* * *
It was late Friday afternoon when Truman met with Gordon Edward in his office overlooking the harbor. Hissecretary prepared coffee and ordered food sent up. Truman accepted the coffee in silence and waited for the door to close behind her before he spoke. He was standing, leaning with an arm elbowed on the bar, the other free for speaking. He was totally enraged with Gordon, but he knew full well that, if he hoped to get anywhere, that was not the emotion for opening a subject as explosive as quitting. He wanted to avoid an ugly scene and the words he had rehearsed a dozen times on the long drive from Chauita were the perfect approach, but standing there, they all just slipped away. He was left without a speech and unsure of how to proceed.
Gordon assumed his usual relaxed mode when around him. He draped his suit jacket over the back of his chair and came around to rest his backside against the front edge of his desk, arms folded over his chest, waiting to hear what Truman had to say.
“Gordy,” he began, feeling like a wired bundle of nerves, “did you know John Sinclair is back? He showed up at my place a number of months ago, calls himself Gene Frazer. He said that’s his real name and he’s using it now because he’s retired here, in Costa Rica. What do you make of that?”
“What is there to make of it?” Gordon questioned. “He’s retired and living here, so what?”
“I just don’t like it,” Truman said. “Why would he look me up? Tell me, Gordy, did you know that he was here?”
“As a matter of fact, Truman,” Gordon acknowledged, “I saw him when I was in San José, a couple of weeks ago.”
“Just before that American man was murdered. Is that why you went to San José? To see him? Did you have some
business with him?”
“Forget about him, Truman: he’s out of the picture now. His being here means nothing.” Gordon spread his arms, hooking the heels of his hands on the desk’s edge behind him. His face grew tense, as if a dark cloud had passed over it. It was becoming apparent that a scene was unavoidable.
“Nothing? I saw on the news that the guy was killed by machine gunning,” Truman said, shifting gears. “Did you see that?”
“I thought you didn’t follow the news... Yes, I saw that. Is that why you wanted to meet? Are you suggesting that I had Sinclair kill him? Don’t be ridiculous, you already know that Brian Walston was responsible.”
“Well, that’s what everyone besides Walston is saying, all right, but it sounds to me suspiciously like Sinclair’s work, and the police are searching for someone who fits his description.
Gordon began to pace the width of the office, then stopped and, without turning to face him, asked in a snarl:
“Exactly, what are you getting at, Truman?”
Truman hesitated. He didn’t want his temper to boil over and to lose control. A fistfight might feel gratifying, but wouldn’t accomplish a thing. Maybe if he approached it from a different angle. “All right, Gordy, let’s not argue. Forget that for a minute, okay? There’s more going on I don’t like, for example, DEA agents working from the US Embassy running all over the place. These guys are hard asses and they’re everywhere. As you well know, we have them here in Costa Rica now, and they’re real big time in Panama. I’m hearing about them from my people in Nicaragua and Honduras, too. You can’t buy these guys, Gordy, not unless you offer them a damn fortune.”
“Don’t you believe it, Truman,” Gordon replied. “I found a couple who like our money very much. Okay, they’re
expensive, but we get good information. We even have one or two on the inside in their headquarters in the States, too.
Don’t you worry about the DEA; I’ll take care of them. What bothers me more is this shit the US is trying to get Costa Rica to accept, this time about sending US military troops here. Here, in Limon supposedly to combat drug trafficking! We’ll have to wait till after the elections to see if new government actually knuckles under to political pressure and accepts the proposal. Imagine, Truman? The US army right here with authority to arrest – it’s a goddamn invasion! How would they like to have Costa Rican soldiers walking US streets, arresting their citizens inside their own borders? I’ve already prepared information sheets about the proposals, and sent one to every elected official. It’s going to be in the news later this week, too.
La Nación is going to present it to the public essentially as an armed offensive. We’re hoping to stir up enough public outrage to put a stop to it before it gains any momentum.”
