The Laughing Falcon

by William Deverell

  “Like you say, how can I lose? Things fuck up, I’m just a guy doing my best to help out.”

  “Gordo here, he’s officially running the show out of San José, that was his orders from Johnny … ah, from the war office. I’m just a lowly go-between, far as he’s concerned, you gotta bear that in mind.”

  Who was Johnny? Slack assumed he meant Halcón.

  “I’m afraid this patsy ain’t too sure about you.” He said in Spanish to Gordo, “Señor Cardinal, he supports the goals of the revolution.”

  “You will bring our leader to us?” Rebozo asked.

  “I will do my best, compañero.”

  He wasn’t sure Gordo was buying it, he didn’t seem too trustful of Elmer, either, maybe doubting his revolutionary credentials.

  “Gordo’s gonna be your main contact person except in emergencies because I can’t be front and centre. So what’s the news?”

  “The news is good. The U.S. Embassy got your note and they’ve already been in contact with me. You spelled designa wrong.”

  “I never won no spelling bees.”

  “That’s the kind of goof could get us in shit, they might think Spanish isn’t the first language of the guy who wrote it.” Gordo was looking lost, so Slack switched to Spanish. “The man who talked to me hinted some accommodation could be made. I assume that means they’re willing to pay.”

  “Who was it?” Elmer asked.

  “Some geezer named Bakerfield, a friend of the senator. They offered me twenty thousand and expenses and said they would forget a mistake in my past. I said I would think about it.”

  “You are sure they are not deceiving you, señor?” said Gordo. He was as bad as Benito Madrigal, paranoid, Slack was going to have trouble bringing him around.

  “When they release Don Benito, we will know they are sincere.”

  “Maybe. We will see.”

  “When they call me again, I will insist they give me not only Don Benito, but a down payment. I’m going to ask for a million dollars.”

  “Good luck on that one,” Elmer said.

  “Just watch me.”

  Elmer grinned and said in English, “You know, after this is over, you and me should maybe work on a few other projects. I think we got some chemistry happening.”

  Slack massaged his aching neck, sipped his coffee. Despite Gordo’s wariness, he was pleased with himself, basking in the sunshine of accomplishment.

  “Okay, this is the arrangement: they will not release my name to the press — they don’t want reporters hanging around, and neither do we. One thing they will insist on is a photograph, me and the two women, or else they’re not dealing.” He asked Gordo, “So when can you take me to them?”

  “I don’t know the way, I have not been told.” He was obviously miffed at that.

  Elmer returned to English. “Gordo don’t have a clue. It’s way out in the country, I’m gonna have to give him directions.” He paused in thought. “No, that ain’t gonna work, Gordo’s kind of dim. Okay, the three of us have to meet in a secure place and sneak out under darkness.”

  “You forgot Benito.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s a nuisance, how’re we gonna bring him along? Well, we’ll work it out – you make your personal deals with them, come up with that down payment, and then you’ll be contacting Gordo here and he’ll know where to find me.” He gave Slack an address for Gordo, Barrio Mexico, a working-class area.

  The plan seemed riven with holes, unplanned-for contingencies, an amateurish gamble for high stakes. Could they be operating so loosely, or was he missing something? Still, the hostages offered good security in the case of mishap, maybe that’s what they were banking on.

  “Hey, remember you gotta tell them if they follow you or do some dumb thing like that, they don’t get them women back.” Elmer slit his own throat with a forefinger. “In pieces, that’s how they get them back.”

  The gesture did not seem flip, though Slack wondered if they had the balls to carry out the threat. But for the first time, he noticed something cold and mean in Elmer’s eyes.

  – 4 –

  Slack stayed on in San José, in a fourth-floor suite at the Gran Hotel. Walker usually showed up for the daily briefing there, seeming ever more strained but not butting in too much. He’d talked to his friends, the six hundred thousand was coming from the U.S. by diplomatic pouch.

  The hotel was by the busy Plaza de la Cultura, and Slack often wandered out to mingle with the crowds watching the fire-eaters and puppeteers. He’d been given a .38 snub and offered a car, but opted for a motorcycle, a big 1500 c.c. Honda touring bike, easier to wiggle through the congested inner city.

