God's Favorite (28 page)

Tony came forward and made the sign of the cross, then placed a rooster carcass on the altar, along with a bottle of rum and one of Fidel's favorite cigars. Gilbert examined them noncommittally.
“Omi tutu, ana tutu, loroye, tute ilé,”
he intoned, placing three drops of water on the god's head. “Now we will see if the orisha accepts our sacrifice.” He took a hammer from his kit and with a single powerful blow split the coconut into several pieces. Milk and bits of shell flew into the air. He then tore off three pieces of rind and knelt on the floor.

“Akueyé owó, akueyé omá, ariku babagwa.”

“Apkwaná,”
Tony responded.

Gilbert threw the coconut rinds on the floor. Two of them
were brown side up, one was white side up. Tony looked at the rinds and then at Gilbert.

“I don't know, Tony, it doesn't look good.”

“Can't you throw it again?”

Gilbert shrugged. “I can do it, but the orisha may not like for us to be asking again without improving the offer. Haven't you got something else for him?”

Tony looked suspiciously at Elegguá. The cowrie-shell features had a kind of surprised idiot look. “What does he want?”

“That's the thing about gods, Tony. You don't know what they want until you give it to them. This Elegguá, he's the trickster. He usually likes food, he likes goats, he likes toys. But you take a chance when you're dealing with him. He's the justice giver, the score settler. If you cross the line with him, he'll punish you. You could put down a perfectly good sacrifice, but if he's turned against you, forget it. My experience is that he usually wants the thing you don't want to give.”

Tony thought about this for a moment, glumly. “I don't have a goat on the premises,” he said.

“Well, what do you have? It better be good.”

Tony rummaged through his drawers and came up with several parrot feathers and an ornamental Japanese dildo. Gilbert placed them in front of the god and repeated the incantation. When he threw the coconut rinds, all three sides were brown side up.

The back of Tony's neck began to prickle.

“I told you we should have made a better sacrifice,” Gilbert said. “You should have listened to me. I didn't want to throw the coconut again, but you insisted.”

“What am I going to do now?”

Gilbert put up a silencing hand and then closed his eyes. Tony sat anxiously for several minutes as Gilbert's breath became shallow and his head lolled to the side. Finally his eyelids opened to reveal a mass of garish veins racing through the pupil-less eyeballs. Tony shivered and took another gulp of whiskey.

“Bad signs,” said Gilbert in his helium voice. “Many enemies. Many problems. Oh, you have been bad, Tony.
Baaaaaad.”

Baaaaaad? Hadn't he tried to get out of the narcotics business? Now the Colombians were trying to kill him. Hadn't he tried to placate the Americans? Now they were trying to remove him from power. Every step he took got him in deeper trouble. He was beginning to get a little impatient with moral reforms.

“Bad vibrations,” Gilbert said. “The universe is so angry with you.”

“What? What do you see?”

“Storm clouds coming. Chaos! War! Disaster!”

“Enough!” Tony cried, slamming down his whiskey glass.

But Gilbert was still lost in his trance, foretelling the awful future. “Bombs! Fire! Many people dying! Oh, Tony, it's all your fault, you really fucked up so bad . . .”

Tony poured a pail of chicken blood on Gilbert's head. The witch doctor snapped to in a violent spasm. “What's happened? Oh, my God! Blood!” he said in alarm. “Am I injured?”

“Go. Get out of here.”

Gilbert looked bewildered. “You did this to me?”

“Get out of Panama,” Tony said. “Leave immediately. No more of this superstitious prophecy.”

Gilbert collected as much dignity as possible, given the chicken blood dripping from his nose. “I don't know what's wrong with you, Tony. You offend the gods, you got to expect punishment. That's the way it is. Me, I tried to help you. And look at what you've done. You've made a big mistake. You need all the friends you can get.”

“I need you? I'm the ruler of the goddamn country! I've got an army! Millions of dollars! Everybody who does business in this country needs Tony Noriega! So don't try scaring me with your hocus-pocus. You and your
‘bad vibrations'
—hah!”

“You're crazy, Tony.”

