The Lord of Opium(118)

“Let the man rest,” interrupted Dr. Rivas. “Please overlook her questions, mi patrón. She chatters like a tree full of birds, and half the time she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“That’s not true!” cried the little girl. “I’m smart. I can recite the names of planets and the twenty biggest stars in the sky. I can dissect a rabbit, or could if Dr. Rivas would let me.”

“Now is not the time,” said the doctor, pulling her away roughly. Glass Eye slumped in his chair, and the nurse came forward again with a glass of liquid.

“We will conduct more business tomorrow,” Happy Man announced. “The drug lord is tired.” He went to the door, but Glass Eye wasn’t finished.

“Tomorrow,” he said heavily. “I will see you tomorrow, Baby Patrón. And then you will open the border for me.”

Never, thought Matt as they were led away.





47





HAPPY MAN GOES HUNTING




Why did Dr. Rivas call Mr. African the patrón? Aren’t you the patrón?” asked Listen when they had returned to the room.

“He’s not called Mr. African. His name is Glass Eye Dabengwa, and he’s trying to take over the country.”

Boris and Samson had settled by the door, this time with two cigarettes. The visit to their boss had unnerved them so much that they were trying to get high as soon as possible. They puffed vigorously until a smoke alarm on the wall went off. Samson bashed it with his fist until it stopped.

“I guess Glass Eye got in when the Bug opened the border,” said Listen.

Matt sat up. “You knew about that?”

“Dr. Rivas said they were going to do it. He told the Bug they were going to the Scorpion Star, and oh boy, was he happy about it. He said he was going to aim a big missile at the nursery and blow me up.”

Matt sighed inwardly. He kept trying to feel sorry for El Bicho, but it was difficult. “I closed the border again. That’s why there aren’t more bad guys.”

“So are you the patrón or not?”

“We’re still arguing about it.”

Matt, in spite of the desperate situation, knew he had a few things in his favor. Glass Eye had few allies in the country, and Cienfuegos, if he was still alive, would make sure that number went down. As for opening the border, no one except Matt could do it. Dabengwa could rage and threaten all he liked, but he couldn’t kill his only chance of escape.

But as the day dragged on, some of Matt’s optimism seeped away. Nothing said that Glass Eye couldn’t torture him until he gave in. How much pain could he endure? He thought of various things Glass Eye could do and listed them on a scale of one to ten. You think too much, complained El Patrón.

Matt and Listen were sitting on the floor with the evening food trays on their laps. Beef stew and polenta again. Listen had developed a dislike for polenta almost equal to her hatred of mushrooms. She flicked bits of it on the wall to see if it would stick.

“Stop that. If you don’t like it, give it to Boris.”

“I want to see if he’ll eat it off the wall,” the little girl said. Matt got up, took the tray away, and dumped the remaining polenta on Boris’s tray.

“There! Finish the stew,” he said, replacing it on her lap.

“I miss Mbongeni,” she said. “And I miss Fidelito and Sor Artemesia and Cienfuegos, too.” Her mouth turned down, and she looked dangerously close to crying. “There sure are a lot of people missing.”

“They aren’t missing. They know exactly where they are,” Matt said. He watched her eat and then tucked her into bed. “Try to sleep,” he said. He shone the flashlight Tam Lin had given him on the wall and made shadow animals with his hands. Celia had done that for him when he was small. He did a rabbit, a goose, a coyote, and an eagle.

Boris came over and hunkered down. He’d learned a few English words and used one of them now. “Lullaby?” he offered.

“Nyet,” said Matt.

Boris continued looking at the little girl. “Glass Eye bad,” he announced.

“You can say that again,” said Matt. The Russian twisted his hands as though he were snapping something in two. Then he shook his head.

“What does that mean?” said Listen after the Russian had gone back to his post.

“It means he’d like to kill Dabengwa but can’t. He’s controlled by a microchip.”

“It was nice of him to think of it,” said the little girl, snuggling into the covers.

“Being here isn’t nearly as bad as when I was thrown into the chicken litter,” Matt said. “I was alone except for Rosa, my caretaker. She hated me. All I had to play with were cockroaches. But a dove used to come through the window and visit me.”