He watched the animal for a while; watched it finally swim away, then took the ten sharks from the cooler. Small blacktip sharks, one to three pounds, their bodies cobalt colored, as if sculpted in metal. He worked carefully with scissors, scalpel, and dissecting pins, laying open the bodies and exposing the circulatory systems. He used red dye for the arteries, injecting the latex slowly into the dorsal aortas to begin, watching the efferent branchial arteries take definition like the branches of red rivers. He used blue latex for the veins and yellow for the hepatic portal system, enjoying the precision of the work; everything nice and neat, clear to the eye and the mind. He packaged the sharks in formalin and laminated barrier bags for shipping, and was just cleaning up when the phone rang. It was Bernstein, 1,800 miles away, but a clear connection, only a slight echo.
"Buck! I'm glad you called. I appreciate it; I really mean that."
Harry Bernstein said, "The message I got said it was important so, sure, what you expect?" Dour, suspicious, Bernstein was a tall, effete Texan who spoke Spanish with a drawl so southern that he sounded like Slim Pickens in a badly dubbed movie, so everyone called him Buck. He spoke English, though, without accent, or in black dialect when he was angry. With a black mother and a Peruvian father, Bernstein had been pulled in all kinds of directions, social, ethnic, and sexual. He had taken Ford's post in Masagua; hadn't liked it then, and there was no reason to think things had changed. Ford knew he must tread lightly.
"I heard you're doing a great job down there—"
"You haven't heard shit, man. You're calling 'cause you want something. What you want?"
"Come on now, Buck. You've got no reason to be mad at me—"'
"Reason to be mad at you? Man, I got no time to be mad at you. You been reading what's going on down here? Bombs going off, taking hostages, shootin' people in the streets. Even your buddy Rivera is losing control, his goddamn guerrillas up there in the mountains splitting into all kinds a' factions."
"My buddy? Juan Rivera was never my buddy."
"Helped him start a baseball team for Christ's sake. And you the one got them uniforms, balls, bats—"
"Buck, Buck, what's more American than baseball?"
"Rivera's a damn communist, man. But you out there taking the hit-and-run signal from him, tellin' him when to squeeze bunt and double steal. Aiding and abetting the fucking enemy, you ask me. Playin' pepper with guerrillas ..."
Ford said that's what they needed to talk about, the guerillas, and he was about to tell him about little Jake Hollins, but Bernstein, still angry, cut in. "And you aren't going to say a word about President Balserio, are you? Man's gone off his rocker, walking around in robes talking about stars and moons and shit. Whatever it was got stolen from the Presidential Palace got him crazy. Happened on your watch, but you think me and my people can find out what it was—"
"Everything I know is in the files, Buck. You're taking this stuff way too seriously."
"Seriously my brown ass! Mayan artifacts got stolen, that's all you wrote down. Mayan artifacts. That's all it was, why he so worried? Why things so crazy up at the palace? You know his wife's retreated to the convent? Hasn't seen anyone for ten months—"
"Convent? Which convent? I need to get in touch with her—"
"That's just what you don't need to do, man. Balserio won't give me the time of day, but he still sends aides around every now and again to inquire bout you. Where's good old Ford? Ev'body liked Ford. His Excellency like to see that man again. They smiling but got firing squad in their eyes, and you wonder why I think you know more than you're telling? A fucking looney bin is just about exactly what this place is. But not a soul in the world blames you . . . Shit."
Ford said, "Look, Buck, listen for just a second, will you? Take a deep breath, okay?"
"I don't need no deep breath. Just tell me what you want."
"What I want is just a little of your time. Okay? The son of a friend of mine was kidnapped. By some group in Masagua. Indios. Smugglers probably, maybe guerrillas, I don't know. I just found out yesterday."
"They just kidnap him yesterday?"
"No, five, maybe six days ago. I'm not sure about that either."
"Why'nt you ask your friend for more details, do this thing proper, Ford? Go through the right channels for once—"
"My friend's dead. The proper chain of dialogue is to contact the FBI herej and they contact Balserio's law enforcement people. What good will that do? Most of Balserio's people are on the smuggler's payrolls, and they couldn't find the guerrilla camps even if they wanted to—which they don't. ''
"But the FBI would contact the CIA people down here on the sly. They'd find the boy. You listen to me, go through channels, let the CIA take care of it. Leave me alone."
"If your son had been kidnapped, would you want the CIA trying to help? They'd send in a squad of marines, automatic weapons, and air support."
"I don't have no son."
"Come on, Buck, you've got to help me on this. The boy's only eight years old."
Bernstein said he didn't have to do anything; the kid was no concern of his; he didn't like kids anyway.
Ford said, "I didn't ask you to help, Buck. I said you've got to help." He let that settle, listening to beeps and echos, the silence of long-distance telephone.
"Are you trying to blackmail me?" Speaking slowly, the black dialect disappeared. "You're out of your mind if you think you've got something on me. I have a clean file, man. I know that for a fact—"
"Buck, I would have never used this. Never in a thousand years. But we're talking about the life of a little boy here, the son of a friend of mine ..."
"You son of a . . . you had me followed, didn't you?"
"I didn't say that."
"Those first two weeks I was down here, I kept thinking someone was following me, but I thought, shit, they got no reason. I was on vacation, man, my own private time—"
"This is important to me, Buck. I never wanted to use it, and I'll never use it again."
Bernstein said, "Well, you try using this, you sneaky motherfucker," and slammed the phone down.
Ford returned to cleaning the dissecting table, thinking maybe he had misread Bernstein, not given him high enough marks, but then the phone rang almost immediately, and Ford knew he'd read him just right.
"Ford? Buck. Ah . . . sorry about getting mad like that. I mean, you just really pissed me off. Let's admit it, that was a pretty shitty thing, having me followed."
Ford was looking through the window of his lab: The sun was a great gaseous orb of fire; the bay, molten. At the marina, the dock lights were just coming on: pale, pale rays on a lake of bronze. He said, "I do admit it, Buck, and I'm sorry. That was pretty crummy, trying to leverage you like that. I should have known you're not the type to tolerate it."
"Well, yeah, I guess that's my rep, not being an easy guy to push."
"I was stupid to even try."
Bernstein said, "But I was thinking about that kid. You know, out there in the jungle with those Indios, probably seeing blood sacrifices, watching them go crazy on psychedelic mushrooms and . . . well, Christ, the kid's probably scared shitless. "
Ford was still looking out the window. At the marina, Jeth Nicholes and the other guides were washing their boats, another charter done. Across the bay, Tomlinson was meditating on the bow of his sailboat, sitting naked, blond hair hanging down. Naked? Yeah, no doubt about it, naked. Holding a stick of incense, too. Ford said, "The boy has to be scared, Buck. Like I said, he's only eight."
"Look, for someone that young, and the kid of a friend of yours . . . he's dead you say? Your friend."