Ross Thomas - Missionary Stew

Citron looked at him, still wearing no expression except for a certain deadness in the eyes. “Yes,” Citron said. “There’s that.”

The call Draper Haere placed to Los Angeles had just gone through when the shooting started. He was in his room on the top floor of the Inter-Continental and the shooting sounded like small-arms fire. It also sounded faint and sporadic and very far away.

“Would you hold a moment, please,” Haere said, put the phone down, went to the window, and looked out. All he could see was his splendid view of the Pacific Ocean. He went back to the phone, picked it up, and said, “Gladys Citron, please. This is Draper Haere calling. It’s about her son.”

“One moment,” the woman’s voice said.

Gladys Citron came on the line with a question. “What’s this about Morgan?”

“How are you, Gladys?”

“I’m fine. What’s wrong with Morgan?”

“He’s in some trouble and I’m trying to get him out of it. He was involved in a shootout this morning and—”

Gladys Citron interrupted. “Is he hurt?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not absolutely sure. He was taken to the Presidential Palace by a couple of Americans who sometimes call themselves Tighe and Yarn. Ever hear of them?”

There was a silence of several seconds before Gladys Citron said, “Go on.”

“That’s all I know except that in about one hour from now I have an appointment with the charge d’affaires at our embassy. His name’s Rink. Neal Rink.”

“You say they took Morgan to the Presidential Palace?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you tried to talk to Carrasco-Cortes?”

“That’s the first thing I tried to do,” Haere said, “but all I got was the usual no habla ingles runaround.” He paused. “I’ve also got calls in to Washington to a couple of senators I know. I thought if you knew anyone at State who—” Haere stopped talking because the line went dead. There was no click or buzz. Only silence. Haere recradled the phone, waited ten seconds, and picked it up again. It was still dead. He hung it back up and listened to the small-arms fire, which seemed louder and closer and not quite so sporadic.

Gladys Citron waited behind her desk until her Chinese secretary came in with the report. “All the circuits to down there are kaput,” she said. “Nothing going in or out.”

Gladys Citron turned her chair around so she could look out the window. When she turned back, her expression was resigned. She looked up at her secretary.

“I want you to get me a seat on the next flight to Miami. The very next.”

The secretary nodded. “You want me to call Mr. Keats and ask him to have someone meet you?”

“No. Don’t. What I do want you to do is take all my calls and tell them you don’t know where I am or how long I’ll be gone. And that means everyone.”

“Even Mr. Keats?”

“Even him,” Gladys Citron said.

Draper Haere walked down the hotel corridor until he came to the room occupied by Morgan Citron and Velveeta Keats. He knocked at the door. It was opened by a short, chunky black man.

“Who the hell are you?” Haere said.

“I?” the man said. “I am Cecilio. And you?”

Before Haere could reply, Velveeta Keats was at the door. “It’s all right, Cecilio. This is Mr. Haere.” To Haere she said, “Morgan’s not back yet, but come on in.”

Haere entered the room to find that it was occupied by yet another black man, a tall thin one. “This is Jacques,” she said. “He and Cecilio work for my papa and he sent ’em down to, I don’t know, baby-sit, I reckon.” She paused. “They’re Haitian and they speak French a whole lot better’n they do English. You speak French?”

“A few words is all,” Haere said.

“Our English grows,” Cecilio said.

“I can see that,” Haere said and turned to Velveeta Keats. “We’ve got a problem.”

“A problem!” Jacques said. “It is why we are present. Let us make the repairs.”

Haere’s forehead wrinkled with doubt. Cecilio looked hurt. “I can see by your visage you have much doubt. Is it because our skin is black and our English poor but growing?”

“You haven’t heard the problem yet, friend.”

Jacques nodded thoughtfully. “That is true. Tell us.”

Again, Haere looked skeptically at Velveeta Keats, who said, “Papa swears by ’em both, Draper.”

“Okay,” Haere said. “Well, the problem is this: Citron got into a shooting scrape this morning. He was taken to the Presidential Palace. He may still be there. Or he may be in jail. I want to find out where he is and get him out.”

“Was he hurt?” Velveeta Keats asked.

“No. At least I don’t think so.”

“Shooting scrape?” Cecilio said, his tone asking for a translation.

“Bang-bang,” Haere said.

“Aaah. Please. Listen.” Cecilio pointed toward the window. The small-arms fire could be heard quite clearly. It sounded even closer. Cecilio smiled. “Much bang-bang.”

“You know what it’s all about?” Haere asked.

Cecilio nodded. So did Jacques, who said, “La contre-revolution.”

“Is this indeed the same Monsieur Citron who speaks the fine French?” Cecilio asked.

“He speaks French, Spanish, and I don’t know what else,” Haere said.

“English, clearly,” Jacques said and turned to Cecilio. They conferred in their rapid soft Creole-accented French for almost a minute. Their conference over, they turned back to Haere with supremely confident expressions.

“We have experience considerable in such matters, Cecilio and I,” Jacques said. Cecilio nodded. Jacques continued: “Money is essential.”

“Bribes?”

“But of course.”

Haere looked again at Velveeta Keats. She shrugged. “All I know is Papa swears by ’em.”

Haere looked first at the fireplug Cecilio and then at the beanpole Jacques. “And you know Citron?”

“He is our dear friend,” Cecilio said.

Haere started unbuttoning his vest and shirt. When open, they revealed a tan nylon money belt. Haere twisted the belt around until he could untie its ends. He took it off, placed it on the writing table, zipped it open, and counted out $1,000 dollars in $50 bills, which he folded and placed in his pants pocket. He handed the money belt to Jacques. “There’s nine thousand in there,” Haere said. “See what you can do.”

“We are wise spenders,” Jacques said as he caressed the money belt.

Both men started for the door, but stopped when Haere said, “By the way.”

“Yes?”

“How’s your Spanish?”

“Excellent,” Jacques said. “Almost as good as our growing English.”

“Except for a small Cuban accent,” Cecilio said.

“Which we work to correct.”

They went through the door, closing it behind them. Haere turned to Velveeta Keats and noticed the tears running down her cheeks.

“That won’t do any good,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say.

“I can’t help it.”

Haere found a handkerchief and handed it to her. “Here. Blow on that or something.”

She wiped her tears away and blew her nose loudly. “What do we do now?”

“You and me?”

She nodded.

“We go raise hell at the embassy.”

“Will it help Morgan?”

“Probably not.”

She blew her nose again. “Draper?”

“Yes?”

“They wouldn’t shoot Morgan or anything like that, would they?”

“I really don’t know,” he said.

The prison that the young captain and the even younger lieutenant took Morgan Citron to had been built 206 years before on a cliff facing the sea. It was high-walled and damp and smelled of rotting fish and human waste.