Night of the Jaguar by Joe Gannon Read Free Book Online Page B

guerre stuck to you like grafted skin. Joaquin had been born in Mexico and moved to Nicaragua as a child—a mirror image of Ajax, who’d been conceived in Nicaragua and born in the States. Joaquin was one of the oldest living founders of the Sandinista Front. In 1969, Joaquin had marched in with a squad of men to give the oath when Horacio had put Ajax up for full membership. Ajax smiled to remember how solemnly he had taken the vow—“Patria Libre o Morir!”—Free country or death. He’d even memorized a little verse from Nicaragua’s national saint, the poet Rubén Darío, to consecrate the moment. But before he’d opened his mouth to recite, Joaquin had cuffed him upside the head. “Don’t fuck up, chico. I don’t want to have walked all this way for nothing.” And the veterans had gone off laughing to scrape together a meal. Por nada, for nothing, had instantly become Ajax’s nickname.
    That was the first time he’d seen El Mejicano. The last time was two years ago when Ajax had awoken in a hospital bed after wrapping his Lada around a palm tree. Like most drunks, he had an uncanny ability to survive wrecks less damaged than his car. El Mejicano had been in his room—the old comandante still looked after his boys. Ajax had pretended to be out, and watched him a while. Joaquin’s face had seemed blank, eyes half-closed, the stupefied look all the old veterans had developed whiling away countless hours of waiting—for food, ammunition, battle, victory, death.
    When Ajax had finally “come to” though, so had Joaquin. He’d pitched Ajax’s things around the room, the bloody uniform, his battered shoes. When he’d found the Python, Joaquin pulled it from its holster, shucked five bullets out, spun the chamber with the sixth still in, and stuck the pistol into Ajax’s hand. You wanna gamble with your life, Spooky, play for real. Stop wrecking the Revo’s cars!
    That one bullet was still in the Python.
    A breeze off Lake Managua snaked through the warren of the barrio, rustled the black flags hung for a hero, and lifted the black trash bags covering the corpse at Ajax’s feet. It was “his” corpse now.
    Ajax watched the crowd. Girls held hands to their mouths and whispered to each other. Boys talked excitedly and pushed each other toward the body, inciting the usual dares.
    But Ajax ignored the children. At least the excited ones. He was looking for the quiet kid. The one standing apart, observing, watching with interested eyes. The cadaver was still fresh, no decomposition but just enough stiffness in the joints to make Ajax think it was maybe twelve hours dead. If the perp was local, he’d not be hanging around. But if something bad had gone down at home last night, if an adult had brought guilt into the house, then one of these kids might be wearing a worried look. It took a few minutes, but Ajax spotted him. A skinny, gangly boy with a shaved head, hanging back behind the adults. The only one watching Ajax more than the corpse. Ajax signaled to one of the traffic cops who’d called it in.
    â€œCompa,” he said to the man, turning his back to the kid. “Look over my shoulder. You see the boy at the back of the crowd with the shaved head? I need to talk to him. Go up to the road and circle around behind. Bring him here.”
    The traffic cop walked off, just as Gladys emerged from the crowd.
    â€œAny luck?”
    â€œNo one knows him. No one reports anyone missing.”
    â€œDidn’t think they would. He’s not local.”
    â€œBut you wanted me to ask anyway?”
    â€œCanvassing’s always a good idea. Show the flag. Let ’em know we’re on the job, that we care. Come on, time to see.”
    He walked her down to the corpse. The body lay facedown in the muck, still dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, shoeless, beltless, one limp black sock half off the right