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e the English…language portion of the weather on the city television station。 When he did this he invariably got fan mail。 In a suit he didn't look greasy； just roly…poly。 Fletcher knew all this。 He had done three or four stories on Escobar。 He was colorful。 He was also； according to rumor； an enthusiastic torturer。 A Central American Himmler； Fletcher thought； and was amazed to discover that one's sense of humor…rudimentary； granted…could function this far into a state of terror。
'Handcuffs？' the guard asked； also in Spanish； and held up a pair of the plastic kind。 Fletcher tried to keep his look of dazed inprehension。 If they cuffed him； it was over。 He could forget about one chance in thirty； or one in three hundred。
Escobar turned briefly to the woman on his right。 Her face was very dark； her hair black with startling white streaks。 It flowed back and up from her forehead as if blown by a gale…force wind。 The look of her hair reminded Fletcher of Elsa Lanchester in Bride of Frankenstein。 He gripped this similarity with a fierceness that was close to panic； the way he gripped the thought of bright light on the river； or his sister laughing with her friends as they walked to the water。 He wanted images； not ideas。 Images were luxury items now。 And ideas were no good in a place like this。 In a place like this all you got were the wrong ideas。
The woman gave Escobar a small nod。 Fletcher had seen her around the building； always garbed in shapeless dresses like the one she wore now。 She had been with Escobar often enough for Fletcher to assume she was his secretary； personal assistant； perhaps even his biographer…Christ knew that men like Escobar had egos large enough to warrant such accessories。 Now Fletcher wondered if he'd had it backward all along； if she was his boss。
In any case； the nod seemed to satisfy Escobar。 When he turned back to Fletcher； Escobar was smiling。 And when he spoke； it was in English。 'Don't be silly； put them away。 Mr。 Fletcher is only here to help us in a few matters。 He will soon be returning to his own country'…Escobar sighed deeply to show how deeply he regretted this。 '。 。 。 but in the meantime he is an honored guest。'
We don't need no steenkin handcuffs； Fletcher thought。
The woman who looked like the Bride of Frankenstein with a very deep tan leaned toward Escobar and whispered briefly behind her hand。 Escobar nodded； smiling。
'Of course； Ramón； if our guest should try anything foolish or make any aggressive moves； you would have to shoot him a little。' He roared laughter…roly…poly TV laughter…and then repeated what he had said in Spanish； so that Ramón would understand as well as Fletcher。 Ramón nodded seriously； replaced his handcuffs on his belt； and stepped back to the periphery of Fletcher's vision。
Escobar returned his attention to Fletcher。 From one pocket of his parrot…and…foliage…studded guayabera he removed a red…and…white package： Marlboros； the preferred cigarette of third…world peoples everywhere。 'Smoke； Mr。 Fletcher？'
Fletcher reached toward the pack； which Escobar had placed on the edge of the table； then withdrew his hand。 He had quit smoking three years ago； and supposed he might take the habit up again if he actually did get out of this…drinking high…tension liquor as well； quite likely…but at this moment he had no craving or need for a cigarette。 He had wanted them to see his fingers shaking； that was all。
'Perhaps later。 Right now a cigarette might…'
Might what？ It didn't matter to Escobar； he just nodded understandingly and left the red…and…white pack where it was； on the edge of the table。 Fletcher had a sudden； agonizing vision in which he saw himself stopping at a newsstand on Forty…third Street and buying a pack of Marlboros。 A free man buying the happy poison on a New York street。 He told himself that if he got out of this； he would do that。 He would do it as some people went on pilgrimages to Rome or Jerusalem after their cancer was cured or their sight was restored。
'The men who did that to you'…Escobar indicated Fletcher's face with a wave of one not…particularly…clean hand…'have been disciplined。 Yet not too harshly； and I myself stop short of apology； you will notice。 Those men are patriots； as are we here。 As you are yourself； Mr。 Fletcher； yes？'
'I suppose。' It was his job to appear ingratiating and frightened； a man who would say anything in order to get out of here。 It was Escobar's job to be soothing； to convince the man in the chair that his swelled eye； split lip； and loosened teeth meant nothing； all that was just a misunderstanding which would soon be straightened out； and when it was he would be free to go。 They were still busy trying to deceive each other； even here in the deathroom。
Escobar switched his attention to Ramón the guard and spoke in rapid Spanish。 Fletcher's Spanish wasn't good enough to pick up everything； but you couldn't spend almost five years in this shithole capital city without picking up a fair vocabulary； Spanish wasn't the world's most difficult language； as both Escobar and his friend the Bride of Frankenstein undoubtedly knew。
Escobar asked if Fletcher's things had been packed and if he had been checked out of the Hotel Magnificent： Sí。 Escobar wanted to know if there was a car waiting outside the Ministry of Information to take Mr。 Fletcher to the airport when the interrogation was done。 Sí； around the corner on the Street Fifth of May。
Escobar turned back and said； 'Do you understand what I ask him？' From Escobar； understand came out unnerstand； and Fletcher thought again of Escobar's TV appearances。 Low bressure？ What low bressure？ We don't need no steenkin low bressure。
'I ask have you been checked out of your room…although after all this time it probably seems more like an apartment to you； yes？…and if there's a car to take you to the airport when we finish our conversation。' Except conversation hadn't been the word he used。
'Ye…es？' Sounding as if he could not believe his own good fortune。 Or so Fletcher hoped。
