Incident in the Tropics continued
Before Marge can reply, their tour guide, a sassy, full-breasted woman with a half-baked command of English, touches Ray's arm. Startled, he jumps.
"We must leave now to ship."
When he looks at her, Lieutenant Reiner's eyes carry a death sentence. He clicks his heels. "Not so fast. We have serious accusations that must be resolved."
"Their cruise liner departs at cinco y media. We have more than an hour's drive ahead of us to get there in time."
Reiner scowls at her.
"Get lost," he says. "Vamanos."
Sergeant Gomez takes over, placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing her back into the scrum of teammates and onlookers. The rabble closes behind them like the high tide over the road to Mont Saint Michel.
"Wait a minute. We've…" Marge begins.
Reiner places his finger on her lips. He shakes his head.
"Silencio. Stop talking." His words are like the back and forth of a straight razor across a leather strop. "You must give written statements about this incident," the Lieutenant says. "For that we will go to my office."
Ray's in a panic. We've got to amscram out of here, he thinks.
"Forget the camera," he bursts out. "If the kid stole it and you get it back, it's yours, officer. A gift. But we've got to leave. Get back to base."
For the first time Reiner focuses on Ray.
"If…?" he inquires with sloth-like slowness. "If he stole it? There can be no doubt in such matters."
"What I mean…" Ray says. He's not sure what he means. He just doesn't want to be there any more, in that cafeteria, in the capital of the Republic on a late Tuesday afternoon in mid-May.
Seconds later the tour bus pulls out of the parking lot without them. A viscous lump of fear settles at the back of Ray's throat.
"My name is Lieutenant Reiner of the Special Police," Reiner says. "Sergeant Gomez is bringing the car."
As if on cue, the motley assembly falls into tatters like smoke blown by a fan, revealing a black Lincoln Continental oozing to the curb in front of the glass cafeteria doors. Sergeant Gomez shambles out of the front passenger seat and opens the rear door.
"Adalante," the Lieutenant says, pushing an ashen complexioned Angel through the hushed throng.
Marge looks at Ray. Her lips are compressed and pale as twin slices of white peach flesh. She puts a hand over them as if she's about to burst into uncontrolled sobbing, or vomit up her lunch. One of her beautifully manicured nails is chipped.
"Let's go," Ray says.
Soon they're hunkered down in the vast leather-bound back seat area of the Lincoln. It's almost like prom night. Marge and Lieutenant Reiner sprawl on the couch-like banquette. Ray and the Sergeant huddle on hard jump seats facing rearward. Between them, Angel flops on the floor on his stomach, a guppy out of water. A plastic restraint holds his wrists in the small of his back. The red bandanna is missing. Gomez's boot resides in the crook of his neck.
The pungent tang of fresh dog poop fills the air and Ray has the urge to check the bottom of his shoe. Then he realizes the soccer youth has shit himself. Ray's own bowels gurgle like a drain clog on the move.
The car surges into traffic like some primeval cat prowling the chiaroscuro of the rain forest.
"You are enjoying your visit to our country?" Reiner asks. "Excluding, of course, this unfortunate incident of the camera."
"Swell," Ray says.
The conversation dies.
Waves of garlic and other more exotic spices emanate from Gomez. Despite the air conditioning, the interior of the Lincoln is thick with sweat, stale tobacco, feces and musk.
They pass through a business district, the sidewalks awash with pedestrians flitting in and out of the shops, bargaining vociferously with the street vendors. Then they turn and begin to climb a hill among more official looking buildings. Acacia trees dazzle in full flame-yellow bloom. A blood-orange Poinciana explodes into view. Suddenly it begins to rain.
The headquarters of the secret police of the Republic is a squat, frog-like building of green stone. On closer inspection, Ray realizes it's constructed of cement blocks covered in mold. A pair of guards in camouflage gear and armed with machineguns snap to attention as Lieutenant Reiner steps from the car.
