Davidson told me he’d just returned from a three-month assignment in Asia and man-oh-man was it good to get back to the Zone. “Couldn’t wait to get here and go to the Tablita for a Sobe and choris.”
I said, “Huh?”
He chuckled, “Sorry, forgot you’re from the States. Or maybe I’ve still got a bad case of moonpongitis. What I said was… it’s like Zonian Speak. Soberana’s a beer. Chorizo, that’s a kind of sausage. Really good sausage. Maybe we’ll get you one while you’re here.”
Like I’d stopped in for the weekend, me in my black turtleneck with leather gloves and a navy watch cap I’d borrowed from Garret.
“Moonpongitis?”
From the look on his face, I got the impression that he’d misspoken. It was like: uh-oh. “Just an expression I picked up somewhere. It means like gone, you know, stir crazy. But those sausages I was telling you about, choris, the best place to get them is this car wash called Tablita… “
No doubt, he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to say. Not a big deal. I would have never asked him about Asia-professional courtesy prohibited it-but he’s the one who offered up the familiar name. Moonpong? Phumi Moonpong, actually. It was a remote village in the Cambodian interior. The jungle was massive there, leaves the size of elephants’ ears in the high tree canopy, and vines that snaked out the portals of Hindu temples that were eight hundred years old. Villagers lived in hootches with swept lawns on the banks of a river named by French missionaries: the River of Sin. I was supposed to forget a name or a place like that? It was said that the missionaries so named it because they were pissed off about something or because the river was black from rice paddies.
Davidson’s small talk about the Zone didn’t interest me. All I cared about was that he apparently worked for the CIA. There was something very odd about friends of my friends arranging for a Company man to meet me at the airport, provide me with a ride and probably a place to stay if I needed it.
Why? Why should they risk even peripheral involvement in a fray between private citizens?
I thought Davidson might give me a hint let me know what was going on. But no, he played it straight as he drove through Panama City traffic, then into Balboa and out of town into the darkness of rain forest headed for Gamboa.
Nothing but careful conversation that seemed designed to prove to me that he really had grown up in the Zone: “I understand the political reasoning behind transferring the canal, but it still doesn’t seem right that they’re making us leave. We had our own court system, fire departments, hospitals, schools, everything. It was our home… “
Like it would be big news to me. Almost all Zonians felt that way. The man was filling up space, saying nothing.
He told me, “In the Zone, there was no crime, no unemployment, and if somebody got out of line, the company shipped their asses back to the states like yesterday.”
Same thing. Nothing.
Matt said he’d attended Balboa High, surfed Tits Beach, played golf at Amador, got the shits drinking from the Chagres, took the train to Cristobal for football games and snuck beers all the way back. “It was a good place,” he said. “Why else would our families choose to be buried here? Hey”-his tone brightened-“how can you tell if you’re a Zonian?”
I had to listen to him play the little game: You know you’re a Zonian if you’ve spray-painted your girlfriend’s name on a bridge… if your boat has a better paint job than your car… if you can name the president who gave the canal away but can’t name any presidents since…
We were on the narrow road that twisted through the foothills, nothing but trees and moon shadow. I could see his face in the dash lights. Finally, I said, “Matt, let’s drop the bullshit, okay? I’m appreciative, I really am. But I’m also curious: Why are you people doing this?”
His tone was studied, concerned. “Pardon me? I’m giving you a ride to Gamboa. What’s the big deal? Some friends of yours told me that’s what you needed, so here I am.
I sat back. “Does that mean you can’t say? Or are you just playing hard to get?”
We drove in silence for what seemed a long time. Finally: “Can we talk off the record?”
“Gee, is there any other way?”
The man was nodding, smiling. Then: “Bobby Richardson, he must have been quite a guy, huh?”
So that was it. Bobby.
“Yeah. A good man. He was very… reasonable. Very smart.”
“I’ve heard some of the stories. You were there when he was hit.”
“No. But in the general area. I helped ship home what was left.”
“People still rave about the man. He’s like a legend in certain circles, this All-American cover-boy type who also happened to be a serious shit-kicker. So let’s put it this way: Your friends and my friends don’t like the idea of some freak taking advantage of Commander Richardson’s wife. I’m talking about certain people in the organization who believe your story. They trust your judgment in the matter. They are people who… people with a lot more juice than me and they think that the intelligence community needs to take care of its own.”
“I’m flattered-and surprised. My impression is that the Company would never trust anyone who refused to work for them.”
“Okay, so maybe I didn’t say it right. That’s the word on you, by the way: a details freak, precise wording. Know what else?”
I was enjoying this. Fitness reports from the past. “I’m all ears.”
“That’s the point: there is nothing else. People know who you are, but they don’t know what you did. People know that you were part of it, probably a big part, maybe a main player, but no one seems to know who you worked for. A few, a very few, have met you and say they like you, but none of them can really explain why.”
“I’m just an all-around swell guy, Matt. Get used to it.”
“Yeah, you’re being facetious, but that’s what they say. And that you probably got out of the business because you like people. Maybe like them too much.”
I said, “What?”
“That you’re a nice guy, what’s wrong with that? You care about people too much to fuck them over, so you got out of the business.”
“I’m a marine biologist, that’s all. It’s what I do.”
“Uh-huh, sure. We all know that story. The scientific types, they can go any where, ask anything and no one ever doubts them.”
“It’s not a story. I’ve got a lab. Ask me almost anything about fish.”
“The rumor is that there is an intel organization in this country so black, so deep, that even the big-time politicos know nothing about it. Financing was set aside years ago, the whole group recruited during Nam. Really top hands. Name it: assassination, dissemination, political sabotage. The rumor also says, ‘Hey, that’s what Ford did.’ Any of this sound familiar?”
I said, “No, but it’s a great story. I’ll look for it on HBO. You were telling me why the Company is being so helpful.”
“I never said that the Company is being helpful. The Company’s got nothing to do with this. It would be bad politically, plus it’s illegal. But there’s nothing wrong with our mutual friends asking me, a private American citizen, to help you.”
“How far,” I asked, “are you willing to take it?” Suddenly, Matt was not the nice, easygoing Opie Taylor clone he pretended to be. “I don’t want to hear a damn thing about any of it, that’s exactly how far I’ll take it. What you want to do, what you’ve got planned, it makes no difference to me. Maybe you’re thinking about killing the piece of shit which I wouldn’t mind doing myself. But me, I don’t want to hear about it.”
He said, “Here’s the drill. When we get to Gamboa, we’ve got a little safe house there, it’s vacant You can use it if you want. There’s food in the refrigerator, not much, but it’ll get you by if you need to stay for a few days. Stay there longer and I’ll make a house call. In the garage is a motorcycle if you need transportation. All fueled up, ready to go.” A motorcycle? I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle since Cambodia. It was the only thing we could count on because of the mud trails.