Bandits (1987) (17 page)

On another memo pad was a name and telephone number. Alvin Cromwell (601) 682-2423. Jack copied this, too, wondering about the Mississippi area code. In a file folder were a dozen or more sheets stapled together that listed names of individuals and companies, most of the addresses in New Orleans, Lafayette, and Morgan City. R. W. Nichols, Nichols Enterprises, was one of the names that had a check mark after it. There were a lot of check marks. . . . And a sheet of stationery in the file folder that Jack picked up and began to read, because at the top of the sheet was printed The White House, Washington, D . C
.

It was a letter to the fundraiser from . . . Jesus Christ, Ronald Reagan. It said:

Dear Colonel Godoy: To assist you in delivering your message of freedom to all my good friends in Louisiana, I have written to each one personally to verify your credentials as a true representative of the Nicaraguan people, and to help affirm your determination to win a big one for democracy. Because I know you have the stuff heroes are made of, I have a hunch that modesty might not permit you to describe, personally, the extreme importance of your leadership role in this fight to the death with the Marxists who now have a stranglehold on your beloved country. I have requested my friends in the Pelican State to give you a generous leg up, that you may ride to victory over communism. I have asked them to help you carry the fight through their support, and come to realize in their hearts, no es pesado, es m+ hermano.

And there, under Sincerely,
was the president
'
s signature.

Amazing. He wrote the way he spoke. Or he spoke the way one of his aides, who believed all this or could do it out of either side of his mouth or with either hand, spoke or wrote. They all sounded the same, presidents; presidents of anything. But look at that, his autograph. Jack wet a finger with his tongue, touched Ronald Reagan and saw it smudge, but not much.

He began to read the letter again, bent over the desk, got as far as win a big one for democracy,
and heard the TV set in the sitting room go on.

Voices. A man and woman talking almost at the same time, snapping one-liners at each other, fast, without letup, the voices hyper, irritating. What was the show? A guy and a girl private eyes . . .

He pictured the sitting room. From the bedroom doorway the door out was close on the left, within ten feet. The TV set was to the right in there, in the corner past the desk. He listened. There were no voices other than the nonstop television voices. Maybe it was the maid. Turned on the TV while she cleaned up. Jack said, Sure, it '
s the maid. And walked around the bed to the doorway and looked into the sitting room.

It wasn
'
t the maid.

It wasn
'
t a Nicaraguan either. It was a guy in profile with slicked-back dark hair, seedy-looking in an old gray tweed sport coat that reminded Jack of Lucy '
s soup kitchen and told him the guy didn '
t belong here. The guy stood within a few feet of the TV set looking down at the lady private eye and her partner snarling at each other in fun, acting wacky. The guy in the herringbone sport coat chuckled, rubbed one of his eyes.

In that moment Jack would bet ten bucks the guy had served time; twenty bucks he wasn
'
t with the Nicaraguans. Except that he seemed to know where he was.

So Jack stepped over to the dresser and dug out the fundraiser
'
s pistol, the same model Beretta as the ones they '
d picked up last night. He didn '
t check to see if it was loaded; he wasn '
t going to shoot the guy. He wouldn '
t mind popping the TV set, the annoying sounds, but not the guy. For some reason he felt sorry for him. Jack moved into the doorway again and stood with the Beretta down at his side. The guy appeared to be in his forties; all dressed up in the ratty sport coat, dark pants that dragged on the floor and nearly covered his worn-out tan shoes. A commercial came on before he looked around.

Paused and said, Oh, my. I have the wrong room, don
'
t I?

Buddy Jeannette had said he bet he had the wrong room. This guy
'
s line was close enough and either way it took an awful lot of poise. Oh, I have the wrong room . . .
The guy crossing to the door now in his raggedy outfit, trying to pull it off. Look at that. Jack watched the guy hesitate, his hand on the knob, then look over his shoulder with a frown, a question on his face.

He said, Or do I? Or might we both have the wrong room.
With an accent from some British isle.

What was it, Irish?

Jack said, Step away from the door and turn around.

The man opened his arms wide to show a belly beneath the awful tie. Please yourself, but trust me, I don
'
t go about your city armed.

It was Irish. Jack said, Take off your coat.

