Throwing In One More Monkey

For Solomon, the last sight of the evening was seeing a shirtless German tourist sitting in the fading sun eating a huge mound of bacon. The rasher grease had coated both his mouth and face and turned the two intersecting angles into a shiny hinge-to-hole dynamic of pork-fueled perpetual motion. Although the consumptive efficiency was both reminiscent of a human Mercedes and ghoulishly fascinating; he had to look away as he had his own list of problems to reconcile. These weren’t just challenges which resulted from a hot afternoon of power drinking with his Honduran friends, these were conundrums based solely on the human condition and thus, in need of some quiet, contemplative thought. Nothing happens fast in Central America so Solomon felt it was better to imprint one, last sight before losing consciousness.

The trip was supposed to be a quick in and out arrangement but due to several factors and favors outside of his control but he knew it was going to be anything but efficient. The German passengers, always the confirmed devotees of buffets, low-end travel and community satisfactions, stood squarely between him and the resolution of his task. No one said it was going to be easy but he needed to stop staring at the man and his puffy Arian fingers now completely saturated in slightly congealing bacon grease. Although appearing nascent to the uninitiated, Solomon had an idea that this scene had been replaying numerous times over the past decade. The first part of the trip was hard enough but the recent events since landing had added their fair share of color to a plan that was supposed to be far simpler. He was traveling within several large contingents and while their sheer collective volume provided anonymity, their numbers made it hard to accomplish things in the manner he was accustomed.

Solomon Jackson was traveling under an assumed name and Canadian passport as his handlers felt however the quieter he traveled, the better. The ship was an aged cruise liner, flying the flag of Liberia and he had three more days to stay under the literal radar before he could make the next connection of his trip and his friends, including the mysterious Robert Dopp and Morton Wendella. The cruise line choice was, to be kind, modest: using basically mothballed ships of the major carriers and staffing them with borderline felons and disgraced ex-cruise employees, the cost was significantly less but the ability to go completely unnoticed was the big benefit. The amenities and general operations were borderline substandard, as was the collective hygiene and approach to food preparation but if one had to travel with no questions asked (and even less generated interest), he couldn’t argue with the method. This was not a travel group which insisted on complete documentation and an interest in one's personal story. They hoped to get you from A to B without a lot of energy or stress. The liner had a top speed and no matter what the bridge did (or did not do), it was three days to port and he had no worries of needing a tuxedo for dinner.

Solomon avoided group dinners, orientations and carefully chose hard to turn foods which could quickly be gathered up and eaten in the privacy of his single room. He had slipped the housekeeping staff several small cash bribes, depending on their ethnicity, and was left completely alone during the trip. The staff was excited about not cleaning his room and getting a few dollars not to do their job was a nice surprise. The morning crew would drop off a few towels by his door and the afternoon crew would pick up yesterday’s soiled linens without breaking stride. No one cared or had any interest in trying to determine his motives for complete privacy as they had finally experienced the beauty of getting paid directly for their lack of interest and ironically, their lack of interest eliminated an urge to determine why exactly this was happening. They were happy that it was occurring so there was no sense to ask or say anything. The end of this leg of the trip was the season end for many of the ship's crew: they were going home for the next six months and had bulging bags of small currency to show for it.

A long three days later, once he arrived in the destination, he departed the ship as quickly as possible with a hat pulled down over his face and wearing generic apparel devoid of logo and style. In line for main debarkation point, he found himself behind the bacon-eating German and could easily smell the porky piquant of meals long forgotten bubbling through his oily and dilated back pores. The German’s family, which surrounded him as they arrived, enjoyed equal olfactory attributes, thus leaving Solomon the challenge of inhaling body temperature bacon odor while fighting the urge to kill them all and deposit them into the middle of a pack of wild, non-kosher, dogs. The group seemed contend to stand in their own meaty ecosystem and their collective stench wave provided an unplanned but welcome diversion for Solomon to draft behind their self-created peleton and go unnoticed. Once free of both inquiring minds and the cloud of sweaty pork, Solomon quietly hailed a cab by himself and headed into town. He said only the two-word name of the hotel to the driver during the entire trip and once there, paid in cash without a sound. The driver, surprised by the healthy tip, turned to ask Solomon how he wanted his change but the back of the cab was empty and he was no where in sight.

He walked past the check-in desk with a slight nod, the head bellman professionally slipped him his room key. There was no record of his stay or his room; all hotels have a few rooms off the roster for unusual circumstances and Solomon knew that only a few veterans of the hotel would be able to find him, if they wanted but that wasn't going to happen on this trip: it was already arranged the way he wanted. He dropped off his satchel, picked up the phone and dialed a three digit number. Somewhere in the hotel, a voice answered and sincerely welcomed him to his new home country.

