“Yeah, and thanks for handling it so well.”
He missed the sarcasm. “How?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call Amanda tonight and maybe find out something. As it is, you just screwed up any chance I have of getting information out of the bartender.”
“I already told you, he’ll talk to me.”
I took a bite of the fish. Why even answer?
“Talk about touchy! You want me to get the information out of him now, or you mind if I eat first?” Throwing it up in the air like he didn’t much care one way or the other, letting me decide.
I said, “We’ll wait for the owner. Just drop it.”
“So you don’t think he’ll talk to me?”
“No.”
Tucker pushed half a fillet of snapper into his mouth, a chunk of bread and said something-no way of knowing, his mouth was so full. He may have said: “Watch me.” Which is what I did.
I watched Tucker corner Fernando by the entrance to the kitchen, near the telephone and a sign on the wall that said in Spanish and English: Log all calls.
I watched Fernando’s scarred face glaze into a mask of indifference… then surprise… then enthusiasm and pleasure. I watched the two men shake hands and-this was unbelievable-I watched them hug slightly and whisper something into each other’s ear… or so it appeared.
I wasn’t eating. I couldn’t eat. I felt as if I were witnessing some bizarre theater. Tucker Gatrell, an Everglades gangster and unrepentant racist, was suddenly bosom buddies with Fernando, the onyx black Latino who had experience with knives but was too ethical to accept bribes.
I watched them talk. I watched them laugh. Translation seemed to be a problem. When Fernando didn’t understand Tuck’s English, Tuck simply-and idiotically-spoke louder not slower. He used hand language, too, like some bad actor conversing with Indians in an old Western film.
Finally, they shook hands again, hugged again, and Tuck returned to the bar, walking his gunfighter walk. He straddled the stool and began to eat. Didn’t say a word.
I waited…
I waited…
Jesus, he was going to make me ask. Finally, I did: “Okay, okay, you and Fernando are suddenly best friends. I apologize. He told you something, what?”
Tuck had a mouth full of beans. “Told me everything. Just like I knew he would.”
“I don’t get it. I didn’t lie to him, didn’t try to trick him, I even offered him money. You knew he’d talk to you- how?”
“‘Cause he’s a Freemason. We’re both Freemasons.”
“Freemasons? I don’t understand… like a club? You’re both Freemasons, so that means-”
“I’m a thirty-second degree Master Mason, Scottish Rite and Knight Templar. Not a club, it’s a what-you-call-it, an exalted brotherhood. Tropical Lodge Fifty-six, which is one of the oldest in Florida. Fernando there, he’s just out of Blue Lodge, only a third degree Master and he wants to be a Shriner. If we get some time, I told him we’d sneak off alone and work on it. I’d help him along.”
I tried to picture Fernando, with his murderer’s scar, wearing a burgundy fez, driving one of those little clown cars at parades. “A Shriner? He gives you information for free just because you belong to, what is it, the same lodge or something? You’re fraternity-brothers, that’s what you’re telling me.”
This was lunacy.
“Shows how much you know. Freemasonry is a… hell, you won’t understand. Nobody’s not a Mason can understand. What Freemasonry is is an ancient and honorable union that dates back to the time of the pyramids. The vows a man takes when he gets married? They ain’t close to bein’ as sacred as the vows a Mason takes. You doubt how serious bein’ a Mason is, check the back of a Yankee dollar. The Eye of God on the pyramid, that’s a Masonic symbol put right there by my fellow Freemasons who started the U-S-of-A.”
He was serious about it, maybe telling the truth for a change, too.
“I got brothers all over the world, mister man. Joe Egret? He was a Mason. Dumb as that Injun was, he put the time in and learned what he had to learn. Why… Joe actually worked so hard at it, he got to know his stuff better than me. I ate and drank with some brothers down on Cat Island-the Bahamas, I’m talkin’ about-who were the head voodoo chiefs… only they called it something else. Talk about black? Those brothers down there make Fernando here look like an albino-fucking-Swede. Nothing they wouldn’t do for me ‘long as they can put their family and their work first. Me same with them. You didn’t see Fernando’s ring? That’s why I knew he’d talk to me. Has to. Masonic Code. ‘Cause he can trust me and he knows it. Doesn’t matter he’s a beaner or not. Once a Mason, always a Mason.”
