God's Favorite (29 page)

“I like your thinking, Father. It's symbolic and memorable. Unfortunately it's also taken.”

“Goofy, then.”

“The really mainstream ones are pretty much picked over. Donald, Daffy, the nephews. I had one of the Seven Dwarves left till last week. I encourage you to think a little less conventionally. Like ‘Thomas O'Malley.' ”

“Thomas O'Malley?”

“You never saw
Aristocats
? He is the alley cat who rescues Duchess.”

“No, but I like the name.”

“Like I said, it has to be meaningful to you. I can suggest some ideas, but it should come from within.”

“But I'm not that experienced with these movies. I can't really think of any.”

“Oh, come on, Father—think back! You must have seen dozens of them when you were a kid. Everybody did.”

“Apparently so.”

“What was your favorite?
Sleeping Beauty
?
Fantasia
?
Cinderella
?”

“
Bambi,
I suppose.”

“
Bambi
happens to be available. You're a luppy man, Fadder.” The Xylocaine was taking hold.

“I really don't want to be called Bambi.”

“How 'bout Thumper?”

“Okay, okay, can we just go ahead with this?”

“Sure, sure, but how would you like to be paid?”

“Paid?” Father Jorge snapped. “I'm a priest! I've taken a vow of poverty. I'm certainly not going to violate that to take a bribe from the CIA.”

“It's not a bribe, Fadder. It's a gesture of appreciation. And if you don't want the money, we can give it to somebody else. Even to your church, if you want.”

Father Jorge paused. “How much money are we talking about?” His parish really was very poor.

“Not millions but not hundreds, either. Depends on the relationship. How it debelops.”

“It's not going to
develop.
I've just come here to deliver a message for a friend. A man who is placing his life in danger and needs your help.”

Rollins rubbed his tongue across his deadened incisors. “Well, then, talk. Nobody's stobbing you.”

Father Jorge took a deep breath. The import of what he was about to say was so serious that the fate of the entire country depended on it—but he seemed to be trapped in some bizarre farce. “My friend asked me to inform you that there will be a sudden change of leadership. But he will need your support.”

Rollins eyes widened. “A coup? Wow, that's—”

Just then the dentist returned. Rollins shot a frustrated look at Father Jorge, then opened his mouth wide.

“How are we doing?” the dentist asked impatiently. He was a brisk and efficient type. He had a pair of magnifying lenses pushed up on his forehead. “We should get started. Can you feel this?” He stuck a metal probe in Rollins's gum.

“Ow!”

The dentist looked at him in surprise. “Again?” he said.

“It hurbs.”

The dentist shook his head in amazement. “I've never seen anyone so resistant. I guess I'll have to double up on the anesthetic.”

When the dentist had left the room, Rollins turned to Father Jorge. “Quick, I don't want another shot! When's this going to happen?”

“Wednesday at dawn.”

“Doesn't give us much time.”

“Secrets don't keep in Panama.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Block off the roads to the Comandancia. You don't have to do more than that—just make sure that reinforcements can't get through. Pretend you are doing one of your regular exercises.”

“That's all?”

“This is a Panamanian solution, Mr. Rollins, just like your president has been calling for. All you have to do is to block traffic. And fly over the airport to keep the aircraft from taking off.”

“The U.S. cannot be party to any plan that results in the death of a foreign leader.”

“Believe me, Mr. Rollins, that's the last thing our friend has in mind. He only wants a change at the top.”

“That's what we want, too, Fadder.”

“One last thing: during the coup, his family will seek refuge at Howard Air Force Base. You must ensure their safety.”

The dentist returned with another giant injection.

Rollins put his hands in front of his face. “No, no, it's dead! I don't peel a ting!”

But the needle slipped through his defenses, and as Father Jorge left the room he noticed Rollins's feet curling toward heaven.

I
THINK WE
should talk,” said Tony.

