Jungle of Glass

by Gerald J. Davis

  It was kind of embarrassing to be standing in a boutique full of frilly feminine undergarments next to a woman who was bawling her eyes out while pedestrians strolled past the window and looked in at you. I hoped she'd finish crying soon.

  Finally she stopped sobbing and looked up at me.

  "Do you feel like talking now?" I asked her.

  She nodded and rubbed her eyes again. "Yes. I am all right." There was a faint fragrance of perfume in the air that smelled good.

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

  "I know who took him. He spoke of it many times. He was always afraid that the guerrillas would come after him.

  He even dreamed of it many times."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He had bad dreams," she said. "Many times he would wake up in a sweat and could not breathe. He would curse them and then he would be bad to me. But I never stopped loving him."

  "Was he bad to you often?"

  "Yes. He was a son of a whore. But I still loved him." She started crying again.

  "He was a son of a whore?"

  "Yes. He hit me. He cursed me. Then he had sex with me. He was a very potent man. He was more potent than a man half his years."

  "I understand," I said. "And why did he think the Left was after him?"

  "Because he received many threats. He received threats by telephone and by mail."

  "Did he show you these threats?" I asked.

  "Sometimes. He did not want to talk about it. I think there were many he did not show me."

  "What did these threats look like?"

  "There were different ones. Some were written by hand. Some were written on a typewriter."

  "Do you have any of these notes?"

  "Once he made a copy for me because I begged him," she said. "This is all I have."

  "Let me see it."

  "I am not sure if I can locate it," she said. "I will try to find it."

  She started flipping through some papers next to the cash register. It took her a couple of minutes, but finally she pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. Her face showed a small smile. "Here it is," she said.

  The paper was a xerox copy of a note written in a cramped hand. The writer had used uppercase and lowercase letters interchangeably. A grade school education, probably. It read something like this in translation:

  Esteemed Senor Roderick,

  For many years you have exploited the people who worked for you and profited unfairly from their labors. Now the people wish to reclaim the results of their work.

  They feel that the wealth you have accumulated belongs to them. Please take care. You and your wealth are in great danger.

  There was no signature.

  I looked up at Caridad. She regarded me without expression. The note could have been either a warning or a threat. And it was reasonably polite — I mean, as far as threatening letters go. It was completely different from the one Mrs. Roderick had shown me in New York. That one was typed on a computer and it had a tone that was downright nasty.

  "Were the other letters like this one?" I asked Caridad.

  "Some of them were. Some others were completely different."

  I was about to ask her another question when a customer walked into the store, so I turned around and made believe I was a brassiere inspector and attempted to blend inconspicuously into the background. But it's kind of hard for a big gringo in a dark suit to be inconspicuous in a lingerie shop.

  The customer was obviously an American because her Spanish was halting and her pronunciation was atrocious. I walked over to a far corner of the store where I'd be less obvious. The woman said something about "push-up" and a "36C". I tried not to pay attention but it's hard if you're a man and you hear those dimensions being discussed.

  Caridad came around from behind the counter and took the woman to a rack of bras. I didn't watch but I couldn't help seeing out of the corner of my eye because the store wasn't that big. They discussed something in low tones. It was a fairly lengthy conversation, considering the subject matter. The woman picked up a bra and inspected it, turning it back and forth and inside out. Then the woman put it back and chose a couple of bras that were hanging on a rack and walked to the back of the store and went into a little changing booth with a curtain over the front.

  I wasn't thinking about "push-up" and "36C".

  I started to walk back over to Caridad. There was something else I wanted to ask her about those ransom notes. But before I could reach her, I got a really bad feeling in my gut. Something small and black and ugly was pointing out from behind the curtain of the changing booth. I knew what it was.

  "Get down!" I yelled at Caridad. I hit the deck at the same time.

  The gun came out of the booth before she did. I couldn't see her face but I could imagine the look on it. "You bastard, Rogan," she screamed. "You son of a bitch."