“Did he tell you anything about Gail?”
“Yep. Seen ‘em both. The fat man had a boat here till the owner, the Austrian guy, kicked ‘em out.”
“Australian. The owner’s not Austrian, he’s Australian.”
“The one who took off for France?”
I ignored that. “Where did Fernando say they went?” Tuck made a slow-down motion with his open palm. “You’ll find out. In good time, you’ll learn it all. What Fernando suggests we do now is stroll out to the end of the dock-see that great big rusting three-master out there? Big enough to carry a small herd of cattle and old enough to sink like a damn tire iron. He says we need to go out there and ask for a man they call the Turk. But we’re going to have to kill some time around here, wait for the man to wake up. He sleeps most the day, stays awake all night. Fernando says we should ask the Turk about real estate, make him think we want to buy something. That way, nobody at the marina will have to tell you where to find the fat man and the lady, ‘cause the Turk’ll let it slip just discussing real estate.”
“We say we want to buy real estate?”
“Isn’t that what I said? Merlot, what Amanda told me was, that Merlot was involved in real estate, so it makes sense.”
“Fernando wouldn’t tell you the rest of it. Where they went?”
Tucker smacked his lips. More fish, more beans. “Didn’t say that. Fernando told me exactly where they are. Told me everything he knew. But I’m not allowed to tell you. Part of the Masonic Code.”
“That’s absurd. If you know, why bother with the charade of — ?” I was shaking my head, frustrated, irritated. “What kind of code are we discussing here?”
Tucker finished his beer and signaled a smiling and eager Fernando for another round. He said, “Sorry. Can’t tell you that either,” before he called, “Brother Fernando? We’ll sail again here, amigo!”
15
T he Turk’s name was Jamael Hasakah. Lean man in his mid thirties, six feet tall, black hair, very thick eyebrows, facial features that were delicate, waxen, feminine. The white cotton pullover and drawstring pants he wore made his skin even darker, almost black. He had wide full lips, an Egyptian nose and remarkably long, thin fingers like splints of brown bamboo that he moved constantly, almost experimentally, as he talked. He might have been playing an imaginary accordion.
The Turk was talking now: “You gentlemen are truly interested in our new community? Our very special real estate opportunity? Then, by all means, come aboard. Come aboard my home! I am the only authorized representative in Cartagena. It is true!”
His home was an oceangoing motor-sailer over 150 feet long; had to displace 250 maybe 300 tons. Looked as if it might have been built to ship bananas during the days of United Fruit, back in the thirties. Or maybe dates and casks of olive oil through the Suez. The hull was a rust-streaked enamel-white hulk that was made to appear delicate and geometric by a labyrinth of hawser lines and rigging that angled skyward to towering masts. The deck area was massive, with elaborate skylights, an elevated wheelhouse and an open gallery astern: a big-time, old-time, sailing freighter that had seen better days, much better days.
On its rounded stem, I’d noted the name: MOON OF KIZ KULESI ISTANBUL
“Follow me, follow me!” The Turk continued to wave us along, apparently excite
d to have company. The deck was a maze of crates lashed as if for shipping. There were bicycles, motor scooters, potted plants, exercise equipment, a couple of sea kayaks. There was a whole row of waste-high bushes growing in plastic boxes. The leaves of the bushes were saw-edge, five-leafed.
Cannabis? Yes… no doubt about it. Right out there in the open, no big deal.
There were some chilies growing, too. Beefy-looking green chilies. Made me think of Tomlinson. He, Musashi and their toddler daughter were probably under sail right now, headed for the Dry Tortugas. If nothing else, maybe I could get some chili seed stock for him…
“You really must excuse the mess, gentlemen. I’ve acquired so many things. So many things since we arrived in Cartagena! I hired one of the fruit ladies to clean for me, but she didn’t come today.”
“Fruit lady?”
“You’re unfamiliar with Cartagena? It’s an absolutely delightful place. Every morning, the fruit ladies come carrying baskets on their heads while the merchants sweep the streets. Baskets of fruit, understand. These women, they scream like cats. ‘! Pinas!! Bananas!! Aguacates!’ ” The Turk was attempting to imitate them, shrieking out the words. I realized that he was very drunk or very stoned.
