Mercenary Page 21

  He signed the documents in the bar of the Palm Hotel, shaking hands with the new proprietor, before doing the same with Alberto and thanking him for his service.

  “One piece of advice,” Lee said to the buyer, jabbing his thumb back at Alberto. “He might be the bartender, but he really runs the place. If you’ve any sense, make him manager.” Then he left and rejoined McLaurie in the cantina.

  “Happy?” asked Ed.

  He nodded. “It’s the right move. I’d stopped caring about the place. Not even sure why I bought it.”

  Ed pointed to his empty glass. “Probably for the free booze.”

  “True,” said Lee, laughing. “But you always pay for it one way or the other.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Ed waggled his glass again, and Lee got the hint. When he returned with two fresh drinks, McLaurie leaned in. “So what are you gonna do now? Heard you’ve put the general store up for sale too.”

  “Why? You interested?”

  “Hell, no.” Ed took a sip. “I’ve enough to keep me busy. But you must have a plan. You always have some kind of plan.” He smiled. “No matter how crazy.”

  “Not really. Was talking to Ida last night. With the kids heading back to America, what with this war in Europe, I was thinking of doing the same.”

  “Think we’ll get pulled in?” asked McLaurie.

  “Dunno.” Lee swirled his glass. “Some say it could be over in six months. But the longer it goes on…” He spread his hands.

  McLaurie raised an eyebrow. “Back to New Orleans?”

  “Maybe not straightaway,” said Lee. “Ida’s keen. She hasn’t been back since she was small, and she’s heard me talking enough.”

  “It stays with you.”

  “Sure does. But she made a good point. Said New Orleans ain’t going nowhere, and maybe we should see what’s cooking in Guatemala first.”

  McLaurie seemed to consider that for a moment. “Know what? She’s got a point. You resigned. You weren’t fired in disgrace.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “What I mean is, your stock is pretty high right now, despite what’s going on. Might as well capitalize on that down here while you can.”

  “Shit, Ed. You might actually be talking some sense. You okay?”

  McLaurie took Lee’s hand and put it on his own forehead. “Must have one of them tropical fevers. Am I burning up?”

  Lee guffawed.

  79

  In April 1915, after the general store found a buyer, Lee and Ida took the steamer up to Puerto Barrios. Lee had always enjoyed the mixed crowd on this journey. Most routes went direct from New Orleans to Puerto Cortés and then made their way back north, calling at smaller towns like Puerto Barrios. It meant a real spread of passengers on the boat—wide-eyed adventurers like Lee in his younger days, businessmen seeking opportunities among the proliferating cash crops, holidaymakers, revelers, and those visiting friends and relatives just over the border.

  While he left Puerto Cortés under something of a cloud, Ida’s enthusiasm for their new adventure soon banished any foreboding—even if she spent half the voyage dealing with seasickness. They went straight to the station in Puerto Barrios, catching the passenger train up to Guatemala City, where they checked into the Imperial Hotel.

  “Can we stay here forever?” She flopped onto the luxurious bed and batted her eyelashes. “It’s darling.”

  Lee smirked. “A while maybe.”

  “But I love it,” she said.

  He was about to point out the nightly rates when she bolted from the bed and ran to the bathroom. When she emerged minutes later, Lee raised an eyebrow. “Still seasick?”

  “I should see a doctor,” she said.

  Later that day, while Ida rested, Lee hit the town, buoyed by the news that they were expecting their first child. It seemed the perfect blessing for their new start, a sign their best days were still ahead of them. As he walked through the streets of Guatemala City, seeking out all of his old contacts, he could see a lot had changed since he lived there with Magdalena Talbot. President Cabrera maintained his iron grip on the country, but his popularity was sliding. Dissent was widespread, and rumors about his mental fragility persisted. At first, Lee thought them nothing but smears put about by Cabrera’s opponents, but given the pervasiveness of such talk, and in quarters normally loyal to Cabrera too, Lee began to wonder if there was something to it.

