'What is it?'
'I ain't said nothing yet, but somebody else was here. Someone with a burp gun nailed that bastard who was about to finish me.'
'What are you saying, Earl?'
'Listen here. Not tonight, when all these bastards are around, but tomorrow you stop off. Mark a tree or something so you can stay oriented. About forty yards up the road, maybe ten yards in, that's where whoever was shooting set up. I want you to get your Princeton trousers all muddy by getting down on them hands and knees, and don't you get up till you find a cartridge casing. I have to know who this guy is, and why he done what he done.'
Chapter 23
Roger played three hard sets with Lt. Commander Tom Carruthers-not only a Harvard teammate but a member of his same dining club-and only won in the third, six-four. Even he had to admit he was slipping; he had not played singles in some years, he had not lifted a tennis racket since this whole Big Noise thing had started, and he was creaky and slow through the first set-he actually lost it on a double-fault! — and only got a wind up and found his form halfway through the second.
'Good show, old man!' he said, when he drilled Tommy's last service down the line, puffing up dust, to take the match. 'Damn, that felt good.'
'Roge, must say, you've played better. I don't believe I ever took a set off you before.'
'Haven't had a racket in my hand in weeks, you know,' said Roger. 'They keep us hopping in the America house.'
'I imagine it'll get worse, what with these Juan Lopez types now shooting up the U.S. Congress!'
'This may be the last tennis I play this year, Tommy!'
'Come on, let's shower and hit the Officer's Club for mojitos.'
'Actually, yes to the shower but no to the bar. I've got some house-setting-in-order to do. You know. Ugly, but necessary. A certain slippery assistant needs to be straightened out.'
'Ugh, hate that stuff. That's what bosun's mates are for.'
'Unfortunately in our little outfit, there are no sergeants to kick tail when necessary. One must do it oneself. Melancholy work, but character building, I think.'
The two old pals showered and changed, shared a quick Coke out of the nickel machine, and then Roger went off in search of Frenchy.
He had to admit, Guantanamo felt like home. Everywhere you looked, Americans. No Latin chaos and sultriness, no squalor, no pathos, no endless parade of numbers-sellers, whores and cigar-rollers, no pale tropic paints off that whole different sun-soaked palette, no ratty beggars or starving, swollen-bellied children. Instead, order, tidiness, cleanliness, safety, security. The sailors were crisp in their whites, the marines crisp in their olive fatigues, everyone was clean and everyone saluted or nodded. They didn't know him, except that his suit and pressed blue shirt and rep stripe tie proclaimed him, immediately and totally, Important, and as he walked from the tennis courts at the Officer's Club to the Naval Intelligence offices where he was temporarily headquartered, he must have passed a hundred smiling faces, none of them, fortunately, brown.
The trees were well tended, the gardens sharp-oh, yes, the gardeners, he could tell, were all Cuban-and a topiary at the Officer's Club proclaimed the initials USN in dense, immaculately trimmed bushes, under a flagpole, where the American flag waved eternally vigilant against the azure sky. And beyond-he could see, because they were on a slope-he observed a bustling harbor where sleek gray ships under the same proud banner either put out to sea or returned from sea, always on duty, always on the ramparts.
This is what we're offering the world, he thought, adoring the order, the cleanliness, the sense of high purpose everywhere evident, if only they aren't so stupid as to turn it down.
He reached the Naval Intelligence offices, in a tempo that seemed to have become a permanto, shaded in palms and guarded by marines. But he was known by this time, and walked by and through the casual security of a place securely American and went upstairs and down halls past rooms of decoders and yeomen typists and WAVE secretaries, and found at last the rooms he had been assigned, stepped in, was saluted by two enlisted men and had his hand shaken by another officer, a lieutenant from Yale, who was his official liaison.
'This way, Roger. He's back now.'
'Excellent.'
'Good match?'
'Tommy still has some moves. My treachery prevailed over his youth and athleticism in the end, however.'
'Not how I hear it, Roge. They say you're the tops.'
'Well?'
'Just a thought, Roge. I'm coming to Havana next weekend, possibly we could get together for a drink? My service is up in a couple of months. Dad wants me in law school and all that crap, but I don't know if I'm cut out for it. I might be thinking about moving laterally in your direction.'
What was the guy's name? Yale, football. Oh, yeah: Dan, Dan Benning, he thought.
'Dan, yes, we must. Yes, with your experience, you could be vital. The only thing is, things are a little hectic with all this.'
'Yes, I know.'
'Let me take care of this, and we must get together.'
'I'll count on it.'
At last he entered the last door, his temporary office, formerly belonging to a marine colonel who had been hastily evacuated to make room for the Agency hotshot of whom so many spoke so well, and what he found, sitting at his desk, feet up, was Walter- Frenchy! — in shirtsleeves, tie down, soaked in sweat, reading reports.
'Well,' he said.
'Oh, hi, Roge, how are you?'
Frenchy rose-though just a bit slow, Roger thought-and made room, waited for him to sit, then took a seat on the sofa under photos of the marine colonel's fabulous career stops in Okinawa, Seoul and Panama.
'Fine,' Roger said.
'The match?'
'Fine, fine. So what did you find out?'
It had been Frenchy's idea to return to the crime scene this morning to look for whatever had to be looked for, to talk with the Cuban security police who handled the 'investigation,' such as it was, while Roge played tennis.
'Well, no new physical evidence has been uncovered. The Cubans are pretty sure, though, that they have their man. I did find out who. Oh, this is rich. It's some gangster named El Colorado. How cowboy-movie is that? I think we'll see something happening very soon.'
'El Colorado? That does sound Republic Pictures.'
'An ex-socialist. Now a pimp master. He owned the brothel where the congressman acted up. Furthermore, it appears he tried to have Earl killed in prison but was mysteriously thwarted. But these Latin types: you play by their rules or the hammer comes down. I believe the Cubans will hammer the hammer very quickly. Certain messages must be sent.'
'And you got the traffic out?'
'Yes, Roge, last night, after we got in. And I checked for incoming, but there was nothing. I put out another report this morning before I left for the site, in your name, of course. I haven't told them about impending action against El Colorado. Should I?'
'It might look good if we're predicting it. You might even tell them we suggested the action.'
'Yes. Yes, that's good.'
'Short-term, but good.'
'Uh? Meaning?'