“If you got something to say, okay, I can listen,” Pablo Escobar replied. “But private and in the open. Neutral territory. Not on the phone.”

“Why don't we go for a jog?” Tony suggested.

An hour later the two men met at Fort Amador and began
running along the causeway. Escobar was not in such bad shape for a heavy man, but he sweated through his Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt before they had gone half a mile. He mopped his face. His thick black mustache glistened.

“Here we can say what we want,” Tony said. He was puffing a little himself, and he could smell the Old Parr sweetly working its way through his sweat glands. “I carry this along for insurance, in case they are listening.” He turned on a transistor radio. The U.S. Armed Forces station was playing “Okie from Muskogee,” a Merle Haggard tune.

“At least change the station,” said Escobar.

Tony turned the dial. “Okay, but you should pay attention to such things. The words to their songs are a window to the gringo soul. They are such Protestants! Sex and infidelity, all the time!”

“Catholics are just as bad,” said Escobar. “Fucking guilt, always on your mind.”

“Right, I agree. The difference is the Protestants think the world is coming to an end at any moment, and in their heart they know it is their fault. Which, this is probably true. The world will go up in a big bang, just the way it was created, only this will not be God's intention. He makes the world, and then the Baptists destroy it.”

“Every religion is full of cranks,” said Escobar. “You can't put it all on one group. It's just as likely that the Jews and the Muslims will put an end to things as the Baptists. Hell, the Hindus.”

“Yes, but the Baptists think the apocalypse is coming soon, and they will all get to heaven before everybody else. People like this should not be in charge of the American nuclear arsenal.”

“It's scary,” Escobar agreed. “Whenever you mix religion and politics, watch out.”

“I think the real problem is sexual,” said Tony.

Escobar nodded enthusiastically. “If everybody got more pussy, the world would be a lot safer place. That's the problem with religion—it gets in the way of natural appetites.”

“But why? Why does religion stand in the way of sexual fulfillment?
I think we adopt religious beliefs as a way of avoiding sex as much as possible.”

“Tony, with all due respect, that makes no sense to me.”

“Tell me, Pablo, what is religion after all?”

“Fairy tales,” said Escobar. “A story we tell ourselves about life everlasting. Helps us go to sleep at night.”

“I agree that religion has this quality. But all creatures die, and yet man is the only one that we know of that creates religions. Why is this? Because he is aware of his solitude.” A beautiful girl in sunglasses ran past them in the opposite direction, with an exhausted white dog the size of a large rat. The dog's tongue hung limply to one side of his mouth and his toenails clicked on the sidewalk. Tony and Escobar both turned to look at the girl's ass as she passed. “Why do you want sex in the first place?” Tony continued. “Because you don't want to feel alone. You want to have union with another person. Say this girl—you'd like to fuck her, right?”

Escobar grunted.

“But afterwards, maybe it's not such a good feeling, right? You feel
more
alone. Then maybe you want another girl, this time a different one. But the outcome is the same. It is like drinking salt water—you finally die of dehydration. A cruel paradox, isn't it?”

“I still like fucking. I'd fuck the dog, as a matter of fact.”

“Of course you would—because you love life and you're afraid of death like everybody else. It's perfectly natural. When you're fucking, you're saying yes to life, and yet death is the whole point of sexuality. You merge with another person in order to escape the loneliness of existence and the fear of death, but with every sexual act you are reminded of your mortality and the prison of identity.”

“Jeez, Tony, you're a morbid son of a bitch.”

“There's only one escape from this existential dilemma. Love. If you're really in love, you can never be entirely alone.”

“Now I believe that,” said Escobar. “I got a good woman. She puts up with a lot of shit, I can tell you that.”

“You're a lucky man,” Tony said enviously.

They had come to the base of the Bridge of the Americas, which spans the canal. Tony immediately started up the slope.

“I don't know,” said the panting Escobar. “It's a long way across.” He stopped and bent over to catch his breath.

