looked up and to the right as he thought. "A long time ago," he said. "Perhaps fifteen years ago. We were partners for twenty years. Partners and friends...good friends." He looked at me without expression. "We were all very upset at his disappearance."

  "Who do you think kidnapped him?" I asked.

  Hoag laughed. It sounded more like a snort than a laugh. "The left did it, of course. The left have always been angry with people like us. We were not in the country during the war, so they could not get us. But they never forgot. The leftists have long memories. When we started to come back after the cease-fire, that is when they saw their opportunity. Senor Roderick is one of the great men of this country. To kidnap him is to wound the upper-class."

  I looked at Broadbent to see how he was taking all this in. "What do you think, Jim?" I asked him.

  He nodded, finished his drink and said, "It's a real possibility. It has all the hallmarks of the leftists. My only question is how did they get to the driver."

  Hoag slapped his leg so loud his wife jumped a couple of inches in the air. She settled back in her seat with a sheepish look and sipped her white wine. "The usual way," Hoag said. "They threatened his family. They would kill his wife, his children..."

  "Then why did the driver disappear?" I said.

  Hoag raised his bushy eyebrows and looked at Broadbent and then at Marta. "That is interesting. I did not know he was missing. What has happened to him?"

  Broadbent waved his hand in dismissal. "That may be important or not. People disappear and reappear all the time. People get drunk..."

  Marta cut him off. "Why do you think it was the left? I do not agree. I think it was the military. Five million dollars is a lot of money, even for a fat ugly pig of a colonel."

  Hoag let out a long low whistle. "Five million, Dios mio," he said.