“Where is Marta?” he said.
“She couldn’t make it. What seems to be the problem? You got the information you need for tomorrow, right? Gearheardt and I have everything set up for you.” I waited for him to say something.
“I want Marta here, or no deal. I say that very clearly to the courier who brought the papers. Maybe he didn’t speak the Engleesh.”
“He spoke the Engleesh very well. Do you hear the Engleesh very well? No Marta. You show up tomorrow. I let you through the crowd right by the stage. You shoot the President, head for the doorway to the right of the stage and we’ll take it from there. We’ll have you in Cuba in two hours.” I paused. “By the way, the Halcones think it’s a good idea for you to visit Cuba also. They’ll let you out if you’re with me.”
Victor opened his coat and took out a pistol which he laid on the desk. “I talk to my friends the Russians. They say that the plan you have is crazy. That the Americans would never let the Cubans run Mexico. They laugh at the idea.”
“Well, I’m shocked, Victor.” I hoped he understood sarcasm. “I would have bet that the Russians agreed with every word. And by the way, that was real smart to tell the Russians our plan. Did Castro himself suggest that? Just damn brilliant.” I nodded at Gearheardt who sat quietly with his arms folded across his chest, staring intently at Victor. “You know Gearheardt, don’t you Victor? One of the CIA’s top men, you know that also. He didn’t come down here to hear about your discussions with the Russians. He was in Havana three days ago. Setting up things. You doubt that? Call your pals in Havana.”
Gearheardt moved his hand to his inside pocket, withdrew a pen and wrote a number down on the top of Victor’s desk. It was (I learned later), Castro’s actual phone number. Marta had gotten it for him.
“Call him. Tell him that you don’t trust the Americans. That you talked to the Russians about the plan that you sold your bosses less than twenty-four hours ago. We’ll wait.”
Victor didn’t reach for his phone. Instead he picked up his Russian .45, cocked the hammer back and pointed it at my forehead. At less than two feet, he would have to be an awfully poor shot to miss me.
Gearheardt lit a cigarette, looked around for the trash and finally tossed the burnt match on Victor’s desk.
I leaned forward until Victor’s pistol was only a foot from my face.
“No Marta. No more pussyfooting. You show up tomorrow and shoot that fat son of a bitch,” I said as levelly as I could manage. After a moment, I stood up. “Let’s go, Gearheardt. Victor, we’ll see you in the morning. We’ll take care of you.”
The pistol was still pointed at me as I reached the door and held it open for Gearheardt.
“You know, Victor, this is about the stupidest fucking idea for a nightclub I’ve ever heard of,” Gearheardt said. He left.
“Very nice, Gearheardt,” I said as we exited. “You just couldn’t not say something, could you?”
“I don’t think the president of Mexico is fat, Jack.”
Our Mercedes was still at the curb. Getting in, Gearheardt looked over the top of the car. “I have to tell you, Jack, you did a great job. I actually thought the bastard would probably shoot you. Nerves of steel, that’s my boy.” He slapped the top of the car. “Why are you getting in the back seat?”
The traffic was bad and Gearheardt couldn’t immediately get up to ramming speed. “Was that a good idea, putting the Pygmy in with Benito, Gearheardt? He’s a good kid and you tell me that the Pygmy is a killer.”
“The kid is a whiz with cutlery, Jack. Worry about the Pygmy if you have to worry.” He braked suddenly and threw the car into reverse. “Damn traffic,” he said.
At the Las Palomas, the Brazilian diplomat stood sulking at the curb while his driver harangued our poor Mexican automobile valet. Gearheardt screeched to a halt and hopped out, leaving the driver’s door open. He gestured at the chauffer to get in, pronto. Coming around the car, he opened the back door and let me out.
He grabbed the shocked diplomat by the coat. “Get in you Portuguese-speaking prick.” He slammed the door behind the astonished gentleman and pounded the top of the car. “Let’s move it,” he shouted. The car moved away quickly.
“Muchacho, next time get the gentleman a fat old ugly woman. I wasn’t even gone forty-five minutes.” He borrowed pesos from me and gave them to the boy.
