Mercenary Read online

  I can’t go home to Adelaide like this, he told himself. He sucked the aguardiente down. Then he put his head in his hands and cried.

  When he was done, he felt a little lighter. He lit a puro and happily puffed smoke over the remaining pile of messages. Woozy, he tipped some aguardiente over the letters and set them ablaze, sweeping the flaming pile off his desk. The embers died out on the floor, little wisps of burnt paper floating and sinking in the air. Then he penned another resignation letter to Bonilla. Before he wrote the final line, he took a heavy gulp of aguardiente, wincing as it burned down his throat, into his stomach, and right down to his toes. “And this time, I mean it,” he scrawled.

  The reply from Bonilla came by telegram. It was curt and to the point. “Come to Tegus now stop,” it said. “This time I mean it stop.”

  Lee was half-considering ignoring the summons when he caught two sentries gossiping about Bonilla’s rumored resignation. Without saying goodbye to Adelaide, he took the train up to San Pedro before switching to horseback, riding that poor mount to near death.

  He arrived just as Bonilla transferred his powers to his deputy, Dr. Bertrand. Lee fought his way through the flunkies and vultures, getting as far as Bonilla’s private quarters before being intercepted by the palace guards. In all the commotion, with Lee becoming increasingly aggressive about his attempts to gain entry, Guy Molony appeared and pulled him inside.

  “It’s bad,” Guy whispered before berating the guards for not recognizing their commander-in-chief.

  As they entered Bonilla’s room, Lee saw a shriveled figure in the bed.

  Bonilla weakly raised an arm to salute his old gringo general.

  “What the hell, Manolo?” Lee stepped forward and clasped his hand.

  Bonilla blinked away the tears. “I’m dying, Lee.”

  “You ain’t dead yet,” Lee said. “I’ll get you some real doctors. I know a guy in San Pedro. Better than anyone here.”

  The president shook his head. “It’s too late. Nothing can be done.”

  “There’s gotta be some way we can—”

  “Bright’s Disease,” said Molony. “Advanced.”

  When Lee started to speak, Bonilla squeezed his hand. “It’s over.” He wheezed. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

  Manuel Bonilla died a few hours later with his loyal yanqui general and Guy Molony by his side. The whole of Honduras went into mourning.

  Six leading figures were eyeing the Presidential Palace, but Lee’s position was safe enough. While his quarrels with the ministers continued, so did the pleas not to resign, this time from the new President, Dr. Bertrand. He needed Lee close to him, and knew Lee Christmas could be trusted. Besides, with an election looming, it didn’t hurt to have the hero of La Ceiba around.

  71

  Lee was like a man with a pebble in his shoe. This should have been his peak. He was rich, powerful, and respected. Feared too, by some, but loved by many more. However, as he made plans to move his children south to Honduras, his relationship with Adelaide disintegrated further.

  Bonilla’s sudden death made him even more aware of his own mortality—something he’d avoided wrestling with after being shot point-blank in the chest, dashing across the plain of Maraita against a entire army, or even when he had driven headlong into an oncoming train almost twenty years before. Dr. Bertrand had been keen to stress he still wanted Lee around, but they didn’t have the same rapport. In short, Lee wanted his children around while he was still important, before he became old and useless or went the way of Manolo.

  Fighting with Adelaide was near constant. It was as if each minor slight ripped open every old wound. Each squabble aired every historical grievance. Lee began dreading going home, often staying in the cuartel later and later into the night, desperately trying to postpone the inevitable. It wasn’t all her fault; far from it. He was a proud man with a quick temper, and he rarely backed down when he felt wronged. But the end result was the same, nonetheless: the two of them at each other’s throats. Sometimes, it got so bad he wouldn’t go home at all, preferring to pass the night in one of Puerto Cortés’ cantinas. More often, he’d drink alone in his office, or take a bottle down to the wharf and gaze out at the endless ocean.

  On one such night, he returned home well past midnight, hoping to tiptoe into bed and slip out the next morning without encountering his wife at all, if possible.

