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"Excellento."
"Nope, not excellento. I still don't see it, and I already told you this meal has gotten expensive."
"It's simple. I think Segura is putting his dope money back into military equipment for the Contras in Nicaragua. It explains these other guys. The Israelis supplied arms to Somoza for years and they still sell to right-wing guys like Pinochet in Chile. From what we know about Buffalo Bob, who almost pinched your head off at the shoulders, he's cowboyed for the CIA down on the Honduran border when he wasn't mixing up his phallus with an M-16, and I'll bet Philip Murphy is the tie-in to some arms contractors and military people here in the States. There's nothing new or unusual about it. It's the same kind of unholy trinity we had working for us down in Cuba. Look, why do you think the CIA tried to use some Chicago wiseguys to whack Castro? The mob had a vested interest. They got along very well with Batista, then Castro shut down all their casinos."
"How did you get onto this current stuff?"
"We had our eye on a paramilitary training camp in Florida and one in Mississippi, then Buffalo Bob left a submachine gun in a Biloxi bus locker. We could have picked him up, but instead we let him keep ricocheting off the walls for a while. Philip Murphy showed up and it got a lot more interesting."
He paused a minute, then looked me flatly in the face again with those washed-out blue eyes that seemed to be immune to both protocol and insult.
"Have you ever had to dust anyone?" he said.
"Maybe."
"Be straight."
"Twice."
"How'd you feel about it?"
"They dealt the play."
"The next time you see Murphy or Buffalo Bob and Erik, they're going to take you out. You know that, don't you?"
"You said you're an up-front guy. Let me tell you a couple of my own meditations. I don't think you're an upfront guy."
"Oh?"
"I don't think you want me out," I said. "I think you want a partner. I've already got one. He's paid by the city, just like I am."
"You're a pretty slick cop."
"I don't like somebody trying to use me."
"I can't blame you. There's something I didn't tell you. The American priest that was killed in Guatemala was a friend of mine. Our government is into some real bullshit down there, buddy, but everybody who works for the government isn't necessarily on the same team. Some of us still believe in the old rules."
"Good for you. But if you're into the Boy Scout Manual, don't try to run a game on another cop."
"Nobody's asking you to sign a loyalty oath. What are you so afraid of?"
"You're genuinely starting to piss me off," I said.
"I didn't write this script. You got into it on your own. I'll tell you something else, too: you're not going to walk out of it easily. I guarantee it. Guys like Segura and Murphy are just functionary jackoffs for much bigger people. Here's another question for you, too, Mr. Clean. What were you thinking about while you were oiling your guns out on your boat deck? Maybe blowing bone and cartilage all over Buffalo Bob's walls?"
"I think with luck I can still make the fifth race."
"I'll drive you back."
"Don't worry about it. The city's got a tab with Yellow Cab."
"Take this card. My motel's number is on it."
"I believe my phone is still out of order. See you around," I said, and walked out of the courtyard onto Louisiana Avenue. Some black children roared past me on roller skates, and heat lightning flickered above the huge oak trees across the street.
I called Annie from the pay phone to try to save part of the evening, but no one was home. It started to rain and I waited a half hour under a leaky awning for my cab to arrive. I made a quiet resolution about accepting invitations from federal employees.
But, as Fitzpatrick had said, I'd written my own script, and the next morning I continued to write it, only with some disastrous consequences that made me wonder if my alcoholic, self-destructive incubus was not alive and well.