“Don't forget your herbs.” Tony poured a bowl of dried cieba
leaves on Gilbert's head. They stuck like feathers to the chicken blood.

Gilbert rose to his feet. His face was as dark as a thundercloud. “Blasphemer! I tried to save you! But no! You can't stop yourself, can you? You have to go and do something so stupid you'll never redeem yourself. You've really fucked up now.”

“Get out,” said Tony. “You're lucky I'm letting you walk away.”

“What you've done to me is nothing compared to what's about to happen to you, my friend. You've offended the gods, and they will destroy you!
Akwaté omú bilabao!”

When Gilbert was gone, Tony looked around at the mess that was left behind—his ruined sacrifice, the blood on the table that was spilling onto the floor, shattered bits of coconut. He was flooded with remorse. Gilbert really was very powerful—no doubt he'd be joining the Colombians in the wanga war—and now Tony was alone, utterly alone. He looked fearfully at the impassive concrete god. Suddenly his legs went weak. He dropped to his knees and begged forgiveness. “I know I've screwed up. I don't know what got into me!” But the god radiated disfavor. “Please, please forgive me, Elegguá! I know I've made a fool of myself—it wasn't meant to show you disrespect! I was mad at Gilbert—that guy really annoys me. I know I've offended you with my sacrifice, but if you'll just grant me your blessing, I'll give you anything you desire—anything!”

When he looked up from his prayer, Tony gratefully spotted his half-empty bottle of Old Parr, but as he reached for it, he inadvertently knocked it off the table. Or had the bottle leaped away from his grasp? It seemed like another warning from the universe of the unbridled punishment in store for him.

“Okay, what do you want?” Tony cried.

Silence.

“Money? I can give you money. Goats? You can have a whole goddamn herd of them! Just tell me what you want!”

Tony was finally beginning to realize the full measure of the orisha's displeasure.

“Okay, okay, I know what you want,” Tony said. “Okay, I will give it to you. But remember this sacrifice! It's enough! After this, we are even with each other!”

Tony staggered to his feet. He was woozy and disoriented, but he struggled to move the bulky pharmacist's cabinet where he stored his precious herbs. Once the cabinet was out of the way, Tony wedged himself into the dusty space behind it. There was a wall safe behind a false panel. Inside were several hundred thousand dollars in cash, a U.S. military code book, secret formulas for casting spells, and a large goldfish aquarium covered with a paisley drape. He lifted the aquarium and carried it carefully into the room where Elegguá was waiting.

“Here,” said Tony as he removed the drape. “I hope you're satisfied!”

Inside the aquarium, floating in the viscous liquid, was the head of Hugo Spadafora.

Gods were never happy until they had tasted blood, Tony thought bitterly. Until now, Hugo had been his alone. But what good had it done him, really? One thing after another had gone wrong ever since Hugo passed into the other world.

Hugo's eyes were askew—one looking upward and one down at Tony's shoes. His skin was slightly green and coated with whiskers. An artery trailed out the severed neck like an unplugged electrical cord.

There was just enough Old Parr left in the spilled bottle for Tony to salvage a few last sips. He clinked the side of the aquarium in a farewell toast—a toast he had never shared with the living Hugo.

All the things Tony had wanted, Hugo had. He had wanted to be a doctor, like Hugo, but the most that a poor boy like him could expect or hope for was to become a pharmacist's assistant. Even when Tony turned to the military, he had been overshadowed by the protean Hugo. While Tony was issuing traffic citations and learning drill in the National Guard, Hugo was waging revolution in the jungles of Africa and Central America, writing
best-sellers about his adventures. But what did it matter? Tony could not go back and create a happy childhood for himself, or a loving family. He would never be handsome; instead, he was pocked like a Peg-Board and given lizardlike eyes that frightened children and even caused grown men to draw away when they saw him. In his home village there was a she-devil named Tuli Vieja who had a face like a sieve. She sneaked along the stream-sides looking for children to steal. The people said if you looked at her directly, she would suck out your life through the holes in her face. For this reason, some of the Choco avoided looking at Tony to this very day despite the postal station and all the other favors he had given them. They thought he was the male incarnation of Tuli Vieja. Sometimes Tony wondered that himself.

