Beneath a Panamanian Moon (10 page)

It didn't take long. Ren had seen me leave with Marilyn and every man in Panama, apparently, knew where Marilyn lived. When Ren couldn't find me in any of the bars he came to her place. From there we went to Ren's car where Zorro was slumped against the door. Zorro's throat had been cut. I think Marilyn closed his eyes, but I'm not sure. My head was buzzing by then, and what happened after that was a blur. I remember the police, and the jail cell, and the interrogation room. But how I got to the cell I didn't remember. What answer I gave that began the beating, I didn't recall that either.

I didn't tell the police about Marilyn. I knew they would be harder on a local than they would be on an American, and I didn't want to think about that.

As Ren told the story, he had seen Zorro drinking with two men around midnight. They weren't Panamanians, but they weren't Anglos, either. Then Zorro left the bar. That was the last Ren saw of him until he found Zorro sitting by the car. Ren tried to get him up, thinking he was just drunk, thinking he had puked on himself. But Zorro had held his liquor. It was a few quarts of his blood that got away.

They let me go but kept Ren for more questioning. A Panamanian man in shiny black shoes gave me a ride back to La Boca. He said he was with the bureau of tourism.

He asked where I was from and how long I'd been in the country and where I had been stationed when I was on active duty. It was the usual expat questionnaire. He said his name was Marquez and I should give him a call if I ever needed anything. He gave me his card.

When we got back to the compound, he let me out in front of the hotel. As I was closing the sedan door he leaned across the seat and said, “This is a beautiful country to visit, señor, but if I were you I would stay close to home for the next few days, you know, to avoid any further unpleasantness. Oh, and please accept my condolences for your friend.”

In the outer office, a new guy sat behind the desk. A little guy with a little brown mustache. “You Harper?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm Eubanks. Some shit, huh? Kelly wants to see you right away.”

“I'd like to get cleaned up,” I said.

“He's not happy.”

“Okay,” I said, “fine.” I went to Kelly's office door and knocked.

“Enter!”

I went in and stood, waiting for him to speak. He sat staring at me from behind his desk. The desktop was empty except for a phone, a straightened paper clip, and an army-issue .45. His face was empty of anything I could optimistically interpret as sympathetic. He steepled his fingers and said, “You must be Harper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Close the door.”

I closed the door. The office was identical to the Colonel's, but without the welcoming pictures. Mr. Kelly was smiling. But it wasn't the kind of smile that made you sleep easily.

“Are you a morning person, Harper?”

“Me, sir? Not as a rule, sir.”

“You play the piano,” he said. “That keeps you out pretty late, I'll bet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I go to bed at ten,” he said. “Because I love the mornings. I get up early, put in a little PT, get a good breakfast and a bowel movement. It makes me a happy man.” Kelly stood up and came around the desk where his threat filled the room like a steam heater. “This morning upset my schedule,” he said.

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“I missed my bowel movement.”

“I'm very sorry, sir.”

“Did you have a pleasant evening, Mr. Harper?”

“No, sir. Not really, sir.”

“Approximately sixteen hours in-country and you've already talked to more police than I've seen in thirty years. Must be some kind of record.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This reflects poorly on your employer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can I expect this kind of behavior to continue? I expected a disciplined soldier who knew how to play the piano but instead I get a musician who once wore a uniform.”

“I can explain.”

“So, tell me, is this how musicians live? I'd like to know so that perhaps I can adjust everyone else's schedule to fit yours, so as not to disturb you. Is that what you think I should do, Mr. Harper?” On the word “do” he leaned into me, his pecs nearly jumping out of his jersey and shoving me into the wall.

“I'm sorry if I caused any trouble, Mr. Kelly. It was unintentional.”

“Oh, no trouble, Mr. Harper. Only one of my men is dead and another is in jail. Not bad for sixteen hours.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

Kelly took a slight step back and perched on the edge of the desk, giving me a little space for oxygen.

“There is one thing, Harper. Right now the Colonel needs six men for a job and I find myself mysteriously short of manpower. Golly, I wonder how that happened?” Kelly's eyes bored into me as if he were X-raying my soul and finding a gross malignancy. “Now, I know your contract calls for you to play the piano, but you also have some military experience.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “I do.”

He let me stand in front of his desk for a long moment before saying, “Harper, about your military record.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You seem to have been assigned to highly regarded combat units, and yet there are no records of you doing anything other than music, is that accurate?”

“The army rarely makes mistakes in that regard, sir.”

“It must be quite difficult to kill terrorists with a piano.”

“Not if you drop it from a great height, sir.”

He smiled. “Ah, a sense of humor. Mr. Harper, one thing you need to know is that a sense of humor isn't authorized equipment in this unit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am allowed to make jokes, Harper. You may be the musician, but I am the company's resident comedian.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I will make jokes on a regular basis, usually at your expense. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kelly walked back around the desk and sat down in the swivel chair. He leaned on his elbows and twisted the paper clip into a tight knot. “Harper. You had a top secret clearance. Now I'm curious, why would a piano player need a top secret clearance?”

“I explained this to the Colonel, sir.”

“And now you can explain it to me.”

“Yes, sir. I worked at all sorts of functions, sir. Embassies, state receptions, diplomatic luncheons, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, yes, that would indeed explain it. But”—he held up a finger thick as a stump—“here's the most perplexing question, the one conundrum that's kept me awake ever since I saw your record cross my desk.” He paused, staring into my eyes, hoping to catch the truth as it flickered past. “Given what a fine life you had in Washington, why would you choose to come here?”

“I ran into an unfortunate situation, sir. I needed to leave the city and you needed someone familiar with firearms and Gershwin. We both win.”