  He kept such concerns from Ida. She still wasn’t right following the steamer trip and often complained of dizziness and shortness of breath. The ever-present nausea was taking its toll on her already slight frame at a time when she should have been putting on weight, rather than shedding it. In October, after another round of cajoling, she agreed to see the doctor once more.

  At the clinic, Lee paced the length of the corridor for what seemed like hours. He was contemplating barging into the doctor’s office when the door opened.

  He wheeled around. “Give it to me straight, doc.”

  “She’s not well, and this altitude is doing her no favors. You need to get her down to sea level immediately.” The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “If you don’t, she may lose the baby.”

  The decision was made immediately. He accompanied Ida back home to her parents’ house in Puerto Cortés. The following month, a healthy baby boy was born: Dominicio. The birth was free from additional complications, but the doctors stressed that Ida’s weak state required a lengthy convalescence. While Ida regained her strength, Lee found himself with time on his hands to plot his next move.

  80

  Lee was forever dreaming up get-rich-quick schemes. He plagued the Honduran government for an exclusive shark-fishing license and a ten-year exemption from taxes to get his new enterprise off the ground. The tax concessions were granted right away, and Lee hurried to the Culotta house on Calle de Linea to share the good news. “It’s gonna be something else, Ida,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” she admitted.

  Lee nodded. “I get that a lot, but picture this … a flotilla of boats under my command. Hauling their catch back at the end of each day. Skinning them huge bodies on the beach.”

  Ida made a face.

  “You don’t have to watch that part,” he chuckled.

  “Sounds disgusting.”

  “Has to be done,” he said. “We’ll be sun-drying the hides and exporting the leather.” He snapped his fingers. “Imagine walking sticks carved from backbones. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Can you eat the meat?”

  Lee shook his head. “Could be good fertilizer, though.”

  “And there’s money in this?”

  “Not really,” said Lee. “We’d need a pretty tight operation just to cover costs.”

  “Maybe I’m just tired, but what’s the point if there’s no money in it?”

  “The liver.” He beamed.

  Ida stared at him blankly.

  “If the rest of the operation breaks even, we get the liver free, more or less.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But what good’s that?”

  “Shark oil.”

  “Did you say ‘shark oil’?”

  “I’ve a contact in New Orleans,” Lee said. “Reckons he can process shark oil into a high-quality lubricant for precision instruments.”

  “And there’s money in that?”

  He beamed. “Millions.”

  As unlikely as the enterprise was, Lee could not be dissuaded. He had no savings salted away, so was forced to return to the government with his tail between his legs and beg for a job to raise the capital. He got one of his old roles back. Even if being the inspector-general of the northern coast didn’t quite have the same cachet as the others, it paid handsomely and it demanded little of his time. The income took the pressure off, but he still needed more money. He knew Ed enjoyed running the coconut plantation, but selling his share was the only real option. He only hoped Ed would be able to buy him out so Lee wouldn’t have to force him to
sell.

  One evening, while mulling over the best approach in the cantina, Ed surprised him at the bar. “Glad to find you here, Lee. I have something I need to discuss with you.”

  “Funny you should say that. So do I.”

  They walked back to Lee’s table and took a seat.

  “You first,” Ed said.

  “No,” said Lee. “I insist.”

  Ed sighed. “It’s the war. Got a letter from Guy. You know he’s back in New Orleans?”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Just back, I think. He’s sure we’re joining the war, and he wants to sign up as soon as they formally announce.”

  “I guess it’s only a matter of time.” Lee chewed his lip. “You thinking of enlisting too? That what this is about?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  “I wouldn’t think twice,” said Lee.

  McLaurie nodded. “All things considered,” he said. “Might be wise to sell the plantation now, while we can still get a good price. Who knows how this thing will spread?”