I
'
m happy to oblige you.
He pulled it off to show a soiled and wrinkled white shirt, a red-and-gray patterned tie, and dropped the coat on the floor as he did a turn all the way around to face Jack again. There. Tell me you '
re not a cop, please. It '
s all I ask.

Do I look like a cop?
He watched the man
'
s expression relax, begin to smile.

Not now you don
'
t, no. You have a sense of play about you, a soft quality to your voice. It indicates to me you '
re a man of reason, not a dumb brute, and I say this from experience. The last copper I spoke to was in Belfast, an RUC thug what he was. He asked me my name, I answered him in Irish. The fucker said, '
ySpeak the Queen '
s English, '
and beat me with a stick. I '
ll show you the marks.

Jack said, What
'
s your name?

And drew a smile. You say it different to what he did. First I
'
m beaten, then lifted for disorderly behavior. My name '
s Jerry Boylan. Will you tell me yours?

Jack was waiting to tell him. From the moment the man opened his mouth Jack could feel something between them, because the man was familiar to him. Not as someone he knew, but someone from an old photograph brought to life: snapshots from a family picnic at Bayou Barataria in the 1920s, before he was born; the women wearing straw hats their faces peeked out of, dresses that looked like slips; but it was the men he remembered now, the men with slick-combed hair like Jerry Boylan '
s, the men posing in white shirts without collars, their Irish Channel mugs grinning at the camera on a sunny day, his dad '
s dad or an uncle holding Spanish moss to his face to make a beard. This one, Jerry Boylan, could be one of them now, come to life in the St. Louis Hotel.

He said, Jack Delaney.

And saw the familiar slit-mouth grin from the photographs, eyes beaming for a moment, then turned to low as the man said, How serious a Delaney are you? Where you come from?

I think Kilkenny, my dad
'
s grandfather.

Of course you do,
Boylan said. Castlecomer in North Kilkenny. There was a Ben Delaney played horn in the Castlecomer Brass Band. . . . Oh, but wait now, it could be Ballylinan. Sure, Michael Delaney was from there, my God, second in command of the North Kilkenny Brigade, IRA from 1918 to '
21, before the truce, when they were giving the crown bloody hell. Made land mines out of iron skillets packed with gelignite. Before plastique and pipe bombs his voice drifting and rocket launchers you can stick under your coat . . .

How do you know that?

I
'
m from there. Swan, a stop in the road, if you
'
ve heard of it.

I mean what happened a long time ago. How do you know about a Delaney and that IRA stuff?

How do I know? It
'
s my fucking life. Ask me where I
'
ve been the past month, since I wasn '
t dodging Brit patrols and getting the stick from the bloody peelers.
Boylan frowned. You know what I '
m talking about? The Belfast coppers, Jack, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Their idea of great crack is cornering one such as myself, alone. But you say that IRA stuff a long time ago, like you don '
t know any of this. It still is, Jack, more than ever. My God, don '
t you read the newspapers?

The man played his voice like a hi-fi system, adjusting up and down, treble to bass. Now he was silent, at rest, his gaze wandering to the coffee table, the bottles and glasses, the tray of picked-over canap+!s. Jack watched him cross the room to bend over the tray and poke at the dainty sandwiches before choosing one.

Look at him.

Unconcerned, turning to watch television as the voices shrilled and he stuck a sandwich in his mouth, sucked two fingers, and wiped them on his coat.

The guy thinking they were buddies now, like they might
'
ve marched together last month in the Saint Patrick '
s Day parade. It was one thing for Jack to feel a tie, reminded of Delaneys that had come before, but this guy was presuming way too much. Jack walked over to the TV set, the annoying voices still competing, and shut them off.

Boylan, bent over the tray again, looked up. What
'
re you doing there?

Sit down, on the sofa.

Boylan popped half a deviled egg in his mouth. I do, I
'
ll fall asleep sure. It
'
s half nine, the man could be coming back any time.

Jack crossed to him raising the Beretta and put it in his face. Boylan cocked his head, still bent over, and opened his eyes and Jack could see the deviled egg in his mouth as he stopped chewing and stared.

Sure, Jack, I
'
d be happy to.

He lowered the gun to feel it against his leg. You
'
ve done time, haven
'
t you?
Watching the man step around the coffee table to ease himself carefully into the chintz-covered sofa.