  She got off two shots in my direction before I could pull my gun. I was under the racks of panties. She was across two aisles behind a row of nightgowns. I fired a shot where I thought her gun hand would be. Her shots shattered the plate glass window behind me. A shower of glass came down on top of me. It felt like a bucket of needles falling all over my head and shoulders.

  All the time Caridad was shrieking, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God," over and over.

  The woman fired a couple more shots at me. But I'd rolled over and was under the garter belts. I don't know where her slugs went but I didn't hear them hit near me.

  I shot twice at her legs where I could see them under the racks but she was moving and I missed her. I rolled over again. She took another couple of shots at me. One hit the bar over my head and ricocheted against the wall at the back of the shop. I fired two shots at her legs again.

  Caridad was still screaming, "Oh my God. Oh my God."

  The woman didn't wait around to be shot at again. From where I lay on the deck, I could see her feet moving toward the door. I pulled off another shot in her direction but, at the same time, she wheeled around and fired one at me. We missed each other.

  Then she was out the door.

  I holstered my gun, got to my feet and went over to Caridad. She was hysterical, but it looked like she was OK. I ran over to the door and looked out in both directions. People were screaming and running in all directions. There was no sign of the bitch.

  It was useless to talk to Caridad now. I left the shop and walked around the mall looking for the woman but everybody stopped and stared at me. Then a man came up to me and said, "Senor, permit me to take you to the hospital."

  "Why?" I said.

  He led me to a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I looked like something that had crawled out of the grave on all fours. Blood was dripping down all over my face and neck. It was all those little glass splinters.

  "Do not be worried," I said. "I look much worse than I feel."

  ***

  After they got me to the hospital and the doctors plucked all those little glass splinters out of my hide, I got Broadbent on his cell phone.

  "Listen, buddy," I said. "Some wacko American broad just took a few potshots at me."

  "And you think that's something out of the ordinary?"

  "Very funny," I said.

  "With your track record, it's a miracle more girls aren't doing that."

  "Don't be a goddam comedian. I want you to find out who this broad is and why she's pissed off at me."

  "Aye, aye, sir," he said. "And where did this alleged event occur?"

  "In Metro Centro in the bra and girdle shop of Roderick's mistress."

  He gave a short whistle. "Very interesting. And what did this shooter look like?"

  "She must've been in her mid-thirties, medium-length light brown hair, with kind of a tight, pinched face.

  She was maybe five-six, a hundred and thirty pounds. She was wearing a knee-length blue dress and shiny black high heel shoes. I think the gun was a Beretta. You know, one of those little jobs with the tip-up barrel. It sounded like a .22."

  "
I'll try to get a line on her," Broadbent said. "It's not every day an American girl goes around shooting up the place." He paused. "You OK?" he asked.

  "Yeah, I'm OK. Just kind of look like a pincushion with bandages."

  His voice became quieter. "You take care of yourself, now. You hear?"

  "Yeah, I hear."

  "I'll talk to you later."

  "Oh, and there's one more thing," I said.

  "What's that?"

  "She's a 36C."

  CHAPTER XV

  It was a few minutes before noon when I got back to the Camino Real. There was a message from Mayorga that had come in at eleven o’clock saying to call him. I reached him at army headquarters. He told me he had some scuttlebutt and to sit tight. He arrived inside of twenty minutes.

  He swaggered through the front door of the hotel in his starched uniform like he was the managing partner. He had on his trademark sunglasses. And this time he was wearing snakeskin cowboy boots.

  "Hey, Colonel Jarhead," he said when he saw me. He gave me a sharp salute.

  "Cut the crap," I said. "What do you have for me?"

  "Hey, man. You should loosen up. You can't go around banging your head into everything you see. What the hell happened to you?"

  "I forgot to duck," I said. "Now what's the news?"

  Mayorga looked around. "We can't talk here. Follow me."