The five of them, Reiner, Gomez, Marge, Ray and the alleged thief, mount the steps. Angel stumbles as if he's forgotten how to walk.
Inside, they climb ringing metal steps to the third floor. Gomez and two other cops, overwhelming Angel's feeble resistance, manhandle him down a side corridor toward the back of the building.
Lieutenant Reiner's office is a vast, institutional gray space with windows on two sides. His desk is worn and unadorned. Marge collapses into a hard wooden chair in front of the desk, her hands covering her face. A larger-than-life-size photograph of the President of the Republic gazes down at her. The President's eyes are as vacant as the Dead Sea.
Ray walks to one set of windows. They look out onto a soccer field where, despite the pelting rain, two teams of men race and pivot back and forth chasing a mud caked ball.
"Nice view," he says.
"Wasted when you're overworked," is Reiner's reply.
"I'll bet," Maud says.
A female secret police person enters the office through a side door. She doesn't bother to knock. Olive drab short shorts and slim fitted military blouse, combat boots with socks. Ink black hair tied in a bun, pierced by a pair of chopsticks. A tiny gold cross hangs like a fallen climber between the foothills of her Sierra Madre breasts.
"Ah. Irena," Reiner says.
She carries a tray on which sit four cups of steaming espresso, a bottle of agua minerale con gas and glasses, all of which she sets on the conference table.
Her bottomless brown eyes fixate on Reiner, then Ray. She gives nothing away.
"We'll be taking statements," Reiner says.
Irena collects a steno pad and pen from the credenza and sits sidesaddle at the end of the table, crossing her long bare legs. In a different venue Ray would willingly tell her his life story; drop to his knees and perform cunnilingus.
Instead he throws himself into a chair at the table. Marge sits next to him. He pours them both a glass of water. She seems to be shaking. Small tremors every few seconds make her seem out of focus.
Reiner sits opposite them, with a clear view of Irena.
"Now then, Mrs. Elrood…" Lieutenant Reiner begins.
"What are they doing to that boy?" Marge demands in a rush. "You've got to let him go!" She bursts into tears.
Ray gives Reiner an apologetic eyebrow roll. He touches Marge's shoulders. She shakes his hands away and starts digging in her carpetbag-sized purse, looking for a Kleenex.
At that moment Sergeant Gomez slips like a ghost into the room. He moves quickly to the Lieutenant, bends down and whispers.
The tip of Irena's tongue slithers between her lips. Her body twists and grinds as she seeks a comfortable position in the military issue straight-back chair.
Suddenly, Marge screams; slumps sideways in her chair.
Is she having a stroke? Ray wonders.
Reiner throws a glass of water in her face. Marge shudders, uses the tail of her blouse to wipe her face and sits up. One side of her white silk blouse is soaking wet and you can see the nipple like an aroused prune. When she removes her hand from her purse, she's holding the missing Canon digital. She places it on the polished surface of the table. All eyes stare at the camera as if it holds the meaning of life and death.
"It was in my bag all along," Marge offers apologetically. "I totally forgot I put it there. You can let the boy go. I was mistaken."
"Even about the fact he undressed you with his eyes?" Reiner asks.
"I've got a very vivid imagination," she replies.
Ray nods in support of this admission.
"Please. Just let the boy go," Marge says.
Reiner: "I'm afraid it's too late for that."
"What do you mean?"
"Es muerto."
In an excess of emotion, Ray grabs the camera and with all his strength throws it against the wall. It splinters into jagged bits of shrapnel.
Marge is sniffling softly, her teeth worrying her lower lip.
Ray looks at Irena, who is staring down at her boots as though they belong to someone else. Lieutenant Diablo Reiner's voice interrupts:
"But there is the matter of reparations…and justice for the family."
The room turns ice cold. Looking at Reiner, Ray imagines black, membranous wings unfolding.
Ray feels his nads shrivel.
END