“What about the woman I was admitted with? Mrs. Clark?”
“Her poisoning was more serious. But she’s stabilized now.”
“Where is she?”
“Down the hall.”
“Can I visit her?”
“You stay here. I’ll inquire.”
Fifteen minutes later, Crocker was sitting up in bed watching an NBA playoff game on the TV bolted to the ceiling when Akil and Mancini walked in carrying a Burger King bag and a big plastic cup that featured a likeness of the Starship Enterprise.
“You owe me ten balboas,” Akil said, setting the cup and greasy bag on the table beside Crocker’s bed.
“What for?”
“Two Whoppers with queso, papas fritas, and a grande Coca-Cola in a collector’s cup.”
“You look like Jabba the Hutt,” Mancini said, remarking on Crocker’s swollen cheeks. “What happened to your face?”
“The aftereffects of chlorine poisoning,” Crocker answered. “How’s your knee?”
“Some minor damage to the superficial fibular nerve. But aside from that, all good.”
“Where’s Suárez?”
“He’s at church praying that he gets assigned to another team,” Akil cracked.
“He did good work,” Crocker said as he bit into the burger, which tasted good but overcooked. “How was your flight?”
“I slept through it, so I guess it was fine,” Akil answered as Mancini checked Crocker’s medical chart.
“What’s it say?” Crocker asked.
“Severely diminished brain activity due to repeated and prolonged blows to the head,” Mancini answered, pretending to read from the chart. “Delusions, slight dementia, an asymmetrical mustache. Other than that, you’re fine.”
“Nice.”
“He never used that organ anyway,” joked Akil.
“Where are you gorillas staying?” Crocker asked, stuffing fries into his mouth and chewing.
“Something called the Balboa Palace, otherwise known as the Roach Motel. About a half-mile south along the bay,” Akil answered, sitting with his feet up on the frame of the bed.
“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable.”
“The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best, but they make the most of things,” Akil replied.
“Where did you come up with that?”
“It’s my life philosophy.”
“Any news about the younger hostage?” Crocker asked.
Akil looked at Mancini by the window, who shrugged back and answered, “Only that the senator is arriving soon and will be meeting with Jenson and Arno.”
“Who’s Arno?”
“John Arno’s the local station chief-we met him last night.”
Crocker looked confused.
“See, his brain was damaged,” Akil said. “By the way, the senator wants to know why you were showering with his wife.”
“That’s not funny.”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
The same nurse bustled in, saw Crocker sitting up in bed finishing off the burger, and snapped, “You no can eat.”
“Why not?”
“No food without doctor permission.”
Mancini grinned. “I don’t know if that qualifies as food.”
“Bery bad,” the nurse scolded.
“Turn him over and spank him,” Akil suggested.
“Maybe I do,” the nurse said, wagging her finger. “Maybe I spank you, too.”
Akil grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her onto his lap. “Only if I get to spank you first.”
She giggled and tried to slap him. Akil spun her over. Just as he raised his hand to spank her, Captain Sutter walked in.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“Sir.”
Akil pushed the nurse off his lap and stood at attention as their CO turned to Crocker and said, “Seems like I’ve walked in on an episode of The Three Stooges.”
“These men are trying to amuse me, sir.”
“Are they succeeding?”
“Not really. No.”
“This episode is called ‘The Three Stooges Meet the Nurse from Hell,’” Akil announced. Whereupon the nurse slapped him in the face and stormed out.
Chapter Seventeen
We will either find a way or make one.
– Hannibal
Ivan Jouma sat in a wheelchair in a third-floor suite of the Clínica Central Cira García in the Miramar sector of Havana, Cuba, studying a photograph of himself when he was two years old, sitting on his mother’s lap, wearing new boots and a straw cowboy hat that matched his father’s. Of the three, he was the only one who seemed happy, lost in his boyhood world of dreams and imaginary friends. His father scowled at the camera from behind a thick black Pancho Villa mustache, his eyes burning with anger and defiance. His mother smiled wanly as though she was trying to put a good face on a life of struggle, disappointment, and little hope.
He’d hated his abusive father since he kicked him out of the house at age thirteen but remembered his mother fondly, even though she’d stood by passively when his father drank and burst into wild rages, destroying the little furniture they had and beating his son with a leather belt.
He would never forget how she helped him with little gifts of tortillas, oranges, and money when he was living on the streets and stealing. Both of them were dead now, memories of a past that he hoped to erase.
“La Santísima Muerte,” he said. “Look over my mother and tell her that her son is about to redeem himself with the help of a gringa.”
He’d been a hopeful, joyful kid. The more he learned about the world and its inequalities and crushing poverty, the more furious he became. And the more he thought of the beatings and humiliations he’d endured, the dirt he’d eaten when his stomach ached with hunger, the shit-filled animal pens he’d slept in when there was no place else to escape the cold, the more he wanted to scream out loud and blame the oppressors who had stolen the bounty that God had provided to everyone and claimed it as their own.
His musings were interrupted by three knocks on the door.
“Come in,” he barked in Spanish, stuffing the black-and-white photo back into his wallet.
Instead of a nurse or doctor, it was one of the young men who made up his inner circle of aides-Los Lobos, he called them-who entered and stood with his hands behind his back.
“Señor Jefe.”
“I can see from your face that you have bad news,” the Jackal said. “So tell me.”
“Jefe, the doctor said that maybe this isn’t the best time.”
“Then why the hell are you here?”
“To see if you need anything.”
Jouma gritted his teeth and looked out the window to the park across the street. “I don’t give a shit what the doctors say. Tell me what happened.”
The young man took a deep breath and started, “Jefe, there was a raid on Las Lagrimas last night.”
Jouma quickly cut him off. “When?”
“Around midnight. The house was burned down, eight guards were killed, and the American woman was taken.”
“Dead or alive?” Jouma asked, clenching his fists.
“The gringa? Dead, we think, but we don’t know for sure.”
“I want to know!”
“Yes, Jefe. The gas was timed to go off automatically.”
Jouma gazed down at his hands, which were small and delicate and had always been a source of embarrassment. The skin over them appeared mottled and gray. He didn’t care so much that the house had been destroyed or the woman taken.
“Names?” he asked grimly.
“Which names, Jefe?”
“The names of the men who died.”
“Alvarez, Tamayo, Elvis, Flaco, Ramirez, Molina, Danny, Sapo.”
It pained him, because he thought of the people who worked for him as part of his family. “Sapo, too?”
“Yes, Jefe.”