Five in the afternoon. Probably both.
We were still following him-down a ladder that was peeling varnish; ducked through the steel frame of a watertight hatch-as he said, “So I hired one of the fruit ladies to do my cleaning. She brings me breakfast, cleans all the cabins, absolutely anything I want her to do. If I haven’t had a woman for a day or two? She takes care of that, too. All for just a few pesos. In your money… American money, perhaps two, maybe three dollars.” The Turk seemed very pleased with the situation. He was smiling. Had a nervous laugh that was more like a twitch. He also had a very noisy case of the sniffles. “Have you gentlemen noticed? The poorer the city, the more passionately a man can live! I’ve been in Cartagena a year. I may stay another year!”
The poorer the city, the more passionately a man can live!
Undoubtedly, guessing from the Turk’s satisfied expression. Also judging from the vast number of men like the Turk whom I’d met around the world.
Now we were in a large salon area: dining booth, sectional couch and chairs, big-screen television, VCR, teakwood cabinets that held stereo gear, books, plastic controls for video games, a pinball machine in the far corner, a ship’s coffee table made from a massive porthole bolted to the deck in plush carpet at the center of the room. On the coffee table was an ornate jade water vase with small hoses dangling out the top. The hoses were tipped with gold. Smoke drifted out of a brass bowl near the bottom of the vase, little tendrils of steam. A Bedouin’s hookah.
The salon smelled of marijuana and diesel fuel, rotten fruit, electrical conduit and paint.
The Turk made a welcoming gesture. “Smoke if you like, gentlemen. We grow it ourselves. Viajera de Cartagena, we call it. In English, the ‘lady traveler of Cartagena.’ Because people will travel through time zones and risk much to find it. An absolutely wonderful product. If you’re interested, I have some I might be willing to sell you.”
Was the Turk really in the drug trade or simply offering to share? I was curious. “How much product do you have available?”
He paused for a second or two to think about it. “At the moment… a thousand… perhaps two thousand kilos, I believe. But I can get more if you are serious.”
Laughter… sniff!.. laughter.
Yes, he seemed to be in the business.
“I wouldn’t mind having me a quick smoke. Bought a whole roll of Copenhagen for this trip, but damn if I didn’t go off and leave her at the ranch. Where the hell’s my brain lately?” Tucker had one of the rubberized stems in his fingers, looking at it. “There’uz this bawdy house in Tampico, they bad them one of these here kind of pipes. Suck on her, she made bubbles. Coolest smoke I ever had.”
I took a step to warn him… then thought, hell with it. Let him think it was tobacco. Maybe he’d get high, pass out, go to sleep, leave me alone.
Tuck took a couple of puffs, then a couple more. Finally he smiled, blowing smoke out of this nose. Surprised me, saying, “Yep, same thing like in Mexico. First-rate shit you boys grow down here.”
The Turk explained that their development was so new they didn’t have their brochures printed yet. But what they did have was a superb Web page. They’d just got it up and running. This American, the CEO who put the whole syndicate together, was a real computer wizard. Probably could have done the whole thing himself, but he had the cash, so why not hire the best?
The Turk said the American paid some Taiwanese Internet specialists like twenty thousand U.S. to design the entire Web page. Made the thing interactive with audio and little videos and all kinds of rooms. “But some of those rooms” — his tone was telling us “naughty-naughty” — “some of those rooms, we have to restrict, because U.S. authorities will not allow certain things to be shown. Even to adults.”
I was thinking about Gail’s money. A project, any real estate project, arrives at a point where it requires fast cash.
She’d been right there with lots of it. Gail had almost certainly paid for the high-tech Web page he was describing, X-rated rooms and all. That and probably a lot more.
“They’re just plain tightass idiots,” Tucker said. He was referring to whoever it was who made them censor whatever it was in their Web page rooms. He visited often enough with Tomlinson to be more familiar with computer jargon than I, but his concern was manufactured. He had to concentrate to speak, enunciating very carefully. He’d been smoking right along, still carrying a beer from the bar. He seemed to know what he was doing with a hookah in his hands, I noticed.