  He felt he was ready, but the handlers thought he needed a few days on fundamental matters such as memory training for the minutiae of the kidnap scene. Somehow, he was expected to memorize the route and collate evidence even when blindfolded.

  He’d been almost a week in San José, and Joe Borbón was back in Quepos, trying to get into the pants of Camacho’s sister and keeping Mono Titi Tours afloat. It would look odd if the office was closed in high season. Should anyone — reporters, former friends – ask as to his whereabouts, Joe would say Slack was sick. If they pressed, he was in a dry-out clinic.

  Though Joe would not be dogging his steps during the risky next stage of Operación Libertad, Slack worried someone else might try to shadow him. If they screw everything up by doing that, they’d better not blame the fuckup.

  The one hitch was getting Madrigal sprung, Minister Castillo insisting that proper procedures must be followed. “In this country, we are guided by the rule of law.” The security chief was miffed he was out of the loop, his people rarely consulted. But though he was a pain in the neck with his little obstacles, he finally seemed to understand that this hemisphere’s colonial power was in charge of Op Libertad.

  Eager to get the show underway, Slack volunteered to do battle with the Tico bureaucracy, to get the pardon issued, Benito out of custody, his personal belongings released. Otherwise, it might take weeks for some dawdling official to work his way through the red tape, manufacture of which was the major industry of the Republic of Costa Rica.

  He criss-crossed the city on his moto: the courthouse registry for the required forms, over to another public building for tax stamps, an hour finding the right wicket, up to the corrections ministry to get Benito’s wallet and his cédula released, back to the security ministry for the pardon, the document crossing a myriad desks, various officials examining, initialling, discussing, finally applying rubber stamps.

  At other stops, supporting records were missing, misfiled, or in trámite between offices. Finally, near the end of his third full day, he found himself crawling to the front of one more line, one more counter, one more functionary, a prim no-nonsense woman who sniffed at the paper he produced and said, “I see no permiso from the Judicial Police.”

  “Just sign it, please.” He smiled through clenched teeth.

  “Sorry, señor, it is not authenticated, you must return tomorrow. We are closing now.”

  “I’m not waiting until tomorrow!” he yelled.

  As she was about to ring down a metal shutter, Slack pulled open his jacket and showed her his Smith .38. “Sign the goddamn paper!”

  She did so with a wavering hand, stamped it, and frantically closed the shutter as Slack raced outside to his Honda.

  That evening, after some searching, he found Herman Rebozo’s apartment on a nondescript lane in Barrio Mexico, north of the Coca-Cola Station, a neighbourhood of decaying concrete structures scarred with graffiti, narrow sidewalks of broken paving stones.

  It was a walk-up, a staircase leading to a small flat. He chained his moto to the stair rails, it wouldn’t last five minutes outside.

  He wondered if others were hiding here, the young couple who had smuggled Gordo in and out of the San Isidro Hospital. One of them had been identified, a teenaged boy whose parents had finally reported in, concerned that their mixed-up kid
might be involved. About the girl, Slack knew nothing.

  He knocked lightly on the door and it opened a crack, an eye peeked out, and a chain was released. Gordo quickly ushered him in.

  The place was cramped but tidy, some old furniture, doorways leading to a kitchen and a bedroom. The sleeping cot beneath the living-room window appeared to have been in use, Gordo’s two cohorts were sleeping in the bedroom — its door was open a crack and he could hear whispering.

  “You were not followed?”

  “No one can follow a motorcycle in San José.”

  “You have met with them again?”

  “Yes. They will give Don Benito his freedom tomorrow.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “I have the papers.” He brought out a thick envelope, spread the documents on the dining table.

  Gordo had served a dozen years as one of those faceless civil servants under whose dominion Slack had so recently suffered. He would enjoy these documents, he would understand their beauty.

  His portly host slipped on his reading glasses and pored over the papers, studying all the hard-earned stamps and signatures. He seemed impressed enough. Slack waved a bundle of bills at him. “This is ten thousand. I will have sixty more like this.”