“I don’t like it, either,” Truman concurred. “That’s probably what is going to happen, though. You know, the
moment they catch wind of what you’re doing, the Americans will threaten again to withheld aid and impose restrictions on trade, and you won’t be able to keep a vote. Come on Gordy, face it: we can’t continue to operate under those conditions.”
“Truman, you have to…”
Who was kidding whom? Avoiding the topic of the murders was wrong: it was what had brought him there. He cut
Gordon short. “Gordy, we have to talk about the truck driver, you know the one I mean. The one I went to see in San Sebastian who, two days later, was iced by someone.”
Gordon resumed pacing. “Now listen here,” he said, stopping to gaze steadily at him, “I couldn’t just leave it the way it was, Truman. I needed to know who was behind this damn Tweety-Bird coke, and I thought that someone else might have better luck with him than you had. My instructions were to get him to talk, that’s all. Apparently, the guy wouldn’t and things got out of control. Forget about it: it’s just one of those things.”
“God damn it!” Truman pushed himself from the bar to meet Gordon in his pacing trail and glare directly into his eyes, only inches separating their faces. “Killing another human being has become, ‘just one of those things’ for you?
What’s happened to you, Gordy? Tell me the man raped your mother, that I would understand. This? No! Damn it, I told you it would come to this ‘Oh no, not us,’ you kept saying. Shit, I won’t stand for it! The cop that was murdered is the same
one Walston told me about: I hope you’re not going to try to tell me that was an accident, too. The man didn’t accidentally get piano wire wrapped around his neck. I told you long ago: I will not be associated with killing. This is it. We’re finished!”
“Finished? What are you getting at, Truman?”
“Just that: it’s time to quit. I can’t do it any more, Gordy. It’s not just the killing, or even the US Army. It’s me, I can’t do it any more. I’m out – retired. I came here hoping you would see that it’s time, and agree to retire too, but I think you’ve gone too far. Something happened to you along the way, and suddenly you’re a person I no longer know.”
“Now, just a minute! Things are finally starting to come together in a way that can be very good for Limon. The province needs me and I need the money we make to continue. Look at what I’ve done so far. I’ve built schools, brought in more jobs, got the highways repaired, and now I’m fighting the crack epidemic. You can’t allow yourself to get all soft in the heart over the life of that truck driver and some corrupt cop. They’re nothing, Truman. You have to see the big picture here.
Do you realize the impact news reports of those killings had on public opinion? I didn’t even get my hands dirty in this at all: it was taken care of by political supporters.
“I need to know who’s supplying the kids in Limon, so I can cut it off. That truck driver, if he’d talked, might have supplied the information we need. He’d be alive today, and with a good job, too. He made his own choice. The cop? Don’t even ask about him, Truman. That son-of-a-bitch was dirtier that a ten-foot high pile of cat shit, plus he was selling to some of the dealers right here in Limon! The world is a better place without him.
“I’m the best hope this province has for a bright future, Truman, and I’m going to make it happen. I was just a fisherman, now look at me: I’m where I was meant to be, leading the black people of Limon to equality and justice. You’re needed in all of this to hold up your end of the operation, so I can go forward. No, you’re not quitting on me, Truman.”
“Gordy, just listen to yourself! What kind of an egotistical hypocrite have you become? You talk about cutting off the crack in Limon, and turn right around and supply it to the kids in the United States.”
“You can’t be serious, Truman. Do you really want me to give a rat’s ass about the United States? Have you ever had a look at the US – Mexican border? They have enough fences, razor-ribbon, watch towers, attack dogs and armed Border Patrol agents deployed along there to make the Iron Curtain that divided Europe look like a playground enclosure. Three million of their citizens are locked behind bars – that’s practically the entire population of Costa Rica. And they call that the
‘land of the free’? How about a history book, have you never read one? I won’t even ask you to concern yourself about black people; that’s our problem, but shit, you’re Nicaraguan. Has there ever been a period in Nicaraguan history when las Imperialistas haven’t been happily raping your country? I know the answer: no, there hasn’t, and what about Panama, Cuba, Chile, Venezuela, or Costa Rica for that matter. Where did William Walker come from, the man who wanted to make himself king of Central America? The United States, of course – where else? They’ve even sunk to the level of grabbing street kids from the sidewalk, so they can remove and sell their organs to keep another privileged pig alive. You’re goddamn right: I’ll sell cocaine to the kids in the United States. And feel good about it, too!”