Boylan sighed. Long Kesh. Where we smeared our shit on the walls and the lads in H-Block woke up the world with their hunger strike. The bloody Maze, some call it.

What were you in for?

Talking in church,
Boylan said. To a bastard that touted on me. They came in the night as they do, knocked my old woman '
s teeth out breaking in the bloody door, found a revolver in the dirty wash, and that was my sin. I got five Hail Marys and five years in the Kesh.
Boylan bent over, took his time choosing another canap+!. How is it we know our own kind, Jack? What was your sin? Don '
t tell me you '
re only a burglar. Come in here in your proper attire all lavender-scented. What would you steal, his shirts? Christ, but he '
s got enough of them.

You
'
ve been here before,
Jack said.

Now and again.
Boylan eased forward, placing his hands on his knees. We
'
re going to chat, we might go down the way. Watch the naked ladies dance and have a jar. Would that be to your liking?

You
'
re a long way from home, aren
'
t you?

You prefer to test my nerves. Keep me on the hook till I tell you what I
'
m up to. See who outlasts the other, before the nasty colonel returns. Oh, I '
d love to know your game, Jack, before I say.
A squint narrowed his eyes and he nodded. I would like to believe our politics are near enough the same. . . .
And now his eyes opened with hope. Have you seen me before, Jack? Heard me speak at a Holy Name Communion breakfast?

Jack said, Will you cut the shit and tell me what you
'
re doing here?

Boylan blew his breath out in a sigh. All right, I
'
ll take the risk and put it flat to you. The man from Nicaragua is here for guns. You know that?

Jack nodded.

Well, so am I.

Jack said, Only he
'
s going to buy his.
And let it hang and saw the Irishman '
s sly smile forming.

Boylan said in a soft voice, Oh, but our minds run in harness, don
'
t they, Jack?

Chapter
14

THEY WERE IN THE UPSTAIRS dining room, seated near the wall of glass that looked out on the palmetto garden, the green foliage illuminated with pinpoints of light. Dick Nichols said, Like having Christmas all year round, huh?
as he turned back to his dinner guests, the colonel and his silent friend from Miami.

Dagoberto Godoy said, Feliz Navidad,
in a flat tone, not sounding too merry. By nex
'
Christmas I want to be in Managua, but I don '
t think is going to happen.

Dick Nichols looked at Crispin Reyna across from him, over the place settings of crystal
see if he could get him to open his mouth. Why is that? You boys aren '
t doing so good?
The guy from Miami shrugged, but didn '
t change his cool-sour expression or say anything; which could mean he either didn '
t know or didn '
t give a shit. So Dick Nichols turned to the colonel. What '
s the problem, Dagaberta? I thought you had your war good as won.

You read in the news we have seventeen thousand freedom fighters,
Dagoberto said. We have maybe fourteen thousand. The Communists have sixty thousand, more than that in reserve, and all those chicos plasticos in Managua, the kids with no work, nothing to do, they can put in the army when they want. They have helicopter gunships, the Mi-24 from the Soviets. We need ground-to-air missiles, the SA-7, many of them. But most of all we need to have those flying monsters of our own, the gunships.

Dick Nichols said, Now you
'
re talking about a big-ticket item.
He looked up, almost caught the eye of a good-looking woman at the next table, but the headwaiter got in the way, coming over. Dick Nichols said, Hey, Robert, I think we could manage three more of these. Tell you what, make '
em doubles and we '
ll save you a trip. Huh? How '
d that be?

Chivas, Mr. Nichols?

You bet, Robert. Listen, what you do, stop by every twelve and a half minutes and see how we
'
re doing.
Deadpan, waiting for Robert to give him his haughty-waiter smile. Is that a deal?

Robert said, Yes, sir, Mr. Nichols, my pleasure,
giving him just a flick of a smile, not looking at the Nicaraguans.