'You'll be on the first Delta flight back to Miami；' the Bride of Frankenstein said。 She spoke without a trace of Spanish accent。 'Your passport will be given back to you once the plane has touched down on American soil。 You will not be harmed or held here； Mr。 Fletcher…not if you cooperate with our inquiries…but you are being deported； let's be clear on that。 Kicked out。 Given what you Americans call the bum's rush。'
She was much smoother than Escobar。 Fletcher found it amusing that he had thought her Escobar's assistant。 And you call yourself a reporter； he thought。 Of course if he was just a reporter； the Times's man in Central America； he would not be here in the basement of the Ministry of Information； where the stains on the wall looked suspiciously like blood。 He had ceased being a reporter some sixteen months ago； around the time he'd first met Nú？ez。
'I understand；' Fletcher said。
Escobar had taken a cigarette。 He lighted it with a gold…plated Zippo。 There was a fake ruby in the side of the Zippo。 He said； 'Are you prepared to help us in our inquiries； Mr。 Fletcher？'
'Do I have any choice？'
'You always have a choice；' Escobar said； 'but I think you have worn out your carpet in our country； yes？ Is that what you say； worn out your carpet？'
'Close enough；' Fletcher said。 He thought： What you must guard against is your desire to believe them。 It is natural to want to believe； and probably natural to want to tell the truth…especially after you've been grabbed outside your favorite café and briskly beaten by men who smell of refried beans…but giving them what they want won't help you。 That's the thing to hold onto； the only idea that's any good in a room like this。 What they say means nothing。 What matters is the thing on that trolley； the thing under that piece of cloth。 What matters is the guy who hasn't said anything yet。 And the stains on the walls； of course。
Escobar leaned forward； looking serious。
'Do you deny that for the last fourteen months you have given certain information to a man named Tomás Herrera； who has in turn funneled it to a certain munist insurgent named Pedro Nú？ez？'
'No；' Fletcher said。 'I don't deny it。' To adequately keep up his side of this charade…the charade summarized by the difference between the words conversation and interrogation…he should now justify； attempt to explain。 As if anyone in the history of the world had ever won a political argument in a room like this。 But he didn't have it in him to do so。 'Although it was a little longer than that。 Almost a year and a half in all； I think。'
'Have a cigarette； Mr。 Fletcher。' Escobar opened a drawer and took out a thin folder。
'Not just yet。 Thank you。'
'Okay。' From Escobar it of course came out ho…kay。 When he did the TV weather； the boys in the control room would sometimes superimpose a photograph of a woman in a bikini on the weather map。 When he saw this； Escobar would laugh and wave his hands and pat his chest。 People liked it。 It was ical。 It was like the sound of ho…kay。 It was like the sound of steenkin batches。
Escobar opened the folder with his own cigarette planted squarely in the middle of his mouth with the smoke running up into his eyes。 It was the way you saw the old men smoking on the street corners down here； the ones who still wore straw hats； sandals； and baggy white pants。 Now Escobar was smiling； keeping his lips shut so his Marlboro wouldn't fall out of his mouth and onto the table but smiling just the same。 He took a glossy black…and…white photograph out of the thin folder and slid it across to Fletcher。 'Here is your friend Tomás。 Not too pretty； is he？'
It was a high…contrast full…face shot。 It made Fletcher think of photographs by that semi…famous news photographer of the forties and fifties； the one who called himself Weegee。 It was a portrait of a dead man。 The eyes were open。 The flashbulb had reflected in them； giving them a kind of life。 There was no blood； only one mark and no blood； but still one knew at once that the man was dead。 His hair was bed； one could still see the toothmarks the b had left； and there were those little lights in his eyes； but they were reflected lights。 One knew at once the man was dead。
The mark was on the left temple； a et shape that looked like a powder burn； but there was no bullet hole； no blood； and the skull wasn't pushed out of shape。 Even a low…caliber pistol like a 。22； fired close enough to the skin to leave a powder burn； would have pushed the skull out of shape。
Escobar took the picture back； put it in the folder； closed the folder； and shrugged as if to say You see？ You see what happens？ When he shrugged； the ash fell off his cigarette onto the table。 He brushed it off onto the gray lino floor with the side of one fat hand。
'We dint actually want to bother you；' Escobar said。 'Why would we？ This a small country。 We are small people in a small country。 The New York Times a big paper in a big country。 We have our pride； of course； but we also have our 。 。 。' Escobar tapped his temple with one finger。 'You see？'
Fletcher nodded。 He kept seeing Tomás。 Even with the picture back in the folder he could see Tomás； the marks the b had left in Tomás's dark hair。 He had eaten food Tomás's wife had cooked； had sat on the floor and watched cartoons with Tomás's youngest child； a little girl of perhaps five。 Tom and Jerry cartoons； with what little dialogue there was in Spanish。
'We don't want to bother you；' Escobar was saying as the cigarette smoke rose and broke apart on his face and curled around his ears； 'but for a long time we was watching。 You dint see us…maybe because you are so big and we are just little…but we was watching。 We know that you know what Tomás knows； and so we go to him。 We try to get him to tell what he knows so we don't have to bother you； but he won't。 Finally we ask Heinz here to try and make him tell。 Heinz； show Mr。 Fletcher how you try to make Tomás tell； when Tomás was sitting right where Mr。 Fletcher was sitting now。'
'I can do that；' said Heinz。 He spoke English in a nasal New York accent。 He was bald； except for a fringe of hair around his ears。 He wo