Kelly stood up, walked to the window, and looked out on the ocean. His back to me, he said, “If it was up to me, you'd be on the first plane home.”

“The Colonel said you'd say that.”

Kelly turned his head just enough to look at me over his shoulder. “Did he? Did he also tell you he was the boss?”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

Kelly turned back to the window and chuckled. “We let him think that. We even occasionally give in to his whims, like his insistence that we have a piano player on staff.” Kelly turned around, his hands behind his back, his starched shirt pulled tight across mammoth pecs. “I let the Colonel have his piano player because musicians are, as a rule, harmless.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if they prove otherwise, I find delight in breaking them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because music is a waste of human potential,” he said. “In fact, when I think of musicians I think of dancing monkeys, prancing around in little costumes, begging for fruit. Is that a fair assessment of your life's ambition, Harper?”

“I would be a fool to disagree, Mr. Kelly.”

He laughed again, this time in appreciation. “Indeed. But you will find that I'm a remarkably tolerant man. What kind of music do you play?”

“Popular American music.”

“Not rock and roll.”

“No, sir, not rock and roll. I like the rhythms but it's not melodically interesting.”

“Shut up.”

“Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard were intriguing—”

“Would you please shut up?”

“And bop had both, rhythm and melody—”

“Shut up!”

“Yes, sir.”

“So what is this popular music?”

I could have given him the entire history of Tin Pan Alley, the music that formed the foundation of popular American song, but instead I abbreviated it to: “Ellington, Gershwin, Cole Porter.” I wanted to add, “a Negro, a Jew, and a homosexual,” just to see how he'd take it, but I didn't. Some things are best left a mystery.

“Jazz,” he said, and it had all the appeal of something sticky you accidentally touched in a men's room. “Can you play sacred music?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, because we need a musician in the chapel.” Kelly paced in front of the window. “I wonder,” he said, “you not only have the piano-playing abilities the Colonel wants, but you also come to us with solid attaboys from real soldiers. Tell me, how skilled are you with firearms?”

“I prefer Steinway, sir.”

“That's unfortunate. Let me see your hands.”

I held them out, palms down. Kelly gripped them. He turned them over, examining my palms closely, looking for my future, no doubt. He rubbed his thumbs over my skin and declared, “Too soft. In fact, I think you're soft all over.” He put one hand on my chest and shoved with as little effort as I would use to open a door. I flew backward, hit the far wall and fell to the floor, sitting upright, my legs straight out in front of me.

Kelly moved back behind his desk and sat down.

I stood, rubbing my chest. I felt like I'd been struck by a small planet.

“Now, you're here for a very brief time, and if you behave yourself, do what you're told, go only where you are authorized, then perhaps you can return to your soft little life in Washington, without having your hands broken.”

“I'd like that, sir.”

“In your time here, I would suggest that you not try to fuck me.” He smiled that discomforting smile. “You won't try to fuck me, will you, Mr. Harper?”

“Never, sir, no, not ever, not a thought. No fucking in my future, sir, trust me.”

“Outstanding. And if you ever bring legal scrutiny to this hotel again, I will pin your testicles to my office door. Do we understand one another?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get cleaned up. The stink of that whore's perfume is polluting my military air.”

I turned toward the door, thankful to get out while I was still alive. My chest throbbed where the man had so casually shoved me.

Ramirez and Cooper were waiting for me in the lobby. They were dressed to run in sweats, even though the morning temperature was in the low eighties with determination to climb even higher. Ramirez was hungover. He perched on the edge of a sofa, his head in his hands. But Cooper looked as though he could run to Canada and back before lunch. He bounced from foot to foot, shaking his hands, eager to go.

“Get your shit, Harper,” he said. “We're going to run your ass off.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Let's go, let's go.” Cooper clapped his hands.

Ramirez looked up at Cooper with bloodshot eyes and said, “If you don't stop that, I might have to kill you.”

“You have to catch me first,” Cooper said, and bounced on the balls of his feet.

“I'll be right back,” I said.

“Take your time,” Ramirez mumbled. “I might be dead by the time you get back.”

I took the steps two at a time, which was about the limit to my running. The truth was, I hated running. I could swim every day, and I worked out with weights, and even did a little kickboxing with a few of the Washington wives, but jogging was as enjoyable as being run over by a bus full of Promise Keepers. I didn't like it.

Sometime in the night, the airlines had delivered my lost bag and there it was, on my bed, its airline tag still attached to the handle. I opened the bag and found the contents all there, but they had been searched. By whom I didn't know, but under the tumble of clothing, among the books and the CDs I'd packed, I found a CD that didn't belong to me. It was a recording of Willie “The Lion” Smith, one of the finest stride players ever. I opened it, put the disk into my player, and put on my headphones. The first cut was “Finger Buster,” an aptly named piece. I forwarded to the second cut and heard the hiss of a tape player instead of the muffled pop of a remastered seventy-eight. A man said, “So, which one you think?”

A second man replied, “I am very curious about this one.”

“That's an understatement.”

“There is some indication of special operations training.”

“Yet no certifications.”

“And no combat assignments.”

“That's the way they'd do it, wouldn't they?” This first man had a New England accent and I recognized my new boss, the Colonel. “Wouldn't they want us to overlook him?”

“How was he recruited?”

“We needed a musician for the party, someone who could also double as security.”

“Did he come with references?”

“Yes, a man in the company vouched for his capability and we have letters from several others.”

The second man, the younger man, had foreign music in his voice and he lacked the easy familiarity with contractions. “Well, if he is our spy, he will be easy to eliminate…” The foreign man let the idea float out there by itself.

“What about this one? The Mexican?”