“Don’t try to feed me that crap,” Truman snapped. “I was spoon fed that same type of logic by the Samosa
government and by the United States too: ‘the sad history of Nicaragua justifies these things we’re telling you to do. Now, go out there kill and destroy in the name of righteousness,’ they told us – and I bought it! Well, I’m not buying it this time. Not your shit, that’s for sure. Kids are kids no matter where they’re from. There’s not even a hint of justification for what we do: it’s wrong and it’s bad. Admit it. At least be honest, Gordon, and admit what it’s really all about – yourself. You want the money so you can be rich and powerful, and people will glorify you. As if you don't glorify yourself enough, already. I’m
not saying I’m any better, just that I’ve finally faced the truth. You can’t justify what we’re doing, no matter how you twist your logic. Let’s close it down. Please, Gordy.”
“Close it down? Are you serious or are you just out of your mind? You think you’re quitting on me? Like hell you are!” Gordon was shouting directly in Truman’s face. “You’ll quit when I say you can, and not a day before! And, if you try to leave before I say you can, you’ll leave all right, but you’ll leave dead!”
“That’s it? That’s how you think now, Gordy? When someone won’t do what you say, your answer is: kill. How
many times have we talked about that sort of thing? It was always ‘them, the bad guys in the trade’, out there, killing people.
We would never do that, we swore to it, remember? You had that truck driver knifed in the prison. And the cop I identified for you and was murdered the morning after the truck driver: that was you again! No, no more for me, I quit!” Truman shouted his closing sentence over his shoulder, slamming the door as he left. It wasn’t closed but a moment before being torn open again.
“You just make goddamn sure you’re here on Tuesday for the next load, Truman,” Gordon bellowed at his back.
“Go ahead, be pissed off if you want, just be here when I need you. I’m going to be checking up on you. You don’t walk out on Gordon Edward, you hear me? You try it, and it will be the last thing you ever do!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Officer Edgar Vargas sat in his study feeling awful: it had been a bad week, very bad indeed. He leaned against the seat back, tipping his chair to stare at the ceiling, and blew a thoughtful jet of blue Havana cigar smoke upwards, savoring the rich flavor duplicated by no other cigars in the world, and watched it disappear through the vent. He may not have approved of or even liked Enrique Segovia, but his grizzly murder had shaken him deeply nevertheless. He’d spent hours in quiet deliberation and prayer for his soul’s safe deliverance to the Lord. Fellow officers, many of whom had shunned him for years, were approaching him and, as Enrique’s partner, offering him their condolences. The funny thing was, he found himself feeling a great sense of loss and gratefully accepting their sympathies, although the partnership had been a farce from day one. He wondered whose idea of a joke had been that particular assignment. He assumed it was someone’s misguided attempt to bring him into the fold of corruption. If so, it had been a fool’s errand: his soul wouldn’t be bought for a handful of golden coins! Never had they cooperated in a single venture, with the exception of an unwritten or spoken pact of mutual non-interference. Yet, for Enrique to end up garroted with piano wire by someone in the back seat of his car was ghastly. It had to have been somebody he knew and trusted well enough to have in his car. Someone in the department would be Edgar’s bet but, regardless of who the murderer was, it was undoubtedly in some way associated with his up to the ears involvement in corruption.