  “Where have you been?” Adelaide was waiting up for him, drinking coffee in the kitchen, drumming her fingers on the table and staring at the clock, just as Mamie’s old battle-ax of a mother had used to.

  “Out,” he said, leaning on the table for support.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “What of it?”

  Adelaide sipped her coffee, but Lee could see a vein pulsing on the side of her neck, fit to pop.

  “Where were you drinking?” she asked.

  He paused for a moment, wondering if there was any way to avoid the argument. Screw it, he thought. “What’s it to you?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  If Lee was sure about anything, it was that he couldn’t bear to tell Adelaide that things had gotten so bad he’d prefer to be alone than come home to her. “The cantina,” he said.

  “Liar.” She stood, jabbing a finger across the table. “I went down there—”

  “You did what?”

  “Asked around, too.” She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “No one had seen you all evening.”

  Lee was flummoxed. “What I meant to say was, I was planning on going down there—”

  “Bullshit.”

  The silence was punctuated by the ticking clock, louder than he’d ever noticed.

  “What’s her name?” demanded Adelaide.

  He was struck dumb.

  “I knew it.” She slapped the table.

  “But—”

  “Save it.” Adelaide made to leave. “I don’t want to hear it.” She paused in the doorway. “And don’t even think of following me upstairs.”

  Lee sat at the kitchen table for hours, wondering why he hadn’t defended himself. When he got drowsy, he headed to the cuartel, hoping to catch some sleep in his office. He plonked himself in his desk chair and closed his eyes. Sleep, when it did come, was fitful. The rest of the time, he tormented himself with the irony that this was the one time he had truly respected the matrimonial vow.

  He was still angry when he woke, shivering despite the early morning heat, his blanket having slipped to his feet. After rubbing his face awake, he stood and shook his legs and then marched all the way home, determined to set Adelaide straight. When he got there, she was still seething. Again, he didn’t deny her accusations, although he had the opportunity.

  Her nostrils flared. “I’m going to Guatemala for a few days. The children are coming with me. And you better shape up or you’ll be out on the street.”

  Lee didn’t even try to stop her. As soon as she left, he went straight down to the Palm Hotel and got roaring drunk, telling everyone he’d packed Adelaide and the kids away so he could have a good time. Only the intervention of his staff prevented him from getting into several brawls. When he sobered up, a couple of days later, he telegrammed his wife in Puerto Barrios, beckoning her home, promising her the moon.

  Two days later, he waited patiently at the wharf for the delayed Guatemala steamer. When it eventually arrived, he spotted his three children on deck and waved. “Where’s Mommy?” he asked as they disembarked.

  His oldest daughter, Leah, handed him a letter. “She’s going to stay with uncle for a while.”

  “Uncle?” he asked, confused. “What uncle?”

  He tore open the letter. Adelaide was leaving him, running away with her lover to Nicaragua—out of his reach. He was furious, but when he finally calmed down, he realized his pride was bruised more than his heart. He sued for divorce.

  As his soon as their decree nisi was granted, Lee had a bead on number four.

  72

/>   The year was 1914 and the most eligible bachelor in Puerto Cortés, the yanqui General Lee Christmas, head of the Honduran Army, comandante of the garrison, and inspector of the northern ports was fifty-two years of age. He had made good on his Memphis vow. Living with him in Honduras, enjoying both his fame and largesse, were eight children from three different marriages, ranging from a girl of two to the mother of a five-year-old. Even had his children not been there, their father’s pursuit of a sixteen-year-old girl would have raised eyebrows, more due to his advanced age than her tender years. But the fact that his children were all much closer in age to the object of Lee’s affection brought their distance in years into sharper focus.

  It began as a flirtation, nothing more. Lee was friendly with the Culotta family, fellow New Orleanians who had moved south to work for Sam Zemurray, and Ida had caught his eye for some months. He knew any potential match would arouse resistance, not least given his reputation for extra-matrimonial dalliances, so he had to tread carefully. He studiously avoided any direct contact until his divorce from Adelaide was finalized.

