month ago, not far from here. He escaped. It appears to have been a botched operation set up clumsily by the Secret Police Political Section, without authorization from anybody. He disappeared, presumably into the slums of Santiago or possibly one of the neighboring towns or farms. We had been watching him some time.'
'You know where he is now?'
'Er, not really. He's smart, he's clever, he's treacherous, he's now supremely motivated and presumably mentally destablized. He was never the coolest cucumber in the fridge and something like this could turn him cuckoo. But we're not trying to prevent him from acting; we're not praying we skate by this time. Oh, no. Our hope is that he does try something. And we think he will. He lacks patience. For all his talent, he's a rather shallow man. If he does this thing, whatever it is, we are positioned to deal with it swiftly.'
'How, Mr. Short?'
'Sorry, sir. Can't tell you. Top secret.'
'Not even a hint?'
'No, sir.'
'Well,' said Roger, 'we have a man who's a specialist in these matters. You might call him our numero uno manhunter. If there's a trail, he'll follow it. If there's a shot, he'll make it. And there will be a shot.'
You fucking idiot! Frenchy thought behind a face as bland as a nickel. You have just given up everything to impress two schmoes from a banana company.
'Here, here!' said Ted. 'Here's to the shooter.'
'Here's to the man who gets it done for keeps,' said Bill.
'Here's to an American hero,' said Roger.
'Here's to a professional,' said Frenchy. They all raised their glasses, drank deeply, and sat back to enjoy the night and the unperturbable future.
Chapter 38
The crowds were everywhere, just getting warmed up for Sunday night's craziness. Poking its way through them, the car was stopped at least twice by outlaw mambo bands and their followers, who surged into the streets to provide the atmosphere of anarchy necessary to lubricate the proceedings.
'Mr. Jones, I hope you can keep your mind on your work with all those babes around,' said the younger officer, eyeing the flesh jiggling by, loosely packed into brief dresses.
'Mr. Jones knows what he's doing. Roger wouldn't have picked him otherwise,' Lieutenant Dan said, with an obsequious look back at Earl, who felt involved as a go-between in some strange ritual between Dan and Roger he couldn't begin to understand.
The two naval officers ultimately delivered Earl to the Hotel Casa Grande. It looked like a white wedding cake turned upside down, all square and creamy and shuttered up tight but with a vast marble-floored porch fronting the green square in central Santiago, whose space had been seized by the entire human race preparing to lose its soul.
He waited in line for twenty minutes because the place was so crammed, and he worried there'd be no room for him. But there was; and he was led upstairs. It was an extremely nice room, maybe the nicest he'd ever been in. He tried not to be impressed; he tried not to think, Wish Junie were here now. He took a shower, ignored the music, grabbed a night's sleep, and the next morning went looking for field gear, on the sound principle you can't go manhunting in street clothes.
He had a checkbook issued by Frenchy, and could use it to pick up anything he wanted. That was one of the perks of working for the best outfit, Frenchy had assured him. No questions asked. If you need it, if it makes you happy, then you buy it.
Carnival was everywhere, but he pushed his way through the crowds, roamed across the Plaza de Armes, and found that most places were still open. At a sporting goods store better than anything in Blue Eye-or Fort Smith or even Little Rock, for that matter-he found a pair of very fine Abercrombie & Fitch hunting boots that cost more than most suits he'd ever bought. They were thick, sinewy leather, dense and soft, and protective. Jesus Christ, $75 for boots! He held them, smelled their supple leather, their weight, the waxy waterproofing that ran across the welt. They were quality, no doubt about it.
Go ahead. What differences does it make?
But something held him back. Instead, he bought the much cheaper Stoeger boots, the six-inch size, for only $5.95. They were fine. They were okay. There was no trouble with them, though the leather was duller and darker.
Then he went to the clothing department and acquired quickly a pair of Filson tin cloth bloused trousers in a dark green, a Filson shirt of the same cloth in the same shade, and a brush-brown waterproofed duck hat with a ventilated opening above the brim to let the air circulate. A canteen, a day-pack, a poncho and a pair of binoculars completed the wardrobe. He added gear: a waterproof flashlight, a compass, a good Buck knife, a plastic cigarette pack carrier, mosquito repellent, a first-aid kit and six pair of socks.
'Oh, a hunting trip, senor?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'In the Sierras, the boar are very active this time of year. Big brutes, they go three hundred pounds. Their tusks are like razors and they are very violent, valiant animals. They do not surrender. I have seen them charge with two legs broken. They are like a fine bull. It will be a good hunt, I know.'
'I expect so.'
'Ammunition? We have extensive ammunition. Oh, except for.22 and 12-gauge. For some reason there's been a run recently and we are sold out until the new shipment. But you wouldn't hunt boar with.22.'
'No, I wouldn't. But I'm all set in that department.'
'I wish you luck, senor. You will have a wonderful time. Carnival this week, hunting the next. The best of all manly pleasures, hunting in both its manifestation. The pleasures of the flesh and of harvesting the flesh. What could please a man more?'
'Well, you make a good point, sir. I do hope I enjoy myself.'
Even without the extravagance of the Abercrombie & Fitch boots, it still came to more than a hundred bucks! He wrote the check, feeling somewhat larcenous and compromised in the process. He expected some trouble too, as a stranger in a strange town who barely spoke the language. But there was no trouble. This was a well-to-do place, used to catering to wealthy American executives who fished or hunted dove or boar for their leisure, who paid by checks that never bounced. So it was not a problem.
Next stop was a laundry where he had all the new gear washed, to get the stiffness and the wrapped-in-a- factory smell out of it.
'You still open?'
'Yes, senor. Till seven, like any day. We must work before we play.'
'Ain't that the truth. So, can you do this new stuff for me? Get the smell out?'
'The hat too, senor?'
'Yeah, the hat. It's like a derby. Make it soft like I've worn it a hundred times.'
'Si, senor.'
'And you have a big dryer out back, right?'
'Yes, senor.'
'Here's what I want you to do. Put these boots in a laundry bag. You have some change in the register?'
'Si,' said the man, looking at him quizzically. He'd obviously never been asked to dry boots, then if he had change, in the same breath.
'Good. Throw all the change in the laundry bag with the boots. Let it run the whole time I'm gone. And I know it'll be loud. But I'll pay, believe me, whatever you want. I want the boots banged up and the leather softened by the action of the coins. I may have to wear 'em tomorrow, and I want them as soft as possible. Okay?'
The two Cubans exchanged a look that expressed the universal befuddlement in the presence of the insane, but Earl didn't care.
'Be back in couple of hours. Is that enough time?'
