The fear merchant, p.1
The Fear Merchant, page 1
Everyone wants to lay hands on Captain Gringo in Nicaragua! In this revolution-wracked land where the man with guns is king and those who grovel before him conspire behind his back, no one can be trusted. But ruler and rebel alike want the guns Captain Gringo’s running-if only to keep the other side from getting them.
With his eyes wide open and his Maxim at the ready the Captain is primed for action: in the bed of a Chinese girl whose eyes are startling grey at the challenge of a general who has only one eye, at the silent command to murder in the cold gaze of a high-born lady, at the demand for love in the hot, savage stare of an Indian girl. For no one can fight and no one can love like Captain Gringo.
CONTENTS
One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four
Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight
Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve
Thirteen ~ Fourteen ~ Fifteen
Sixteen ~ Seventeen ~ Eighteen
Nineteen
Copyright ~ About the Author
Books in the Series
About Piccadilly Publishing
Chapter One
It was raining that evening in Granada. It had rained since they’d arrived and Captain Gringo was no longer grateful. He was wet. The tall blond North American nursed his third drink as he sat under the rusty corrugated iron awning of a sidewalk cantina and waited. He wasn’t waiting for the rain to stop. Apparently it never stopped raining in Nicaragua. He was waiting for his sidekick, Gaston. The sly little Frenchman was overdue. Captain Gringo didn’t know if Gaston had been drowned by the tropical deluge, picked up by the cops, or had pulled a double cross. The odds on the last two were about even.
Captain Gringo and his fellow soldier of fortune had blessed the rains as they’d run a boatload of guns and ammo up the treacherous San Juan and across Lake Nicaragua through the silvery veils of the rainy season. But the steam yacht was well hidden in a swampy jungle cove, Captain Gringo’s boots squished when he moved his toes, and enough was enough.
The Creole waitress came out of the dry interior of the cantina with a rose in her hair and a puzzled smile on her lips as she asked, “Does El Señor intend to sit out here much longer?”
Captain Gringo smiled back at her and replied, “I told you I’m waiting for a friend. Do you intend to close soon?”
The girl shook her head and said, “La Cantina is open until midnight. But it is very wet out here, no?”
“It is very wet out here, yes. But there are half a dozen cantinas fronting on the plaza and my friend and I are new in town. I only told him I’d wait at one of them.”
“Ah, I understand. Do you and the other Americano both work for El Commodore?”
Captain Gringo frowned down at his half empty glass as he evaded her question by asking one of his own. He said, “Commodore Vanderbilt’s been dead a few years. How come everyone in Nicaragua acts as if he’s still running things down here?”
The girl shrugged and replied, “Jesus has been dead for some time, too, but he still runs the heavens, no?”
“I follow your drift. This glass is almost dead, too. Do you suppose I could get a little more rum and a little less fruit juice in its reincarnation?”
The Creole girl laughed and took the glass as he drained it. Captain Gringo watched her as she went back inside. The view from the rear made up for the gold tooth in the front. Girls down here didn’t cover up as much as they had in the States and those off-the-shoulder blouses and mid-calf peasant skirts gave a man a better grasp on what he was about to get into.
“As you were, Soldier!” he reminded himself. He and Gaston had agreed, when they ditched the two whores they’d stolen along with the boatload of arms, that neither would chase chippies until they found a buyer for their cargo and were out of this weird little country.
Gaston had explained the political situation in Nicaragua to him, or, at any rate, had tried to. Nicaragua was a little hard to grasp, even for a banana republic.
Captain Gringo had read Machiavelli and been through a few revolutions since escaping from that army guardhouse north of the border, but he’d begged off trying to savvy what was going on in Nicaragua after Gaston had repeated it twice. In a country where the Liberal
Revolutionary Party was in control and the National Conservative Party was the rebel cause, the smart move would be to take the money and vamoose.
But where was that fucking Gaston with the fucking money?