“We don't have to go all the way, but the view is really something.”

They jogged slowly up the pedestrian side of the immense bridge, which arched like a cat's back over the waterway. Escobar lagged behind, grumbling and perspiring. His pudgy legs were quivering. “Slow down,” he complained.

The bridge traffic roared past them, emitting foul gusts of diesel.

“We're almost there.”

A Liberian tanker slipped quietly past underneath them, its radar mast scooting just under Tony's Reeboks. Finally they reached the apogee of the bridge. “No one should visit Panama without seeing this,” Tony said proudly. “Here, you can see practically the whole country—the mountains in the west and the jungles in the east.”

Escobar held on to the rail, gasping.

The sky was very close today; the heavy black clouds were impaled by the flagpole on Ancón Hill. Immediately below, on one side of the canal, was an American naval base; on the other side were Quarry Heights and the busy port. In the distance another ship was slowly rising in the Miraflores Locks. Tony could just see the machinery turning, the tourists taking photographs, the vendors selling T-shirts and Panama hats. He felt a rush of national pride. “Ask me any question about the canal,” he said. “I know everything.”

“I'm really not interested in the goddamn thing.”

“Ah.”

“It's a ditch,” said Escobar. “I don't see what's so impressive.”

Tony couldn't help feeling wounded by Escobar's insensitivity. It was hard to reach out to someone who was so unmindful
of another's national feelings. “It's a common misunderstanding that one ocean is higher than the other,” Tony finally said.

“I thought that was the whole point of the locks.”

“Not at all. The tides are somewhat different, but the levels are essentially the same. In point of fact, the locks raise the ships well above sea level. Much higher than you probably thought.”

“How high?” Escobar asked grudgingly.

“One hundred seventy-seven meters.”

“That's pretty high,” Escobar conceded.

“You know, our two nations were one before the gringos came and built this thing.”

“I know very well.”

“We should not let them come between us again,” said Tony. “That's why I wanted to talk. There's been a terrible misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding,” said Escobar. “They gave you a fucking award in Washington.”

“I know, I know! But still, it was a huge mistake. Okay, yes, I did authorize the raid, but only because the gringos already knew about the plant. The whole thing was a tragedy that could not have been prevented. I only hope you can forgive this unfortunate episode so we can get back to business as usual.”

“I thought our mutual friend in Havana told you the price of forgiveness.”

“A billion dollars is unrealistic, Pablo. I'm not a king. But I have given you sanctuary. Another leader might have taken your money and put you in jail.”

“Another leader might find his dick stuck through his ears.”

“What I am saying is that we have much in common. We can still help each other. What's the alternative? War with each other? I don't want this—do you?”

“Tell me something,” Escobar said gruffly. “How the fuck did the Americans find out about the plant? It was buried in the goddamned jungle. They couldn't pick it up on satellite. There was nothing around there for a hundred miles, no roads, no people.
Somebody had to tell them. Somebody with connections. Somebody on their payroll.”

“I know what it sounds like, but I am not the only person in Panama who consults with the Americans. They have their sources, like everyone else.”

“If it is not you,” said Escobar, “then it is somebody in your operation. You see how that compromises everything? We cannot resume our business relationship without trust. You give me the son of a whore who betrayed us, then maybe we'll talk again.”

T
HE
N
UNCIO ENTERED
the grotesque modern chapel in the Comandancia in the company of an elegant crowd of civilian guests, all of them dressed in their finest party clothes. The occasion was the christening of General Noriega's first granddaughter. Many of the guests were among the leaders of the Civic Crusade. Was there another country in the world, the Nuncio wondered affectionately, where a party could stop a revolution?

Although it placed him in an awkward position, the Nuncio had acceded to the General's request that he perform the ceremony. Such a gesture might be well received in the Vatican. In any case, the grandchild was an innocent and required the Church's blessing. Who could criticize a priest for performing such an office? But still, the Nuncio felt compromised.