Dick Nichols was drinking scotch with them because they seemed to favor it. He drank scotch or bourbon with people in the business, drank beer with Cajun fishing guides, and chased whiskey with beer sitting with drillers over in Morgan City. It was how you learned things. Drink and grin, egg them on some and listen. He told Dagoberto and his buddy from Miami, dying to call him Crispy, that raising the capital to buy a helicopter was one thing, then you had to service the son of a bitch. An engine overhaul '
d run you a hundred and twenty-five thousand or more. Hell, get a bullet in your fuel-control system, it '
s like your carburetor, you '
re talking forty-five Gs to replace it, and that '
s just your four-seater model. He told Dagoberto he was talking big bucks to maintain a fleet. Was he going to raise enough to finance a real war or not?

Dagoberto said, You want me to tell you the cost of making war? To pay each freedom fighter twenty-three dollars a month before we buy one bullet? A wealthy friend of yours, rich beyond measure, gives me a check for five thousand. I look at it. . . . Do you know what it will buy? It will buy rice for a few weeks and maybe twenty thousand rounds of AK-47 ammunition. You want me to tell you what it is to buy from the Israelis? Arrange a drop shipment to Honduras and all the ones in between you have to pay?

Dick Nichols said, Not if it
'
s gonna depress you, Dagaberta.
That woman at the next table had a pretty face but picked at her dinner and didn '
t appear to have much juice in her: the kind would rather go to a club meeting than slip out for a nooner. He said, Hey, you boys slowing up?
And watched them get busy with their drinks. Couple of macho banana pickers. I had a geologist look at a piece of land one time, he said, '
yMr. Nichols, you hit oil on this property I '
ll drink it.
'
Shortsighted son of a bitch didn '
t look deep enough.
Dick Nichols '
s gaze slid over to the colonel idly rearranging his silverware. But I have never forced a man to drink anything he didn '
t want.
He looked up at the headwaiter and said, Robert, you '
re just in time.
Waited for the headwaiter to serve them and leave, then turned to the colonel and said, Dagaberta, my little girl tells me you like to kill people. Is that right?

The colonel stopped fooling with his silverware and tried to give Dick Nichols a calm, steady look. Your daughter saw war as a civilian. Naturally she didn '
understand it. In war the purpose is to kill the enemy.

She says you killed women and children.

And you didn
'
t when you bombed cities in your wars? It happens.

I didn
'
t know you people had an air force.

I mean is the same thing. In guerrilla war you hit and run, hit and run. Without jails you don
'
t take prisoners. But you can '
t let them go free, uh? Or tomorrow they try to kill you.

Dick Nichols said, There
'
s killing and there
'
s coldblooded murder, two different things.

And there is assassination, with a thin line between them in war,
Dagoberto said. Listen, your own government, the CIA, they instruct us on the selective use of violence to neutralize people against us. What does that mean, neutralize? Your own President Reagan tells us it means, '
yWell, you jus '
say to the fellow who sitting there in the office, you not in the office anymore.
'
Isn '
t that beautiful, he think is so easy. I wish your president was at Ocotal with us. I see one of my men so afraid he can '
t move, he '
s shitting his pants, pressing himself to a wall. I say to him, '
yCome on, man, let '
s go.
'
But he won '
t move and there are others behind us watching this. I take his gun, the magazine is still full.
'
yMan, '
I yell at him, '
yyou haven '
t fired a single shot.
'
Good grief, what kind of example is this man? I neutralized him with his own gun and neutralized several of the enemy after we tore down the Sandinista flag and set it on fire. What I '
m saying to you, Dick, the only thing neutral is the gun. It doesn '
t care who it kills.

How old was the man you shot?

Old enough to die for freedom.

Whose freedom?
Dick Nichols said. My daughter says we
'
re on the wrong side in Nicaragua and have been for seventy-five years.

Dagoberto said, Twenty-first June, 1979, the ABC journalist was killed by a Guardsman in Managua and everyone in the entire fucking world saw it on film. That should never have happen, but it did and is the reason some people don '
t like us. Ninth July the Sandinistas took Le+|n. Estel+ on sixteenth July, the same day they overran the garrison at Jinotepe. I was looking at an M-16 in my face, refusing to close my eyes, and Somoza is flying to Miami with his family and his chiefs of staff and the coffins of his father and his brother. Leaving us to die.

Dick Nichols watched the Nicaraguan glance at his friend from Miami.

