Moondogs - Alexander Yates [43]
Efrem eyes the piece. Truth was a sixshooter, single-action army, name inlaid in gold along the cylinder, big enough to bludgeon, barrel long enough to parry and thrust in a swordfight, if you ever got into one, which Reynato did, in Ocampo Justice XIII, which he won, handily. But this gun is as regular as it gets, not even custom like Efrem’s Tingin. He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Does this one have a name?”
“Sure does. Call it Glock.”
Brig Yapha and Charlie laugh some more, and Efrem looks away, feeling foolish.
AROUND MIDDAY THEY STOP at a cleared hill overlooking a banana grove. Succulent leaves and trunks extend below like chop on a small green sea. A stream runs some hundred meters north, and on its bank sits a large but only partially constructed house. Smoke rises from a tin chimney on the east wing, and Efrem sees food being prepared through an open kitchen window. The brigadier general and Charlie dismount, looking old as they rub their backs and knees. Reynato leaps out, opens the door for Efrem and helps him down, as though he needs help down. “You hungry?” he asks, not pausing for an answer. “I’m starving! Down we go.”
The four descend the shallow, sunny crest, following a narrow path into a forest of banana trees laden with harvest-ready fruit. Charlie plucks one from a low-hanging bushel and eats loudly. It seems that Efrem’s unexpected presence and the magically outsized murder he’s just witnessed have left the actor-turned-politician a little off-balance, but nonetheless he tries to play the happy, confident host. The Fuentes family has owned this land since Spanish times, he says. They maintain the road and lease out water rights from their stream. His cousin started to build this house under pretense of supervising the harvest, but he almost never comes down and when he does it’s to hunt hornbills and macaques with shotguns or to impress his eco-cred on touristic white girlfriends.
The house looms large as they emerge from the trees. Smoke coils in still air above the chimney, hardly rising. They hear water rush over stones out back, the musical sound of pots and voices from the kitchen. The building isn’t near finished; unused hardwood beams protrude from half-frames, looking like ship-ribs from some wreck dashed into the jungle by a tidal wave. Those parts that are complete are the sole survivors of calamity—not first progress. Charlie tosses his peel into a waste bin by the front door, sinking a swish. “Here we are,” he says. “You’re welcome … all of you.”
Efrem steps toward the house but stops in his tracks. Something is wrong. He turns and sees them. Three men hide among the overgrown banana, staring at him. Reynato must know they’re there as well, because he smiles and presses a finger to his lips. He shapes his hand into a pistol and points it at the trees. Pulling his thumb back like a steel hammer, he fires and mimes recoil. “Ka-Pow,” he whispers.
A maid with straight hair and a light blue uniform comes to the door. She’s seventeen maybe, no older. Charlie asks if lunch is ready and she nods, stepping aside and inviting them in with skinny arm and open palm. Charlie and Brig Yapha enter, brushing her as they pass. Reynato lingers on the lawn with Efrem, looking amused. The spies in the trees don’t know they’ve been discovered. One sits among rotting leaves, cradling a bushel of green bananas in his arms. He slices the fruits lengthwise with a kitchen knife and eats them, peels and all. Another, barefoot and nude save for a pair of tattered basketball shorts, stands slim against a trunk. The third, looking gnarled and old, squats behind a log. Life in the jungle, life in the army, have made Efrem suspicious of those who would watch him. He raises his custom Tingin.
“Easy, Mohammed,” Reynato says, putting his hand over the muzzle. “They won’t give you any trouble. At least not the shooting kind of trouble.” He turns back to the trees and yells, his voice rebounding and doubling against the shallow hill. “Fuckers! Lunch!”