The Geronimo Breach (6 page)

Ernesto walked back to the opposite side of the thoroughfare and stood under a tree, sheltering himself from the unforgiving rays of the mid-day sun. Half an hour later, a bus groaned to a stop and he boarded. It was almost deserted, a far cry from the weekday throng. Settling into the worn bench seat, he realized this would be one of the last times he ever watched the scenery along this stretch of road go by. For eight years he’d been taking the ride automatically and now that was over for good. He didn’t have any regrets, especially as he sat roasting in the poorly ventilated old relic.

After ten minutes he saw the familiar pink chicken shack on the opposite side of the road. He’d be at the villa road in a few more seconds. A siren screamed behind the bus, forcing it to lurch onto the shoulder at the side of the road, chilling Ernesto’s blood. How was it possible they’d caught him? How had they known he was on the bus?

Two fire trucks roared by, horns blaring and lights flashing, and turned the corner onto the villa road. A police car screeched by and followed them. Ernesto let out his breath and peered through the dirty window as the bus rolled slowly by the turnoff. Clouds of black smoke wafted into the sky.

From the exact place where the villa sat.

There weren’t a lot of homes down that road – it was rural, and he knew its geography by heart. The closest house to the villa was a quarter mile away, right by the intersection. What on earth was going on? Curiosity clawed at him, and he almost yelled ‘stop’ to the driver so he could jump off the bus. Then his survival instinct kicked in. How smart would it be to rubberneck at the scene of his crime, surrounded by emergency vehicles – including police, with the stolen property still in his backpack?

Not so smart.

Besides, whatever had happened at the villa wasn’t his problem anymore. Ernesto’s only concern was now Ernesto. He remained seated, biding his time until he got to the outskirts of his barrio, where he descended from the bus and entered the neighborhood convenience store.

Al sat on his couch in his underwear, munching on leftover Chinese food and watching a DVD he’d downloaded from a pirate site. He favored simple-minded action plots but this one was lowbrow even by his liberal standards. How did crap like this make it into production? He daydreamed about having written a hit screenplay based on his experiences in Desert Storm, savoring the seven figure bonus he’d been paid as an advance, and imagined the hot, young starlet who’d been cast as one of the leads. The poor thing had fallen head over heels for the enigmatic but brilliant author – no, make that author/producer. Their biggest annoyance were the
Paparazzi
, who would follow them around to the five star restaurants they regularly frequented, and the award ceremonies where he was routinely honored, and even on their private jet vacations to the islands...

The cardboard carton leaked a viscous brown sauce onto his undershirt, startling him out of his fantasy and burning his stomach. He jumped to his feet. God damn, that hurt. He inspected the shirt. Ruined.

Al carried the container to the kitchen before padding to the bathroom to turn on the shower. He’d managed to jury-rig the toilet into operation last night, and so far, so good. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – paunchy, out of shape, a good thirty pounds overweight.

Okay, forty.

Maybe it was the stained shirt that made him look fatter. Whatever. He knew he wasn’t in exhibition shape, by any means. Al peeled off his underwear and stepped into the shower, scrubbing at the sauce on his shirt with the remaining sliver of soap. His home phone interrupted this interlude. Dripping wet, he slipped and almost went down as he hurried out of the shower towards the telephone, tweaking his sacroiliac, which had only recently stopped throbbing from the twisting it had received during the calf cramp episode. The ringing stopped a second before he was able to pick up. Al stood, dripping water onto the floor of the living room, naked from the waist down, glaring at the evil handset in his hand. He flopped onto the bed, and hit redial. Music boomed in the background as the caller picked up.

“
Amor
!” Carmen exclaimed. “I’m so glad I got you.”

“It’s been a long time since a woman said anything like that to me.”

“Oh, you. Listen, I have something I think you can help with. Are you busy tonight?”

Al paused a moment, considering his soaked, semi-naked, Chinese food-stained state. “I think I can break away. What’s the deal?”

“Eighteen hundred dollars if you can be here by seven p.m..”

“Who do I have to kill?” Al deadpanned.