  He took me to an alcove behind the front desk. There were a couple of sofas at a right angle with one of those chrome and glass coffee tables between them. He sat down and pulled an envelope from inside his neatly pressed shirt. He opened the envelope carefully and dropped it on the coffee table.

  "Take a look," he said.

  I sat and took the envelope. Inside was an eight by ten black and white glossy of a group of a dozen men in camouflage sitting around a campfire. One of the men was sitting on a rock while the others formed a semicircle in front of him. They all had rifles slung over their shoulders except for the guy on the rock.

  "Notice anything unusual?" Mayorga said, pointing at the photo.

  "What, no espresso machine?"

  He shook his head. "Nah, the honcho on the rock."

  I looked closer. The guy seemed to be smiling. "Why is this man smiling?" I said.

  "He's not smiling. He's squinting," Mayorga lisped.

  "He's squinting because he can't see?"

  "Bingo, mi colonel. He can only make out light and dark. He's called El Ciego."

  "The blind one?" I said.

  "Exactly. He's the one you're looking for. He's the sonofabitch who kidnapped Roderick. Him and his motherfucking band of guerillas."

  I eyed him. "How do you know this?"

  "This came precisely from military intelligence." He smiled. "Our boys are good. They got people all over the interior infiltrated into these guerilla groups. The word is out on the street that Roderick is being held captured by an offshoot of the FMLN. One of their renegade brigades. They don't want to come in out of the cold and so they need to make a lot of dough to finance their operation."

  "How do I get to talk to them?"

  "You don't. When they want to reach you they will."

  He got up. "You owe me one," he said and swaggered out of the lobby and into the midday sun.

  It was time for lunch. It had been a morning and a half. I was so hungry I could've eaten the crotch off a rag doll. To paraphrase Winston Churchill, nothing stimulates the appetite like being shot at and missed. I walked over to the dining room but there was a sign next to the door saying it was closed for a private meeting of the Salvadoran-American Chamber of Commerce. I was about to leave when Lightener walked through the lobby with two of his bodyguards and headed in the direction of the dining room. He stopped in front of me. This time he didn't have his little girlfriend with him.

  "Mr. Rogan," he said. "What happened to you?"

  I told him.

  He shook his head and grimaced behind his thick mustache. "Jesus," he said. "Is no one safe anymore?" He motioned to his bodyguard. "Mr. Rogan, won't you join me for lunch? You'll be a guest at my table."

  "Thanks but I'm not properly attired."

  "Don't concern yourself," Lightener said. He turned to the bodyguard he had motioned to. "Armando," he said in Spanish, "please lend Mr. Rogan your necktie."

  The guy pulled off his Joe six-pack tie. It was one of those polyester numbers with the striped gradations of colors going from light to dark.

  It was my turn to grimace. "Not exactly my style," I said to Lightener.

  He smiled. "I understand. I've tried to get Armando to subscribe to GQ, but it's not high on his list of priorities. And, obviously, I can't go to his house and dress him every morning."

  I put on the tie. Lightener walked into the dining room. I walked in with him. His table was in the position of honor, right in front of the dais. He gave me the choice seat and sat down next to me. The two bodyguards took their posts by the entrance doors.

  "I want my personal physician to take a look at you," Lightener said.

  "I'm OK. They took good care of me at the hospital."

  Lightener shook his head. "My doctor is one of the best in the country. He trained at Johns Hopkins. I'd feel a lot better if he examined you. Will you agree as a favor to me?"

  I shrugged. "It's OK with me. But he has to do it today. I won't be in town tomorrow."

  "Very well," he said. "I'll make the arrangements." He signaled to his bodyguards and they scurried over. He talked to them in a low voice that I couldn't hear. They nodded and the one called Armando left the room.

  The waiters started to serve the lunch. There was soup and salad and something that vaguely resembled a member of the family of chicken as the main course. I was so far gone they could have served raw eel in aspic and I would have eaten it.