  While waiting down at the banana wharf for the Puerto Barrios steamer, Lee spotted Ida accompanied by her older sister, both of them seeing off a friend. He decided to test the waters and took advantage of the jostling crowd to maneuver her to one side. He leaned over her, eyes twinkling, and spoke in a hushed tone. “Know why I’m going to Guatemala?”

  “No,” said Ida, smiling. “Tell me.”

  “To buy a present for my sweetheart. Want to come with me? You could help me pick out the gift…”

  “Maybe some other time,” she said. The steamer blared its warning, and their conversation was cut short.

  Lee returned a week later. He was sitting in the bar of the Palm Hotel when he spotted Ida and her sister passing by on their evening stroll. He leaped from his chair, asking permission to accompany them. At the end of their walk, after exchanging the usual pleasantries, Ida’s sister called on a friend. Alone with Ida for the first time since their last conversation, Lee took his chance. “I brought back a present for my sweetheart,” he said. “Know who it is?”

  “Well,” said Ida, with a mischievous smile. “Could be any girl in this town.”

  Lee frowned. “I mean you.” He produced a pearl-handled fan from his inside pocket, offering it to her. She paused for a moment, glancing over her shoulder, worried her sister might return, before accepting the gift. Lee took her hand, squeezing it softly. “Let’s tell your parents we want to be together.”

  Ida gasped at his forthrightness. “General—” She collected herself.

  “I told you already. It’s Lee.”

  “Lee, I think it best if I speak to them first. They still see me as their little girl—”

  “But you’re—”

  She held up a hand. “I know. But we must be careful.” Ida looked toward the house. Footsteps could be heard heading toward them. She hid the fan in her purse. “Wait until you hear from me. Please.”

  He nodded, and then doffed his hat as Ida’s sister came out onto the porch. “Ladies, you must excuse me. Thank you for your company.”

  Lee’s patience only lasted a week. Without any further word from Ida, he resolved to call on the Culotta home and make his intentions clear.

  73

  Lee put on his best suit—a crisp white linen affair topped with a brand new panama hat—and gazed at his reflection. Molony never did get me that hat, he remembered. Rat bastard. He chuckled and then strode out the door, down Calle de Linea in the direction of the Culotta house. In his excitement, he’d forgotten to check his pace, so he was sweating furiously as he approached. He stopped short, fanning himself with his hat before losing his patience again and knocking on the door.

  Mrs. Culotta led him into the drawing room where her husband was already seated. He raised his glass in salutation, greeting Lee heartily.

  “A drink, General?” asked his wife.

  “Plain ol’ Lee is fine, ma’am.” He removed his hat. “And a whiskey, if you have it.”

  Mrs. Culotta opened her cabinet, poured the drink, and placed the tumbler at his side. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “Ma’am,” said Lee, “you’d best stay. I’d like to speak with both of you, if I may.” He saw the confusion on Mrs. Culotta’s face, and the surprise on her husband’s, and drew a breath. “It’s about Ida.”

  Mrs. Culotta perched herself on the arm of her husband’s chair. “What has she done?”

  “Is my daughter in some kind of trouble?” asked Captain Culotta.

  Lee smiled. “I hope not.”

  “Please explain, General,” said Mrs. Culotta.

  “It’s Lee, please. I’m not here on official business.” He paused. “This is a social call.”

  Captain Culotta’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand, Lee.”

  Lee bit his lip, searching for the right words. His right leg began tapping. “I want to make Ida my wife,” he blurted.

  Mrs. Culotta’s hand went to her mouth. She turned to her husband, who had almost dropped his tumbler, her eyes bulging.

  Captain Culotta replied with a short, sharp shake of the head. Then he turned back to Lee. “I’m sorry ... you caught us off guard.”

  “I apologize for that,” he said. “But there’s no way to say it other than to come right out and say it.”

