Christopher Buckley - Wet Work

"Indians!" he gasped. "We're under attack by Indians!"

"Yeah," Charley said. "That can be a problem down here."

"Jesus. Indians."

"There's an airfield. Come on."

He moved slowly, turning continuous 360-degree circles like a tank turret, an Uzi in each arm, grenades dangling from the web gear on his chest.

The light was dim and the air-raid sirens made it impossible to hear movements. He fired bursts into every bush, any quivering leaf or vine. Chunchos. Were they playing a game with him?

"Eladio," he called out above the siren roar. "Don't be a coward. Show yourself."

He kept toward the airfield, reaching to the edge of the number-three pozo, the only one the gringo hadn't destroyed with his super-plastique. He heard something in the bushes to his left and opened fire.

"You hit?"

"No," said Charley.

"Where'd it come from?"

"I don't know."

"Keep your head down. Listen."

They heard, "Eladio? Eladio!" Diatri saw the look come into the old man's face. He started to crawl toward the voice. Diatri gripped his leg. Charley snarled, "Leggo my leg."

He was certain of it. There was something in there. He kept firing into the bush.

Diatri crawled after the old man, bullets cutting through the bush just above their heads, leaves falling around them.

He pulled the pin and tossed the grenade.

It landed next to the old man and just in front of Diatri. Diatri grabbed it and threw it. It bounced off a nearby liana vine and exploded.

The DEA gringo was knocked out, perhaps dead. His face was black and bleeding. The old man was stunned but was still gripping a submachine gun and looking up at him fiercely, trying to get to his knees. He let him get part of the way up before kicking the gun out of his hands. He aimed the Uzi at the old man's chest and was about to pull the trigger when he felt something sting the side of his face, like a wasp. In the next instant his legs went out from under him and he fell.

He could breathe. But he could not move. Eladio's face came into his vision, above him, then the girl's. He tried to speak to the girl, to explain, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed. It was, they used, he tried to remain calm, it was just a tree resin they rubbed on their darts when they hunted monkeys. The drug relaxed their muscles and made them fall to the ground. It would wear off.

Then he was being picked up and carried. Yes, good. Thank you. He was in the air-no, please, not that-he tried to scream but nothing came.

He looked and saw the billonario watching him from the edge of the pit. Please, help. He began to sink. He felt the most terrible burning in his eyes and tried to shut them but he couldn't. He tried to close his mouth, but it came in, rushing over his teeth in a scalding, tidal surge as the idol of Pachacamac gripped him by the throat and dragged him down into suffocating blackness.

Diatri felt something on his face, a woman's hands. They were smearing something on him, something greasy but very good, very soothing, very cool. He heard a voice through the blur. "Frank," it said. "You're going to be all right."

"My… face, I can't…"

"You're going to be all right. There's a real pretty nurse here with you. She's fixing you up. I'm going to give you a shot now, Frank."

Nurse? He tried to make the blur settle but it was like looking through moving water. He thought he saw breasts. He wanted to touch them, but then a warm river was flowing into him and he felt very relaxed. He was dimly conscious of being carried, of being placed in a comfortable chair, of hearing strange voices- kurinku pataa! -of a door shutting, of engines starting, of gravity forcing him back into his seat, of climbing and climbing, of a voice that kept saying, "It's all right, Frank, you're with me now, I'm taking you home."

"So your thinking is-"

" The thinking, Dick. This isn't, this is, what I'm trying to say, do you see what I'm trying to say, Dick?"

"I, yeah, I, I-"

"There's no case, after all."

"Well-"

"Well, what? DEA's guy has disappeared."

"We think he's dead. I mean, what else would he be?"

"Good. I mean, I didn't mean it that way."

"Of course not."

"He was, I gather he was pretty good."

"Apparently. Yes. Anyway, without him there's really no, I mean, I suppose we could reconstruct the case… but as you say, the thinking is-"

"The thinking is, there's a heck of a lot else to do. We're in a war here, Dick."

"Absolutely."

"The Noriega trial thing is going to be, well, it's going to be…"

"I understand, John."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"That's good, Dick."

"How do you, how do you want us to handle the boat situation?"

"I thought that might be better coming from Jim's shop. It's more of a State thing."

"Right. Right."

"American citizen goes on, on a vacation and he's attacked by drug people and his people are killed and, and it's, it's a terrible thing."

"Right."

"It's a question of spin, really."

"Yeah, it has to have the right spin."

"Jim's people are good at spinning."

"Oh yeah. I was thinking, actually this could be a win situation for us, war-on-drugs-wise."

"If it was spun right."

"Sure. Absolutely."

"Hell of a thing, Dick."

" Hell of a thing, John."

"Frank?"

Diatri's head jerked up out of his sleep. His chair was pulled up next to the old man's bed. The dawn was coming through the French windows, a soft blue light full of the gossip of nuthatches, thrushes and blackbirds, with a screech of cock pheasant. The LED display on the IV stand gleamed brightly. Diatri saw with embarrassment that his hand was resting on top of the old man's. He pulled it away.

"Yes, boss."

"The priest, is he gone?"

"Yeah, he's gone."

"Shut that thing off, would you?"

Diatri reached over and clicked off the IV. "You feeling better?"

"Frank, he gave me absolution."

Diatri shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

"Well, it wasn't just any confession."

"You want some water or something?"

"The way he was looking at me, it was like he didn't believe me."

"I think I'm going to have some water. It's, with confessions it's basically, as I understand it, it's the intention. That's all that really matters."

"That's right, Frank. I feel better."

"That's good, boss."

Charley stared at the Baudelaire "Absinthe Drinker." "I'm going to give that to the museum, Frank. I'm awful fond of it, but it's-I'm going to give it to the museum."

"How about some water?" Diatri reached for the pitcher on the nightstand next to the photo of Tasha and Margaret.

"I'd like a whiskey. Let's us both have a whiskey."

Diatri laughed. "Okay." He poured out a couple of brown fingers and gave the glass to Charley. The old man's hand was weak, but he held it himself. He raised the glass. "To Tasha and Felix."

"To Tasha and Felix," said Diatri.