Angels in Heaven

for some prying journalist to uncover some
day? Perhaps you would like us to all have our photos taken at the handing-over
ceremony. Perhaps you would like to have a plaque affixed to the Ping-Pong
table reading Donated by the Organization.”
    Benny looked suitably chastened. I
wondered if I wasn’t overdoing it slightly; it was remotely possible. Joaquín
hid his amusement by stroking his dapper lip adornment. I hid my satisfaction
by glaring at Benny again. We had Joaquín, no doubt about that; we had one
fascinated dandy sitting in front of us already spending his millions.
    There remained little more to
discuss. Could the lieutenant devise some dire emergency that would allow him
(and Billy) to leave the jail briefly while the commandante was also
away, because one would not like to risk the commandante 's ire (or,
possibly, his desire to be cut in) by trying to sneak off while he was there
and getting caught. A dire emergency could and would be arranged; for that much dinero Joaquín could have probably arranged the return of the Great
Plague. Could he arrange for Mr. Brown to appear clean and as smart as
possible, in civilian clothes and without handcuffs, as we naturally wanted to
maintain our Cultural Association cover as much as possible, which would be
difficult to do if a manacled skeleton in prison rags showed up in a Black
Maria surrounded by a half a dozen armed guards.
    Easiest thing in the world, the
lieutenant assured us. Clothes would be provided. A closed sedan-type vehicle
was available—as I knew, I’d already seen it. And one guard plus himself and
his driver would be more than enough.
    “I hope so,” I said worriedly. “I’d
hate to be responsible for a dangerous criminal attempting to escape.”
    “Dangerous?” Joaquín laughed. “Mr.
Brown couldn’t run ten meters without stopping twice for a rest and once for an
injection of anabolic steroids. And where would he go, anyway? He has no
contacts, no money, no forewarning of his visit here, and thus no time to plan
anything. I do not believe we have to worry overmuch about any attempted
escape, señor.”
    I looked relieved. We set the meeting
for the following afternoon, at three o’clock. We shook hands with great
amiability. I pressed on him a pamphlet, one printed in both Spanish and
English, describing the origins of our association. He kissed Doris’s hand
again with considerable style and strutted out, Benny accompanying him to the
elevator and then down to the lobby and out to his Jeep just to prevent any
encounters with Fred or lingering at the notice board.
    As soon as I’d closed the door behind
them and their footsteps had died away, I grabbed Doris.
    “Doris,” I said, “prepare to get
those attractive glasses of yours fogged up, because I am going to give you a
kiss Yankee style.” I looked deep into her eyes, murmured, ‘Ay, que linda,' bent over, and gave her a good smack.
    She made a big production of
pretending to go weak at the knees. When she recovered, she said, “What does
that mean, anyway?”
    “Who knows?” I said airily. “I think
it’s got something to do with Linda Lovelace, but if it’s good enough for ol’
smoothie, it’s good enough for V. Daniel.”
     
     
     

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
    When Benny returned a few minutes
later, we celebrated all over again.
    “Oh, did we hook him,” he said,
grabbing Doris and twirling her around. “Did we hook him, Sara, or did we hook
him?”
    “We hooked him,” she said
breathlessly, one hand holding on to her peruke. “At least I think we hooked
him. From what I could see, we hooked him, but as Doris the dopey secretary, I
was out here, wasn’t I? while you guys were in there having all the fun.”
    “Darlin’ doubtin’ Doris,” I said,
“hooked isn’t the word. Hooked, gaffed, netted, and then strung up by the feet
having his picture taken isn’t even the word. Look at it from his point of
view. One. According to the pamphlet I gave him, the U.S. Cul. Ass. has been in
business for fifteen years. Let him check if he wants. Who cares? It’s true.
Two. As far as he is concerned, we are the U.S. Cul. Ass. We have a plaque out
front. We have one on the door. We look like a Cul. Ass.”
    “No thanks to you,” said Doris.
    “Doris, if I was in this merely for
thanks, I’d be a pretty low type of individual,” I said. “Three. We have an
address and a phone number, which both check out, and how could they be faked?”
    “That bloody Ethel