Mercenary Page 18

  “Then why did you appoint that drunkard Durón? I could have Valladares licked in a week.”

  “I have no doubt about that.” Bonilla put his hands behind his back. “You are my greatest commander.” He walked to the window. “But there are … extenuating circumstances here.”

  “Don’t give me that crap.”

  “You’ve read his pamphlets.” Bonilla turned to face him. “I’m a yanqui stooge, and you’re a spy for Washington.”

  “Nobody buys that horseshit.”

  “There are things…” Bonilla trailed off, searching for the right words. “The yanquis are sending Philander Knox next month.”

  “Why?” asked Lee, this time rising from his chair. “I thought that treaty was dead.”

  “It is. He’s touring all of Central America.”

  “That’s not gonna help the situation. He’s the one American politician the people know by name.”

  “Exactemente.” Bonilla perched himself on his desk. “And now I can’t meet him here in the Palace. It looks bad for me, and bad for Honduras. I have to go down to Tigre Island and meet him off the boat, so his arrival doesn’t spark an uprising.”

  “Hardly your fault.”

  Bonilla smiled. “This is where my job is different to yours. I have to clean the shit anyway. It’s the secretary of state. Making arrangements like this makes it appear I can’t even control my own country.”

  Lee said nothing, finally understanding Bonilla’s predicament. “And this yanqui crap Valladares is running with…” He sighed. “Valladares picked up quite a few recruits with that rhetoric. If I put you in the field, it might inflame the situation. I want to end this now.”

  Lee chewed his lip. “At least tell me he’s gonna to take Molony’s gunners.”

  “Durón is keen to see this new unit in action. How many has he got now?”

  “Fourteen, plus their crews. They’re young, but they’ll get the job done.” He looked down at his hands and then back to Bonilla. “You know,” he said. “I never did get my final battle.”

  “You think this is the last of it?” Bonilla laughed.

  Lee chuckled along with him. “True. And I suppose La Ceiba was pretty good.”

  “You won me the country, General.” Bonilla stood, extending his hand. “And I’ll never forget it.”

  Lee looked sideways at the offered hand. Then, he grabbed it and shook hands vigorously. He couldn’t help grinning. “I did, didn’t I?”

  67

  Colonel Guy Molony booted Durón’s hammock once more, but the groggy general waved him away, muttering curses before dozing off again, still cradling his bottle of aguardiente like a babe. Guy curled his lip and spat in the dirt. He strode back to his team of gunners, surveying the chalk-white hill of El Horno in the distance.

  Although night had fallen, the full moon hanging overhead lit up Valladares and his men like New Orleans on Mardi Gras. Guy grimaced. “Damn fools.”

  “Sir?”

  Guy pointed toward El Horno. “Tell me, what do you see?”

  “The enemy, sir.”

  “Exactly,” he said through gritted teeth. “This isn’t a fight. It’s target practice.” He turned to his men. “Line ’em up, boys.” It gave him no pleasure, winning like this. Guy blessed himself. “Aim.” He watched the cadets train their sights. This would be over in seconds. Well, he thought, they had their chance to surrender.

  “Fire!”

  The sound was deafening—fourteen machines of death in perfect concert. His eyes readjusted after the muzzle flash as the gun smoke began to dissipate. White puffs of dust kicked up by their stray shots escaped up into the night. On El Horno, Guy saw nothing but a string of dead men.

  Durón appeared at his shoulder, rubbing his face. “Is it done?”

  Guy stood aside to let Durón see for himself. The corpses had begun bleeding out, staining the pale hill. “Bueno,” said Durón. “Send someone over to make sure Valladares was among them.”

  “Already done.”

  When the spotter team eventually returned, they brought disturbing news. They’d clambered all over that glowing outcrop, checked all the faces of the fallen, even scoured the undergrowth at the base of the cliff, but Valladares was nowhere to be found.

  68

  To soften the blow of moving him aside for the operation against Valladares, Lee received another appointment: comandante of Puerto Cortés and Inspector-General of Northern Coast. The latter was an especially lucrative position, adding plenty of side-benefits to Lee’s three existing salaries. Traditionally, the inspector-general creamed a good deal off the top, which wasn’t considered corruption but rather a perk of the job. Everybody expected it. But Lee was running other things on the side, too—activities that would have put him on notice with the comandante, if he didn’t also hold that position. And he didn’t plan on opening an investigation anytime soon.

