Angels in Heaven

We then secured Joaquín’s remaining free limbs, after which I
stood up and panted for a moment, then found my mercifully undamaged specs and
put them back on.
    “Those shits,” said Billy. He gave
them both a hefty kick with his new footware; I can’t say I blamed him. Then I
thought, Oh, Christ, Doris. I ran the few steps to her office. She was
stretched out on the floor beside the desk. A small pool of blood was forming
on the carpet under her head.
    “Sara!” I knelt down beside her. She
was still breathing, but she was out cold. I turned her head gently, took off
her wig, and discovered that the blood was seeping from an inch-long gash on
the back of her head; it didn’t look too bad. Thank God for the stupid wig,
which gave her some protection.
    I grabbed a handful of tissues from
the dainty dispenser on her desk and pressed it tightly to the wound. Her color
looked all right and her skin wasn’t clammy. I took her pulse and that seemed
OK too. There was quite a lot of blood about, but even minor head wounds tend
to bleed a lot, I reminded myself.
    Benny appeared beside me.
    “How is she?”
    “I think she’s just knocked out,” I
said. “We’ll have to wait and see if there’s anything else like a concussion.
God knows how it happened. I’ll stay with her for a bit, you guys better start
packing it up.”
    I remained there on the floor with
her head on my lap. Benny retrieved my suitcase from out back, and he and Billy
began cleaning house. After a minute I pillowed Doris’s head on my suitcoat and
went in to help. We packed up every FBI connection or suggestion thereof—all
the photos and mementos and then every bit of paper with writing on it from all
three desks, both filing cabinets, and the wastepaper baskets. At one point the
sergeant, who was lying in a corner, face to the wall, started stealthily
shifting his position; Billy went over and gave him another solid kick. The
shifting ceased. The lieutenant, lying in the opposite corner, wisely made no
move at all. Perhaps he was twitching his mustache under the tape.
    Billy had an idea; he took off their
boots to lessen the amount of noise they could make drumming their heels on the
floor trying to attract attention. I cut both phone lines to stop the boys
using them to call for help if they did get free and to stop them knocking one
over and making strange noises into it if they didn’t.
    With the three of us working at it,
we had the whole place clean and tidy in something like five minutes. I took
one last look around, made a final check of our prisoners’ bonds, then said,
“Benny, tell the sarge quietly in one cauliflower ear that one of us is waiting
in the front office for a phone call that could take half an hour and that if
he moves during that time, the next kick he gets will be in the coconuts, or
whatever the expression is down here.”
    Benny told him.
    Then I said, “Benny. Tell the
lieutenant quietly in one ear that one of us has to wait in this office for half
an hour for a phone call, so no getting clever or else. Tell him too that if we
do make it safely to the airstrip, he’ll get his money anyhow.”
    Benny told him. Then me and Benny
lugged the lieutenant into Doris’s office.
    “Fat chance,” Billy whispered to me
when we came back.
    I grinned and gave him a big hug. He
held on tight for a moment.
    “Thanks, Vic,” he said, his voice
muffled.
    “Ah, hell,” I said. “You can do the
same for me sometime.” I gave him a couple of friendly pats. I figured it
wasn’t exactly the appropriate time to bring up the delicate subject of, quote,
money no object, unquote, so I went back and checked up on Doris instead. She
was still out but breathing normally, and her skin tone was still good.
    “I’m going to have to carry her,” I
told Benny, “so you better bring the car as close to the back door as you can.
We’ll give you a couple of minutes head start.”
    “I go, amigo,” he said.
    “Good luck,” I said.
    He went, taking the suitcase with
him.
    Billy said, “Vic, whatever happens, I
won’t forget about all this. I’ll make it up to you somehow.” He winced and
grabbed the wrist of his injured hand. “Jesus, that hurts. But now I can do
that old joke for real. You know, the one where a guy in a bar holds up two
fingers and a thumb and says, ‘What’s that?’ ”
    “It’s a guy who works in a sawmill
ordering five beers,” I said. “You lost two fingers?”
    “Yeah, working in the jute