Solomon said, "Thank you for your hospitality, I think we should have a drink."

The voice on the other end answered in the affirmative and the call was over. Solomon unpacked his small case, carefully placed a few markers in the room to inform him later if uninvited guests decided to visit him when he was out and took a quick shower. He placed his dirty clothes into a pillow case with a five dollar bill pinned to the opening. He knew that when he returned, his clothes would be cleaned and pressed with no further information required. Within fifteen minutes, in a clean change of clothes, Solomon walked out of the back of the hotel, through an alley and across the street to a non-distinguished bar. He walked to its back room, shut the door and sat down next to a unopened bottle. A moment later as he was neatly pouring himself a drink, another person quietly arrived and sat down next to him. Solomon smiled and said, "I better pour another drink," said Solomon without looking up. "I know how you hate to wait."

"Mais oui," said the new arrival. Both drinks were poured and a clink of the glasses cut the close air with a pleasant but purposeful chime.

The evening’s activities remained somewhat cloudy; he knew that he had spent far too much time with the locals at a friendly bar near the water since they were both awaiting news of their next move. The rest of the team were driving from Costa Rica and would arrive in the next several days, depending on the travel conditions but while waiting for instructions, they dutifully began watching soccer matches highlighting local clubs and falling in with the colorful characters that made up the local clientele. One of the local customs was the fascination with pulque. Solomon had spent a fair amount of his early career in the region and was well versed with this concoction. When he saw the luxan container stewing in the corner, he knew the potential of crossing paths again with this troubling drink but was fairly confident the batch was just for the locals. He also knew the documented pitfalls of local concoctions and they both kept ordering bar pours of rhum Barbancourt while the night flew by without incident. They both avoided the local delicacy: pulque, like tequila, was like having a loaded gun around the house: nothing good would come of it and sooner or later, someone would be dead. A professional drinker and bulletproof from most liquors, this drink had always affected him the same way: poorly. Due mainly to his inability to control his input, he only knew that whether or not he was a victim of circumstances was not germane to the situation as the only thing that mattered was the reclaim the lost hours and finally file the requested story. While he waited for inspiration or instructions, the efforts to sort out the evening continued. While waiting for the next step, he was disappointed with the large chunks of time that did not easily fall into the standard categories of work and play but the newfound friends had a suggestion: sample the local drink and play some dominos. Eventually, things would fall into place.

Seeking a quiet cover, Solomon had sold the concept of being a foreign correspondent many years ago to a regional paper’s old guard who had long since retired. Since business was good and the younger management team stable, no one took the time to review the arrangement and he just made a point of consistently submitting copy on a wide variety of topics with no fear of editing. His name safely ensconced on the masthead as Central American Bureau Chief, he spent the vast majority of his days exploring the region and only out of sheer coincidence found himself a legitimate news opportunity. Luckily, a few kidnappings helped to fill out daily copy but he longed for something substantial and easy to write; something along the line of a coup d’etat or cruise ship disaster. He kept his formal expenses well-documented and small and luckily, the stories usually wrote themselves. Constantly concerned if he was running out of ideas between disasters, this new story seemed to have all the moving pieces of something special and it couldn't have come at a better time considering his growing boredom. With his friend Wendell working some internal issues with the agriculture department, his tasks were straight to the point and far past the planning stage.

The looming story was going to be an in-depth interview with some of the influential and rising stars in the Honduran, Costa Rican and Nicaraguan politics; the new breed of capitalists which saw the huge potential for this sleepy region. Collectively educated in the United States and wired into the entire world, these people were the leaders of tomorrow and the architects of the new order with the countries a living embodiment of a sleepy regulatory environment; lush countryside and governments which that made pre-Castro Cuba appear restrictive. Located nicely in Central America, these countries were going to prosper with the right guidance and this syndicate was the right team to move the region into the big time. He had the opportunity to meet with the new breed of framers and take a journalistic snapshot of their dreams. He knew they had their moments of larceny but this was far too big of a dream to get tainted with some petty theft; the time to act was now as the circumstances for an elegant opportunity were appearing from all sides. He was not the only person putting these pieces together and as such, had to put up with paranoia and related nervousness which comes with becoming the region's latest savior.