  “War’s been going on more than two years now, and it looks further away than ever from finishing.” Lee thought for a moment. “I was keen to hold on to the plantation. Was a nice, stable income. But I see what you’re saying.”

  “Thanks, Lee. I knew you’d understand.” Ed took a sip of his drink. “Now what did you want to ask me?”

  He smiled. “Same thing.”

  “Ya big lug.” McLaurie punched him in the arm. “That’s for making me sweat.”

  A buyer finally met their valuation in early 1917. Part of the payment was a vessel—the Taft—and Lee had the beginnings of his shark-fishing flotilla. Once he had settled up with Ed, Lee had around twelve thousand dollars to set up the rest of his empire.

  Before he could even get it going, the United States of America finally declared war on the Central Powers and began shipping troops to the battlefields of France. Lee had already discussed the matter at length with Ida. As he had pledged, he didn’t even have to think twice. He mothballed his shark-fishing enterprise, quit his job as inspector-general, packed up his belongings, and took his family on the next steamer north to New Orleans, planning to offer his services to the US Army.

  As the American mainland came into view, he wondered if his rank in the Honduran Army would be recognized. He was confident, though. He felt like a returning hero.

  81

  Lee stepped off the steamer with Ida and Dominicio, surprised no newspapermen were waiting to ambush him. He’d figured that America’s most famous soldier of fortune returning home to pledge his services was worth a few column inches, and he had warned Ida about the expected clamor at the port; now, he felt more than a little foolish.

  They went straight to the place Lee had arranged on Magazine Street. Ida reminded him of his departed friend Manuel Bonilla, the way she craned her neck at the street-corner musicians and gaped at the ever-present drunkards and prostitutes. When Lee explained he had to leave for the recruiting office, she almost pushed him out the door.

  “I know why we came here,” she said. “And it’s fine. Go do what you have to do. Just remember you promised me a stroll through the French Quarter tomorrow.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He pecked her on the cheek and headed downtown.

  The recruiting officers were a welcoming pair, helping him to fill out his application and only stalling when it came to the matter of his age.

  “I’m fit as a fiddle,” protested Lee. “And I could lick the pair of you with one arm tied behind my back.” That brought a smile, at least, but when he inquired whether his rank in the Honduran Army would be recognized, things got bogged down.

  “That’s not always as straightforward as you might think,” one said. “What was your rank? I’ll attach a note to your application.”

  “Commander-in-chief,” said Lee, smiling.

  The recruiting officers were taken aback for a moment, as if unsure whether Lee was messing with them. “Uh,” the other said, looking back at the portrait of President Wilson. “That particular position might be taken.”

  “Figured as much,” said Lee, tapping the forms. “But you best send this straight to the War Department in Washington. They’ve a file on me, probably an inch thick. They know who I am.”

  He left the office a little disappointed. He hadn’t expected an officer’s commission on the spot, but he hadn’t predicted such prevarication either. He decided to swing by Tom Cook’s saloon on the way home, to shake his mood.

  The place hadn’t changed much. Old Tom was still hanging in there behind the bar, surly as ever, but Lee didn’t see any familiar faces in the crowd. Tom poured him a whiskey and slid it across the counter. “You back for long?” he asked.

  “Hope not,” said Lee.

  Tom smiled. “Good to see you, too.”

  Lee chuckled and took a sip of his drink. “Signed up today,” he said.

  “Don’t know why we’re getting involved.” Tom wiped the counter, even though it seemed clean. “Should leave them to it, if you ask me.”

  Lee was about to object, when he caught Tom’s expression, sadder than he’d expected. “Your boys signed up?”

  “Damn fools,” Tom said. “Wouldn’t listen to their Pa.” He glanced up at Lee. “Fella your age should have more sense.”

  “Maybe,” said Lee.

  Tom muttered to himself while arranging the bottles on the shelf. He turned back to Lee. “Know what they’ve gone and done now?”

  Lee shrugged.

