Read Online Night of the Jaguar by Joe Gannon - Free Book Online

Now the belt, Ernesto.”
    Ajax scribbled in his notepad. “You know where the Cine Cabrera is, where they show the films?”
    â€œYou sending us to the movies?”
    â€œFrom the Cine Cabrera you walk two blocks toward the lake and three toward sunset. There’s a white house with four palm trees in front. You hear? It’s run by foreigners. They help orphans.”
    Ernesto stood in front of his three siblings like a mother rat, ready for all comers. “We’re not orphans!”
    â€œNo? Then where’s your father?”
    â€œI don’t fucking know.”
    â€œYour mother?”
    â€œWhere is mama, Nesty?” The little girl tugged on Ernesto’s T-shirt.
    â€œYou know where she is, Claribel.” He shot Ajax a look. “She went north and when she’s got a job she’ll send for us and we’ll all go live in Texas.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Ajax said, echoing the boy’s story. “But until then”—he thrust the paper into Ernesto’s pocket—“you go to this house. It’s not an orphanage. They won’t separate you. It’s run by foreigners.” Ajax rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “They got resources. You ask for a Nicaraguan named Marlene. Give her this note. Tell her I sent you. Ajax Montoya. They’ll help you out.”
    Ernesto eyed Ajax like he was a dirty old man with a bag of candy.
    â€œJust trust me on this kid, right?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    Ajax gave the doll to the little girl and shook Ernesto’s hand. His little siblings lined up to do the same. Ajax watched them file off like ducklings into the maze of ramshackle homes. Ernesto turned back. “You didn’t say what yours is.”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour noom de whatever.”
    â€œNom de guerre.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIn the mountains, fighting Somoza, they called me Ernesto. Everyone wanted to be called Ernesto.”
    The boy looked like he might actually smile.
    Ajax watched the little shipwrecked family drift down the crowded alley, which suddenly felt like a vast and empty shore. He let out a long breath. “‘We do not simply manufacture orphans, or raise crows as children.’”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Gladys said.
    â€œCuadra.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe poet Pablo Antonio Cuadra. ‘Third Class Country.’ ‘We do not fold paper boats to sail puddles, or, inadvertently, raise crows as children.’”
    Gladys looked at him like she was waiting for the punch line.
    Ajax smiled. It had been an excellent morning. “It means, Gladys, that you must broaden your horizons and embrace the mystery.”
    â€œOf what? The stiff? In this barrio? They killed him for his wallet.”
    â€œWrong, Lieutenant Of False Suppositions. Our stiff had knife wounds but no blunt trauma. And ‘in this barrio,’ you kill someone for his possessions, you bash his fucking head in. But maybe someone wanted to make it look like robbery. I’m not sure yet. The good news is his keys are missing. Whatever vehicle he was driving is still out there. We’ll be looking for someone selling a stolen pickup.”
    â€œWhy a pickup?”
    Ajax leaned against his Lada, drew the Python, rolled the chamber over his palm and closed his eyes. “The kid said he took a cowboy hat. Farm workers wear baseball caps, landowners wear cowboy hats. Farm workers with money dress up in straw cowboy hats. You know the kind I mean?”
    â€œYeah, sure, I’ve seen them.”
    Ajax closed his eyes again. “Kid said the stiff’s hat was gray, so it was maybe felt, not straw. The ring and the jeans show he’s got money. A landowner with money drives a pickup. But he’s wearing boots. Landowner with money and a felt cowboy hat doesn’t wear cowboy boots on the farm. The boots mean he was driving his pickup to Managua on business, so maybe