He blew another cloud of smoke, with anger the driving force behind the blast. The night before Enrique’s murder, a man under arrest in a case Edgar had been deeply involved in was also brutally murdered. The man had good legal representation, but had still been facing almost certain conviction with prison sentence of ten to twelve years. He wasn’t a professional, just an underpaid driver manipulated into smuggling cocaine across the Costa Rica - Panama border. His arrest had come as the result of a tip slipped to Edgar because the cocaine came from a new Colombian lab making inroads in its competitor’s marketplace and using the distinctive image of the cartoon character Tweety-Bird as its logo. Edgar had been working closely with the man unbeknownst to his attorney, trying to strike a deal for reduced sentencing in exchange for information as to who was the supplier and where the cocaine had been loaded. As the date of his trial loomed ever closer, his loyalty to his attorney had begun to waver. Edgar had felt so close to a major success in his career that he could have almost touched it, but just then, at the point when the man’s resolve began crumbling, he’d been stabbed inside San Sebastian prison. Edgar’s high hopes to have been the principal figure in breaking a cocaine ring all the way to its source were, with one act of violence, dashed to bits. He slapped the desktop in frustration, wondering if it wasn’t possible that the murder had been perpetrated by some racist within the department who had caught wind of what he was up to, and would find it intolerable for an Indian to succeed where Ladinos had failed. He needed to figure out his next move.
He decided that he would trespass on the homicide division’s jurisdiction, and investigate the murder himself. It would have to be done without official sanction, which would never be granted him anyhow. The case would undoubtedly be taken from him and reassigned to someone intimate to the inner circle, the moment its potential magnitude was realized. He would act quickly and, should any questions arise, he ought to be able to justify himself to his superiors by explaining that the murderer’s identity might yet lead him to the traffickers he sought.
CHAPTER FORTY
In the long drive from Limon to Chauita, on the empty highway paralleling Caribbean beaches, Truman agonized
over planning an escape that wasn’t life threatening. All he got for his efforts was confusion and despair, but it was clear that it came from fear of the dangers posed by the choices available. It was obvious from their conversation that Gordon would never consider quitting: he needed the money from drug smuggling to support his ego and he had gone so far as to allow his greed drive him to murder. Yes, he murdered the truck driver and the police officer, and, Truman realized in chilling awareness, he would willingly murder again if he felt anyone, particularly himself, stood in the way of his drug trafficking.
The deeper he thought about it, the more he knew that running in the hope that he might find, somewhere, a safe haven was more than his best choice: it was his only hope. It was a fearful truth, but the only other option (continuing with Gordy) meant sinking back into the pit. His mind – for the first time in so many years – was clear, and he knew what he must do.
Then, if by some miracle he survived, which he doubted, he would need to begin living honestly.
The long conversations with Beth had freed his mind from his self-built prison of guilt. There were moments when he felt so free because of her, that he wanted to shout or dance or sing. She was already at risk. Gordy had a pretty good idea of how he felt about her and, considering how he had allowed himself to change, he couldn’t put it past Gordy that he would in some way harm Beth to get at him. It would work, too. He was hopelessly in love with her. He had to get her to leave now, so he’d have time to create the image that they had a falling out before he made his move, but he realized suddenly that the next load was arriving on Tuesday and it was too soon to make the story believable. What was he to do? He couldn’t put Beth at risk by running out immediately, nor allow himself to deliver another load of cocaine. He could fake the delivery and throw the whole damn load in the sea! ‘It’s where the shit belonged anyhow,’ he told himself in a momentary flash of brilliance. It would be weeks before it was discovered that something had gone wrong: Beth would be safe from Gordon’s anger and himself long gone and hopefully well hidden. He realized that an important point to stress with Beth would be the need not to be seen together again, just in case the threat to keep a close eye on him was carried out. He pulled into the driveway and she was there, caught in the beam of his headlights – waiting for him.
Truman had also weighed heavily on Beth’s mind. The moment was rapidly approaching when she and he would
part company forever and, with the passage of every hour, the foreboding she felt for it grew. Could Truman accomplish anything in his attempt to quit, or would his temper boil over and bring all hell down upon himself, for facing Gordon Edward after he used him to commit murder? All afternoon and evening, questions and visions of the things that might go wrong had dominated her every thought. Where is he just now? What might be happening with him this very minute? Did they have a huge fight and kill each other?
His car returning safely eased at least that dark cloud of worry from her mind. He joined her in the parking lot, silencing her with a finger pressed to her lips. “We can’t talk here,” he whispered, fear in his eyes.