“See, that’s why I love you,
Amor
,” Carmen squealed. “You’re so funny!”

“Yeah. I missed my calling.”

“So you can make it?”

Al looked at the clock over the TV. He had two hours. No problem. “I’ll be there. You want to fill me in now, or later?”

“When you arrive,” Carmen said. “I need to make some calls to see if I can set everything up for tonight. I’ll see you when you get here...”

“All right. Thanks, Carmen.
Ciao
.”

“
Ciao
to you too,
Amor
...” Carmen hung up.

Well what do you know
. Maybe his luck was turning around. Eighteen jings, just when he needed it most! Ask and ye shall receive. He flipped open his Zippo and lit a Marlboro red, exhaling a satisfying cloud of smoke as he absently fondled his belly; which seemed to grow bigger by the day. At one time, he’d been somewhat of a lady-killer – piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, a smirking self confidence that knocked the
chiquitas
dead. The years hadn’t been as kind to him as he might have hoped – actually, the years and a steady diet of alcohol and tobacco. But he still had some game, and he could always lose the weight.

Maybe after this weekend he’d start working out.

Anything was possible.

~

Esperanza was a brothel with a difference. Situated in a colonial mansion on the outskirts of old town in Panama City, it aspired to a higher tone, a more select clientele, than the typical whorehouse. Red velvet draped the foyer and incense permeated the air, and instead of the typical squalid ambiance, an aura of seedy refinement was the ethos within its walls.

Carmen Ortega presided over the establishment with an iron fist in her proverbial velvet glove. Her girls were among the most attractive, and her prices the highest because she believed you got what you paid for. And the popularity of the venue vindicated her choices. There prevailed an appetite for a higher-end experience in the burgeoning city. As the money steadily gravitated to Panama, so too did the requirement for a platinum-level den of iniquity. Her customers came from all walks of life and no one was ever overtly excluded, though she unabashedly courted and catered to the well heeled, whether that meant new fast money from the drug trade, the established business-elite, or as in Al’s case, the embassy crowd. If any rowdy college kids wandered in, the prices shut down their party faster than any burly bouncer could.

Carmen’s vision had been of a classy club with a veneer of sophistication, and when she’d happened across the dilapidated building in need of major refurbishment she’d known instantly that this was the place for her. Six months of round-the-clock construction had resulted in a kind of baroque Disneyland for horny men, where they weren’t just paying for a one hour roll in the hay, but rather an entree to a wonderland of possibilities.

She was making a killing and she knew it was all in the packaging.

A natural entrepreneur, Carmen had also become a discreet go-to source for solutions to mundane problems such as border crossings, smuggling, money laundering and the like. Her intricate network could get anyone anything – for a price. And because she avoided narcotics trafficking and murder-for-hire, she didn’t step on the more established operators’ trades, thus providing a complementary service rather than outright competition. This enabled her to leverage relationships and stay on good terms with the whole twisted web of conflicting networks in the region. Everyone needed a little help from friends sometimes and Carmen had a menu of necessary, but obscure, services that were lucrative, but not to a degree that anyone would want to muscle in and cut her out.

Take her current project: a simple cook who had slipped on his paperwork and found himself experiencing a minor misunderstanding with local law enforcement. He’d been an occasional client of her place – maybe three times a year, likely birthdays or other special events – but was a decent sort in need of help, and with cash in hand. So what to do?

Rather than charging him an exorbitant fee for a relatively straightforward service, Carmen had offered a solution to him for forty-five hundred dollars. That was a bargain for what she was offering: guaranteed safe passage to Colombia, escorted much of the way by a highly-regarded member of the diplomatic corps. Obviously, the cost would have been triple if he’d wanted to come the other direction – most questionable traffic tended to move north through Panama, not south – however, she avoided that trade; preferring to leave it to those who were more comfortable with the increased risk. So Carmen pocketed a grand, paid the border patrols near the rendezvous point a few hundred each to get busy for a few hours, and arranged for a guide to meet her client and get him into Colombia. No questions asked. And of course, the eighteen hundred for her friend Al to shepherd the client south ensured his trip would be uneventful and uninterrupted. Money well spent.