“You’re in a fine mood, Gearheardt,” I said.
“Jack, if my driving is so bad, just say so. Don’t go hiding in the back seat. I felt like your damn chauffer.” He pushed open the door and went inside. We’re taking over a country the next day and he’s mad because I insulted his driving.
Upstairs things weren’t going well. When I followed Gearheardt into the reception parlor of the Las Palamos, Daisy was chasing a tall black man with a machete. He had a pistol drawn and looked like he was looking for an opportunity to use it if he could get distance between them. Marta was crying. Benito was rolling on the floor laughing, dressed only in a bustier and a vendor’s white cap. With all that, the din from down the hall was such that the parlor scene looked like it was a silent movie. Nothing could be heard above the music and general rabble rousing. A half dozen inebriated Mexican gentlemen sat in their underwear in the game room, watching in horror and (I found out later) waiting for a chance to dash back down the hall and retrieve their clothes from the girls’ rooms.
Gearheardt braved the melee and crossed the room to close the hallway door. The noise was reduced from a battle to a skirmish.
“Okay, knock this shit off,” Gearheardt yelled. He picked up the nearest flower vase and threw it against the wall. Everyone gave him their attention except Marta, who continued crying in her chair by the fireplace.
“Daisy, put down the machete. Right now! Benito, go get some pants on and find that damn Pygmy.”
Gearheardt walked to Marta and looked down at her. “Let me guess,” he said. “You thought you would bring the boys back here rather than the motel I told you to find.”
Marta kept her face in her hands but nodded her head affirmatively.
“And the boys, some of whom have been squatting around a campfire in the rain forest for three days, thought they had died and gone to heaven.”
“Señor Gearheardt, is that you?” This strained voice came from the tall black man who was held against the wall by Daisy’s machete against his throat.
“Welcome to Mexico City, Mario. You are Mario, right?”
“I don’t care if he’s Alexander the great,” Daisy said through her teeth, “one of his boys has Chiquita back there and if she isn’t out here, unmolested, in about thirty seconds, this black man will be standing in a pool of blood.”
Benito spoke up. “I know where the girls are, Señora Daisy. They are safe.”
“I thought I told you to get your bare ass out of here, Benito. Oh, shit, don’t throw up. What a damn nightmare.”
Daisy had lowered the machete. “I hope you’re right, Benito.”
“Señor, por favor.” The soft voice came from behind me, near the door.
A middle aged Mexican man stood quietly, his eyes drinking in the scene, holding his taxi hat in his hands. “The bill, Señor. For the taxis?”
“Crap, I forgot to get the money to pay the taxis. Jack, I don’t suppose you have thirty-five hundred dollars in pesos on you?”
“If my girls are safe, I’ll pay the bill, Gearheardt,” Daisy said. “I’ve got the ISP money you gave me.”
“Ixnay on the ISP talk, Daisy. But thanks.” He sat down next to Marta.
Chiquita and her sister skipped into the room. They didn’t look molested.
“Mama,” Chiquita said, “we were in the office, checking the traffic.”
Gearheardt groaned.
“These men, they are all stinking Cubaños.”
Mario made a low guttural sound. He seemed to have taken enough abuse.
Daisy made a faint toward his crotch with the sheep de-nutters. He must have recogn
ized them because he backed off.
“The Pygmy is not here, Señor Gearheardt,” Benito said, wiping his mouth on the lace doily from the chair he was now standing behind. “He goes to change the course of history.”
In ten minutes, the taxi man was paid, Benito had cleaned himself up and made coffee, Marta had stopped bawling, Mario and Daisy went down the halls checking on her girls and hustling the Cubans (there were only twenty-five) out and down the stairs to her van, and Gearheardt had leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. I thought he might be asleep but he said, “Jack, when I open my eyes if you have curly blond hair, a long coat and talk with a rubber-bulbed horn, I’m killing myself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE LULL BEFORE THE P***ING CONTEST
“Gearheardt, I’m going to make a run back by my apartment,” I said. “I’m not sure when I’ll get back there again.”
