The Alley of Angels

By Michael Adams

The Alley of Angels takes readers on a dark journey to El Salvador during the waning days of that countrys bloody civil war. Chicago writer Henry Reed and his friend and colleague photographer Jean-Michel Beaulieu are assigned to discover the fate of Robert Zorn, a high-profile pastor and celebrity rabble-rouser, whose unwelcome involvement in the war may have led to his disappearance, and possibly, his death. Reed and Beaulieus investigation finds them crossing paths with a dangerous assortment of war-weary players, including peace activists, CIA agents, death squad assassins, FMLN rebels and teenage prostitutes. In this lethal environment nothing is what it seems and no one can be trusted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462875818

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THE ALLEY OF ANGELS

MICHAEL ADAMS

Copyright © 2015 by Michael Adams.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011908356

ISBN:  Hardcover     978-1-4628-7580-1

            Softcover        978-1-4628-7579-5

          eBook          978-1-4628-7581-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/24/2015

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Contents

Prologue Guatemala City

Chalatenango El Salvador

Morelia Michoacán, Mexico

1 Chicago, Illinois

2 Research

3 Cecilia Johnson

4 Parkside United Methodist Church, Chicago

5 Jean-Michel

6 Arrival

7 A Bloodless And Cold Thumping

8 Debra Newall

9 Stephen Kelly

10 Rosalinda

11 The Idea Of Katrina

12 Orlanz

13 El Tecan

14 Rosalinda And Henry

15 Robert Zorn

16 Trust

17 Nisha

18 Stephen Kelly

19 The Road To Orlanz

20 Checkpoint

21 Juan Gualda

22 Violence

23 Toward Orlanz

24 Father Phillipe

25 Bad News

26 El Tecan

27 James

28 Debra And James

29 The Darkroom

30 The Theory

31 Marta And Cristina

Epilogue The Chicago Herald

For Annie

The dead and pieces of the dead turn up in El Salvador everywhere, every day, as taken for granted as in a nightmare or a horror movie.

Joan Didion

Salvador

Prologue

GUATEMALA CITY

Guatemala

May 1986

This is what you felt you needed, Zorn. Some Third World time. This will look good in the papers. Make for good TV. Round you out. But do you care or is this your most tasteless exercise in self-promotion yet? Why are you here?

"Una fota. Una fota." They are everywhere. Kids with these incredibly old faces. Where’s Sally Struthers? This is her turf. Who is the more pathetic Zorn? These children, a fifth of whom will die before they are five, or these Norte Americanos, brimming with sympathy and self-righteousness, nervously clutching cameras and Mayan bags, as they hurry through the barrios, putting in their Third World time?

You’ve grown cynical, Zorn. Not all these people are like you, here because it will look good to the left-wingers who give you thousands for the foundation. No, there’s some sincerity here. Some of these folks care, unlike you, you mercenary fuck. But why Central America? Aren’t there enough of your little angels on the west side? The west side. That’s your turf, Zorn. That’s where you are beloved. There’s just as much tuberculosis there. Well, maybe that’s a stretch. But impetigo. Diabetes. Some great abuse stuff. Granted, no feral emaciated dogs like the ones here. But we’ve got rats. Good old inner city Chicago rats.

No, these people want a little romance with their sacrifice. If you’ve got to risk malaria, dysentery and death squads, there’s something more . . . what’s the right word . . . flamboyant . . . heightened . . . dramatic, yea, dramatic. There’s something more dramatic about exercising your compassion in an exotic Third World country that one can never know in some inner city slum in the Midwest. But this is poverty as a theme park, and you, you grungy illiterate Mayans or whatever you are, are here for our sympathy. The fact that your country is at war makes it even better. Everything is better during a war, especially a guerrilla war.

Somehow, by watching you scrounge for wood and beg to get your picture taken, while living your lives in abject terror of being disappeared for little or no reason, we Americans rise to some new level of worthiness that we can never know by helping gang-bangers on the west side get a job at Midas changing oil.

I love the wholly Central American concept of using the word disappeared as a verb. They disappeared Miguel last night . . . I can use that in a sermon. It’s like using the word witness in this weird way you can only get away with in church. In court, you’re a witness. In church, you give witness. Through your witness we will affect change. Yea, right. How about witless?

Hear that? That is the distinctive sound of someone with diarrhea. Look. Everyone is reaching for their Pepto Bismol, slipping them in their mouths surreptitiously, like no one’s suppose to notice. Yea, it’s one thing to hike through here all noble, but it’s a different matter to get your bowels in a knot. That’s hitting a little too close to home.