It was a win-win deal for everyone. A nice little sideline to her prostitution business. She was owed many obligations by grateful clients on both sides of the border, and this provided a means to monetize her
favor bank
. And all for just a few phone calls. It was perfect.

Ernesto sat in the downstairs bar, fortifying himself with Seven and Sevens as he waited for word he’d be departing that night. The bartender’s black slacks and tuxedo shirt, fitted with a black vest and bowtie, reinforced the formality of the room. There were worse places to kill time – the scenery was first rate; a steady stream of exceptionally beautiful young women in various stages of undress moving through the lounge, trolling for clients among the exclusively male patrons seated at the circular white marble tables. The gold brocade and velour trappings created an aura of quiet sophistication for the drinking gentlemen.

At first he’d balked at the cost of getting across the border, but upon consideration he’d realized it was unlikely he’d find a more reasonable or dependable avenue. Carmen was top notch – he’d get his money’s worth – and at the end of the deal he’d still have almost $1500 left when he landed in Colombia; more than enough to support himself while he got a job in Bogota or Cali or Medellin.

The price was steep, but it beat the hell out of rotting in prison for a year or two.

That choice was no choice at all.

Carmen presided over the scene like royalty, greeting new entrants and thanking departing customers. A striking brunette with an eerie resemblance to Salma Hayek, she wore a long, red silk sheath with a slit up the side that almost reached her hip – a suitably provocative yet elegant ensemble that somehow resonated with the decor. Carmen fancied herself the consummate hostess – her charms weren’t for sale; rather, she was the mistress of ceremonies.

As Al entered the foyer, she waved and blew him a kiss, disengaging from the two men she’d been entertaining.

“Alberto,
Amor
, welcome again. You look thirsty,” she said, smiling warmly.

“It’s hotter than usual out. Easy to get parched with this weather,” he conceded. “And you look ravishing, as always.”

“Let’s get you something cool to drink and slip upstairs to talk business.”

“I like the way you think, Carmen,” he flirted, eying the bartender. He crossed the room in a few strides and ordered a double vodka tonic; easy on the ice and tonic.

Carmen waited until he returned, tumbler in hand, and they climbed the curved stairway to a room at the far end of the third floor – all the other rooms had been converted to bedrooms but Carmen had reserved this suite as her office.

“I have a friend who needs to get to Colombia in a hurry,” Carmen explained. “I’ve arranged everything – a guide will be waiting in the jungle to walk him over. The usual spot near Meriti. He’ll be there at 6 a.m..”

“Brutal hours,” Al observed. “But should give us plenty of time. When do we leave, and what’s the traveler’s story?”

“His name’s Ernesto – a cook who’s been unfairly accused of theft and has also lost his passport,” Carmen said. “A simple man with a problem. A Colombian who just wants to get home.”

Put that way, Al almost felt guilty accepting the $1800 Carmen was going to pay him. Almost. He downed his drink and rose to his feet, feeling better than he had all day. “Okay, so it’s an escort job. Fair enough.” Al paused. “I’ll be back at ten to meet him and give him the rundown. We should plan on leaving at eleven. Thanks for setting this up, Carmen. Couldn’t come at a better time.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to spend an hour here? I have some remarkable new arrivals…”

“Thanks, but no. I need to grab my passport, gin up Ernesto’s paperwork and change into something more comfortable. I’ll take a rain check though,” Al promised.

“Okay,
mi Amor
, it’s your loss. Don’t say I never offered,” she said, feigning offense.

“If it were you, Carmen,” Al said softly, “I’d change my mind.”

“Ah,
Amor
,” Carmen flirted. “If only it was a different time and place – you wouldn’t even have to ask.”

This was a common theme in their interactions; a harmless diversion. Both enjoyed the banter, and neither took it seriously. Their relationship was far too lucrative to ruin business with anything personal.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Al asked. He’d need it for the document he had in mind.