There had been a moment when everything might have turned out differently—that was the first time Tony had ever seen Hugo, at a little outdoor cantina in Colón during Carnival. Hugo was at his peak then—glamorous, handsome, rich, famous, surrounded by fans and beautiful women, women that Tony could only dream about. There was a samba band, and Hugo had danced like a prince. Everything he did was so naturally cool and filled with grace and courage. Tony had sent a bottle of fine champagne to Hugo's table, a gesture he could scarcely afford. Hugo, however, did not invite Tony to join him and his beautiful friends. He did not even acknowledge the gift. He simply received it as tribute. He drank the champagne and left, trailing laughter and contempt.

“But, Hugo, the universe is so fickle,” Tony said now as he contemplated the chain of events that had led inevitably from that moment to this one. “You can be up so high and I down so low. Now look at us. Somewhat reversed, right? I guess somebody up there is watching out for me, eh? What do you think, Doctor? It's funny, isn't it?”

Hugo's hair swayed like seaweed and his puzzled eyes looked high and low.

“I don't see you laughing,” said Tony.

R
OLLINS HAD SUGGESTED
meeting Father Jorge at what he said was a “dentist's office” in Punta Paitilla, and the priest was surprised to find that it really was a dentist's office and not a safe house or CIA front. “You sure you don't mind?” Rollins asked when they met. “I have to spend half my life sitting in this chair being tortured. My gums.” He raised his upper lip to display a pulpy gum line and several missing teeth. “It's genetic,” he explained.

“You do know why I contacted you?” Father Jorge asked under his breath.

“Oh, everybody in this country has a secret to sell,” said Rollins. His skin was clammy and he smelled faintly of rum.

“I'm not selling anything!” Father Jorge said indignantly.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, Father. Most of our agents come to us because of financial distress. You don't see too many idealists in this business.” Just then the dentist walked in carrying a hypodermic with a six-inch needle. Rollins shrank a bit. “Maybe you should give me last rites, Father,” he said. “Hah hah hah.”

“This may pinch a bit, but believe me, you'll be glad for it in a little while,” said the dentist, plunging the needle into Rollins's tender upper gum. “Don't move around so.”

Rollins made a cry like a little bird.

“This will take a few minutes,” said the dentist. “I'll be back when you're numb.”

“I wish they used gas here,” said Rollins when the dentist had gone. “I'm such a coward about these things.”

This was the CIA? Father Jorge worried about Major Giroldi placing his trust in an agency that was so shabbily represented. Nonetheless, he forged ahead. “I assume that a certain PDF officer has been in contact with you,” he said.

“I talk to dozens of them,” said Rollins. “What's his name?”

Father Jorge paused, then whispered Giroldi's name.

“Oh, right. So you're our contact?”

“I'm only delivering a message.”

“Okay, then, what shall we call you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tradecraft. Every agent gets a moniker. We don't want to have to use real names in our reports.”

“I'm not an
agent.
”

“Okay, whatever, but suppose Giroldi wants you to get in touch with me again. Maybe you don't want people to know who you are. You just use your trade name. Safer. More discreet.”

This was absurd, Father Jorge thought, but on the other hand, he certainly didn't want anyone to know about his involvement. “What do you suggest?”

“I've got my own system,” Rollins confided. “What's your favorite Disney character?”

“Mickey Mouse?”

“Taken,” said Rollins. “Maybe something a little less obvious.”

“Can't we just say something like ‘José Rodríguez' that sounds like an ordinary name?' ”

“It is an ordinary name, Father, too ordinary. Do you know
how many guys there are with that name? Suppose some guy who really is named José Rodríguez calls me up—it could get very confusing. Listen, trust me, you want a name that's memorable but not exactly real. Anyway, it works. All my guys do it.”

“Oh, well, this is ridiculous. You can call me anything you want.”

“It has to be something meaningful to
you.
Otherwise, you might forget it, and then where would we be?”

“In that case, maybe you can call me Pinocchio. I think that would be very appropriate.”