By the best estimates mustered within, he would be wearing the same clothes for four days with no wardrobe changes before he switched in the other clothing. Partially to make it a bit harder on anyone following him, it would be a welcome respite to not smell like old ass when this job was completed. He was happy that he had left non-verbal instructions with the maid to get his older clothes laundered because he was in no mood to risk his flexibility to clean up his act. The now-filthy lightweight suit was purchased locally so the cost and functionality were passable but as the thoughts of fabric-based microbes feeding on his cornucopia of toxins were becoming harder and harder to ignore. He was thirty-five years old with only a bag of worn-out clothes to his name and a domestic address which rarely saw him. His paychecks were automatically deposited with his sister as he had no need for the money. The per diems with the paper were generous enough and he lived very nicely when in country but some part of this adventure was getting to him as fatigue was settling in earlier and earlier with each assignment. Unfortunately, this part of Central America was finally being discovered by American and Canadian tourists so the genuine charm of the region was slowly being replaced with a western feel of fake authenticity. The sight of the new waves of Germans did surprise him; the old guard was usually found in friendly parts of Argentina. But even those days were changing as the original settlers (read: Nazis) were now passing away and their children had long since emigrated to the United States or other capitalist centers of the world as no one was ever looking for them. Central America was collectively realizing the importance of the tourist trade and much of the resources and available manpower was focused on building and when it was required, pesky infrastructure. "There are many reasons why the roads are so bad," said his friend Enrique many years ago. "It is because everyone is working on their porches first."

Maybe it was time to come in from the beat, join some legitimate news agency and pound out several thousand words on any one of several plausible topics and finally get some decent sleep. With any luck, his stories could get picked up on the wire and he would enjoy an additional bonus to help offset the last couple of day’s expenditures but he wasn’t holding his breath due to the combination of a hangover and the odd moral influence of actually having to write something that actually happened which could lead to a Pulitzer. He had enough little observations to cobble together a book but he didn't have the energy to shop it so until something changed, he was going to dabble a bit but only grind out copy to keep the noise down and manageable. Rarely did a person have a witness to see the birth of a truly democratic experiment with their own eyes but he couldn't argue with the timing; he wanted a chance to be in the room when the conversation happened. One of the other teammates was also ready to retire; all he was asking for was a cashew farm and the opportunity to completely disappear from the maddening crowd.

When left to his own devices, he could bang out a column or two on a very readable but completely forgettable subject but the apparently necessary requirement of truth usually got in his way. The deadline to submit the column was looming and he could not remember if he had filed recently due to the pulque he was now consuming or the failure of the Central American group to as of yet, make contact. While he didn't jump into the local brew on this occasion, the milky substance had always caused him memory problems and was always a good thing to blame for his memory lapses. The homemade drink of choice for both his friends and sources so he had to make every effort to learn how to defeat, or at least, dull the effects of the drink of collective, local choice. Since the circles he traveled dictated his proximity to both valid stories and medium-level hallucinations due to the peyote derivate, he needed to starting drinking more or less of it, but for the life of him, he had no idea which was the best course of action. Everyone had a family recipe about making this drink and not unlike a bake sale, everyone brought a healthy sample to share but he knew he had to leave the bar and get some rest. Sliding off the stool, he whispered to his friend that it was time for a well-deserved rest and stumbled out of the bar to the friendly confines of his non-existent room, or at least that was the message he was trying to convey.

Solomon returned to his room as was pleased not only to find all his clothes clean, but an identical back-up suit which appeared to be a present from his local tailor. Still staggering from the last tip he received from Solomon last month, the tailor took it upon himself to make an identical suit as a thank-you gift. Solomon laughed at now owning two suits, both identical, but the next thing to do was to pass out and recharge his soul and liver.

Twelve hours later, Solomon awoke with a start. His sleep was so deep that rising out of his stupor took some physical effort to recover. He knew that the first thing to do was to officially wake up and face the day (in this case, it would be better described as getting up and facing the early evening). After an energetic attempt at personal hygiene, Solomon collected his key personal items and headed to the nearby watering hole which satisfied both his drinking and eating needs. His hangover was omnipresent and all futile attempts to mitigate it had fallen pitifully short so he knew the next few hours were going to be somewhat challenging. Putting unrealistic faith in clean shirt and a looming large meal, he headed down to his usual restaurant for some much-needed sustenance. When in town, he ate all his meals there; eventually his patronage was formally recognized and he was invited to the inner circle. The circle was filled with many of Solomon’s new and old friends: a few locals, several ex-pats and a wide range of one-off odd characters and for some reason, Solomon fit in well. As he walked into the bar, the owner, Ernesto, smiled and extended his hand.