Could the rebels he’d gone to contact have double-crossed them?
Not likely. Gaston tended to be the double-crosser, not the double-crossee. If there was one thing he knew about the little legion vet, it was that nobody would ever get a boatload of guns, or even a hazy idea of where it might be, until Gaston was safe on home plate with cold cash counted under a strong light.
That left the cops. In addition to the military police, the government of Nicaragua had the dangerous help of hired American private dicks working for them. Or rather, they had the help of private dicks working for the American railroading and shipping companies that owned most of the place. That was a bigger book to think about. If Gaston had been picked up, he’d talk. Gaston was a survivor, not a hero. Next to taking the money and running, the smartest move for a wanted man with a price on his head might be to run without the money.
The waitress came back with his drink and put it on the table, letting him have a preview down the front of her cotton blouse. He figured she knew what she was doing. Why she was doing it was only slightly less obvious. Business was slow in the rainy season and gringos enjoyed a mythical reputation for foolish habits, with unlimited funds.
He thanked the girl but left the drink untasted as he fished out a damp pack of cigarettes. Having bounced her knockers at him, the girl put her hands on her hips and stood with her pelvis aimed at him, as if she was waiting for something.
Captain Gringo took a box of wax matches from his pocket and scratched one on the dry underside of the table. He’d never really understood why they dipped match sticks in wax down here until the last few days. The match lit on the second try and guttered fitfully until he’d lit up.
Other lights were winking on around the plaza as the night grew darker. Like most towns this far south, Granada came more fully alive at night. Usually, this was because of the hot sultry afternoons, when nobody with any sense moved more than he or she could help it. He supposed habits were hard to break. Even though the whole town was damp and chill as a dishrag, day and night, at this time of the year, La Siesta, like the late Commodore Vanderbilt, had a life of its own that had nothing to do with the facts of life.
He wondered if the locals would ignore the downpour to stage the nightly paseo he’d noticed in most Hispanic communities larger than a roadside market. The waitress was at it already, but it seemed doubtful the other señoritas would be out in force, tonight, to circle the plaza fluttering their fans.
He didn’t want her there when and if Gaston hove into view. So he asked her when she got off work. As he’d expected, this sent her off with a blush and flutter. The rites of paseo called for a slower approach on the part of the male. She’d have to run inside and tell the other girls all about it before she came back for another nibble at the bait.
Somewhere a church bell was tolling the time. Captain Gringo started counting, but before he found out what time it was the bell was drowned out by a horrendous thunder clap, and a solid sheet of water rained down as if a wave had broken over the rooftops.
Captain Gringo muttered, “Shit!” as a stream of cold water found a leak in the awning and slithered down his back like a toad. He rose with glass in hand to move inside. He’d told Gaston he’d meet him there, not drown there!
But he stopped as he saw a small poncho clad figure dashing his way through the rain. He was about to ask Gaston where he’d gotten the big straw sombrero.
Then the newcomer ducked under the awning and he saw it wasn’t Gaston, or even a he.
The woman in the soggy poncho and sombrero said, “¡Nombre de Dios! It is raining!”
Captain Gringo said, “I noticed.” Then, since he saw the newcomer was sitting down at the table, he resumed his own wet seat. The pounding on the awning above them seemed to fade as quickly as it had begun although it was still raining cats and dogs.
The woman said, “You may call me Tina. Are you Dick Walker?”
Captain Gringo answered, “You may call me wet, for now. Who’s this Walker fellow you’re talking about?”
The woman across the table peered at him from under the brim of her rain soaked hat and Captain Gringo could see her face, albeit dimly. Tina didn’t need bright lights to tell the world she was beautiful. He couldn’t tell if she was really oriental or if she was that Spanish-Indian mixture that even Latin Americans call “Chino.”
She said, “You are Dick Walker. Everyone knows Captain Gringo is a tall blond Americano with a cocked eyebrow.”