The Turk was nodding, very eager to agree with him. “But here in Colombia, I can show you anything. Everything. We have freedom here! The entire program. Anything you want to know, it’s very simple, just point the arrow and click. But you’ll see. Our company is having the Web page, the whole layout, put on CD. This CD, we will send out to perspective buyers. Even the scenes certain people find so offensive.” That laugh again… sniff! Very nervous, slightly crazed, lots and lots of drugs. That’s what the laugh told me. He said, “But I don’t have the CDs yet, either. So you’ll have to look over my shoulder, I’m afraid.”
The computer was on a three-tiered desk near the TV. It was small, about the size of a reference book. A Macintosh Powerbook G3-something with a color screen that reminded me of Tomlinson’s machine.
Tucker and I stood behind the Turk as he tried to get the thing going. But something was wrong. Couldn’t get a dial tone; couldn’t get on-line. He checked the beige telephone wire that was plugged into the machine. The wire ran across the floor on top of the carpet and out an open porthole on the marina side of the freighter.
The Turk shook the wire, said something loud, furious in Turkish, then charged across the deck to the porthole where he yelled, “Garret
…! Mr. Garret! You have unplugged my telephone line again!”
Didn’t wait very long before he screamed the same thing again.
Finally, there was an answer: “Stick it up yer arse, you fuckin’ raghead! I’m busy!”
“I need my telephone, Mr. Garret!”
“If you don’t like the service, pay your bloody bill and tow that garbage scow out to sea. The federales, they’d love that! You wouldn’t make it past Bocachica before they had you in cuffs!”
No mistaking the bush brogue of northern Australia. So… Garret, owner of Club Nautico, was back from his shopping.
The Turk fixed us with a look-Give me a moment, I’ll get this straightened out-before he yelled through the porthole. “Mr. Garret! I have clients here. Americans who may be interested in buying a membership in Mr. Merlot’s project.”
Tucker and I exchanged looks at the mention of Merlot.
The Aussie yelled back, “They ain’t my bloody problem, Turk! You want the phone line hooked up, I’m gonna charge you dou
ble this time. Them long-distance access calls for your bloody computer bullshit ain’t bloody cheap. Fifteen… no, twenty dollars U.S. for the first half-hour and then I cut you off.”
The Turk was smiling-okay, things were all arranged now. “Yes, of course. That is acceptable. To show my appreciation, Mr. Garret, I will pay you twenty-five U.S. It is worth it to me! Put it on my bill.”
As the Turk sat at the computer again, he said, “It is a game that Mr. Garret and I play. He pretends to expect payment from me and I pretend as if I expect to one day pay.”
He was working at the keyboard.
“You stay here for free?”
“I owe Mr. Garret a year’s back dockage. Plus utilities. plus our restaurant bill and tips.” He looked up at me briefly, very serious. “I am the grandson of a Sultan, you must understand. I am accustomed to living comfortably; to the better things life has to offer. It is what I deserve, so it is what I demand. In my country, my family is of the highest social station. President Demirel is a second cousin to my mother. Prime Minister Erbakan attended the same British preparatory school as my father. You can understand, then, why I refuse to allow money to dictate my lifestyle. Plus, I entertain many ladies here, many, many ladies. As a part of our new real estate venture, understand.” The laughter, that cocaine sniff!
“The owner lets you stay here even though you don’t pay?”
“Mr. Garret? He would prefer not to be paid because he hopes to take my yacht. Naturally, he would be very disappointed if I paid even a portion of the bill. Already he has filed papers with the Colombian court. So I live here and he keeps charging me and the bill keeps adding up. See? It is now a game that we play! Ah-h-h-h, here we are!” The Turk gestured with his hand. “Our Web page!”
The Turk said, “You were under the impression our property is in Colombia? No. It is in Panama. Over the water and through the jungle. Not far! Just as Ohio is next to… next to an adjoining state in your country. Illinois? Very close, very, very close. And if you like what you see on the computer, we have a plane. We will fly you there. At no charge, of course.”
The Mangrove Coast df-6 Page 24