Am I the only one that finds something slightly despicable about a busload of religious types wandering through this delegation-friendly slum on the outskirts of Guatemala City, while each of us carries enough money hidden away in our money belts to feed one of these families for a year? We’re the fifth delegation to walk through here this week. Look at them. The word spreads. Delegation. There’s a delegation of gringos. "Una fota. Una fota." These kids want their pictures taken. It’s part of what makes their day special. There must be some simple joy in having your picture taken by some 65-year-old Methodist. If we really cared, we’d never leave. Instead we take their pictures and feel like we’re helping them in some churchy sort of way.

I know that two weeks after I’m back, Karen, the plumpish, acne-scarred assistant pastor, will ask me publicly to share my slides with the congregation, and I’ll reluctantly do it. At the appointed time, the lights will dim, and I’ll suddenly become very serious. Half way through, a little catch will develop in my throat as I describe the children, the smells, the crush of poverty. Maybe someone will cry. I need to invite the president of the foundation’s board. He’s Jewish, but he might come.

Jesus, there’s a guy sitting on a plastic bucket slicing open the belly of an iguana from tail to neck. Like this water needs any more gunk in it. It already has the color of bacteria. How hungry do you have to be to eat an iguana?

CHALATENANGO

El Salvador

November 1990

Parakeets will be the death of him, he thought. Their din and shit were enough to send him to Miami for the summer. He laughed at the thought. Miami for the summer. What was he thinking? For 100 years his family has lived on this finca, and every generation has had to deal with parakeet shit. Look at these tiles. Twice a day they were cleaned, but these fucking birds desecrated the home of his father and grandfather.

Juan Gualda Rodas lit his second and last cigar of the day. Fuck the gringo doctor in Miami. Life is short enough without depriving a man of the simple pleasures, he thought. What left is there? Another car? A useless faggot of a son? He would give away half his fortune if he never had to see another parakeet.

His mother, may La Virgen de Guadalupe find her soul worthy, saw her rewards in the multitude of life’s smaller offerings: the Bougainvillea on the west wall, a sleeping baby, reading the Bible in the afternoon. Madre. A son could do worse. Twenty years ago next month. A cancer death. How cruel for a woman so saintly. Fuck the church. His mother gave her life to the church. The daily communions, rosaries, a sinless life and what does she get for it? Coughing up gray phlegm and making horrible noises as the pain ushered her life to a close.

The sound of a car door slamming drew his attention. Good, he was here, the sooner for him to leave. Gualda could only bear his presence for short periods of time and never inside the front room. The man was an abomination. Fat to the point of distraction, with his clothes reeking of the smells of old food and beer. Outside on the veraranda dodging parakeet shit. Somehow it seemed appropriate.

Consuella, that vibrant piece of ass, would know to bring him out here. What a lovely girl, lithe and submissive with flawless mocha skin in white cotton. A simple pleasure for a patriarch, a man of action.

"Buenos dias, señor."

"Buenos dias," Gualda said without looking at his visitor, choosing to stare instead at the workers tending to his coffee crop on the hill over the west wall, his mother’s favorite.

Our list is short today. One irritant. He is like a boil on my ass. Our collective asses. How do you like your new vehicle? I understand you ordered a black one, with tinted windows. Impressive.

It is very powerful and very intimidating.

Where do you keep it during the day? I imagine a vehicle like that attracts a great deal of attention.

In the alleyway behind the café, under a canvas.

Good.

Gualda drew on his cigar and rolled it between his fingers. Still a pleasure for him, even as it added to the water gathering at the surfaces of his lungs and heart. He knew that his visitor hoped beyond hope to be offered one and the two of them could sit on the veranda and smoke cigars and talk about the war and politics, sipping cold drinks.

The thought repulsed him.

"I specifically request Puerto del Diablo. Your visits there have slowed in recent months. But I would like some symbolism. This needs to be a very public event. This talk of peace is beginning to concern me. There are still too many irritants left."

I understand.

He wanted The Devil’s Door. It was known throughout El Salvador, and increasingly throughout the world, as a dumping ground for the enemies of the state. Las Comadres, those bitches, didn’t they realize how lucky they were, to never have to see the bodies of their loved ones, the disappeared, after the dogs have finished with them, after a week in the Salvadoran sun. My God. Their lives would never be the same. Assume they are dead. Find a small pleasure in never having to see them. Gualda sneered at the image of these whores in their white kerchiefs, holding up the photos of their sons and husbands, pleading with the government for action.

