The Second Bat Guano War Part 17

I said, "I do."

"Don't be like that."

I shook my head. The fist twitched and fell, limp in the ocean. Pitt looked at the blue sky above us, the departing clouds, the sun burning down on our heads. Back at the house, a thin stream of smoke rose from the patio.

"I need this favor, Horse. Please."

I lay on the sand as Lynn had done the night before. The waves curled around me, digging me deeper into a sandy grave. I closed my eyes, let the sun burn my white skin.

I said, "So be it."

ELEVEN.

f.u.c.k it, I thought, and slammed my way through the front door to Hak Po's factory. Either I would win my freedom, as Pitt had promised, or I could look forward to the agony of torture and a slow death at the hands of an enraged Chinese spy. A win-win.

So why was I so nervous?

The bell jangled against the gla.s.s door. There was no one behind the counter. Piles of cast-iron skillets lay stacked around the shop, covered in dust. Hak Po manufactured three sizes of skillet. I picked up a small one, the size to fry an egg with, and hefted it in my hand. If things went wrong, it could serve as a weapon.

Voices from the back. They came closer, talking in Spanish. Hak Po's accent, thick and juicy. I put the frying pan down, kept my hands behind my back. I fingered the b.u.t.ton attached to my right cuff. Tried to look bored.

"Always a pleasure," boomed a familiar voice, and when Major Villega entered the front of the shop, I knew Pitt had advised me well.

Get there early, he'd said. Catch Villega in the act. Get yourself out from under his thumb. Get him under yours. Hah!

"Hak Po!" I bowed my head.

"It is Horse!" The Chinaman shuffled out from behind Villega.

His ear hair had grown since I'd last seen him, inches of curly black luxury, thicker than the hair on his scalp. I had thought him sixty or seventy until Pitt showed me his birth certificate.

Forty-two years old. Too much of the sniff-snort, you know?

Only ten more years and I'd look the same. I could hardly wait.

Hak Po floated across the room in his black slippers. "So please see you!"

"So please see you too," I said.

He took my hand, squinted at me. "We both please see us."

I looked over his shoulder at Villega. "I see you've met my favorite student."

An open yellow mouth, a contorted O. "You two know each other?"

Villega cleared his throat. "Horse teaches English. Very good teacher."

Still I held Hak Po's now-limp hand in mine. "You should take my cla.s.ses too, Hak. Then you can butcher two languages instead of just one."

Hak Po looked back at Villega, then at me. "Friends hard find this town. You two good each other, no?"

I slapped Hak Po on his slight shoulders. "We very good each other. No you worry."

Villega walked to the door. I stepped in front of him, put a palm on his chest. I said, "See you in cla.s.s tomorrow, old friend?"

I patted his left breast with my right hand, flicked the corner of the manila envelope that protruded from his uniform.

Villega's face narrowed in a leathery orange crease. A cloud of liquor fumes engulfed me. "Of course. Old friend. Tomorrow. So good to see you."

"Don't forget your homework!" I called after him, but the door tinkled, and he was gone.

Hak Po bustled past me, shut and locked the door. He flipped the sign to Cerrado. I looked at my watch. Five-thirty.

"You know cop?" he asked.

I shrugged. "He keeps me out of jail."

"Me too. Nice cop."

"Yes," I said. "Very nice cop."

Hak Po glided back behind the counter and the little-used cash register. I followed. He led me along the back corridor into the factory. The workers had gone home, leaving the great cauldrons of liquid iron, stamping presses to cool in the chill Lima air.

He led me toward his office. The spittle-coated floor would be perfect for losing the b.u.t.ton without him realizing, I thought.

This time, though, he walked past his office, continued down the narrow hallway to another door.

"Where're we going?" I asked.

"Special place I show," he said, fitting a key in the door. "Where I cook."

I raised my eyebrows. "You cook?"

He held the door open for me. The smells of half a dozen recipes lingered in the air. Cast-iron skillets full of food cooled on the countertops. Cornbread peeked over the edge of a black skillet. A blackberry crumble overflowed from another. A stack of pancakes towered next to the stove. There were omelettes, fried steaks and sausages, even a skilletful of stir-fried broccoli.

"Gotta tell you, Hak. Don't know where you put it all."

Hak Po locked the door. "I like taste. Little bit everything. You hungry?" He fanned his mouth with his fingers, the Latino gesture for "eat." I looked again at the skillets, the piles of food. Each had a small scoop missing from one side.