  With his newfound wealth, Lee purchased a thousand-acre coconut plantation with his new business partner, Ed McLaurie. And he didn’t stop there. When the old Louisiana Lottery Building came up for sale, he bought that and remodeled it, opening it as the town’s newest attraction—the Palm Hotel—which soon became the social center of Puerto Cortés. On any special occasion, such as the president’s birthday, the anniversary of his victory at La Ceiba, or even the Fourth of July, Lee would throw an incredibly lavish affair, advertising in the local newspapers that there would be free champagne to all comers.

  One afternoon, while smoking a puro in the door of the hotel bar and nodding to passersby, Lee spied McLaurie exiting the general store at the opposite end of Calle de Linea. He waved his hat until he caught Ed’s eye. Flicking his smoke into the street, he hollered at the bartender. “Open one of those bottles now, Alberto.”

  He embraced McLaurie at the door. “You heard the news?”

  “No. What?”

  “Valladares is dead.”

  McLaurie grinned. “Shit, I was beginning to think that guy was charmed.”

  “You and me both,” Lee said. “Come on, raise a glass with me.” McLaurie muttered excuses, but Lee steered him by the elbow up to the bar. “So, what brings you into town? Saw you coming out of the general store.”

  Ed waved a hand. “Just getting some supplies.”

  “Anything I need to know about? Send me the tally, and I’ll pay my share. You know that.”

  “It’s nothing, honestly. Only cost a few bucks. Just needed some stakes for a new fence. Critters getting in.”

  “Let me know if you need any help.” The bartender finally returned, and Lee raised an eyebrow at the wait.

  “Had to find a cold one.” The bartender placed the bottle on the counter.

  “Well, git her open,” said Lee, smiling at Ed. “This champagne won’t drink itself.”

  Lee picked up both flutes and handed one to Ed. “To the Republic.” He raised his glass.

  McLaurie smirked. “And all who sail in her.”

  Lee held his glass away. “No,” he said. “Let’s do this right.” He raised his glass again. “To the Republic. Finally at peace.”

  After he took a sip, McLaurie set his glass down. “Really think that’s the end of it?”

  “He was the last one with any hopes of toppling Bonilla.”

  “How’d they get him anyway?”

  “Don’t know all the details,” Lee said. “But they caught up with him in some one-horse town. Tatumbla or something. He was shot resisting arrest.” They both fell silent until Lee noticed the bartender hovering and turned to him.

  “Want me to leave the bottle?” he asked.

  Lee raised an eyebrow, but Ed shook his head. “Wish I could stay and tie one on, but I gotta get back.”

  “Finish your glass, at least.” Lee gestured to the flute before turning to the bartender. “Top us up, and keep the rest for punch.”

  Ed groaned at the mention of it.

  “You don’t like my punch?”

  “Don’t get me w
rong.” McLaurie covered the rim of the flute with his hand when the bartender went to refill him. “It tasted great. That was the problem.”

  Lee chuckled.

  “What goes in it anyway?”

  “Bottle of rum,” Lee said. “Bottle of champagne. A few slices of whatever’s lying about, banana, papaya, pineapple…”

  Ed’s eyes bulged. “And you’re telling people it’s not a hard drink?”

  “It’s got fruit in it,” Lee protested.

  McLaurie shook his head and finished what was left of his champagne, leaving Lee to his thoughts.

  Needless to say, Lee’s considerable largesse increased his already widespread popularity. He wasn’t just a hero in Puerto Cortés; he was hailed everywhere he went: La Ceiba, Trujillo, and Tegucigalpa. When he rode the rails up to San Pedro Sula, his old comrade and the new comandante of the city—General Leiva—put on a public concert in his honor.

  But despite being a friend to half the country, Lee never could get along with any of Bonilla’s ministers. For his part, he simply didn’t trust them. And he guessed they were jealous of his close relationship with the president. Anytime one of their spats got out of hand, Lee would simply telegraph his resignation to Bonilla, who would summon him to Tegucigalpa and beg him to remain.

