Ross Thomas - Missionary Stew

“Yes,” Haere said. “It did.”

“And the two Haitians?”

“They decided to return to Miami.”

“Charming fellows,” the major said. “Can I offer you a ride back to your hotel?”

“No thanks,” Haere said. “I’ll walk.”

The major patted his huge stomach. “I should do that, walk more.” He took out his newly acquired gold Rolex and looked at the time. “You must let your walk take you by the Presidential Palace.”

“Why?”

“Do you like historic occasions?”

“Very much.”

“Then let your walk take you by the palace.”

A crowd of some five to six thousand persons had already formed outside the Presidential Palace by the time Haere reached it. It was a strangely silent crowd whose members spoke to each other, if at all, in whispers. Civilians armed with M-16s and wearing green scarves around their necks had cleared a space in front of the palace gates. The space was in the shape of a squashed horseshoe.

As one of life’s great gawkers, Haere worked his way to the front of the crowd with practiced ease. Something bumped against his thigh. He looked down and with surprise found that he was still carrying Velveeta Keats’s Polaroid.

“You will have something to take a picture of in a minute,” the man next to him murmured.

“What?” Haere said.

“Wait and see.”

The gates swung open and the crowd sighed. The three older civilians, wearing their green neck scarves, came through the gates first. They were followed by Colonel-General Carrasco-Cortes in full dress uniform, his hands bound behind him. Next came the two men who sometimes called themselves John D. Yarn and Richard Tighe. They walked side by side. Their hands were also bound behind them. After Tighe and Yarn came the four young officers: the two majors, the young captain, and the very young lieutenant.

The army officers took over and led the general and the two Americans to the wall. The three prisoners were turned around so that they faced the crowd. The older of the two majors looked back at the oldest civilian, as if for confirmation. The civilian frowned and shook his head. He went over to the three prisoners and moved them down the wall to the exact spot where the late President had been executed. The crowd murmured its appreciation.

There were no speeches. The civilians and the four young officers lined up in a row in front of the general and the two Americans. No more than twenty feet separated the prisoners from their captors. The eyes of the two Americans swept frantically over the crowd, seeking rescue. Yarn’s eyes found Draper Haere.

“For God’s sake, Haere!” It came out of Yarn’s throat half-scream, half-yell.

Haere stared back at him. The four officers and the three civilians raised their weapons.

“Goddamn it, Haere, please!” This time it was indeed a scream.

Haere raised the Polaroid camera, aimed it, and pushed the red button just after the civilians and the officers fired. The camera whirred. The film rolled out. Yarn fell first, and then Tighe. The general, with three bullets in him, continued to stand. He cried, “Long live—” but was unable to complete his last command. He fell back against the wall instead, slid down it into an awkward sitting position, and sat there until he died a few seconds later.

Draper Haere took the film from the camera. He turned and walked away through the still-silent crowd. The film slowly developed. It turned out to be an excellent picture.

Nine days after Thanksgiving, a Saturday, Draper Haere awoke in his enormous room at his usual time of 6:30 A.M. Hubert, the cat, was perched on Haere’s chest, staring at him balefully. The cat was often there when Haere awoke. “Morning,” Haere said. Hubert purred loudly.

Haere pushed Hubert aside, got out of bed, moved to the kitchen, plugged in the Bunn coffeemaker, and headed for the large bathroom. When he came out nine minutes later he was showered, shaved, and dressed in gray slacks, tweed jacket, and blue oxford-cloth shirt, but no tie. It was his Saturday costume and, in Haere’s opinion, almost daringly informal.

After two cups of coffee and three cigarettes, Haere donned a denim apron and cracked two eggs into a pan in which the butter was already sizzling. Just as the eggs were beginning to fry, the downstairs buzzer sounded. Haere went to the intercom, pushed the button, and asked, “Who is it?”

A woman’s voice replied in Spanish, but Haere couldn’t quite understand what she said. He pushed the unlocking button and went back to his eggs. A few seconds later there was a soft knock at the door. Haere went to the door and opened it. There were two of them,neither more than seventeen years old. They were also a little plump and fairly pretty and completely terrified.

“Senor Haere?” one of them said.

Haere nodded. The one who spoke thrust a brown paper sack at him.

“One moment,” Haere said in Spanish, hurried back to his eggs, and flipped them over with a spatula. He returned to the two young women and said, “Please,” indicating that they should come in. They came into the enormous room warily and stared at everything with wonder.

Haere opened the paper sack and took out the spiral notebook. He flipped it open to the first page and read: “Draper: Please pay the bearer (or bearers) $2,000 for this — or more, if you like their looks. Regards, Morgan Citron.”

Haere turned another page and saw that it was written in French. He flipped a few more pages. It was all French. Because of his almost nonexistent French, Haere said, “Shit,” smiled at the two young women, said, “One moment,” in Spanish again, turned, went back into the bathroom, and removed $2,000 from the false bottom in the medicine cabinet. He started out of the bathroom, but stopped, turned back, added another $500, and went to his desk, where he slipped the sheaf of bills into an envelope.

He went over to the two still-terrified young women, bowed slightly, said thank you very much in Spanish, and presented the envelope to the plainer of the pair. She looked inside the envelope and giggled. She showed it to her friend. The friend also giggled. Draper Haere smiled, went to the door, and opened it. The two young women started through it, but the prettier of the two grasped Haere’s hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed it. Haere told them to go with God. They went quickly down the stairs, giggling all the way. Haere closed the door and smelled his eggs burning.

He hurried over to them, dumped them down the garbage disposal, lit another cigarette, picked up the kitchen wall phone, and dialed a number. On the fifth ring, Governor-Elect Baldwin Veatch himself answered with a sleepy, muttered hello.

“This is Draper, Baldy. Let me talk to Louise. I’ve got something of an emergency.”

“Aw, Christ, Draper. Hold on.”

A moment later Louise Veatch came on the line. “Well?”

“Citron came through,” Haere said.

There was a brief silence and then Louise Veatch said very softly, “No shit.”

“I need you,” Haere said.

“Give me an hour,” she said. “It might take two.”

“All right,” Haere said, hung up, turned, and put some more butter into the pan.

The downstairs buzzer rang again as Haere was washing the last of his breakfast dishes. Again, he went to the intercom, pressed the button, and said, “Yes?”

A man’s voice said over the speaker, “This is MacAdoo, Mr. Haere. We met down in Houston. At the airport.”

“Woodrow Wilson’s kin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What d’you want?”

“Five minutes of your time. That’s all.”

“That’s all you’ll get,” Haere said and pressed the unlocking buzzer.