"No," I said, as he picked up a plate. "You bring Villega here, too?"

He frowned, stabbed a sausage with a long fork, nudged it onto a plate with a dirty finger. "He pig. No feed pig."

Black cabinets lined the walls. The room had no windows, and the only way out was the way we came in. Hak Po had put the keys in his front-left trouser pocket. I adjusted myself in my pants. I could overpower him, take the keys, but if this were a trap, there would be others waiting outside.

"What's wrong with your office?" I asked.

"Insect trouble."

"Insects?" My throat felt raw.

"Bugs." He slapped a scoop of blackberry crumble next to the sausage. "You too skinny. Need eat."

"No hungry." I squeezed his elbow. "I didn't come here to eat, or talk about your c.o.c.kroach problem."

"Food first. Business later."

I yanked the plate away from him. "Business now."

He scooped broccoli onto my plate, clattered a fork on top of everything. "You eat. Understand?"

Hak Po had a reputation. Quiet as a mouse, treat you right. Pleasant businessman. Ferocious haggler, but nothing personal. Business is business. Just don't cross him. I had never seen him angry before. Now his eyes narrowed, his breathing increased in speed. He was not in a good mood.

But then again, neither was I.

I flung the plate on the floor. It shattered. "I don't want your food, Hak," I said. "You know what I'm here for, so quit your f.u.c.king games!"

Hak Po glared at me for a moment. Then he turned back to the kitchen counter. Round one to the Horse. He plucked a meat cleaver from a wooden cutting board, unwound intestines from a nearby pot. He chopped the tripe into thin rings.

"How your friend, Horse?" he asked.

I looked at the tripe on the chopping board, trying to identify the animal. I hoped it was cow.

"What friend? Villega?"

"No. Gringo. One came with before."

"Pitt?" I snorted. "He's not my friend. Not anymore."

"This Pitt," he said quietly. "Now him I remember. Think long. Hard. Tell me, what he do you no like?"

Alarm bells rang. How much did he know? How much did he suspect? I found refuge in the truth.

"He's an a.s.shole," I said. "Let's put it that way. And what do you care, anyway? You're a seller. I'm a buyer. We do business. We do good business. What is going on?"

"Why should something be going on?" He raised his voice, as though talking to an unseen audience.

I sighed. "Hak. Dude. You got the c.o.ke or not?"

"Oh, c.o.ke," he said loudly. "Sure, I get you c.o.ke." He skated in his slippers across the tile floor, and took a gla.s.s bottle from the fridge. He popped the top off, held it out to me.

A Coca-Cola.

I took the bottle. Looked at it. Smelled it. Took a swig. It was soda, nothing more. I held it out at arm's length and let it drop. It smashed open in a spray of secret formula.

Hak Po shook his head and tsk-tsk'ed. "Terrible insect problem." The meat cleaver dripped intestinal juices onto the floor, mingled with the soda suds. "Lots of bugs."

Round two to the Horse.

"Well then." I put my hand on the doork.n.o.b. If he wanted to play games, so could I. "I better go. Let me out of here, will you?"

"Before you go, perhaps you like some sugar in your tea?"

"My tea?"

"I know how much you like your tea."

"Yes," I said. "Of...course. My tea."

Hak Po buried the meat cleaver deep in the grain of the chopping board. He wiped his hands on his ap.r.o.n, reached up to a top shelf. He brought down a large plastic bag. He held it out, presenting it to his unseen viewers. The label declared it to be ORO DE LAS INCAS AZuCAR.

"Perhaps you like try first," he said. "See how sweet?"

I grinned. "Little bit of sugar makes the world go around."

He gave me the bag. "Hold by corner."

"Why?" I said, but complied, pinching the bag between thumb and forefinger. Hak Po fetched the meat cleaver. Before I could protest, he slashed the meat cleaver sideways, severing a plastic corner of the bag, taking part of one of my fingernails with him.

I fumbled to hold on to the bag. He grabbed my belt and unzipped my fly. I backed away by instinct, but stopped when I felt my horsie resting along the edge of a very cold and very sharp meat cleaver.

Round three to the Chinaman.

"I ask you question now, Horse," he said, looking me in the eye. "You answer true."

I swallowed. "I answer true."

"Friend Pitt spy. America spy. You know this?"

I nodded.

"So why you come here today?"

I opened my mouth. The knife twitched.

"Think careful before you say."

I was risking my c.o.c.k-for what? "To buy cocaine. Careful!"

A drop of blood ran down into my pants.