  Lee always caved.

  69

  Lee sat in the bowels of the steamer, feeling some old excitement return as they approached the port of New Orleans. Things were going well back in Honduras—frustrating squabbles with politicians aside—yet the pull of this city was strong.

  He and Adelaide had fought before he departed. Lee had invited her to come with him, but she was shrewd enough to sense his reluctance. Their shadow argument consisted of Lee insisting his wife come along, and Adelaide insisting her husband go alone, when in truth both of them wanted the exact opposite. He knew the root cause, too. On many occasions Lee had expressed his desire to bring all of his estranged children to Puerto Cortés. Now that he’d made a name for himself and had money rolling in, Lee felt increasingly desperate to make up for lost time and broken promises. And he was advancing in years, he supposed. His wife never expressed any objection to the idea—except when he threatened to actually do something about it. In the end, though, Lee was glad he was returning alone. Adelaide was jealous enough whenever he so much as mentioned his first wife. He didn’t want to find out how she’d act in Mamie’s presence.

  In fact, when he thought about it, Adelaide had only really hit the roof when he had mentioned he planned a trip up to Memphis. He was still mulling that over when the steamer blared its siren and the passengers began shuffling toward the exit. As he queued with the rest, clutching his suitcase and shivering at the slight chill in the fall air, Lee thought back to the last time he was home, wondering if any agents would be shadowing him this time. Maybe a newspaperman looking for a quote. More likely, he conceded, I’ve been forgotten altogether.

  He stepped off the boat and was swarmed right away. A scrum of reporters crowded around him, shouting questions, trying to get his attention. “Lee, Lee, over here!”

  “General Christmas, a quote if you will.”

  At first, Lee tried to shield himself with his suitcase and push through, but there were too many. He held his hands up to stop the yelling. “Anyone here from the New York Times?”

  The assembled hacks grumbled at the mention.

  “No one brave enough?” he asked. “Well, someone better tell those guys I’m still alive. You got proof now.” The reporters chuckled as Lee continued. “I know you guys got deadlines. But you should always wait until the fighting’s done before filing your story.”

  The newspaper men laughed along with him.

  “Although,” he continued, “being a ghost made it a little easier to slip out the last time.” The newspapermen scribbled notes.

  “How does it feel to be back in New Orleans?” one shouted.

  “This city,” he said, growing wistful. “I dunno. I guess you never really leave this place.” He tapped his breast. “You always carry it with you.”

  Questions were shouted one after the other, but Lee shushed them all. “If you’ll excuse me, boys, I’ve a fierce thirst. Any of you who want another quote are gonna have to follow me up to Remy Klock’s saloon and match me drink for drink.” He picked up his suitcase. “And you’re buying.” He pushed his way through the crowd.

  The swarm of reporters followed him all the way up to Poydras Street, where he stalled them at the door of the bar. “Do me a favor, boys.” He paused. “Give me a minute on my own.”

  A reporter stepped forward, grabbing a pencil off his ear. “Why’s that, General?”

  He smiled. “’Cos it will be a hell of a lot funnier if I take a seat at the bar quietly and y’all pour in after.”

  The reporters chuckled as he put a hand on the door and raised a finger to his lips. He tried to slip inside quietly, but as soon as Remy Klock saw him, he boomed, “Well, I’ll be damned. America’s most famous soldier of fortune!”

  Lee guffawed, shaking hands with Remy. “Only ’cos you ain’t heard of Machine Gun Molony yet.” He mimicked a gun and planted several bullets in Klock’s chest.

  Remy laughed and plucked a bottle from the shelf, but Lee shook his head.

  “What?” Remy asked. “Gone off the whiskey now?”

  “The expensive stuff,” Lee said, pointing.

  “Who’s buying?” asked Remy with a smile. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve an unpaid tab from the last time you went to the top shelf.”

  The door burst open, and the newspapermen streamed in, surrounding Lee. He winked at Remy. “They are,” he said.