  “Why do they trust you with all this money?”

  “This is nothing to them, a piss in the ocean. We have not asked for enough.”

  Gordo frowned, the explanation didn’t satisfy him. Slack peeled off a couple of thousand for him, pocketed the rest, his walking-around money.

  “Should I bring him here?”

  “No, that would not be wise, in case you are followed.”

  “All right, you, me, Elmer, we’ll meet somewhere Friday at six. I’ll bring Don Benito on my motorcycle. At rush hour it will be difficult to follow me.”

  Gordo took a deep breath. It was a time of decision. He was either running the show here, as Halcón’s trusted deputy, or he was just some two-bit payroll clerk. He had to make a leap of faith in Slack Cardinal.

  “I will decide where we meet. I have purchased a truck, a delivery van.” Gordo limped off to fetch some scaled maps, fished through them. The one he spread out showed the Escazú hills, south of San José. “Up here, we can see for kilometres down any road. We will know if you are followed.”

  They spent some time working it out, selecting a remote gravelled trail that climbed all the way up the cerros before descending to a valley in the south. Gordo recalled a pulpería with a Kimby Chicken sign at the entrance to the gravel road, and, about three miles farther, near the top, a turnoff to a viewpoint. That was where they would meet tomorrow at sunset.

  Slack didn’t argue, kept saying, “Claro, claro.” This was fine, let Gordo demonstrate his leadership capabilities.

  A sound came from the bedroom, a rustling. Slack saw an eye peek out.

  “Who’s in there, Gordo?”

  “It is not important. You will be searched, that is understood? You will also be blindfolded. Those are my orders, however friendly you may be to our cause.”

  It was that phony story about the counterfeit felony that prompted all this hostility, the worst nightmare of a payroll clerk. “Claro, Gordo.”

  The little fellow straightened himself to his full height. “You will be privileged to meet Halcón, who is a great revolutionary. He has fought for the Zapatistas in Mexico and for our comrades in the Colombian struggle. Together with Don Benito, they will form a dynamic partnership.”

  “I must warn you that they say Benito has been sick,” Slack said. “You should be prepared for that.”

  “The pure air of freedom will cure him.”

  Slack moved to the bedroom door and swung it open. “Comrades, I don’t like being spied on.” The room was tiny, basically a bureau and a bed, a young couple lying on it, sitting up quickly now. They were kids, teenagers, how did they get messed up in this?

  “How old are you?” They were speechless, sitting stiffly, as if caught in some shameful act. “Sixteen, seventeen, what?”

  “They are useless,” Gordo said. “All they do is eat and screw.”

  But apparently they also read. Here was an open book, a Chilean collection, Neruda, Mistral. Slack was tempted to sit down and read with them, share this good poetry. They looked so innocent, Slack couldn’t picture them lugging submachine guns through the jungle.

  “Both of you should be in school. Pack up and get out of here.” Slack peeled three thousand from his roll, snapped a rubber band around the bills, tossed them to the girl. “Do you have passports?” Both nodded. “This is the number of an important woman in Havana, a friend.” He scribbled a note on the inner flyleaf of their book. “Go separately, and don’t fly direct, if they’ve identified you they may be watching the Cubana counter. Take the bus to Managua and fly from there.”

  Slack couldn’t tell if Gordo was impressed by his high Cuban connections. He still had many friends in Cuba, had slept with this particular important woman. At any event, Gordo seemed relieved to send these youngsters on their way.

  “There is a bus that leaves tonight,” Slack said.

  Wordlessly, the two of them began to pack, they seemed in a little awe of him.

  Gordo didn’t offer tea or cookies, so after studying the map, memorizing it, Slack saluted them with a raised fist and went down to his moto.

  He had trouble getting to sleep that night, his blood running cold with the fear this was going much too well, there was a nasty glitch lurking out there somewhere. He was equal to handling the likes of Elmer and Gordo, but how would he stand up to Halcón?

