clear him. It’s clear they are embarrassed and angry; not something I want them to feel. I thought it would be done more subtly; I was wrong.
I find my excitement about getting back into the Game is becoming entwined with my feelings for Maria. I don’t want it influencing in any way my desire to keep her safe.
After a hiatus of a few weeks, the group starts to meet again, now at El Vaquero Contento, a little deeper into the barrio; safer from the police. Things settle into the old routine, but with a few differences. I notice that there is usually someone outside my building when I come out after work; he wears the same suit and sunglasses I’d seen before; a government thug. He tails me; I’m sure Maria has this attachment as well.
It’s raining by the time I reach her apartment after a night at the cantina. I walk her to her door using my suit coat as an umbrella. I feel the warmth of her body against mine; it excites me. I kiss her on the cheek; say goodnight. As I run back to my car, I catch something out of the corner of my eye, but it doesn’t register, just bothers me subconsciously. I drive away. The farther I get away from her apartment, the more uncomfortable I get; something’s wrong. I turn around.
As I pull up, two men run out Maria’s building and jump into a black car; it speeds off, screeching, burning rubber. My hearts leaps into my throat. It was the black car that I saw in my peripheral vision earlier. I run up the steps to number 3; the door is ajar. My heart is racing; I feel sick.
I rush through the door in a panic.
“Maria? Maria?”
She’s lying on the floor, a red stain spreading slowly across her blouse; a red pool growing on the floor next to her.
I start screaming, “No! No! No…” as I kneel next to her. I gently place my arm behind her head. “Maria, please don’t leave me. Oh, God, please don’t leave. Please don’t die.”
Tears are streaming down my face. I cushion her head in the crook of my arm and look into her deep, pretty eyes; there’s life in them. I place my hand over the two holes in her chest in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. Blood is oozing from her mouth; running down her copper cheeks to disappear into her dark hair. Little red bubbles form on her lips as she exhales. She tries to say something; a gurgling, a gush of blood.
“Please don’t leave me, Maria.” Someone’s standing at the door. “Get an ambulance,” I yell at the top of my voice.
“Please don’t leave me, I love you so much. I can’t live without you.”
She lifts her head every so slightly to look through my eyes, right into my broken heart. My tears land on her cheek to mingle with her blood. A faint smile forms on her lips and fades; her beautiful eyes go blank; a last exhale. I pull her to my chest and start crying and moaning; rocking back and forth. “No, no, no…” The pain is too great; it is unbearable. My world has ceased to exist. What am I to do? What am I to do?
My memories of what happened next are as if I was watching from somewhere else. I see the medics trying to get her body from my grasp and finally having to give me shots of opiates to knock me out. I finally release her and pass out. The pain lessens, slightly.
I wake up in the hospital, and the memory rushes back. I vomit violently. The nurse rushes to my bedside. I tell her I want my clothes. She starts to argue then looks into my face and points to a locker. I dress in clothes covered in blood; I throw my hospital smock over me. A taxi takes me home.
The next couple days are filled with vague, spotty memories, days of drinking, of anger, of crying. I only regain my composure when Esteban drops by to tell me the time and location of the funeral.
I clean up and dress for the funeral. It’s an open coffin; I refuse to look. How she looked is burned into my mind for all time; I don’t want to see whatever that is in the coffin. I don’t want confirmation that she is really dead. I give my condolences to her family and talk with her friends, but I can’t stand to be there. When the ceremony is over, I meet with the priest and tell him I want fresh flowers every week on the grave. I ask him to say a prayer and light a candle for her every Sunday. I give him a wad of cash and tell him I will send more periodically. He nods in agreement.
I head straight to the US embassy after the funeral; hurting, angry. The receptionist tells me the Mr. Brooker is not there. I tell her unless I get to see him now I will make a very bad scene. As she starts to call security, Jason walks up. “Let’s go to my office.”
No handshakes this time. We’re seated in our respective chairs. I start, “I suppose you know about the murder of a girl, not 10 blocks from here.”
