Chapter 48

BACK IN THE UNITED STATES, things were no calmer for the real Pedrito. He had bundled up all his microfilm and stolen documents and marched away from the office. He drove to his rendezvous, anxious to be out of this country and back to his own interesting life.

Unseen behind him, a green, unmarked sedan eased to a stop alongside the road. Three people sat crammed in the front seat, the bloated Fats stuffed behind the wheel, Lefty crushed against the passenger door, both of them pleased to have Joan Turner crowded in the center and pressed against them.

Joan, though, was more intent on the object of her vengeance than on her discomfort. “That’s him,” she said bitterly.

Pedrito Miraflores, in a starched naval uniform and formal white-topped cap, parked his car and strode briskly up the steps of a Connecticut roadside restaurant. Buzzing pink neon letters proclaimed EAT!

“Dat long surveillance paid off, Lefty,” said Fats in his overblown convict accent. He chewed on a matchstick.

“He goin’ to make de drop,” said Lefty, imitating his partner’s mode of speech.

Like two gangsters, the bloated and scarecrowish federal agents elbowed their way through the crowded diner, knocking customers aside while trying to remain unobtrusive. “Oh, boy!” Fats said. “We’re going to get promoted if we catch dis sucker, Lefty.”

They were grim faced and discourteous as they made a beeline across the dining room toward a pair of tall coffee urns where they could survey the crowd.

A jukebox played country-and-western songs about broken-down trucks and hound dogs that died before their time. Back in the kitchen a potbellied short-order cook added extra dollops of grease to his culinary creations, then set them to steam under the heat lamps.

When the two agents reached the coffee machines, they turned around, ready for action. Lefty carried a standard-issue 35-mm camera, intent as a hawk. “Dere he is, Boss.” He took pictures.

Unaware of the surveillance, Pedrito took a seat by the huge colonial glass window. He looked deeper into the diner, scanning the booths and counter, as if waiting for someone.

“Where’s his contact?” Fats asked.

A rugged-looking woman in a hat, veil and flowered-print dress sat alone at a table about a third of the way into the restaurant. She batted her eyelashes at Pedrito, who looked away.

“Dere she is!” said Lefty. “It’s dat ugly dame.”

Pedrito nonchalantly sauntered toward the rugged-looking woman. “Yer right! Dat must be her,” Fats exclaimed, spitting out his matchstick.

Leaving his partner behind, he slid through the crowd, getting into position. A waitress bustled by him, popping her gum. Momentarily fearing that it was the sound of a gun, the agent grabbed for his weapon. Once he recognized the source of the sound, he fumbled the gun back into his shoulder holster.

Pedrito stood by the woman’s table, reaching into his uniform pocket. He extended something in his right hand, while she surreptitiously placed an envelope into his left.

In front of the coffee urns, Lefty snapped a picture of the event.

Fats’ handcuffs clamped onto Pedrito’s wrists just as the woman made the trade. “Gotcha, you Commie bastard!”

Without an instant’s hesitation, Pedrito shouted, “Emergency Plan Q!”

Gripping a microfilm capsule in her hairy-knuckled hand, the ugly woman bolted toward the coffee urns where the scarecrowish Lefty stood clicking pictures.

Pedrito, hands cuffed and still gripping the payoff envelope, grabbed Fats’ wrists and swung him counterclockwise. The enormous agent sailed around, his feet knocking the nearest table flying. At the height of his momentum, Pedrito released his grip. The bloated agent flew at the huge glass window, squalling like a baby. He crashed through, skidding across the gravel parking lot like an albatross making a crash landing.

The customers screamed in panic. Some of them applauded.

At the coffee urns, the rugged woman grabbed Lefty by the wrists and spun him in a similar fashion. The FBI agent’s feet came off the ground.

His camera dropped from his hands and broke open, exposing his roll of film. “Hey!” he cried. “Dose are my vacation pitchers!”

She slammed the rail-thin agent broadside into the coffee urns, then rushed off as the urns fell on top of Lefty, spilling hot coffee and brown grounds.

Pedrito, still confined in the cuffs, used his hands to secure his white Navy cap in place. He rushed toward the shattered window and dove through the hole in the smashed glass, all the while retaining his grip on the envelope.

Fats lay stunned under the window, trying to get up on hands and knees. Broken glass lay all around him. Pedrito landed on top of him like an airplane crash, knocking him flat again.

Rolling off the agent, Pedrito tore through the bloated man’s pockets until he found the handcuff keys, then ran across the parking lot.

Inside the diner, the rugged-looking woman dashed into the men’s washroom, wobbling awkwardly on high heels. Her floral-print dress flew around her as she shoved the door shut. A truck driver standing at the urinal looked at her in surprise. “Wrong room, lady.”

