Sanibel Flats

'You don't know who I am.'

'Shit. By tomorrow afternoon I'll know your shoe size.'

'You can't trace this call—'

'Durell will tell me, Einstein. You think he's going to deny it after all I already know? He's tight, but he's not dumb.'

'Hey, look, I don't want to get in any trouble. I just want to help Rafe. But if you're not interested in the way he was railroaded—'

'Do you have ears? Can't you hear? I'm interested, for Christ's sake. The corrupt judge, the druggie ex-wife, the father who wanted to protect his son so much that he was driven to kidnapping. Shit, it's great. But I want it all. And I want it all now.'

Ford was leaning back in his office chair, feeling sneaky— and not pleased with the feeling—but he really had no damn choice. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were on the stereo doing 'Wooden Ships,' nice and soft. Ford started wagging his feet in time with the music, saying 'Well, if you really think I should ...'

Within minutes of hanging up, Ford's phone rang. It was Les Durell. Ford said hello, then said, 'Les . . . Les . . . Les . . . Les, let me have a chance to explain—' Then he gave up and just listened for a while, then he said, 'Les ... I hope you don't have a blood pressure problem—' Then he listened some more.

Durell said, 'I thought it was understood you wouldn't tell anyone else, damn it! Now I'm going to have that—that vulture on my ass! What I ought to do is just wash my hands of the whole business.'

Ford said, 'Take a breath, Les. Take a big breath. Even you need to breathe.'

'I just can't believe you told Melinski. Just the damn stupidity of it!'

'The power of the press, Les. If Melinski's good, he can expose things the law can't touch and he can print evidence the courts would never entertain—'

'He could blow the whole damn thing by writing too soon!'

'He was your choice. You recommended him. I got his name from you, remember?'

'Like choosing my own poison. I don't like being tricked, Ford!'

'You weren't tricked. I don't work for you, Les. I'm a private citizen who can do what he damn well pleases. What pleases me is making sure the people who set up Rafe get squeezed and squeezed hard—'

'And I don't like being cornered! You know damn well I've got no choice but to follow this thing through now. Melinski knows all the terms: suppression of evidence, dereliction of duty, failing to arrest a confessed felon— you. If I don't find a way to hang DeArmand and his crew, that reporter asshole is going to spread my nuts above the fold right there on page one. You knew that. That's why you did it. At least have the decency to admit it.'

'Okay. I admit it.'

Durell groaned. 'He's going to be goosing me along, second-guessing me every step of the way—'

'Do you really think he's dumb enough to print too soon?'

'That's not the point—'

'Come on, Les. Do you think there's a chance he'll break the story before you're ready?'

Durell was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'No. He's a pain in the butt, but he's good. God, do I hate to admit that.'

'Then you really don't have anything to worry about—if you do your job. Besides, all you have to do is collect enough evidence to convince the governor's people they should get involved. That shouldn't be too hard.'

'Ford, do you have any idea how lucky you are you're talking to me on the phone and not face to face? I mean it. Do you have any idea?'

'I truthfully do, Les. I believe you'd take swing at me if you could.'

'I'm going to do a lot more than that if this business somehow turns sour. If I get hurt in any way, I'm going to drag you right down with me.'

'My word against yours, Les. But yeah, you could make it unpleasant for me. That's why I chose the smartest cop around. '

'Christ, flattery no less! The worst that can happen to me is I lose my job. But you, you'll go to prison. You can count on it. '

'I'd prefer not to go to prison, Les. Don't let me down.'

Buck Bernstein sounded tired; sounded too weary to be mean. Even over the bad trans-Caribbean connection, Ford could hear the rumble of passing trucks and muted sirens. Things were getting wild in Masagua.

'Balserio's dead, man. You hear? Standing outside the palace with about ten of his Elite Guard and a bomb went off. In his briefcase. You've never seen such a mess in your life. They still haven't found all the dude's medals. Some of them probably still up there in the air, haven't hit the ground yet.'

'You know who did it?'

'Nope, not officially. Between you and me, though, we think it was his own people. His two top generals have already taken control; declared martial law, got soldiers and tanks everywhere. Our people are sort of sitting back, waiting to see which of the generals we should sit down and deal with. Meantime, the guerrillas are out there like a bunch of jackals, all of them plannin' the best moment to sneak in and try to steal the prize.'

'And you've got elections coming up in the fall.'

'Shit, don't even mention that. Things crazy enough down here.'

'What about the boy, Buck? The eight-year-old, Jake Hollins?'

'You expect miracles, you think I've had time to track the kid down, all the stuff going on now?'

'You didn't find out anything?'

'Give me a break, man. I got it maybe narrowed down a little. And you expect any more with me sittin' in the middle of a fucking war zone, you're crazy. What I did was try to find out who was dealing with the kid's dad. Figure whoever was dealing with the kid's dad probably took the kid. That make sense?'

'It's a place to start anyway.'

'Two places to start, man. He was flying for two groups. This guy, this dead friend of yours, he about six- three, two forty; a big guy with brown hair and one of those dented chins?'

'Yeah, that sounds like him.'

'Good. Didn't call himself Hollins. Called himself Rafferty; had a couple different passports, which is par for the course. Did some flying for your buddy Juan Rivera, the commie you got all the baseball equipment for. Hey, Ford, you really give them uniforms that said 'Masaguan People's Army' on the front? In Dodger blue?'

'That's what Rivera asked for, that's what he got.'

'Then it's no damn wonder they give me your job, tell you to get your ass .out and not come back for two years. Giving shit to the fucking communists.'

'What was Hollins flying for Rivera? It could be important.'

'Just guns far as I can tell. And he didn't do much of that. Rivera's been around for quite a while. Likes to use his own people. Maybe some drugs, too, but that's not Rivera's style.'

'He said it wasn't drugs.'

'If I was a friend of yours I'd lie, too. Knowing what a sneaky shit you are.'

'Who else was he flying for?'

'Probably Julio Zacul, that bad man. When that bomb killed Balserio, I figured right off it was Zacul. Sendero Luminoso, those maniacs. Shining Path. They moving up from South America faster than killer bees.'

Ford said, 'I know.'

'Just the way Zacul'd do things, though. He likes to leave a real mess. Put all the women and children from a whole village in a church, lock the doors, and set it on fire. That's the kind of thing make him smile. But how would he get the bomb into Balserio's briefcase? No way. Had to be an insider. My sources tell me your buddy was flying in guns for Zacul. Small weaponry, grenades, shit like that. Nothing real big, and just occasional, so he wasn't high priority. Another couple of months of it, though, and the FBI woulda nailed him anyway.'

'That's all he flew for Zacul? Just guns?'

'None of them carry just guns, you know that. They fly in with guns. They fly out with a money crop.'

'What was the money crop?'

'Maybe drugs. But maybe something else, too. Zacul's got a thing for artifacts. You know, Mayan stuff. Carved heads, stone calendars, shit like that. Those things sell for big bucks up in the States. Zacul's always been into that. That's what my source tells me, anyway. Has his own private collection hidden out there in the jungle,