24

Jude trudged down the winding path of sand from Horizon House to the beach, the hint of an unseasonal storm carrying a humid, metallic scent inland. The cloud front was shallow and narrow, only the Costa del Bálsamo would get hit, if the storm landed at all. To the east, toward the Costa del Sol and the Estero de Jaltepeque beyond, the sky remained clear.

He considered phoning the beach house just to check in, ask the servienta, Clara, how Strock was holding up—maybe speak to the Candyman himself. It might be a good idea to get our stories straight, he thought. Almost instantly he talked himself out of it. He remained convinced that McGuire and Sanborn’s interest in Malvasio was nothing but a ploy, which meant Strock was unlikely to face scrutiny himself. Besides, there was no way they’d find him, not out where he was. And by tomorrow he’d get picked up by whomever and mosey along to the coffee plantation to begin work—assuming, of course, Malvasio hadn’t lied about that. Which brought up the real reason Jude didn’t call: He wanted nothing to do with either man anymore, wanted the whole sorry episode behind him. If down the road Strock wound up in a bind, got slammed into a chair and told to talk and then handed up Jude’s name on whatever pretext, Jude would deny it all and trust his credibility would win out. Strock just tagged along, after I found him on his knees outside a strip club in East Chicago. I’d tracked him down to check in on him as a favor to my mother. Ask her if you don’t believe me, assuming she’ll give you the time of day.

In the meantime he wanted to get off alone, swim a little, think. He seemed to be the only one at Horizon House, especially after dark, willing to forgo the pool and brave the rocky beach, the notorious undertow, the occasional slithery critter—not that he was complaining. Tonight in particular he wanted solitude.

As he broke into the clearing he found dark-skinned Erika closing up her comedor for the night. Using a damp towel, she wiped a sheen of sweat from her face, then lifted the braided rope of her hair and did her neck. Her ten-year-old daughter sat on a rock feeding leftover rice to a famished pup, while a lone customer lingered inside the thatched glorieta, lit up like a prisoner by the single bare bulb.

It was Waxman.

Jude felt his pulse quicken, and he wondered where the others might be. The thought Eileen might be with them sent a little shock of longing through him, followed instantly by regret, then finally shame, as he tried to figure out what Waxman was doing there. The efemelenista professor, he supposed, the one who had a house here at El Dorado Mar, he must have made some calls, contacted some friends with clout, and asked them to step in, make noise. Maybe they just paid somebody off. Regardless, there Waxman sat, impossible to avoid.

The reporter had bathed and changed, his russet hair darkly wet as he hunched over a Pilsener that seemed more an object of contemplation than last call. Jude walked up quietly and took a seat. Lifting his glance to see who it was, Waxman froze.

Jude said, “I was afraid you …” That was as far as he could get.

Waxman glanced away. In a tone that managed to be both snide and forgiving, he said, “It’s all right. Captain Dominguez conducted himself with exemplary decorum.”

“He let me go because he knew I was going to be questioned here. A little while ago, the FBI and some guy from ODIC.”

That piqued Waxman’s curiosity. “They questioned you here?”

“We keep the embassy informed about where our people are at. It’s never hard to find us. Did they come see you?”

Waxman smiled abstractedly and finger-combed his hair. Shadows played across his face as the wind blew the bare bulb overhead. “Let’s just say I’m not as fastidious about keeping the embassy informed of my whereabouts. Besides, I’ve nothing to tell them I haven’t already told the locals, and only an idiot answers the same questions twice.”

Jude could almost hear the doubts crawling around inside the reporter’s head. About me, he thought. “They wanted to know where Truco was. I told them I had no clue. They have a serious hard-on for that guy.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Truco Valdez, secret terrorist. Secret even to himself.” Waxman thumbed a grain of sand from the lip of his beer bottle. “They scream about the evils of gangs, then make it impossible for anyone to leave. You have to give the old boys credit—they are the most ingenious psychotics on the block.”

“They were interested in your photographer, too. Abatangelo.”

“If they have any questions for Dan, they’d better hurry. He’s on his way to the airport this minute. Has a pair of soldiers for company, to make sure he doesn’t tarry. Same with Aleris. They’re letting me stay, for now, a friend at El Diario de Hoy intervened. Never plays well, kicking journalists out of the country.” With that, Waxman finally took a sip of his beer.

“They wondered what I knew about him. Abatangelo. Which is nothing. I told them that. They didn’t ask me about Aleris.”

Waxman perched his chin atop the bottle and blinked his eyes, bringing to mind a sunning lizard.

Jude said, “Why do they have to leave?”

“Their kind are unwelcome here.” Waxman shook off his pose. “Like the contingent of Lutherans the government held at the airport last week and accused of coming down to influence the elections.” He grinned mordantly then took another, lustier swig. “Paranoia strikes deep. Into your life it will creep.”