Captain Gringo made a mental note to keep his eyebrows level. There wasn’t much he could do about his size and the last time he’d dyed his hair the results had been disastrous. He smiled thinly and asked, “Who’s everybody?”
She sighed and said, “This is becoming banal. I go through this every time I have to contact one of you filibusteros and it wastes a lot of time. Where is Gaston Verrier? They told me both of you would be here.”
He started to ask who Gaston was. But she was right. Whoever she was, they were past the opening moves. He said, “You still owe me some cards. You know what I’m doing here. Any pretty lady could be called Tina. W ho sent you to contact us?”
“The Conservatives, of course.”
“Meaning the rebels?”
“Naturally, the Liberals won the last revolution, with American guns. Gaston told us he had a boatload of new Yanqui weapons in their original packing cases. Before we could get down to, how you say, tacks of brass, the alarm was given. Everyone scattered. But Gaston told Lopez he’d be here with you, tonight.”
Captain Gringo’s face was impassive as he said, “I’ll order you a drink and we’ll wait and see if anyone named Gaston shows up.”
Tina shook her head and answered, “Don’t call the waitress. I don’t want my face remembered here in Granada. Not in connection with yours, at any rate. Are you by any chance related to the William Walker who once took this country over, back in the days when I was a child?”
Captain Gringo shook his own head and said, “No, I was a baby, too, when old Bill Walker got himself shot playing Napoleon in these parts. We’re not related. From the little I know of my namesake, he was a southerner. I’m from Connecticut.”
“People in Nicaragua remember the name of Walker with mixed emotions. Many will think you are the son of William Walker. It is not a common Spanish name.”
Captain Gringo blew a thoughtful smoke ring and said, “Let’s not bruit it about, then. Tell me some more about this meeting that Gaston had to leave in such a hurry.”
Tina shrugged and said, “I wasn’t there. As I understand it, your friend was discussing price and delivery when word came that the place of the meeting had been betrayed to the Liberals and that government troops were closing in. I don’t think the Liberals know about his intentions of meeting you here. He only spoke to Lopez as he was about to leap a garden wall.”
. Captain Gringo stared through the fain at the dimly lit arcade across the plaza as he asked, “Who’s Lopez and how do you know he can be trusted?”
Tina looked startled. Then she smiled and answered, “If we can’t trust Lopez, we may as well knuckle under to the government and El Coloso Del Norte! Marin Lopez is the rebel leader, here in Granada.”
Captain Gringo didn’t answer as he stared hard at a quartet of moving figures across the plaza. They were moving methodically under the overhang and he doubted if they were on a_ paseo in search of a pretty señorita. As they passed a well-lit window he saw the color of their khaki caps and uniforms!
He swore softly and placed a damp banknote under his half empty glass on the table. Then he stood and said, “They got either Lopez or Gaston, then. Whoever it was must have held out under torture for a while.”
Tina leaped to her feet as if her chair had just bit her. She gasped, “Madre de Dios! We must run!”
He reached out a hand to steady her and, since the shapeless poncho offered a blurred target, he grabbed a breast instead of the arm he’d been aiming for. He shifted his grip and warned, “Steady. Never run when you can walk. They can’t see us just yet. There’s a blank wall behind us.”
“Perhaps. But they are circling the plaza and...”
“And we walk, not run, to the nearest exit. Give me that hat. From across the way, a tall hombre in a sombrero and a short hombre in a poncho may not seem all that interesting.”
Without waiting to be offered the straw hat, he lifted it from her head and placed it on his own as he half led, half dragged her away from the cantina.
The others were moving clockwise around the plaza, so Captain Gringo did the same, keeping the distance at a draw as he watched for a slot to duck through. The rain soaked them to the skin before they’d made the shelter of another arcade and Tina sobbed, “They are gaining on us! I think they’ve seen us!”
“Don’t look back!” he snapped, adding, “That’s a sure give away. Those soldados are making a methodical sweep. They won’t dash madly after everyone they see in a populated town. They’re just going to move along the shops and cantinas until somebody bolts and makes it easy for them.”