  I didn't recognize any of the men on the dais until Broadbent walked in and took his seat in the middle. When he saw me he nodded and raised his hand. I finished the meal in record time. I wouldn't have sworn the main course was actually chicken.

  Then the speeches began. The topic of the luncheon was Trade and the Central American Common Market. Broadbent spoke about the assistance the United States had given the Central American countries in their search for export markets. Then one of the other speakers, who was a minister in the government, told about the great strides El Salvador had made in diversifying the export base from the traditional agricultural products. A third speaker went on about the need for liberalization of trade policies with other protectionist entities.

  By this time, the effects of the meal and the monotone delivery of the speakers were starting to take their toll. I was nodding off to the cadences of international trade issues.

  Before the third speech was halfway done, I was dozing as peacefully as a baby suckling at its mother's teat.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The wire fence was ten feet high and electrified. There was a roll of razor ribbon on top. The factory was a one-story structure the size of a square city block. Next to it stood a small administration building connected to the factory by a covered walkway. There were about fifteen uniformed guards in sight, all toting smooth-skin grenades hanging from shoulder straps and carrying M203's, which I hadn't seen since those days in that pluperfect hell so long ago. The M203's were standard issue in Viet Nam, a combination M16 and 40mm grenade launcher.

  The factory was an hour’s drive from San Salvador in a rugged part of the country called Santa Ana. The area was unpopulated except for a few shantytowns with dirt roads and the usual bare-ass kids playing around tin roof shacks. The

  few peasants we saw by the side of the road just stopped and stared at us as we drove by. There wasn't much work for them to do and little to interest them, by the expressions on their faces.

  The countryside was thick with tropical vegetation, but it was turning brown from the lack of rainfall. The dirt roads were rutted and tough on Luis's old Toyota. My head kept banging against the roof as we bounced up and down o
n the worn shocks.

  At the entrance to the compound was a blockhouse. Luis drove me up to the gate. I told him I wouldn't be long and to wait there for me. "At your orders, Senor," he said. He shut off the engine, leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes.

  Three clowns, two in uniforms and one in plain clothes, took me into an anteroom and patted me down. They pulled the Glock out of my shoulder holster and admired its sculptured beauty with grunts of satisfaction. One of them mumbled something about giving it back to me later.

  "Despues, Senor," he said, with a wicked smirk and a wink at his compadre. They took me down a long corridor and across the factory floor where antique machines were stamping out slugs for machetes and other hack and slice tools.

  Most of the workers had bandanas around their foreheads, dirty pants, no shirts and no shoes. The racket was infernal and the place reeked with an unholy stench. It was hot beyond any heat I'd ever experienced. The vapors hanging in the air burned my eyes. It was a fitting setting for one of Dante's rings of Hell. Both the EPA and OSHA would've had a field day here. No safety devices within ten miles of the place. Knee-deep in industrial waste. But they turned out one magnificent machete.

  The executive suite was on a raised platform five feet off the floor in the far corner. It wasn't any more impressive than the rest of the place. It was made out of cheap plywood and looked like it was about to collapse. There was a large window cut out of one wall so that the boss could survey his workers on the factory floor like a tin god. I walked up the steps and shut the door behind me. There was some weak air-conditioning and so it was just a little cooler inside. Two of the guards waited at the foot of the steps.

  "Mr. Rogan. It is good to see you." The man behind the desk came around and shook my hand. His grip was hard for a guy his age.

  He handed me his business card. It read: Dieter Strassberg, Managing Director. The man was a curious mixture of French and German, probably from that bleeding piece of land that had changed hands so many times over the centuries. He looked to be in his sixties, but in pretty good shape. He was short, no more than five six with a hunched posture that came from age. There was a gray pallor to his face. His hair was gray and thinning and he wore it combed straight back. He had large square wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing an open neck light blue shirt and gray slacks.