  Lee spent the next few days visiting every bar in the Third Ward, and half of them in the French Quarter too. Each morning, he cut out the stories from all the papers and mailed them back to Adelaide. Once the attention died down, he boarded the train to Memphis, and was again swamped by reporters before he’d even left the platform. Once he’d satisfied their need for snappy quotes and dramatic photographs, he found that his estranged children had all married, and his first daughter with Mamie had already made him a grandfather. As for Mamie, she had re-married. Lee kept a respectable distance, much as it pained him.

  On his return to New Orleans, he finally caught up with his old friend Boyd Cetti, sharing a drink in Tom Cook’s bar.

  “I was actually in Remy’s place the night you swanned in with all those reporters.” Boyd confessed.

  “Shit,” said Lee. “Why didn’t you say hello?”

  “I tried.” Boyd took a sip of his whiskey. “They were three or four deep around you. I went to get something to eat, and by the time I got back, Remy said the circus had moved on.”

  “Sorry about that Boyd, but those guys are vultures. If you don’t feed ’em something, they’ll pick your bones clean.”

  “I get it.” Boyd held his hands up. “No need to explain.” He gazed around the quiet bar. “Prefer it like this anyway, when we can talk without hollering.”

  “And drink.” Lee clinked his glass to Boyd’s and took a swig.

  “How was Memphis?”

  “Great to see the kids,” Lee said. “Really great.” He paused, and then answered the unasked question. “Didn’t see Mamie. Or, should I say, Mrs. G.F. Hanson.” He grimaced.

  “Yeah. Didn’t know if I should write you. Figured…”

  “Aw, it’s all right. I expected it to happen at some point. She’s a fine woman.” His eyes glazed over. “If she’s happy, then I’m happy for her. The kids say he’s a good man.”

  “How they all doing?”

  “I’m a grandfather,” said Lee.

  “Hell. Really?”

  “Hattie had a baby girl. Cuter than you’d believe.”

  “They grow so fast,” said Boyd.

  “You’re empty,” Lee said, fighting back tears and motioning to Boyd’s glass as a distraction. “Grab a bottle off Tom and tell him to stick it on my tab.”


  Boyd made his way up to the bar. Lee looked up at the ceiling, trying to keep his emotions in check. He felt as if he could blink and his entire life would be over; he’d be nothing but a distant memory. A face in a faded photograph. A name in a yellowing newspaper, boxed away in someone’s dusty attic.

  “You okay?” Boyd plonked the bottle down.

  Lee dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Getting old, is all.” He smiled. “And maybe a little sentimental.” He took a deep breath as Boyd refilled his glass. “Shit, let’s change the subject.”

  Boyd took the hint. “Hear about your cousin?”

  “No.”

  “Making a real name for himself. Some kind of pilot.”

  Lee struggled to follow the details, but it seemed his cousin had designed a new kind of plane—something called a monoplane. As Boyd filled him in, Lee’s mind exploded with possibilities. They got through half the bottle as Lee listed the different governments in Central America he could hawk one of these newfangled planes to. “There’s millions in this, Boyd. Millions.”

  Such money would come in handy. On the back of impressing his old friends and showering gifts on his ever-growing family, Lee’s cash had run out. He was forced to take a loan from the Honduran Consulate in New Orleans just to afford passage back to Puerto Cortés.

  70

  Lee was in a foul mood all the way back to Honduras, thinking about Mamie, his kids, and having missed them grow up. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Adelaide either, nor the bullshit dance he’d have to do when she got pissed off about something innocuous and he’d have to figure out what she was really mad about. Seemed like that was their sole form of interaction these days—dancing around a fight, making up after a fight, gearing up for a new fight. Lee had always liked people who were straight with him, but most of the time, his wife was too gummed up to tell him what was actually bothering her. It was draining. And with his short fuse, it was a recipe for trouble.

  He was embarrassed when the cuartel band greeted his arrival, especially because he’d telegrammed ahead to explicitly state he didn’t want a fuss; he waved the band away as soon as they started playing. His mood didn’t improve when he sat down at his desk to review the correspondence that had piled up in his absence. One peevish communiqué from Bonilla’s ministers after another. Cursing each of them, he crumpled the pages and tossed them across the room. Then he wrenched open his desk drawer and grabbed a bottle.