“Then, as long as we just keep ahead of them ...”
“Wrong. Ten to one they have a less obvious team staked out up ahead or drifting counterclockwise. This isn’t the first time I’ve played this particular game.”
They reached the end of an arcaded stucco building and he suddenly yanked her sideways into the narrow space between it and the church next door, saying, “Here we go. Thank God for casual architects.”
The gap between opposing stucco walls was so narrow that even the’ smaller girl had to move sideways. The muddy surface under them was littered with fallen tiles, broken glass, and at least one dead cat. It seemed to take a million years, but at last they reached the end and found themselves in a slightly wider alley running the same way as the plaza behind them. Tina took a deep breath and asked, “Which way, now?”
He said, “Both are bad. Never walk out of an alley at either end, if you can avoid it. Do you have a place in town we can hide?”
“Of course. But it’s blocks away and … what do you mean about not leaving this alley? There is no shelter and we are getting soaked!”
He laughed and said, “Honey, we’re not getting soaked. I didn’t say we weren’t leaving. I said we can’t leave by either exit. The houses backing on this alley all have walls. Let’s look for one that has a garden within reasonable range of the next street over.”
As he led her along the almost pitch black alley, she protested, “The walls are high, and every one of them is sure to have broken glass set in the mortar along the top.”
He said, “I know. You folks down here sure are suspicious of your neighbors.”
He found a gate opening into the alley. It was locked, of course, but he peered through the gaps in the planking and said, “Perfect. The house on the other side has a service archway leading out to the street. We can get across the garden and be on our way without disturbing anyone.”
Tina said, “The wall is three meters high, and I told you about the broken glass up there!”
He said, “I know. Take off your poncho. I’ll fold it double, toss it over the top and ...”
“No! I can’t take off my poncho!”
He said, “Sure you can,” and started to lift it away from her. Then, as he stared down in the dim light, he added, “Do you always go out naked under a poncho?”
She half pulled away as she stammered, “I was in bed when they sent the message to contact you. They said it was most important and not to waste time, so ...”
“Yeah, and we’re wasting the hell out of it. Give me the God damned poncho. It’s too dark to matter and those cops will be boiling through the slot we found any minute!”
Protesting weakly, she helped him remove the thick wet wool and he tried to be a gentleman as a flash of distant lightning gave him a momentary peek at her small shapely body. He threw the folded wool up over the wall, holding one end, and, as she’d promised, he felt the gritty scrape of broken bottle glass against the wet cloth.
He said, “Here. I’ll boost you up,” as he bent and made a stirrup for her with his interlocked fingers. Tina gingerly raised a wet nude knee, placed her zapata-clad foot in his hands, and leaned her bared breasts against his wet shoulder as she braced one hand against the wall. She said, “I’ll try,” and he grunted, “Now,” as he lifted.
Tina grabbed for the top, got a firm hold, but seemed to be having trouble hauling herself up and over. So Captain Gringo placed a hand on each of her slippery wet buttocks and shoved. She made a strangled sound midway between surprise and pleasure as one of his thumbs slipped and entered her to the knuckle. And then she was astride the wall, gasping, “¡Madre de Dios! I shall never be able to face you in the light again!”
He didn’t answer. He reached for the sky, sprang a foot or so off the ground, and caught the top of the wall as he braced a foot against it. He felt a glass shard snap, albeit safely, under the thick wool as he joined her atop the wall.
He reached out and took her hands, gripping them firmly above the wrists as he said, “Grab my wrists, too. I’ll lower you.”
“Naked, in a stranger’s garden?”
“Screw the modesty, Girl. We’ve got to get out of here!”
She moved her fingers as he directed, still muttering dumb things about her nudity, and then he lowered her onto the far side, where she cowered behind a clump of oleander until he’d dropped down off the wall with her poncho.
