then rang right through to St. Vincent's. The next thing I knew, they
were calling his room.
"Hi. How's the patient?"
"Morgan, what the hell are you up to? I've been trying to reach you. I
finally called David and he said you'd left a message; something about
Central America. Why the hell--?"
"I was trying to explain that to you Sunday night, but you were pretty
far gone."
"Well, I ain't that far gone now, so I'm telling you to--"
"By the way," I interrupted, hoping to change the subject, "how're you
feeling?"
"I guess I'll live. They let me get up and go to the bathroom now.
They're saying I can probably go home tomorrow."
"That's encouraging." Thank God he was going to be okay.
"I also had a talk with Gerry, downtown. He believes Sarah was
kidnapped, even if New York's Finest don't, so that means the FBI has
jurisdiction. We're gonna get some action. They're trying to get a
photo of that colonel, so maybe I can ID the bastard. But the
consulate's giving us a lot of shit about it."
"Well, I'm tracking something down here. Between the two of us, I think
we'll find her."
"So, what the hell are you doing?"
I told him about finding the name of a destination on Sarah's old
landing card, and about meeting a guy who was going to take me there as
soon as the weather cleared.
"And you think she could be there now?" He didn't sound hopeful.
"There're reasons to check it out." I didn't want to elaborate. "Maybe
we'll get lucky."
I was attempting to say as little as possible, fearing the phone was
tapped. In that spirit, I decided to get off the line as quickly as
possible.
"Lou, you get lots of rest, and I'll try and call you tomorrow."
With a final warning to watch out for myself, he took down my hotel
number and hung up. Truthfully, he was sounding pretty tired and weak,
not nearly his old self.
Well, he had a right to be. But at least there were no complications.
My next call was going to be to David Roth, to check in on things at
Applecore, but first I wanted to order up some_ huevos rancheros_, get
some breakfast protein. I was becoming energized by the prospect of
progress, and being that way always makes me ravenous. It's probably a
primal female response that has a Latin name.
I checked out the number for room service, and was literally reaching
for the black phone when it rang of its own accord. Startled I picked
up the receiver, wondering who had my number.
"Hello." It was a man's voice that sounded vaguely familiar. "Thought
I'd check in and see how things are going with your search."
"Hi," I answered back after a pause, trying to place his intonation.
"Oh, sorry. Barry Morton. Remember me? Fortress America. You came by
the office yesterday."
"How . . . ?" Why was he calling me? "How did you get this--?"
"You must have accidentally put the wrong hotel on your landing card as
your address in Guatemala City." He hesitated a second then said "But I
had my secretary call around and . . . well, it happens all the time."
"I see." It did have the ring of logic. And I had put down a different
hotel. A safety measure. "Do you always take this much . . . interest
in your fellow citizens?"
"Only when they come to see me personally." He chuckled. "So how's it
going?"
"Well, thanks for calling," I said. "Everything's moving along."
"Good, good." There was another pause, then, "Incidentally, you having
any luck finding that Ninos del Mundo place you were looking for?"