“Yes, I know. I also know you were with her when she died.”
In a flat, unemotional voice I say, “Her name was Maria Isabel Mendez. I want to know who killed her and why; then I want them punished.”
“Do you REALLY want to know?”
“Yes.”
“The who’s pretty easy. Two paramilitary thugs probably working for General Gomez went to her apartment and shot her to death.”
The words hurt me like jabs to my heart; to hear the mention of her murder, said so casually, was very hard. I maintained my emotionless expression.
“The why is pretty straightforward as well. She was killed because of YOU. The Government wants you to go home. The ruling junta wants you out of their fucking country. You embarrassed their government. You turned the world’s spotlight on them, and cockroaches like them don’t like spotlights. And you embarrassed the United States because these cockroaches are our cockroaches.”
I listened; remained calm. I let him keep talking, giving him more rope.
“You apparently have some friends in high places, so they couldn’t touch you, but your whore they could touch. They figured the easiest way to do that was to kill her, then there would be nothing holding you here. If you had listened to me, she would probably still be alive.”
This hurt because it had some truth to it. Apparently Jason had only done a cursory investigation as to who I am. I’d thought he was CIA; now I had my doubts. Even the ‘friends in high places’ didn’t pique his curiosity. He had no idea who he was dealing with. I had overestimated him.
“No one’s going on trial for this, this government doesn’t want a trial nor does our government. It’s the life of one unfortunate girl, and you’re a voice it the wilderness. My guess is that if you don’t leave, they’ll charge you with her murder and make it stick.”
This was a blatant lie. There’s no way they could charge me.
“Now go home and leave this to the experts.”
I raise my voice slightly to give the impression of outrage. “Expert my ass. I know more about this country and its people from the ten months I’ve been here than you’ll ever know. All you do is make sure this government kowtows to what the US wants: cheap resources and labor. You couldn’t care less how this government treats its own people. You’re no better than the thugs you call cockroaches, maybe even worse, because you’re doing it to put money in the pockets of the rich. I think you knew they were going to kill Maria. Hell, you may have even suggested it.” Jason’s eyes blink.
“You know something, I don’t give a crap what you think of me or my policies. Either you get out of this country or you will be indicted for murdering that whore of yours. Now get the hell out of my office.”
I leave his office. It had gone off as I had anticipated. I’d wanted to give him one more chance; I needed to know if he had been involved in the murder. Now I knew; he had at least known in advance and may have actually been an instigator. Either way his fate was sealed.
Since the CIA was the successor to the OSS, I had a lot of friends and contacts in the CIA; I began contacting those I thought could help. It only takes a week before I begin getting information from both my in-country and US contacts. It’s what I require to set things in motion.
After I have the names of the two men who pulled the trigger in the murder, I contact Esteban in person and discuss what I
need from him and when to meet two days hence. I don’t tell him specifically what I plan to do.
On the appointed night, Esteban drives up in a Rambler that is barely holding together. He’s stolen it from somewhere I don’t want to know. I’m dress in rundown native garb with a hat to cover my face and gloves; Esteban is dressed similarly. We get in and head to the first man’s apartment. It’s in a middle class neighborhood consisting of large concrete apartment complexes; some of which cover an entire block. Esteban parks in a dark area away from the scattered streetlights. When we get to the 3rd story apartment, I pick the lock. The door opens into the living room; I use a penlight to find our way around the scattered mess. I knew the man was not married and lives alone. He’s asleep. I hit him with my blackjack at the base of his neck.
When he wakes, he is naked, tied to a chair setting in the middle of a plastic tarp. I calmly tell him why I’m here and show him the straight razor; the gag mutes his screaming. I use techniques I’d learned in the war for getting information from German soldiers and collaborators, but this time I’m not looking for info. I already know what I need to know. Memories rush back; I remember now that I had actually enjoyed doing this; have a talent for it. It’s a full hour before the man dies from blood loss. Esteban, looking very green, helps me wrap the body in the tarp