Shoehorned into the rear of the Explorer was a massive pair of loudspeakers, banging out Latin rap.
All the guys looked sharp, with their shaved heads and wraparound mirror shades.
They wouldn't have looked out of place in LA. There was enough gold hanging round their necks and wrists to keep the old woman begging at the other side of the road in three-course dinners for the rest of her life. Lying all around them on the ground were mounds of cigarette ends and Pepsi bottle tops.
One of the boys caught a glimpse of my Jackie O specials. Aaron was still rocking the wagon back and forth at the junction. The sun beat down on the static cab and turned up the oven temperature. A tailback of vehicles had developed behind us waiting to get out of the main. Horns were hit, and we were starting to attract some attention.
By now the news had spread about my fashion accessory. The Latino guys were getting to their feet to have a better look. One of them leant against the tailgate again and I could clearly see the shape of a pistol grip under his shirt. Aaron was still tensed over the wheel. He saw it too, and got even more flustered, cocking up getting out of the junction to the point where there were now more cars hooting on the main for us to get back in than behind us telling us to get the fuck out.
no
The boys were laughing big-time at my eye wear and obviously making some very funny Spanish jokes as they high-fived and pointed. Aaron was staring straight ahead. Sweat poured down his head and beard, gathering under his chin and dripping. The steering-wheel was slippery with it. He didn't like one bit what was happening with these guys only about five metres away.
I was sweating too. The sun was toasting the right side of my face.
All of a sudden we were in a scene from Baywatch. Two uniformed men with hip holstered pistols had arrived on mountain bikes, clad in dark shorts and black trainers, with Tolicia' printed across the back of their beige polo shirts.
Dismounting, they parked their bikes against a tree and calmly started sorting out the chaos. With their bike helmets and sunglasses still in place, they blew whistles hard and pointed at traffic. Miraculously, they managed to open up a space on the main drag, then pointed and whistled at Aaron, waving him on.
As we drew away from the junction and turned left, the air was thick with angry shouts, mainly at the policemen.
'Sorry about that. Crazoids like those shoot at the drop of a hat. It creeps me out.'
Very soon we were out of the slums and moved into upscale residential. One house we passed was still under construction and the drills were going for it bigtime. Men were digging, pipes were being laid. All the power was coming from a generator that belonged to the US Army. I knew that because the camouflage pattern and the 'US Army' stencilling told me so.
Aaron obviously felt a lot better now.
'See that?' He pointed at the generator.
'What would you say? Four thousand dollars?' I nodded, not really having a clue.
'Well,' there was undisguised outrage in his voice, 'those guys probably laid out less than five hundred.'
'Oh, interesting.' Was it fuck. But I was obviously going to get more.
'When SOUTH COM couldn't clear out all the five remaining bases by the December deadline, they decided to abandon or simply give away any items valued at less than a thousand dollars. So what happened, to make life easier, nearly everything ill was valued at nine hundred and ninety-nine bucks. Technically it was supposed to have been given away to good causes, but everything was just marked up and sold on, vehicles, furniture, you name it.'
As I looked around I realized it wasn't just that that had been offloaded. I spotted another gang of street cleaners in yellow T-shirts. They were digging up anything green that stuck out of the pavement and everybody seemed to be wearing brand new US Army desert-camouflage fatigues.
He started to sound like the village gossip.
'I heard a story that a two hundred-and-thirty-thousand-dollar Xerox machine got the nine ninety-nine tag because the paperwork to ship it back up north was just too much hassle.'
I was looking around at a quiet residential area, nice bungalows with rubber plants outside, estate cars and lots of big fences and grilles. He pointed out nothing in particular as he continued.
'Out there somewhere, there are guys repairing their vehicles with fifteen-thousand-dollar jet aircraft torque sets that cost them sixty bucks.' He sighed. 'I wish I could have laid my hands on some of that stuff. We just got odds and ends.'
The houses were being replaced by parades of shops and neon signs for Blockbuster and Burger King. Rising into the sky about a couple of Ks ahead, and looking like three towering metal Hs, were the stacks of container cranes.
'Balboa docks,' he said. They're at the entrance to the canal. We'll be in the Zone,' he corrected himself, 'the old Canal Zone, real soon.'
That was pretty evident just by looking at the road signs. There didn't seem to be many in this country, but I saw the odd US military one now, hanging precariously from its post, telling us that USAF Albrook wasn't far away. A large blue and white faded metal sign on the main drag gave us directions for the Servicemen's Christian Association, and soon afterwards we hit a good quality grey concrete road that bent right round an airfield full of light aircraft and private and commercial helicopters. As we followed the airfield's perimeter road, Balboa docks were behind us and to our left.
'That used to be Air Force Albrook. It's where PARC stole those choppers I told you about.'
We passed a series of boarded-up barrack blocks, four floors high, with air-conditioners poking out of virtually every window. Their immaculately clean cream walls and red-tiled roofs made them look very American, very military.
Skyscraping fifty-metre steel flagpoles that no doubt used to fly enormous Stars and Stripes were now flying the Panamanian flag.
Aaron sighed.
'You know the saddest thing about it?'
I was looking at part of the air base that seemed to have become the bus terminal. A big sign saying 'United States Air Force Albrook' was half pasted over with details of the bus routes, and lines of buses were being cleaned and swept out.
'What's that?'
'Because of this nine ninety-nine giveaway, the Air Force was in such dire need of forklifts they actually had to start renting some of their old ones back to get the final equipment loaded to the States.'
As soon as we cleared the air base the road was flanked again on either side by pampas grass at least three metres high. We hit another row of toll booths, paid our few cents and moved through.
'Welcome to the Zone. This road parallels the canal, which is about a quarter of a mile that way.' He pointed over to our left and it was as if we'd just driven into a South Florida subdivision, with American-style bungalows and houses, rows of telephone booths, traffic lights and road signs in English. Even the street lighting was different. A golf course further up the road was advertised in English and Spanish. Aaron pointed.
'Used to be the officers' club.'
A deserted high school on the right looked like something straight out of an American TV show. Beside it squatted a massive white dome for all-weather sports.
We were most definitely where the other half lived.
'How long till we get to the house?'
Aaron was looking from side to side of the virtually deserted road, taking in the detail of the Zone close down
'Maybe another forty, fifty minutes. It was kinda busy downtown.'
It was time to talk shop now.
'Do you have any idea why I'm here, Aaron?'
Not much, I hoped.
He shrugged evasively and used his gentle voice that was hard to hear above the wind.
'We only got told last night you were coming. We're to help you in any way we can and show you where Charlie lives.'