“Come to the beach,” she responded, taking his hand in hers. “We’ll talk there, besides there is something you have to see.”
The tide was low, exposing a wide expanse of smoothened sand. Not a soul was to be seen up or down the miles-
long beach. She scanned the sky. The rolling bank of clouds that often descended from the central mountains was absent. In fact, there wasn’t a cloud to be seen: they could walk and talk without fear of being caught in a typically sudden deluge.
Then, when he’d finished explaining what happened to create such paranoia, she’d get him to open up about his feelings. Did the idea of irreversibly separating sit as well with him as his cheery smiles seemed to indicate? If it did, she had to let him go. If it didn’t – what? Yes, what then, Truman? She needed to know.
With the moon yet below the horizon, the sky was inky black. The Milky Way was aglow as a distinct, meandering
band of luminous cloud flowing through the darkness of space. Seemingly pinned atop, the constellations stood out as brilliant specks. Truman knew them all. He could almost make her see them by playing a colossal game of connect the dots until the images of the Ancients became apparent. On her own, all she ever saw were stars, beautiful points of brilliance, by the million. This particular night, they seemed to have swallowed the Earth, their shimmering image reflected from a thin film of water left by the final feathering nudges of waves. Barely discernable in the immense mirror they stood upon, was the dark silhouette of palms lining the beach and opposite, the churning foam gave off an electric-green glow, generated by hundreds of thousands of luminous micro-organisms alive in the breaking waves. “Ohhh, what a beautiful night!” she sighed, breathing deeply its freshness.
In the darkness, he was reduced to little more than a shadow, but light wasn’t necessary to know that, in his anxiety to speak, he was blind to the majesty of his surroundings. “Wait just a minute,” she commanded. “Before you talk about what happened, there’s something I want you to do.”
“What?” His voice carried the stress of impatience.
“I want you to feel where we are.”
“Huh? I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You will, I promise,” Beth hugged the length of his arm. “Now, do this,” she urged, tilting back her head and
filling her lungs with night air. For a long moment she held the breath then, with a drawn-out, sigh of satisfaction, she released it. “Do exactly that,” she instructed. “Stand still, tilt back your head, inhale slowly and inhale deeply through your nose, hold it, then exhale with an loud sigh.”
“Beth, I don’t think now is…”
“Come on now Truman, there’s plenty of time to talk about Gordon Edward. Just do it.” She watched his shadowy
figure inflate once, then face her expectantly. “You need to do it a couple more times, only relax more and let me hear your sigh at the end. There, you felt it that time,” she said, hearing his respiration become deeper and of longer duration. “It’s more than just refreshing, right? There’s a kind of cleansing going on.”
“Yes, I have to agree: that’s a refreshing feeling,” he answered. “Gordon…”
“Wait Truman, just another minute. I want to show you some magic. Look around at how the beach is reflecting the stars. See them?”
“Oh, okay,” he said, freeing himself from her grasp to spread his arms wide and slowly rotate. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Wow, what a fabulous sensation; stars above us, below us; all around. Yes, it’s great, Beth!” His dark form continued to revolve.
“Un-huh, now you’re starting to see. Okay, watch this!” She spun away, across the beach, her feet slapping the wet sand. At each footfall, hundreds of luminous plankton mixed into the sand radiated a starburst, fading slowly to leave a glowing trail where she had danced. “Look Truman, I’m Tinker Bell!” she shouted, completing a wide loop around him, then
returning to hold his arm. “I was feeling really glum, worried crazy about you – then I came down here and discovered how magical it is tonight. I know the news you have will be bad but, hearing about it in this enchanted setting, I just know it’s all going to work out all right. So, go on, tell me. I get the feeling you’re not very positive about it.”
“I’m not the least bit positive,” he said and related the salient points of his meeting with Gordon. “I don’t know how or when he changed,” he continued, “but somehow, Gordy has come to accept murder as a solution to problems. ‘Just one of those things,’ is what he called it. I pleaded with him to take this opportunity and quit with me. He wouldn’t and never will.