Just as he left the family of Crispin to die, on their coffee estate, taking the Guards away from there. Anastasio Somoza Debayle, the Supreme Ruler and Commander of the Guard, Inspired and Illustrious Leader, Savior of the Republic. . . . Do you want some more of his titles? How do you think of a son of a fucking whore who left us to die?

Dick Nichols watched him.

Boy, a little Chivas could stir the man up. Dick Nichols watched him raise his drink, throw his head back to take a macho gulp, and knock over a couple of empty wine glasses putting the drink down again. While his buddy remained impassive. Maybe he was stoned. But now Crispin '
s dead expression belonged to a man born of coffee money and had everything handed to him. Dick Nichols would bet Crispy had swung with a sizable amount, now invested in some Miami venture. Wasn '
t that interesting?

It got even more interesting when Dagoberto said, I returned to Nicaragua to fight the war. But I
'
ll tell you something, Dick, you can understand. You say the business of America is business. . . .

I did?

You know it if you don
'
t say it. Okay, is the same with me. What I do is not in the name of nationalism or Somocismo, an allegiance to a dead man. What I do is a matter of economics. I want what you want. And what '
s good for you, Dick, is good for me.

Wally Scales followed Dagoberto into the Men
'
s room, watched the way the colonel weaved standing at the urinal and had to flatten one hand against the wall to steady himself. Close behind him, Wally Scales said, You feel somebody breathing down your neck? . . . Hey, watch where you '
re aiming.

What are you doing here?

I
'
ve come with intelligence of grave importance.
Wally Scales stepped up to the next urinal, not liking the colonel '
s glazed look one bit. You okay?

I feel better when I do this. Oh, man.
The colonel shivered, jerking his shoulders.

You find out about your girl friend?

The hell with her. I
'
m not going to worry about the leprosy.

I wouldn
'
t. I
'
d worry more about raging social diseases, if you '
re gonna entertain French Quarter whores. Or I '
d worry about a guy breathing Bushmill down my neck. That '
s what they drink over in Ireland. They love it, booze and Guinness stout, that dark stuff. You smell either one in your room you know he '
s been in there again. Well, we were in his room, too; he '
s staying in your hotel. Found his burglar tools but no gun unless he packs it. Though I doubt that, being a visitor with an iffy passport. You don '
t know what I '
m talking about, do you? Shake it but don '
t break it. Hey, you '
re pissing on your shoes. . . . There you go. Now wash your hands.

The little Nicaraguan, with his glassy eyes and gigolo mustache, zipped up and pushed off the wall to the washbasin.

Wally Scales said, You don
'
t know it but you have an IRA agent on your ass, a Provo living in the same hotel. Checked in through New Orleans Immigration from Shannon by way of Managua, the provisional IRA '
s great circle route; stop off to visit with comrades, the Micks now sleeping with the Latin Marxists. Why not? Jerry Boylan would take Khaddafi in his mouth for a rocket launcher. Five years in Long Kesh, the Ulster slam, flies down to the tropics for R and R and what have you, and now makes his appearance in New Orleans. Ask him, he '
ll tell you to address Holy Name Societies, raise a few quid for the Sinn Fein and the unification of bloody Ireland. But he follows you all over and goes in your room when you '
re out to dinner. Now, what do you suppose he wants, outside of all the freedom dollars you '
re raising?

Dagoberto splashed his face with water, rubbed it hard with a towel, but didn
'
t look much better than before.

This guy is irland+!s?

Irland+!s negro
black Irish and full of bullshit. You can hear him across the room telling stories to bartenders. It '
s his cover. No one with that big a mouth could be an agent.

What will you do with him?

Wally Scales said, Not what will I do with him. I have three weeks coming I
'
m gonna spend at Hilton Head, get out of this goddamn humidity and not do a thing but feel proud of myself, how I '
m playing a vital role in the manifest destiny of my country. That have a ring to it? In any given situation I can exercise a flexible response, up to a point. But something like this, I think it comes under your taking up arms against an oppressive government and its agents. I have nothing to lose but a little self-esteem if you fuck up; and I can handle that, it '
s a temporary loss. You, on the other hand, stand to blow your mission and lose everything.

Dagoberto listened, squinting, till he threw the towel in the basin and fire came into his bloodshot eyes.

Goddamn, you say something to me, say it!

His name
'
s Gerald Boylan and he
'
s in 305.