Sanibel Flats

think things had changed. Ford knew he must tread lightly.

'I heard you're doing a great job down there—'

'You haven't heard shit, man. You're calling 'cause you want something. What you want?'

'Come on now, Buck. You've got no reason to be mad at me—''

'Reason to be mad at you? Man, I got no time to be mad at you. You been reading what's going on down here? Bombs going off, taking hostages, shootin' people in the streets. Even your buddy Rivera is losing control, his goddamn guerrillas up there in the mountains splitting into all kinds a' factions.'

'My buddy? Juan Rivera was never my buddy.'

'Helped him start a baseball team for Christ's sake. And you the one got them uniforms, balls, bats—'

'Buck, Buck, what's more American than baseball?'

'Rivera's a damn communist, man. But you out there taking the hit-and-run signal from him, tellin' him when to squeeze bunt and double steal. Aiding and abetting the fucking enemy, you ask me. Playin' pepper with guerrillas ...'

Ford said that's what they needed to talk about, the guerillas, and he was about to tell him about little Jake Hollins, but Bernstein, still angry, cut in. 'And you aren't going to say a word about President Balserio, are you? Man's gone off his rocker, walking around in robes talking about stars and moons and shit. Whatever it was got stolen from the Presidential Palace got him crazy. Happened on your watch, but you think me and my people can find out what it was—'

'Everything I know is in the files, Buck. You're taking this stuff way too seriously.'

'Seriously my brown ass! Mayan artifacts got stolen, that's all you wrote down. Mayan artifacts. That's all it was, why he so worried? Why things so crazy up at the palace? You know his wife's retreated to the convent? Hasn't seen anyone for ten months—'

'Convent? Which convent? I need to get in touch with her—'

'That's just what you don't need to do, man. Balserio won't give me the time of day, but he still sends aides around every now and again to inquire bout you. Where's good old Ford? Ev'body liked Ford. His Excellency like to see that man again. They smiling but got firing squad in their eyes, and you wonder why I think you know more than you're telling? A fucking looney bin is just about exactly what this place is. But not a soul in the world blames you . . . Shit.'

Ford said, 'Look, Buck, listen for just a second, will you? Take a deep breath, okay?'

'I don't need no deep breath. Just tell me what you want.'

'What I want is just a little of your time. Okay? The son of a friend of mine was kidnapped. By some group in Masagua. Indios. Smugglers probably, maybe guerrillas, I don't know. I just found out yesterday.'

'They just kidnap him yesterday?'

'No, five, maybe six days ago. I'm not sure about that either.'

'Why'nt you ask your friend for more details, do this thing proper, Ford? Go through the right channels for once—'

'My friend's dead. The proper chain of dialogue is to contact the FBI herej and they contact Balserio's law enforcement people. What good will that do? Most of Balserio's people are on the smuggler's payrolls, and they couldn't find the guerrilla camps even if they wanted to—which they don't. ''

'But the FBI would contact the CIA people down here on the sly. They'd find the boy. You listen to me, go through channels, let the CIA take care of it. Leave me alone.'

'If your son had been kidnapped, would you want the CIA trying to help? They'd send in a squad of marines, automatic weapons, and air support.'

'I don't have no son.'

'Come on, Buck, you've got to help me on this. The boy's only eight years old.'

Bernstein said he didn't have to do anything; the kid was no concern of his; he didn't like kids anyway.

Ford said, 'I didn't ask you to help, Buck. I said you've got to help.' He let that settle, listening to beeps and echos, the silence of long-distance telephone.

'Are you trying to blackmail me?' Speaking slowly, the black dialect disappeared. 'You're out of your mind if you think you've got something on me. I have a clean file, man. I know that for a fact—'

'Buck, I would have never used this. Never in a thousand years. But we're talking about the life of a little boy here, the son of a friend of mine ...'

'You son of a . . . you had me followed, didn't you?'

'I didn't say that.'

'Those first two weeks I was down here, I kept thinking someone was following me, but I thought, shit, they got no reason. I was on vacation, man, my own private time—'

'This is important to me, Buck. I never wanted to use it, and I'll never use it again.'

Bernstein said, 'Well, you try using this, you sneaky motherfucker,' and slammed the phone down.

Ford returned to cleaning the dissecting table, thinking maybe he had misread Bernstein, not given him high enough marks, but then the phone rang almost immediately, and Ford knew he'd read him just right.

'Ford? Buck. Ah . . . sorry about getting mad like that. I mean, you just really pissed me off. Let's admit it, that was a pretty shitty thing, having me followed.'

Ford was looking through the window of his lab: The sun was a great gaseous orb of fire; the bay, molten. At the marina, the dock lights were just coming on: pale, pale rays on a lake of bronze. He said, 'I do admit it, Buck, and I'm sorry. That was pretty crummy, trying to leverage you like that. I should have known you're not the type to tolerate it.'

'Well, yeah, I guess that's my rep, not being an easy guy to push.'

'I was stupid to even try.'

Bernstein said, 'But I was thinking about that kid. You know, out there in the jungle with those Indios, probably seeing blood sacrifices, watching them go crazy on psychedelic mushrooms and . . . well, Christ, the kid's probably scared shitless. '

Ford was still looking out the window. At the marina, Jeth Nicholes and the other guides were washing their boats, another charter done. Across the bay, Tomlinson was meditating on the bow of his sailboat, sitting naked, blond hair hanging down. Naked? Yeah, no doubt about it, naked. Holding a stick of incense, too. Ford said, 'The boy has to be scared, Buck. Like I said, he's only eight.'

'Look, for someone that young, and the kid of a friend of yours . . . he's dead you say? Your friend.'

'As of yesterday. Murdered.'

'The Indios that took the kid?'

'I thought it was a possibility. But not now. He was murdered by someone around here. In Florida.'

'For the son of a friend of yours, I guess I could help. I don't know what got into me. This mess down here just has me mean or something. What do you want me to do?'

Ford had Rafe's address book by the phone. 'You have something to write with? I want you to check out three names for me. Ready? The names are Julio Zacul, Raul Arevalo, and Wendy Stafford. Find out where they are, what they're doing, if they know anything about the boy. I know the last two personally, but Zacul only by reputation.'

'I know Zacul by reputation, too, man.' Bernstein pronounced the name Zack-COOL, giving emphasis to the Mayan guttural, like a growl. 'He's one of them that split away from Rivera; got his own band of guerrillas. Zacul got the boy, he's probably already dead. How the hell am I supposed to get in touch with him?'

'You can talk to people who know Zacul; people who've worked for him. Come on, Buck, there's nobody around better than you at that sort of thing.' Ford wondered for a moment if that might be a little strong, too obvious, then decided not to bother qualifying it. Bernstein wouldn't recognize flattery. 'Another angle is, whoever has the boy is smuggling something out of the country or into the country. My friend was flying for them.'

'All the guerrillas smuggle stuff into the country and out of the country. They send out dope or refined coke, and bring in raw coca leaves from Peru. Or guns.'

'It may have been arms, but my friend told me it wasn't drugs.'

'Maybe he was lying.'

'Maybe. Write this down, too: My friend's name was Rafe Hollins. He could have used an alias down there, I don't know. The boy's name is Jake Hollins. Brown hair, brown eyes, cleft chin.'

'Looking for a brown-eyed, brown-haired boy in Masagua. That's just great. Aren't too many of those around.