  Dear Rocky,

  If by some miracle you are now in possession of the enclosed pages, it will mean the thieves who infest the Tico postal service didn’t consider them worth the effort to snitch. Since the target for trash lit consists primarily of lip-movers, may I suggest you enclose the dialogue in speech balloons and throw in some line drawings and a pack of crayons. I have bowed to your lust for violence by kicking the shit out of Harry Wilder several times, but – somewhat like that big inflated clown we used to spar with when we were kids – after every thump he springs back, chin out for more.

  Harry has comfortably buttered his way into the high command of Dr. Zork, and tonight he is to buy freedom for the woman who immortalized him as the town tank of Quepos. Though he seems on top of his game, spectres of impending failure infest his mind – he has a history of international débâcles and general all-around fuckupness … and he knows the canon demands brutal twists.

  In the meantime, for my opening, I am playing with something simple but which pulls the reader in: “Harry Wilder scoffed at rumours of a secret military base in the high Savegre.” Or, more simply, “Harry Wilder knew a red herring when he smelled one.”

  Please send a letter bomb to that illiterate fop at Permanent Press who turned down Hymns to a Dying Planet. Made him feel suicidal? Fuck him.

  Jacques.

  – 5 –

  On the morning of Friday, January 21, the day of Slack’s rendezvous with Gordo and Elmer, Ham Bakerfield showed up at Slack’s hotel with all his doubts and worries. “How’s this going to work out? You got a raving lunatic on your bike, he could freak out, jump off, do anything.”

  Slack was in the washroom, Ham standing by the door, watching him shave. Slack had decided to dress up his act for Maggie Schneider, fool her, she’d be expecting some drunken roué. His hair was much too long, falling over his ears, he would see a barber, too, just a trim, he didn’t want anyone to think he worked for the government.

  “Maybe you’re going to have to sedate him.”

  “And how does that play? You’re on steep roads, you got a drugged-up guy behind you trying to hold on who could fall asleep any moment.” Ham began fiddling with a cigar.

  “So fix up a harness, I’ll strap him to me. You’re not lighting that in here, pal.” Slack stepped into the shower.

  When he got out, he could smell the fumes. He hauled on his pa
nts and walked past Ham to hurl the balcony doors open.

  “How’re the ribs?”

  “Bearable.” Below him, in the square, a marimba band was entertaining tourists, their numbers had been increasing, the U.S. advisory had been lifted. “You’re not going to have a fleet of search copters out there, Ham. Elmer made a threat.”

  “Yeah, I worry about that guy. Found out he did deep penetration stuff in Vietnam. One of his jobs was to take out community leaders who belonged to the Cong.”

  Slack felt a chill; Elmer was a seasoned killer.

  “After Vietnam, there’s a big gap. Worked for a security service in Ohio for a few months, then disappeared. Four years later he’s in Costa Rica. It’s almost like a bunch of files on him went missing.”

  “Soldier for hire? Nicaragua?”

  “Maybe, he seems that type. Be careful, don’t underestimate him.”

  “You trace any property to him?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Get a line on this Professor Pablo Esquivel?”

  “Yeah, Minister Castillo claims he has something for you, he’s on his way with some character who used to be one of their chief investigators. He quit a few years ago because of some scandal, so be wary of him.”

  He warned Slack not to be specific about his route into the hills. The security ministry was a sieve, they didn’t need an army of reporters following them.

  Jorge Castillo arrived just after breakfast, looking pleased with himself, announcing there had been a “break in the case.” With him was a pear-shaped fellow in his fifties who was introduced as Frank Sierra, a fastidious look to him, a pencil moustache and darting, dark intelligent eyes. He gave Slack an embossed business card: licensed investigator.

  “Mr. Sierra is one of our best minds,” Castillo told Slack. “Sadly, we lost him to private practice.”

  “I would prefer to characterize it as voluntary exile from the ministry,” Sierra said in flawless English, giving Castillo a cold look.

  “Ah, yes, that’s Frank’s dry sense of humour. A little problem in the past, all forgotten.” No one bothered to elucidate, and Castillo clapped his hands, as if to dismiss this awkward subject, maybe Sierra had been too honest a cop, a sin in Costa Rica. “To the matter at hand. We believe we have learned who Halcón is.”