“I need information about a bank account,” I say.
He smiles officiously as I explain my situation and show him the judgment and the documents I have evidencing the flow of money. He reminds me of a State Department employee as he spends five minutes explaining to me that there is nothing he can do. “We must respect the privacy of our customers,” he explains rather patiently. “Our country’s asset protection laws give us no other choice.”
“So I have heard,” I say, “but the man I’m seeking is a murderer.”
“Well, I suppose murderers have their rights, too,” he says.
“There is a warrant for his arrest in America.”
“But this isn’t America, sir. I am truly sorry but our hands are tied.”
I look at him and his bland smile and I sigh. “My government is very interested in finding this man,” I say. “We know you are cooperating on a number of money-laundering issues with our people and we would be very grateful, and it would go a long way to easing the pressure you must now be feeling, if you’ll cooperate on this matter too.”
He nods, his polite smile intact. “We are always willing to cooperate with legitimate requests from your government’s law enforcement agencies.” His emphasis on the word legitimate is very precise.
“Not every request can go through official channels,” I say. “Not all officials can be trusted. Discretion here is of the utmost importance.”
“If I could review your credentials.”
“Credentials can be dangerous,” I say.
“But you can understand, sir, how certain we must be that all requests are legitimate.”
“Yes,” I say. “I understand completely.” I reach into my jacket and pull out Jeremy Bartlett’s card. “Why don’t you phone Mr. Bartlett at the American Embassy and ask him discreetly about whether or not cooperation with my request might be advantageous to your situation?”
He takes the card and looks at it for a moment and then excuses himself and leaves for a private office, closing the door behind him. That morning I had asked Bartlett that if anyone called hinting about my status not to dissuade him of his misconceptions. Bartlett in all likelihood will tell the assistant manager he has no idea who the hell I am and I will be sent packing, as I would have been sent packing anyway, but there is always the chance.
The assistant manager returns and gives me a tight smile. He leans over the desk and says softly, “I have talked to Mr. Bartlett at the embassy.”
I stare up at him impassively.
“You understand that disclosure to us of the beneficial owner of any account is not required under Belizean law, so the information is most probably of no use.”
I purse my lips and nod, while continuing to stare.
He turns his head to the side for a moment and then back to me. His voice now is even softer. “The account in which you are interested is in the name of a Mr. Wergeld. The listed address is a post office box in Switzerland. The money was withdrawn last month from our branch in San Ignacio, on Burns Avenue. That’s all I can tell from our records.”
I nod and pull the photograph from my jacket pocket. He looks at it for a moment and then shakes his head.
I stand and thank him for his service.
“We hope this will take care of the Carlos Santera matter your people have been giving us so much difficulty about.”
“I’m sure it will,” I say, before turning and walking out of the bank. I shouldn’t really have doubted Bartlett. I had merely asked a State Department employee to obfuscate with innuendo, which is sort of like dropping a bloody leg of mutton in front of a shark and asking it to chew.
On my way back to the guest house I walk past Battlefield Park, where a mess of locals sit on benches and spit. A droopy-eyed man leaves the park and jogs to catch up with me. He hectors me about how I should get to know the Belizean people. I stop and look at him. He gives me a yellow-eyed smile and offers me drugs. I shake my head and ignore his shouts and curses as I continue up Regent Street to the swing bridge that will take me over the Belize River and into the north side. I loosen my tie, I take off my jacket and trail it over my shoulder. Men on bikes too small for them circle around me. I feel slow and tired in the heat. On the bridge, the sun reflects off the water in an oppressive strip of light. The heat has a presence, it feels dangerous. Sweat drips into my eye and burns. I wipe it away but it keeps flowing. I turn right at the ramshackle yellow post office, pass a Texaco, and take a turn to where I think lies the sea. I am not sure exactly where I am but once I reach the sea I can follow the water’s edge back to my guest house. I find myself in a narrow alleyway behind a row of warehouses fronting the river. I walk alongside a low wall of red-washed rusted tin, with a sign that reads “QUEENS BONDED WAREHOUSE NO. 1.” I think I am alone in the alley when a man suddenly steps in front of me. He is wearing filthy loose pants and a flowered shirt.
“You want some coke, amigo?” he says, his voice thick with accent.
I shake my head. “Thank you but I’m not thirsty.” I move to my left to step around him. He steps to his right and blocks my way.
“You make joke.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. No thank you.”
“Maybe you want some ganj?” He puts two fingers to his lips and pretends to inhale deeply. “Finest ganj in Belize. Or girls even, we got girls. I have sweeter than you’ll find at Raoul’s.”
“No, no thank you.” I step to my right and he steps to his left, blocking me again.
“Then maybe you just give me some money, amigo? Just that? For an American that is nothing.”
I step back and swing my jacket under my arm holding the briefcase. I reach into my rear pocket for my wallet when I feel another hand grabbing for it. I spin around and find a second man there, in cutoff shorts and a Michael Jackson tee shirt, grinning at me. “Drugs?” he says, his accent thicker than the first. “You American, no? You must want drugs.”
“I don’t want anything,” I say loudly as I back away from both men. I feel confused in the heat. My mind has slowed beneath the press of the sun. The second man grasps my arm and yanks me back. My jacket spills to the ground. The man holding onto me starts grabbing again for my wallet.
“How much you want to give us, amigo?” asks the first man. “How generous are you today?”
I try to shrug my arm loose but it stays in the second man’s grip. He reaches for my wallet and I spin, avoiding his grasp. My briefcase slams into him. I spin the other way and my briefcase hits him solidly on the opposite side. I had not intended to hit him with my briefcase but I’m glad that I did. I begin to spin once again, to hit him with my briefcase once again, when I see something flash shiny in the first man’s hand and I stop. The second man reaches into my rear pocket and slips out my wallet and I let him, stilled into paralysis by the heat and the sight of that shining in the first man’s hand. The second man lets go of me and begins to go through my wallet and I wish for him to take what he wants, to take it and leave and leave me alone, that’s what I am wishing for when I hear a voice from behind.
It is loud and in Spanish and I don’t understand it but the two men attacking me do and they immediately halt. The three of us turn to see who is speaking.
It is a young man with dark blue pants and a red Chicago Bulls cap. His tee shirt is printed with the words “ LAS VEGAS.” He has short black hair and a silver earring and a round dark face, a peasant’s face, his cheekbones broad and sharp. He says something again in Spanish and the first man replies harshly.
The young man in the Las Vegas shirt says something else, says it calmly, this time in Creole, and there is a wild silence for a moment. The young man cocks his head to the left and suddenly the two men run, past the young man, back up the alley, the way I had come, and are gone. The young man walks right up to me, reaches down, picks my jacket and wallet off the street, and hands them to me.