Gearheardt looked at his watch. “Sounds good, Jack. I’ve got a couple of things I need to take care of too. Meet me back here at eleven and we’ll brief Mario.”
We were in the office. Gearheardt was making a last minute check of the traffic. Other than my leather jacket now being in the CIA offices in Frankfurt, nothing had come through that was ostensibly for us or our mission. It only occurred to me later that the jacket information was on the network of brothel news.
“Jack, watch yourself. The frivolity around this place can make you forget that we’re on dangerous ground here. Have our pal out front get a taxi for you. Don’t take one off the street.”
“Got you, Gearheardt.” I stood and watched him making notes and checking street maps. He was an amazing guy. The idea that the next few weeks could bring a free Cuba was his. Without his craziness and insane devotion to his dreams, it might not have been possible.
“If you’re waiting for a hug, I’m busy right now,” he said without looking up.
“See you in a couple of hours.”
The streets near my apartment were mostly deserted but I had the taxi drive slowly around the block twice. On the second circle I saw them. Two men were slumped down in the front seat of a Volvo (a favorite of the Russians) and just to the side of my building I happened to catch the orange dot of a poorly screened cigarette.
“Keep going, driver,” I said. He turned at Ibsen and took us out of the neighborhood through the park. “Drive for a while. Keep in this area. I may want to make another stop.”
I remembered that I also had some personal gear at my office. The taxi driver found a telephone box and I got out.
“U.S. Embassy. Corporal Waters.”
“Waters, this is Jack Armstrong. Do you know me?”
“Uh, yes sir. You were a Marine, is that right sir?”
“Exactly. I need you to do me a favor. Who’s the night duty officer?”
“Mr. Goodwin, sir. Would you like me to get him?”
I didn’t know Goodwin except by sight.
“No, that’s okay. Have you seen Major Crenshaw this evening?”
“Yes, sir. He’s still in his office, sir. Would you like me to ring him?”
“Won’t be necessary, Waters. I’m trying to see if I can get into my office and not disturb anyone. I can explain later. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I definitely don’t think so, sir. There are twenty-five or so guests with Major Crenshaw. Sir, is there something I can do for you?” He sounded like he was getting nervous.
“Do you know the guests? I mean are they visitors from the U.S.? (As in Langley, I hoped he would confirm.)”
“No sir. Major Crenshaw signed them all in at once. I believe they are Cuban, sir.” He hesitated. “Sir, are you sure there is nothing I can do for you?”
“There’s nothing right now. Thanks, Corporal. Semper Fi.”
“Yes, sir. Semper Fi. Goodnight, sir.”
“Wait a minute, Corporal. Are the guests about to leave? Can you tell?”
“I don’t think so, sir. They’re still singing hymns.”
“Thanks again, Waters. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be on duty at the President’s speech. Goodnight, sir.”
I walked back to the taxi. What in the hell was Crenshaw up to? Cubans singing hymns at ten o’clock at night in the embassy?
Back at the Las Palomas, I stopped in the downstairs coffee shop and had a sandwich and cup of coffee. I had a strong desire for a cigarette. Probably because the death matron upstairs was so dead set against them.
I knocked on the door of Gearheardt’s office. I heard noise inside, but no one answered.
“Gearheardt, it’s me. Jack. I’m back.”
In a moment, Gearheardt opened the door a crack.
“Jack, I’m kind of busy. Can you give me another half hour?” Over his shoulder, although he was obviously trying to block my view, I saw the girl who had led the team to rescue Crenshaw. There were others, but I couldn’t get a good look at them.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait in the coffee shop. Come on down when you’re through.”
I was sipping my third cup of coffee when Gearheardt finally joined me.
“It’s looking good, Jack. Things are falling into place.” He ordered a beer and lit a cigarette.
“You already have a cigarette burning in the ashtray, Gearheardt.”
“So I do. So I do.” He began to smoke them alternately.
