tasted good on a ninety-eight-degree day in the Big Easy.
As he ate, Johnnie thought about where, other than New Orleans, Lula and Sailor might have gone. N.O. seemed the most likely place, since they could find work for which they could get paid under the table and fit in more easily than in Atlanta or Houston. Besides, Lula always liked New Orleans. Sheâd stayed there many times with Marietta, mostly at the Royal Sonesta, whenever Marietta needed to get away on an antiques-shopping trip. Of course, they could be most anywhere by now: New York, Miami, even on their way to California. But N.O. was a good enough guess for now.
âDo you mind if I share this table?â
Johnnie looked up and saw a large, chocolate-colored man in his late forties or early fifties, wearing a powder blue porkpie hat and holding a tray filled with plates of food, smiling at him.
âThe others,â said the man, âthey are ocupado. â
âBy all means,â said Johnnie. âMake yourself to home.â
âMuchas gracias,â the man said, sitting down. He extended his well-developed right forearm and offered Johnnie a big hand to shake. âMy name is Reginald San Pedro Sula. But please do call me Reggie.â
Johnnie wiped off his right hand on his napkin and shook.
âJohnnie Farragut,â he said. âPleased to meet ya.â
Reggie did not remove his porkpie hat and began eating ferociously, finishing half of his meal before saying anything more.
âYou are from New Orleans, Señor Farragut?â
âJohnnie, please. Nope. Charlotte, North Carolina. Here on business.â
Reggie smiled broadly, revealing numerous tall, gold teeth. âI am from Honduras. Originally from the Cayman Islands, but now for many years in Honduras. Do you know Honduras, Johnnie?â
âOnly that itâs supposed to be a pretty poor sight since the hurricane come through last year.â
âYes, thatâs so. But there is not much to destroy. No big buildings like in New Orleans. Not where I live in the Bay Islands.â
âWhere is that?â
âNorth of the mainland. On the island of Utila. We have a certain sovereignty in the islands, you know, since the United States forced the British to give them up over a century ago.â
âWhat do you do there?â
âOh, many things.â Reggie laughed. âI have an appliance shop. But I am also with the government.â
Johnnie took a bite of the oyster sandwich.
âIn what capacity?â he asked.
âIn many capacities. Mostly with the secret service.â
Reggie reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. He handed a card to Johnnie.
â âGeneral Osvaldo Tamarindo y Ramirez,â â Johnnie read aloud. â âTeléfono 666.â â
âHe is my sponsor,â said Reggie. âThe general is the head of the secret police of Honduras. I am one of his operatives.â
Johnnie handed the card back to Reggie and Reggie gave him a small piece of paper, folded once. Johnnie unfolded it. The printing was in Spanish.
âThat is my permiso, â Reggie said. âMy permit to kill. Only if necessary, of course, and only in my own country.â He laughed.
âOf course,â said Johnnie, refolding the piece of paper and handing it over to Reggie.
âI am authorized to carry a forty-five, also,â said Reggie. âUnited
States Marine issue, before they made the unfortunate switch to the less dependable nine millimeters. I have it here, in my briefcase.â
Reggie held up his stainless-steel briefcase and then replaced it on the floor beneath his chair.
âWhy are you in New Orleans?â asked Johnnie. âIf you donât mind my askinâ.â
Reggie laughed. He took off his hat and scratched furiously at his completely bald head for a few seconds, wiped the sweat off his scalp with his napkin and put his hat back