offered the most beautiful women in Costa Rica: girls in their late teens and early twenties with long black hair and dark, dark eyes; girls who, back in the States, would be film actresses or models, but here were dressed in bright dresses or tight jeans and blouses, working their way out of poverty and enjoying it, judging by the smiles on their faces. But Ford had always been skeptical of those smiles. During the six months he worked in San Jose, he had become friendly with a couple of the girls. Though he sometimes paid them, he never slept with them—not that it would have been an indignity to him. He had slept with women of far lower moral fabric who were of supposedly much higher social stature— women who were whores by nature, not by occupation. He had never slept with a girl from the Garden because, Ford told himself, he didn't want to add to the desperation that he guessed was the framework of those smiles. Pure egotism on his part, as if he could make some slight difference.
It was Tuesday night, a slow night, and most of the tables were empty. The three-piece jazz band played 'Satin Doll' while, overhead, ceiling fans stirred the tumid air. Several of the girls at the bar tried to catch his eye, clinking the ice in their glasses. Another girl stood alone on the dance floor, a particularly striking brunette, swaying softly to the music. She smiled at Ford, a sleepy smile, and beckoned with an index finger, wanting him to join her. He shook his head slightly, then walked across the room to the veranda, and there was Rigaberto, a five-foot six- inch hulk in sports jacket and tie, sitting beneath a tree at a white wrought-iron table.
'Am I late?' Smiling at his old friend, then joking about his weight and the gray in his black hair and mustache, joking about him sitting alone in a house full of women.
'You are laughing, but my wife was not laughing when I told her I was coming to this place. Out in the jungle, out with the guerrillas, that would be all right. But not a whorehouse. She fears more for my morals than my life. Would you like something? A beer, perhaps.'
The waitress brought Ford a Tropical, good Costa Rican beer in a dark bottle, and Ford said in Spanish, 'Is the woman here? I did not see her when I came in.' Liking the dignified tone his formal construction of the language added.
Herrera had already checked. 'She's working tables out in the garden. As a waitress. It is something that the older girls do. They do not stay so busy with men.'
'Did she recognize you?'
'Why would she recognize me? It was you she knew. But I am not so sure you will recognize her. To such a woman, the years are not kind. Would it matter so much if she saw me?'
Ford said, 'No. I just don't want to frighten her. It is important that I speak with her.'
'Concerning the little boy you seek?'
'Yes. Several years ago the boy's father was in Costa Rica looking for work. He asked me for some names, and hers was one of the names I gave him. At that time she had certain connections, and I thought she might help.'
Herrera looked at the glass of beer he had hardly touched. 'Yes, she had connections. At that time.'
Ford said, 'Shall we go to the garden and order a meal?'
The Costa Rican shook his head wryly. 'At this moment my three beautiful little daughters are asleep and my wife is sitting in the bed, watching the clock.' He shrugged. 'Women, they do not understand a matter between friends. But I will stay long enough to finish my beer and make certain I have brought all the things you requested.' He put a leather briefcase on the table. 'The photographs were not so easy to get; especially the photographs of Julio Zacul. They were taken several years ago, when he was a student at the university. I enclosed one each of the other three important guerrilla leaders, including Juan Rivera. But you know him, of course.'
'Yes,' said Ford. 'If Rivera has the boy, there should be no problem. Other than getting into his camp. But I doubt if he has him. I suspect it is Zacul.'
'That is too bad. I have heard stories about him.'
'As have I.'
Herrera said, 'Getting the passports and the working visas, of course, was not difficult. You must paste in your own passport photographs, but I have included the yellow masking. It is a plastic film you must strip away and stick over the inside jacket.'
Ford said, 'I am familiar with it,' as he opened the briefcase, then he looked up quickly. 'Rigaberto, there is a gun in here. I asked only for a knife.'
Herrera was smiling. 'I am relieved that you know the difference. It is a forty-five-caliber automatic; a Browning. I've included a box of cartridges and two clips. Each clip holds seven rounds. There is, of course, a knife, too. A military knife with a hollow handle that holds fishing line and such things.'
'You are very thoughtful, Rigaberto, but I don't think I'll need a weapon. I hope not, anyway. Besides, one pistol against the guerrillas who have the boy—'
'It was not the guerrillas I was thinking about when I decided to give you the gun, old friend. It was because of the man who travels with you. I did not like what you told me about him. I checked as best I could with the people I know here, and, while it is true none of them knew of this man, it all sounds very suspicious.'
'Yes,' said Ford. 'That is why I asked him to come along.'
'I do not understand, but if it is a confidence you do not wish to share—'
Ford said, 'It is possible there are people in my government who think I stole a certain artifact from the Presidential Palace in Masagua. It is possible they sent this man to find out if I was involved. But since I spoke with you, I was told by a good source that the man is a civilian.'
'Plus you were not involved.'
'Of course not.'
'It is important, this artifact?'
'In the proper hands, it is the one thing that might help unite the people of Masagua.'
'Then it is very important, indeed. And is this artifact still in the proper hands?'
'It was when I left Masagua. Now I am not so sure.'
'Then that makes me worry all the more for your safety. For such a thing, one life means nothing.' Herrera's dark eyes became cold. 'If you like, I will return to my home and call another friend of mine—Rudolpho Romero, the middle-weight fighter who once fought in Madison Square Garden. Rudolpho and I will visit this man who travels with you. In a very short time we will know exactly what his intentions are. My wife would understand a thing such as that. She would not mind.'
Ford said, 'No. I'll find out in my own fashion.'
'I do not think it is wise entering Masagua with a man you cannot trust. Forgive me, old friend. You are intelligent in many ways, but there are other ways in which you are not so learned. I think Rudolpho and I should have a discussion with this man. '
'I'm not so sure you would learn anything, even if he has been sent after me. He is very smart. Perhaps he is very shrewd, too.'
'Rudolpho's fists are wiser than the wisest. And I suppose this superman is bigger and stronger than you, too?'
'No, but smarter, perhaps. In ways.'
'Then do this for me: Find out his intentions before you get to Masagua. Afterward it may be too late.'
Ford said, 'I will. I'm not looking forward to it, but I will.'
Herrera stood abruptly and held out a big hand. 'Then I will wish you luck with the lost child you seek and the artifact you did not steal. And remind you that you need only call for help, from anywhere in Costa Rica or Masagua, and I will come. I am not one to forget the kindness of old friends.' He smiled. 'But, next time, let it be in the jungle. Not a whorehouse.'
Ford saw Wendy Stafford stiffen as he walked into the Garden's dining area, a cobblestone patio with trees and Japanese lanterns, and took the table recently cleared by her. She vanished for a time and he began to wonder if she would send another waitress, but then she reappeared. She wore jeans and a white apron over the baggy T- shirt, her long blond hair looking frizzy and unkempt, and Ford guessed she had lost ten or fifteen pounds since he had seen her last. She had once had one of those healthy, heavy, square-jawed faces of a type often seen on the campuses of certain private colleges: the face of a daughter who'd gotten a full dose of her successful, athletic father's genes. But now her face was drawn and lined, no longer pretty but still handsome, and her blue eyes darted here and there, alive but different.
Some of the American princesses lost themselves because of love. Or because the promiscuity had gotten out of hand and, in their own minds, made it impossible for them to return. Or because of drugs.