“Are you nervous, Gearheardt?” I asked. When he wasn’t dragging on a butt, he tapped his spoon against the table. His knee was bouncing. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Jack, we are so close. I’m waiting for a message from Hong Kong. Things are moving ahead there.”
“Hong Kong.”
“And Rio,” he said without looking at me.
“Rio.”
“Are you going to keep repeating the cities or do you have a question, Jack?”
I took a cigarette from his pack, lit it and leaned back in my chair. Staring at him.
“What should I ask, Gearheardt? Should I ask how Hong Kong and Rio tie into Cuba and Mexico? Should I ask why the Pygmy who is disguised as a Mexican cigarette boy is trying or not trying to kill me? Maybe I should ask if you are just balls-out insane?”
“All good questions, Jack. Difficult to answer at this juncture.”
“And that’s your response?” I was trying to decide between faith in friendship and a blinding rage.
The cute little waitress refreshed my coffee, then brought more beer for Gearheardt. As she poured, the bottle tinked nervously against the glass. Gearheardt smiled benevolently up at her and winked. The girl blushed and spoke rapidly in Spanish, then rushed off.
“Gearheardt, my Spanish is weak, but I’m pretty damn sure she called you Excellency. What the hell is that all about? I thought it was just the servants at your former castle.”
“Are you up to twenty questions, Jack? What was it? Vegetable, mineral or … what was the third category? Grease?”
I added breaking into frustrated sobbing as an alternative to friendship or rage.
“Just tell me what’s going on, you bastard. Why do you do this to me?”
Gearheardt looked slowly around the almost empty coffee shop. He stripped the cellophane from his cigarette package and began shaking his hand, trying to get the cellophane to drop into the ashtray. “Tricky stuff,” he said. He didn’t look at me.
I grabbed his hand and took the cellophane. Now it stuck to my fingers, but I resisted the urge to shake it. I tightened my grip on his wrist.
“Gearheardt,” I said though clenched teeth, “I have a gun under my coat. In just a moment I am going to take out that gun and shoot one of us. You ruined my career in the Marine Corps. You ruined my career in Air America. You have almost certainly ruined my career in the CIA.”
“Moi?”
Rage edged back ahead of frustrated sobbing. “Yes, you. I’m not blaming you. Hell, I went along with everything. But you had all these schemes and cock-eyed ideas.”
Gearheardt raised his free hand in protest.
“No, let me finish. Here’s the goddamned point. You never leveled with me. You always had some damn subplot or secret agenda that you didn’t trust me with. I know you always say it’s for my own good, but when did it ever turn out good? Can’t you understand—”
“Would you mind not holding my hand while you talk, Jack?”
I let go of his wrist and took a deep breath.
“You are the most maddening son-of-a-bitch in the world. No, don’t thank me. I’m trying to insult you, you idiot.”
“But I’ve explained everything to you, Jack.” He actually looked hurt.
“You have explained nothing. I am hours away from participating in an attempted assassination of the Mexican president, at which time I am supposed to shoot the other assassin, whom I hired, so that the United States can invade Cuba, where I’ll be hiding, while you are running the international gang of whores—”
“Prostitutes.”
“—which is providing all the information gathering and financing for the CIA now, and Rio and Hong Kong and God knows where else are somehow involved, and Crenshaw is either on our side or not and the good Cubans are upstairs in a whorehouse and the bad Cubans are singing hymns in the embassy and are trying to make sure I kill the president although that would also give the U.S. a reason to invade Cuba unless someone found out we started the whole damn thing and a naked Cuban lives in my apartment and—” I ran out of steam.
Gearheardt closed his eyes for a moment as if considering. “It’s not that simple, Jack,” he said, looking back at me.
I’m ashamed to say I went over the table for him. And I might have thrashed his ass if the entire shift of waitresses and the large hostess had not been beating on my back and head. The small fists hurt, but it was the beer bottle against my temple that caused me to loosen my grip on his skinny neck.
All the while, that damn Gearheardt was laughing.
‘That was a shameful display, Jack,” Gearheardt said. We were in his conference room. I sat semi-comatose in a side chair. More numbed than injured.
Goodbye Mexico Page 24