  Captain Culotta took a sip of whiskey, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted the glass. “I consider you a dear friend,” he said. “But this is my daughter, and I must be frank. You’re thirty-five years her senior.”

  “She’s sixteen years old!” said Mrs. Culotta.

  Her husband gave her a severe look. “I’ll be straight,” he said. “This is never going to happen. You’re a soldier of fortune, an adventurer. I’m sorry to say this, Lee, but you’ll probably get yourself killed one day. Ida would have no one to support her.”

  “And you’re not a Catholic!”

  Captain Culotta squeezed his wife’s hand. “Yes, there is that. Plus, there’s the small matter of three previous marriages and several children.”

  “I’m a man of means,” protested Lee. “And I always provide for my family. All of ’em.”

  “There are other considerations.” Mrs. Culotta fixed Lee with a queer look, letting her unspoken accusation hang in the air. He knew what she meant. She didn’t have to say it outright. His reputation was well known around the town.

  Captain Culotta drained his glass and placed it on the side table. “I’m sorry, Lee, but I absolutely forbid this. She’s my youngest daughter. It’s my responsibility to look after her. You must drop your attentions at once.”

  Lee left the house fuming. Not only was he to end his pursuit, Mrs. Culotta had made it clear that Ida would be forbidden to have any contact with him whatsoever. But Lee wasn’t one to give up easily.

  He purchased the general store on Calle de Linea, right opposite their home, and he spent his days gazing across the street, scheming. And then it came to him.

  Ida, like most young people in Puerto Cortés, liked to go for an evening stroll along the seafront. Lee was banned from accompanying Ida … until he devised a ruse to get her out of sight. The popular route for such a walk followed the curve of the bay. Beyond the headland, after the banana wharf, it swung around to the wilder shores of the beach that faced the open sea. The path then looped around a thicket of jungle above the town before returning to town.

  At night, Lee and his soldiers worked their machetes to carve a secret path through the loop of jungle. When Ida took her usual evening stroll with friends, she passed along the bay, as usual, and then the banana wharf. When he saw her, Lee would rise from his chair, mount his horse, and race off in the opposite direction, past the cuartel. Once out of sight of the Culottas, he would bank toward the edge of town, enter his secret pathway through the jungle—obscured from prying eyes by a false screen of foliage—and gallop to the other side, popping out on the beachfront and beckoning Ida
for a secret rendezvous.

  74

  A standing tradition in Puerto Cortés, and indeed all of Central America, was the serenade. A young buck would engage musicians to call on the house of his intended and serenade the girl on his behalf. Indeed, a lady’s beauty was often measured by how many such serenades she received. Given the small size of the port town, the only band capable of performing a task without embarrassing the tradition was that of the cuartel.

  As comandante, Lee was also in charge of the band. Whenever he received a request from some besotted lothario, he would march his troops to the respective house. That summer, however, he took to adding a stop: the Culotta residence. The band’s old Spanish waltzes routinely filled the air outside their windows. So as not to arouse the suspicion of Ida’s parents, a stooge was found—some kid called Álvarez, who lent his name to the charade. Lee would stand smartly in his white dress uniform, fulfilling his duty, watching young Ida out of the corner of his eye. If her parents were absent, Lee and Ida would even share a brief dance. Such moments were rare enough. Mrs. Culotta, increasingly watchful, kept a close and suspicious eye on her daughter’s sudden happiness.

  One afternoon, Lee sat in the shade of his porch, hollowing out the inside of a champagne cork. When the hole was the requisite size, he folded a note and placed it inside.

  “Pssst. Armando.” Lee beckoned a neighbor’s boy who was playing in the street. “Ven por aquí.” He handed him the cork without further instruction.

  Later that day, when Ida saw Armando tossing the cork on the street, she called him over. After retrieving the hidden message, she secreted in her purse, scrawled a reply, and inserted it in the cork’s chamber. Patting the confused Armando on the head, she then headed back inside.