Jack said, “You know the kind of women he knows?”
“You betcha I do.”
“You could catch something awful.”
“Who cares.”
“Have to go see Harby. Did he check your prostate?”
“He said I’d have to come by his office with thirty-five dollars.”
“Wait and have him check you for both things.”
“Do you want me to tell you what I give a shit about at age sixty-five,” Cullen said, “and what I don’t give a shit about?”
Lucy had come out of the sun parlor to the edge of the flagstone patio. Wearing black again today. Her new habit, Jack thought, the revolutionary new Lucy playing her part; his gaze held on her slim figure, her hands shoved flat into the pockets of her jeans. He followed Cullen along a brick walk through the backyard garden, through branches and flower stems grown lush from spring rains. In the tall cover of the trees the patio appeared in dim detail, Lucy’s face pale in the fading light, composed.
She said, “Roy called, twice. They went to five banks today and came out of each one with a canvas sack.”
Cullen made a sound that was like a groan.
Jack heard it, still watching Lucy as they reached the steps of the patio. He saw she was tense, holding on, the hands in the pockets no more than a pose.
“Where are they now?”
“They went back to the hotel. He just called again a few minutes ago. He said they put the car in the Royal Sonesta garage, across the street…”
“The new one?”
“Yeah, they got it. A cream-colored Mercedes sedan. The 560 SEL, top of the line.”
“I guess they can afford it.”
“Roy said they took the bank sacks up to 501, ordered champagne, and have been there ever since. He’ll call again in about an hour. He said, ‘To report in.’ ”
“Where is he?”
“He’s there. He got a room at the hotel, on the same floor as the colonel’s… How do you suppose he managed that?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe he was lucky. You never know about Roy, what he’s gonna come up with. That’s why we have him and hold him dear to our hearts.”
Lucy didn’t change her expression or say anything. Finally she turned and they followed her into the house.
DAGOBERTO GODOY AND Crispin Reyna drank champagne with their shrimp and spoke to each other in Spanish, ignoring the CIA man, Wally Scales. They were commenting on the Ferdinand Marcos home movies showing on the television news. In this one, at a party, his wife, Imelda, was singing “Feelings” to the dictator as he bit into a slice of pizza. “He doesn’t even stop eating,” Dagoberto said, “while the cow sings. I hear she left thousands of dresses and pairs of shoes…” Crispin said, “He stole billions of dollars, maybe more.” Dagoberto said, “Listen to me. She had so many pairs of shoes she could wear different ones every day for eight years without wearing the same pair twice. She had five hundred bras to hold up her great breasts, most of them black. Look,” he said then, “there’s Bong Bong, the son of Marcos, the one singing now. I think he’s a queer.” Crispin said, “That’s George Hamilton singing.” And Dagoberto said, “No, not him. The other one, with his face painted, the queer.” Crispin said, “That fucking Marcos, he had big balls for a little gook.” Dagoberto said, “He knew how to live. I hear he had more women than Somoza. Well, of course, being married to that cow. But, man, he knew how to live. Look at that.” Crispin said, “Yes, and now he pisses in a machine for his kidneys.” Dagoberto said, “You pay in the end sometimes. You have nothing to say about it, what happens to you. But until the end… Man, he knew how to live.” Dagoberto took a drink of champagne with shrimp in his mouth, then looked across the room and said, “Please, Wally, have something to eat with us, our last evening.”
Wally Scales stood looking at the television screen. He turned, shaking his head, and adjusted his glasses as he came over to the room-service table. He picked a shrimp from the platter resting in a bed of cracked ice.
“We possibly could’ve save Ferdinand’s ass, but the man’s time was up. Even the president had to swallow hard and admit it. But that fucking slope knew how to live, didn’t he?”
“I was saying to Crispin,” Dagoberto said, “yes, is fine to enjoy yourself if your people aren’ starving. But to take what he did, all that money, and put it in this country is a shameful thing to do. Here…” He pulled a bottle of champagne from the bucket stand next to his chair and poured Wally Scales a glass. “I look at this table I think, yes, here I am also enjoying myself. Ah, but there is a difference. It could be my last meal of this kind. In a few days I’m in the mountains again eating C rations, fighting for freedom.” He raised his glass. “Who knows but this could be the last champagne I drink in my life.”
“You better have a few more then,” Wally Scales said. “Do it up good your last night. Hey, but don’t forget to pay your bill when you leave.” He looked at the five canvas bank sacks lying on the sofa, three of them full, two folded empty. “What’d you say you scored, two and a half million?”
“No, Wally, two million, one hundred sixty-four thousand,” Dagoberto said. “Enough maybe to buy one gunship. Unless we get one for half price. You know we offering Sandino pilots a million dollars to bring us an Mi-24.”
“And you understand why you haven’t had any takers, don’t you? They know they’ll get shot in the head.”
“No, no, we wouldn’ do that, Wally.”
“I know where you could get about a half million M-16s cheap. The Filipina army, they got all kinds of weapon systems and shit.” Wally Scales finished his champagne and looked at the bank sacks again. “You think it’s safe to leave it there all night?”
“We’re going to guard it,” Dagoberto said, “with our lives.” He raised the champagne bottle, offering it.
Wally Scales put his glass on the table. “Uh-unh, I have to go. But you’re gonna call me tomorrow from Gulfport, right? Before you get on the boat. Call me on my secure line and then eat the piece of paper with the number on it.” Wally Scales watched the colonel’s expression change to a dumb stare and said, “I’m kidding, Bertie; little spook humor. Everybody knows what we’re doing. Some of the local Nicaraguans, I might add, are pissed off you didn’t call them to help out.”
Dagoberto leaned his head toward Crispin. “I use who I trust. Sure, there people here I use to know, but people can change their mind. Crispin, I know his family, I know is loyal.”
“You trust Franklin?”
“Yes, of course. He does what we tell him.”
“Well, he isn’t too sure about you guys, the way you’re acting.”
“What, he told you this?”
“He said all you talk about is Miami, what a great town it is, full of blond-haired quiff.”
“Franklin said that?”
“I’ll tell you fellas two things. One, you got somebody watching you, boy I took a keen interest in and loves me like his white brother. You understand the implication there? Boy is dedicated, eats his rais and bins during the trabil and never complains. Two, I think you should know Franklin’s lonely. I think the only reason he’s got a hard-on for you guys is because you don’t talk to him enough. You dig? Invite him up and give him some drinks, for Christ sake, it isn’t your money. What do you say?”
Dagoberto shrugged. “Of course. Why not?”
Wally Scales started to turn, looked over at the television set, and paused. “You know what I think was most interesting about this whole Filipina show? I mean about the way they threw Marcos out? I thought of it yesterday when I was reading about that guy Jerry Boylan getting murdered in the Men’s room-I mean assassinated; excuse me. Way back when his people, the Irish Republican Army, rebelled against the Brits in 1916-the Rising, they call it-they stormed and took the post office in Dublin. But when the Filipinas revolted against Marcos, what’d they take? The fucking TV station. Times have changed, gentlemen; we live in an age of instant electronic intelligence. If the video camera doesn’t get you the computer will.”