  “Shut down Storyville,” he continued. “Orders from the navy.” Tom smirked. “Guess they were worried their boys wouldn’t ship out if they got too distracted.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Lee.

  “Course, it won’t stop nothing. Just drive it underground. But the government never had much logic to it.”

  “Well, if the army turns me down, there goes Plan B.”

  Tom’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t think running a cathouse was your style.”

  Lee puffed up his chest. “I figured the well-to-do ladies of this town would pay top dollar for some prime beef.”

  Tom guffawed. He pointed to Lee’s empty glass. “Another?”

  “No thanks,” said Lee. “Big day tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Lee paid Tom, and winked. “Hot date.”

  82

  Lee cut the short clipping out of the newspaper and placed it in an envelope, ready to mail back to Ida in New Orleans, disappointed that all he could find was a single mention. General Lee Christmas, soldier of fortune and prominent figure in many Central American revolutions, offered his services yesterday to President Wilson. The President told him he would like to talk to him later.

  He had left Louisiana when the army perfunctorily informed him that he was unable to enlist as a general officer, and had hurried to Washington to plead his case. With the distractions of war, the press had no need to clamor around him. And his extensive contacts failed to obtain him a meeting with the president, despite the article making it sound like he’d stormed the Oval Office. The secretary of state heard him out, but made no promises, palming him off with the excuse that the army board that decided such matters was an independent body, and he couldn’t be seen to interfere. The senator for Louisiana bagged him a couple more meetings with the secretary of state, but it brought no further advancement of his case. Eventually, Lee returned to New Orleans to await the outcome of the army board’s hearing.

  While waiting for the decision, he returned his attentions to his shark-fishing enterprise, opening an office above a shoe store on Charles Street. A pair of businessmen pledged fifty thousand dollars, on the condition that Lee could prove the scheme’s viability. Promises were made to furnish them with samples of his wondrous shark oil.

  It was October before he received word from the War Department. They curtly informed him that his application was void, on the grounds that he had failed to complete an off
icers’ training course. Lee knew it was bureaucratic bullshit. He threatened, through the media, to whip the entire board for turning him down. He was fifty-four years old, but he still felt in the prime of his life. Bitterly disappointed by the government’s refusal to let him serve his country, he took his family and what little he had left of his money, and headed down to the docks.

  83

  Back in his adopted homeland, Lee set to work building up his shark-oil empire. He spent his mornings out in the bay aboard the Taft, hunting for sharks with a young native boy as his only assistant, and his afternoons on the beach at Puerto Cortés. The narrow strip of sand around the headland from the banana wharf, the very same spot he once planned to land an assault on the town, was his outdoor factory. There, they skinned the sharks and hung the hides to dry in the relentless sun. Giant hunks of shark flesh were cut free from the cartilaginous backbones and boiled in an outsized iron pot. Lee stirred the concoction with a broken wooden paddle, his helper feeding the fire beneath. As he gazed out to the ocean, absentmindedly puffing on his puro, his mind wandered, incessantly calculating the innumerable riches his enterprise would bring. He didn’t even notice the putrid stench of rotting flesh.

  Once he’d manufactured several bottles of his miraculous shark oil, Lee sent two samples back to his prospective business partners in New Orleans. Not needing to wait for their reply, he immediately left for Guatemala to secure the exclusive shark-fishing license that had eluded him in Honduras. Once he proved the viability of his scheme, he was sure the waters would be teeming with competitors. He needed to corner the market, in advance, for himself.

  After greasing all the right wheels and pocketing the requisite license, he returned to Puerto Cortés to face yet another hurdle: the twelve grand he had received for his share of the coconut plantation was all but gone. He had frittered away a fortune. Some of his old friends in the Honduran army offered to get him a position, but Lee felt he couldn’t accept, not with the United States at war. He still held some outside hope the US Army would reconsider, that there would be some kind of public outcry, that the media would whip up a firestorm and demand the army find a place for a man of his talents.