“Shut up,” she growled in a deep male voice.

The woman yanked off her out-of-style hat, tore away the veil and wig and pulled off a plastic mask. Colonel Enrique’s reedy aide from Morro Castle tossed the disguise into the trash can and began ripping open the floral-print dress, unstuffing rags from a large bra. The truck driver watched so intently that Enrique’s aide turned his back to the man. “Can you unzip me, please?”

The truck driver fumbled with the dress zipper, and then the aide shoved him toward the washroom door. “Thanks — now get the hell out of here!” After the truck driver had fled, the aide shucked out of the frumpy dress to reveal a Cuban military uniform.

The door behind him opened. Lefty marched in, covered with steaming brown coffee grounds, his clothes drenched with hot liquid. He held out a heavy Colt revolver. “Dat’s damned unladylike behavior!” he growled, more than half crazed. “Heads up!” He raised the Colt and blew the brains out of the Cuban aide, who fell dead backward into the urinal. “Or off — as da case may be,” Lefty said.

* * *

Pedrito tore open the door of the green FBI car, clamping the envelope in his jaws. “Hi, Joan,” he leaned over and mumbled through his clenched teeth. As she squealed and flashed her claws at him, he grabbed her arm.

Pedrito yanked her out so hard that she hit the pavement and bounced twice on her butt.

Joan sat in the parking lot screaming at him. “You can’t get away, Smith!” she shouted. “Traitor! I’ll tell Daddy!”

Pedrito used the bloated FBI agent’s keys to start the car, then raced off, gripping the wheel with his cuffed hands. Pedrito fishtailed out of the diner parking lot and squealed down the road.

Fats picked himself up from beneath the window, wheezing to catch his breath. His face purpled with anger as he stormed toward where Joan Turner sat looking very undignified on the pavement. “Hey, dem was my wheels! You let ’im get away!”

An enormous car pulled slowly up to the diner, a big silver Cadillac that had been bought new many years before, washed often and driven little. An elderly citizen hunched like a gnome over the steering wheel, driving with such extraordinary care that he posed a safety hazard to all normal drivers.

Fats popped open the Cadillac’s door and hauled the driver out. He shoved the old man back, holding up his hand like a traffic cop.

“Sorry, sir. FBI business!”

Lefty ambled out of the restaurant, looking smug as he blew smoke from the barrel of his Colt and reholstered the gun, proudly holding up the confiscated microfilm canister. “Dat lady spy won’t be giving us no more troubles.”

Fats honked the horn at him. “Come on, Lefty! I got us a new set of wheels!” Lefty hustled across the parking lot and leaped into the passenger-side door.

“Get Smith!” Joan shouted, still sitting awkwardly on the pavement.

The big Cadillac rushed off in pursuit with a scream of tires. The gnomish old man came over to Joan, extending a hand to help her up. She slapped it away.

* * *

Pedrito tore down the highway in the green FBI sedan as he tried to work the key in the handcuffs. Frustrated, he spat the envelope out, and it showered the front of him with loose bills. He ignored the payoff money for the moment.

“Time to reassess a few things,” he said. “Women got me in trouble.”

He glanced up into the rearview mirror. The pursuing Cadillac came on madly, with the two furious agents in the front seat. With a twist of his fingers, one handcuff finally sprang open. Pedrito worked on the other, but the loose money was in his way. He angrily swept the bills aside, and they fluttered like startled pigeons around the dashboard in front of him.

“Liquor got me in trouble, too,” he said. He looked back again. The Cadillac was closing, its engine roaring like a large piece of farm equipment. Lefty leaned out, trying to draw a bead with his Colt revolver.

Pedrito worked on the other handcuff with the tiny key as he drove. He kept missing the keyhole, and the chain from the loose cuff dangled down, clacking against the steering wheel. Money blew onto his face.

The Cadillac closed the gap, pulling up right behind the green FBI car and attempting to pass.

“You might say that dissipation has been the undoing of me,” Pedrito groaned as the handcuff key went in at last. He got the cuff off, poised his arm to fling it out the window, then saw the pursuing Cadillac pull alongside. Lefty aimed his Colt at Pedrito and grinned as he prepared to pull the trigger.

Pedrito hurled the handcuffs, and they shattered the windshield of the big Cadillac. The driver veered. The gunshot went wide. Fats wrestled for control, but the big car slued, skidded sideways and rolled into the ditch.

Pedrito looked forward, driving like mad, but his face was very serious.

“Oh, women!” He shook his head ruefully. “Oh, liquor. When I get out of the U.S. and back to a nice, pleasant tropical climate, one Pedrito Miraflores has got to reform!”