“The FBI agents, they said they’d been told the woman whose body was found along the Río Jiboa was a prostitute from Usulután. Somebody reported her missing a few days ago.”

Waxman uttered a sad, breathy little laugh. “Interesting.”

“That’s not true?”

“I didn’t say it was untrue. I said it was interesting.”

Jude waited for Waxman to elaborate but he didn’t. It seemed time for the question he’d been itching to ask all along. “I went to Eileen’s place in La Perla. She’s packed up and gone. Any idea where she went?”

Waxman faced Jude fully then, regarding him like he was hopelessly thick-headed. “You might wish to consider the general mood here. The election results have caused considerable bad feeling.”

“And that’s got what to do with where Eileen is?”

Waxman’s smile suggested he knew something he wasn’t ready to share. “Jude, you seem like a reasonably decent guy. And Axel, the man you’re working for, is the kind of American I’d like to see more of down here, all things considered, though I’m not sure the people who hired him feel the same way. I mean, ODIC’s involved, what does that tell you?”

It had been a long, wretched day. Jude was losing track of where all this was going. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“ODIC steps in when the social or environmental costs of a project make it unpalatable to the World Bank or U.S. Ex-Im—and God knows they’ve hardly been squeamish when it comes to screwing the third world. That’s changing, some say. We’ll see. I’m not holding my breath. But ODIC remains in a class by itself. It provides the back channel the government wants in the event something really, truly, conspicuously stinks. The suits can claim the World Bank’s guidelines are being followed, it isn’t involved and neither is U.S. Ex-Im, which will appease most of the know-nothings and go-alongs who work that beat. Then Mister Whiskers’ll slip the money through ODIC and life goes on. Axel stands out for that reason. It doesn’t fit, his being mixed up with Estrella.”

Jude realized finally that Waxman might be fishing. That seemed to present an opportunity—a little give-and-take, with Eileen’s whereabouts up for trade. “Axel had some words for the guy from ODIC who showed up. Tonight, I mean. His name was Lazarek.”

“Al Lazarek,” Waxman said.

“You know him?”

Waxman shrugged. “His connections with the world of international finance strike me as, how shall I put this, a bit improvisational.”

“He looked like a spook.”

“Imagine that.”

“Meaning?”

“Just the usual rumors: He worked black ops for the crazies in the basement during the Reagan years, he’s with Joint Special Operations Command.” Waxman shrugged. “Could be rubbish. Those kinds of things are almost impossible to fact-check.”

“What would a guy like that be doing working for ODIC?”

Waxman chuckled. “Surely, Jude, you’ve heard of economic hit men and the military-industrial circle jerk. They’re among our favorite folktales.” He downed the last of his beer.

That kills tit-for-tat, Jude thought. Time for flattery. “I appreciate what you said about Axel. I feel lucky to work for him.”

Waxman lifted his eyes to the wind-racked palms, withdrawing behind an indulgent smile. “Yes, Jude, but really. If Estrella or its American investors or ODIC weary of Axel’s contrarian instincts, they’ll cut him loose and hire someone who knows how to toe the company line. That isn’t true of you. You’ll protect the next man the same as the last. Or am I missing something?”

Jude remembered Eileen saying much the same thing. It stung a little more, hearing it rewarmed through Waxman. He wondered if they’d talked about it. “I’m still not getting—”

“Eileen doesn’t want to see you, Jude. She doesn’t want you to know where she is.”

Jude recalled the crumpled sheet of paper, the poem he’d found on the floor of her house. “And you know this how?”

“She told me.”

Jude decided to bluff. “I don’t believe that.”

A slight twitch quirked Waxman’s eye. “Well, that’s neither surprising nor terribly relevant.”

The overhead light went out. Erika called out apologetically, “Lo siento, señores. Buenas noches.” As their eyes adjusted to the cloud-patched moonlight, they watched the long-skirted indígena gather her daughter’s hand and lead her beneath the swaying palms, up the sand path toward the highway, where they’d walk along the roadbed toward their village. The little dog trailed behind.

Jude said, “I want you to give Eileen my number. Tell her I’d like to talk to her.” He opened his cell for the sake of its light, hoping Waxman had brought something to write with. But the reporter made no move for his pockets.

“This ardor of yours, Jude. It’s touching. Really.”

Jude had to control an impulse to shove the pompous fat-ass off his seat. “You’ve got no reason to talk to me like that.”

“I don’t mean to insult you, Jude. I’m just commenting. It’s so typical, this attitude you have. I suffer from it myself. Why is it so hard for us—Americans I mean, American men in particular—why is it so hard for us to conceive that we might not be wanted?”