In fact, he threatened my life if I should try to. I’m afraid he leaves me with little choice: I will have to try to slip away when he least expects it and hope I can disappear well enough.”
They walked slowly as they spoke; she leaned against him, his arm rested lightly about her, and his toes kicking at the film of reflective water, creating sparkling showers. Beth glanced to him. “I was afraid of that… Have you thought about where you will go?”
“I’ve long had a refuge arranged in Bulgaria just in case, but Gordy set that up with me, so it’s out. The United States would be my best choice: because of his anti-American bias, he has very few contacts there, and my friend’s son told me last year that, should I ever need it, his cousin in New York could provide a complete new identity. It’s a big country so I’ll have a lot of options for where to live.”
“Let me help you choose a place. That way, I’ll be able to find you later. Tomorrow, we can go on-line and I’ll…”
“Tomorrow you’re leaving!” He’d stopped walking to face her. “You have to get out of here right away. Gordy
knows you and I are close and, before I can leave, I have to give him the impression that our friendship ended badly and I no longer care about you. I don’t want him to come looking for you too. No, you have to get out of here right now and, from this point forward, we have to be careful not to be seen together.”
Not seen together again and tomorrow taken away from him for all time? The entire force of her will seemed to
scream: ‘No!’ She loved him: yes, she loved him, undeniably, and no, she didn’t want to live without Truman. Every day of her life would be spent wondering where he was, and how, or if he was even alive, and she wouldn’t even know his name. If they were both to live through it all, she wanted them together, but how did he feel about her? “I have a better idea, Truman,”
she said. “Whatever has to be done we do it together, because.... Well, because if you disappear, it’s forever: no more Truman Herrera – anywhere – and all contact with your past, cut. I don’t want you to go away from me and I don’t care what name you have, I just want to be with you – always – the remainder of my life. So, what do you think of that?”
He placed his palms behind her shoulders and pulled her inches close that he could see her, peering deeply into her eyes. He held her for a quiet moment, studying her before speaking. “Are you sure, after all the things you know I’ve done, that you want to be involved with me?” She kept her gaze latched to his, nodding assent. “You have to realize that my life isn’t going to be anything similar to how it is now, and there will always be the risk that I will be found.” He spoke slowly and sincerely, holding steady his gaze into her eyes.
“I’ve never been more sure of another thing, Truman! How do you feel about being involved with me?” She used
the finger of a hand trapped between them to tap his chest for emphasis.
He glanced down to it. “I feel like this,” he said and slid her entrapped arm about his neck and gathered her in, warm against him. With his thumb lifting her chin, he tilted back her head and out-of-focus-close, breathing her air, he kissed her fully on the lips.
“Oh! I see! Like that, huh? Well, I was only curious, but I loved your demonstration. Could you show me again, please?” Her heart raced madly and her knees felt rubbery. He kissed her again, and this time the passion she returned to his
lips was equal to his own. She let herself melt into his arms, her lips to the base of his neck and her arms encircling him as he bent and lifted her from the sand. High on the beach near the palms where, below the surface, dry sand retains its heat, he lay her down.
Settling beside, her head cradled into his arm, he leaned close above her face. “I’ve forbidden myself to so much as think that this would ever be,” he said, sighing, and looking long into her eyes. “Holding you this way is a fantasy come true, but I shouldn’t allow either of us to do this. I should insist that you leave this very minute. But I can’t. The truth is, I want you very much, enough even to agree to your crazy idea.”
“Really, Truman: you’ll take me with you?”
“I must be out of my mind to say this, but if after everything I’ve told you about me and all we have been through, you want to be with me, yes, of course! I love you! I love you more than you can imagine.”
“Take me, then,” she whispered.
“Mine? You’re mine?” his voice as gentle as the lingering kiss that followed.
“Yours,” she affirmed, speaking with breath alone, to be felt upon his face.
His lips parted and, with a feathery touch, traced their way across her cheek to an earlobe. “Mine?” The question was whispere