“Buenos Dias, Solomon.”

“Good day to you as well, my friend,” said Solomon as he grasped his hand. “I apologize for my recent demeanor and general appearance but the pulque drinking is now officially out of hand. I am officially requesting you deny me any future requests for the drink, no matter the circumstances.” The sebum-colored liquid was the bane of the entire group and the owner knew it and he quietly shook Solomon's hand again and said, "I promise, I will only let you drink the Rhum."

The rest of the group sitting nearby didn’t know why Solomon was spending time in a high-profile meeting place within a low profile area but his personality and behavior showed a person who was extremely talented at killing time and that talent did not go unnoticed or unappreciated. They all knew he didn't waste a lot of time so if they watched Solomon, he might clue them in on his purpose.

“Hola, Solomon!”

“Hola, Enrique. You look well.”

Solomon saw another new friend sitting next to an Australian ex-pat and was deeply involved in an exciting dominos match. They were moving quickly and to the distance viewer, it appeared that they were randomly slamming down and yanking tiles with a furtive but elegant pattern. They both looked up and gave him a wave. His contact from yesterday would appear when it was time so Solomon had to find a way to keep himself entertained until something important happened. And this was just the group to help him with that goal.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Coffee only. It’s early.”

Enrique gave him a knowing look. Although he was looking for any reason to begin imbibing, he poured Solomon a large cup of dark Honduran coffee which was freshly made. There was enough caffeine in the cup to fully engage Solomon’s senses and at least get the conversation started.

"Any news, my friend?” asked Enrique. "Any news from Morton?"

Everyone arriving at the bar knew Solomon was waiting for someone or something and curiosity began to grow. No one knew the gravity of the situation but he was their new friend and they wanted him to continue his adventure. The group was made up of people that were in various levels of their own escapades and it was widely considered polite to allow each of them to do what needed to be done and return to the restaurant with new stories. No one begrudged anyone anything but they expected to be entertained with something when the smoke cleared but if throwing in one more monkey would get this show on the road, they would be happy to up the ante.

Solomon frowned and said, “Nothing yet. If something doesn’t happen soon, I might have to go visit some of your old friends.”

Enrique nodded. Things like deadlines and hard deliverables in Central America were never too dead or too hard; events occurred when they occurred. There was rarely anything one could do to quickly resolve towards success or timely conclusions: it was as it was. A small vibrating chirp interrupted his train of thought. Solomon checked his satellite phone and recognized the familiar phone number on the screen. The interview was hopefully scheduled and he could finally get moving on some real work.

“Solomon here, talk to me.”

“It’s on” said a voice which was obviously Morton Wendella's.

The quality of the message was poor but Solomon smiled, this was what he was waiting for over a week to hear. Finally, he could dry out a bit and delve into a rate opportunity to get on the ground floor of a new government in the making.

“When and where?”

“It looks like they are coming to you. Do you have any suggestions for a place to meet?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“Try to find a quiet place to meet and some local bar which will allow them to relax a bit. These boys are in need of a vacation.”

“I got just the place.”

“Where is it?”

“I am sitting in it right now. It is about a block from my hotel and it has a nice backroom that looks out over a plaza. The place is filled with locals and it might be a perfect place to hide in plain sight. It is called Diego's and they can GPS it if it pleases them.”

“Okay, I will tell them about it but can’t promise anything.”

“Fine with me. I have been waiting to meet with the new framers so I can go anywhere they wish to go, but it is time for the interview. I actually have deadlines.”

The rest of the day, Solomon was content to hang with the locals and drink the strong local coffee. As he was playing dominos, he was composing his questions for the new future leaders of the country. As he played, he paid attention to the general conversation around him. He was a bit of a harmless mystery and no threat to the locals so complaints about the current government were without qualification and Solomon knew better that to call attention to his interest. The issues of unemployment and poverty were common themes but there was no focused desire to change their lives: they just wanted things a bit better for themselves and significantly better for their children. For the longest time, aggressive and non-traditional methods were viewed potentially as a pyrrhic victory but times were getting crazier and something had to be done.

Solomon received a phone call from an intermediary recruited by Wendella. It was nice to have friends with friends.

“They are coming. They will have some bodyguards with them for obvious reasons.”

“Understood. You can contact me when time permits.”

Solomon closed his satellite phone and tossed it into his travel bag. There was no chance of anything happening that day; the folks would show up when it suited them so he had to continue to entertain himself and until the interview was over, nothing stronger than the local coffee.

