“How old was the man you shot?”

“Old enough to die for freedom.”

“Whose freedom?” Dick Nichols said. “My daughter says we’re on the wrong side in Nicaragua and have been for seventy-five years.”

Dagoberto said, “Twenty-first June, 1979, the ABC journalist was killed by a Guardsman in Managua and everyone in the entire fucking world saw it on film. That should never have happen, but it did and is the reason some people don’t like us. Ninth July the Sandinistas took León. Estelí on sixteenth July, the same day they overran the garrison at Jinotepe. I was looking at an M-16 in my face, refusing to close my eyes, and Somoza is flying to Miami with his family and his chiefs of staff and the coffins of his father and his brother. Leaving us to die.”

Dick Nichols watched the Nicaraguan glance at his friend from Miami.

“Just as he left the family of Crispin to die, on their coffee estate, taking the Guards away from there. Anastasio Somoza Debayle, the Supreme Ruler and Commander of the Guard, Inspired and Illustrious Leader, Savior of the Republic… Do you want some more of his titles? How do you think of a son of a fucking whore who left us to die?”

Dick Nichols watched him.

Boy, a little Chivas could stir the man up. Dick Nichols watched him raise his drink, throw his head back to take a macho gulp, and knock over a couple of empty wine glasses putting the drink down again. While his buddy remained impassive. Maybe he was stoned. But now Crispin’s dead expression belonged to a man born of coffee money and had everything handed to him. Dick Nichols would bet Crispy had swung with a sizable amount, now invested in some Miami venture. Wasn’t that interesting?

It got even more interesting when Dagoberto said, “I returned to Nicaragua to fight the war. But I’ll tell you something, Dick, you can understand. You say the business of America is business…”

“I did?”

“You know it if you don’t say it. Okay, is the same with me. What I do is not in the name of nationalism or Somocismo, an allegiance to a dead man. What I do is a matter of economics. I want what you want. And what’s good for you, Dick, is good for me.”

Wally Scales followed Dagoberto into the Men’s room, watched the way the colonel weaved standing at the urinal and had to flatten one hand against the wall to steady himself. Close behind him, Wally Scales said, “You feel somebody breathing down your neck?… Hey, watch where you’re aiming.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come with intelligence of grave importance.” Wally Scales stepped up to the next urinal, not liking the colonel’s glazed look one bit. “You okay?”

“I feel better when I do this. Oh, man.” The colonel shivered, jerking his shoulders.

“You find out about your girl friend?”

“The hell with her. I’m not going to worry about the leprosy.”

“I wouldn’t. I’d worry more about raging social diseases, if you’re gonna entertain French Quarter whores. Or I’d worry about a guy breathing Bushmill down my neck. That’s what they drink over in Ireland. They love it, booze and Guinness stout, that dark stuff. You smell either one in your room you know he’s been in there again. Well, we were in his room, too; he’s staying in your hotel. Found his burglar tools but no gun-unless he packs it. Though I doubt that, being a visitor with an iffy passport. You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Shake it but don’t break it. Hey, you’re pissing on your shoes… There you go. Now wash your hands.”

The little Nicaraguan, with his glassy eyes and gigolo mustache, zipped up and pushed off the wall to the washbasin.

Wally Scales said, “You don’t know it but you have an IRA agent on your ass, a Provo living in the same hotel. Checked in through New Orleans Immigration from Shannon by way of Managua, the provisional IRA’s great circle route; stop off to visit with comrades, the Micks now sleeping with the Latin Marxists. Why not? Jerry Boylan would take Khaddafi in his mouth for a rocket launcher. Five years in Long Kesh, the Ulster slam, flies down to the tropics for R and R and what have you, and now makes his appearance in New Orleans. Ask him, he’ll tell you to address Holy Name Societies, raise a few quid for the Sinn Fein and the unification of bloody Ireland. But he follows you all over and goes in your room when you’re out to dinner. Now, what do you suppose he wants, outside of all the freedom dollars you’re raising?”

Dagoberto splashed his face with water, rubbed it hard with a towel, but didn’t look much better than before.

“This guy is irlandés?”

“Irlandés negro-black Irish and full of bullshit. You can hear him across the room telling stories to bartenders. It’s his cover. No one with that big a mouth could be an agent.”

“What will you do with him?”

Wally Scales said, “Not what will I do with him. I have three weeks coming I’m gonna spend at Hilton Head, get out of this goddamn humidity and not do a thing but feel proud of myself, how I’m playing a vital role in the manifest destiny of my country. That have a ring to it? In any given situation I can exercise a flexible response, up to a point. But something like this, I think it comes under your taking up arms against an oppressive government and its agents. I have nothing to lose but a little self-esteem if you fuck up; and I can handle that, it’s a temporary loss. You, on the other hand, stand to blow your mission and lose everything.”

Dagoberto listened, squinting, till he threw the towel in the basin and fire came into his bloodshot eyes.

“Goddamn, you say something to me, say it!”

“His name’s Gerald Boylan and he’s in 305.”

“You want me to neutralize him?”

Wally Scales put his hand on Dagoberto’s shoulder. “Did you hear me say that? No, that would be unacceptable for me to say that. You must’ve heard somebody else say it.”

Clovis, Dick Nichols’s driver, walked away from the white stretch limo to where the dude in the dark suit was standing across the street by the edge of the cemetery. The dude had stood by the black Chrysler Fifth Avenue without moving and finally had gone over by the cemetery entrance and stood there without moving, up the street from the restaurant. The dude was good at standing without moving. Clovis said, “How you doing?”

The dude nodded at him; sort of nodded. Close up he looked like a light-skinned brother with a little Chinese or something in him. Strange-looking dude, Chink with nappy hair.

“Gets tiresome, huh?”

The dude didn’t say if he thought it was tiresome or not, standing here like a cemetery statue. Clovis turned to the restaurant, a big old mansion of a place with striped awnings in front and neon lights up around the roof.

“Place look like a boat to you?… Oh, is that right? Yeah, it looks like a boat to me, uh-huh.” Clovis turned to the dude and said, “My name’s Clovis. I believe the man you work for, one of those two guys or both that got out of that Chrysler, are with the man I work for.” Clovis waited a moment, looking at the dude standing like death at the iron-grilled entrance to where dead people lay. “You speakah English? You don’t, it’s cool. But if you speakah English, then I want to know what you have up your ass prevents you from opening your fucking mouth. You understand what I’m saying to you?”

Franklin de Dios smiled.

Clovis said, “Well, hey, shit. The man come to life.”

Franklin de Dios nodded and said, “I learn English from the time I was born, but I don’t use it much or hear it until last year. The people I work for don’t use it.”

“You from Nicaragua.”

“Yes, from there. I learn Spanish, but I learn English first, at home and also at the school.”

“Wait now. You telling me you from down there, but you didn’t learn Spanish when you a baby?”

“No, they make us learn it. I’m Miskito. You understand? Indian. The Sandinistas make us learn Spanish, but I learn English first.”