It was officially evening and after his supper, Solomon decided to get back to his hotel and get some sleep. The call could come at anytime and he could literally anywhere in the country by this time tomorrow so he had to sharpen his game because the whole goal was finally within his reach. He forced himself to fall asleep and was surprised when he woke to the sound of street below and realized that he had been asleep for twelve hours. The amenities in Honduras always left many things to be desired but Solomon was getting on his game face and the odd gecko or rusty water stream was not even noticed.

He had checked his phone and luckily, he had not missed any calls. He tossed it into his pocket and headed downstairs to read the local papers and start scanning the streets for hulking, dark-suited mercenaries. Seeing no one, he took a long pull off the steaming coffee and grabbed the paper. He quickly read the headlines and then quickly scanned the rest of the paper. He heard a rustle during this exercise but incorrectly assumed that the waiter had filled his cup or dropped off his usual order of comida tipica. He finally closed the paper and looked down at his table; all that was there was a huge, sweaty German with a look of baconian disappointment. This day was starting in a direction not currently planned; he, at least, better get another cup of coffee.

The German motioned him over and ordered two drinks. Solomon was not thrilled about the potential of getting drunk with such as large German but thanked him nonetheless. He finished his coffee and began to eye the large drink that sat in front of him. The German was eyeing it as well; his drink was long since finished and the pristine image of the booze-soaked drink was causing his Aryan eyes to fixate on the condensation.

"Please, go ahead," said Solomon. "I just finished my coffee. We will order two more."

The German smiled and grabbed it. Within a few moments, the glass was drained and replaced with two fresh drinks. Solomon took a sip of the drink; the grain alcohol stung his nostrils but he make no expression of discomfort. The German, demonstrating genuine comfort, quickly emptied the glass and finally, said something.

"I understand you want to talk with my friends."

Solomon's neck hair rose; this guy had been following him in plain sight since Miami, leaving decimated buffet tables and exhausted butchers and bartenders in his wake. The size of the man said both resistance and physics were futile so Solomon just smiled and nodded.

"If you want to talk to them, it is on their terms and timetable."

"Understood."

"They are individuals of great importance and due to their role, are always tentative in meeting strangers."

The German's accent caused the word "ten-ta-tive" to sound like three snare drum beats: tinny and percussive but surprisingly lacking aspiration. Solomon did not reaction to the unintended alliteration and just nodded again. Overall, the meal had been satisfactory: his hangover had abated and his new friendship seemed to be growing by the minute.

Solomon smirked internally; he knew these guys from back in the day. He got the gig because of his past relationships and no German, greasy or otherwise, was going to add complication to an-already tricky situation. However, he just needed to get past the Nazi so he just nodded and kept his opinions to himself.

"I understand."

"Good. I will be in contact at some time in the future."

Solomon smirked again, this time outwardly due to the German's obviously stupid phrasing. He had traveled all over the world and was used to the butchering of languages by non-locals but what made him laugh was not the collision of definitions by well-meaning but ignorant people, but the stupid things that were said by people who continually told you that they were intelligent.

"Again, I understand." Solomon nodded slightly and dropped sufficient monies on the table. He was done here and needed to at least begin filing some copy to keep the per diems coming. He wandered over to the bar and noticed that he had luckily timed his arrival to coincide with the after-work crowd. He nodded at Ernesto and grabbed a stool near the corner of the bar. From this vantage point, he could been easily seen from a variety of angles and at the same time, be entertained with the colorful comings and goings of the locals.

"Here is a rum and a coffee," said Ernesto. "I believe your friends are nearby."

Solomon looked up with surprise. He had not said anything and he also knew that Enrique would never divulge any information so that bit of news had to come from the other side. He thanked Ernesto for the coffee and turned to watch two merchants haggling over a recently captured troupe of monkeys. The price per dozen was going back and forth until the buyer waved his hands and said, "Throw in one more monkey and you got yourself a deal."

The two men shook hands and in a moment, the buyer had taken a large cage of monkeys off the back of the truck. Solomon had no idea where they were going and unfortunately didn't care: he still had his story to write.

Ernesto came back with another coffee and while replacing the old cup, whispered, "Your friends are in the back room."

Solomon did not look up and said, "Thank you but what about the German?"

Ernesto smiled and said, "The German is a pig."

"I completely agree," said Solomon as he rose with his new cup of coffee. Ernesto's comment was probably truer than he intended but the symmetry couldn't be ignored. These guys needed a lesson in economics and for the first time in a long time, he was going to get them focused on what their collective countries needed, whether they liked it or not.