I want his cock in his mouth. It is a simple operation, yes?

"Si, señor."

MORELIA

Michoacán, Mexico

January 1991

Robert Johnson thought the fillings in his teeth were ready to pop out. One more bump, and he was sure that was it—dental bills. He clenched his jaw at the thought. Johnson could only imagine future patients being slammed into the ceiling after hitting a pothole. A 25-year-old ambulance with no shocks, questionable oxygen equipment and a broken siren. This is my gift to you, campesinos.

"Aqui," the man said, pointing to the right. Johnson didn’t know his name. Just pick him up in the parking lot of the soccer stadium, Zorn told him. He’s some new connection that’s going to help us with the border crossing into El Salvador, Zorn had said. Johnson didn’t like changes in plans, especially if they involved moody fuckers like this guy.

The man had hooded eyes and long black hair. Johnson couldn’t help but notice his hands, which were soft and delicate and surprisingly clean. Johnson saw that he had a solid blue star tattooed on his right hand. A shame, Johnson thought, for such pretty hands. Every so often the man would grunt and point, and Johnson would be the good soldier and follow directions. But he took an instant dislike to his passenger, and he doubted he could survive the drive to El Salvador with him grunting and pointing. Besides he suspected the guy had something against him because he was black. Maybe he was just suspicious by nature. Still, the man hadn’t said two words since Johnson picked him up.

Johnson wondered what happened to Nicolas, his homeboy. He made these trips fun. Ten days in a beat-up old ambulance driving through Mexico and Guatemala with no air conditioning needed some serious distractions, and Nicolas could always be counted on to keep his mind off things like the broken front seat. He would pick Nicolas up, and they would buy a case of Sol or Pacifico with foundation money and drink cervezas all the way to La Libertad and the beach.

Johnson was looking forward to La Libertad. War or no war, the place was beautiful. White sand, blue water and brown women. Two days on the beach, soon to be $5,000 richer, a TACA flight to Houston and home. He’d be back at the Y playing chess before anyone knew he was gone. Thank you, Padre Roberto.

Johnson was surprised at the number of Americans who came to El Salvador to surf, drink Pilsner and fuck the locals. Jesus Christ, there was a war going on, and these guys are on tourist visas staying at expatriate hotels and doing some serious partying. Johnson particularly recalled Sammy. Sammy reminded Johnson of that Sean Penn character in Fast Times—Spizoli, Spinnoli. Something like that. He was, like, What war, dude? Johnson couldn’t figure out whether he was kidding or not.

At night, you could hear the Hueys looking for FMLN.

This would be his last trip, Johnson thought. Zorn might get upset, but he couldn’t help it. The last time with the Bluebird school bus and he was sure the Army guys at the checkpoint suspected something. Besides, he promised his mother. She adored Zorn, told him he reminded her of Jack Kennedy. He’s a saint, she said. He’s white, but he’s a saint.

Lord, she didn’t like the idea of him driving into a war zone. I’ve kept you alive for 21 years in Chicago. I don’t need you dying in Mexico.

El Salvador, mama, he corrected her. El Salvador.

Wherever.

If Mama knew about the guns, she’d be even more pissed. M-16s. AK-47s. Mortars, apparently, this time. Zorn was into some serious shit with these guns, and for the life of him, Johnson couldn’t figure out why all this effort and drama went into delivering maybe two-dozen guns to the rebels. Maybe every bit helped.

Johnson had read enough about what was going on to figure out that Zorn was on the side of the good guys, the FMLN. Or at least he thought of them as the good guys. The U.S. government felt differently about the situation, choosing to back the Salvadoran government to the tune of, what, $80 million a month, or some such shit. Johnson couldn’t escape the thought that Zorn was getting off on this. This wasn’t so much about guns, as it was about the romance of the exercise. This is all about the Zorn narrative. Somewhere, sometime, Zorn would use this story to get laid. Johnson suspected his mentor and patron was, at his heart, a decent man, but Lord he liked his pussy. That, and he loved to tweak the Es-tab-lish-ment. Resist much. Obey little, he loved to say. Whitman, Bobby. Whitman.

But Zorn wasn’t the one risking his life driving these broken-down school buses and ambulances, Johnson thought, loaded, as this one soon would be, with just the sort of shit that could land him in a Salvadoran jail for some serious time.

When he first talked to him about making the drive, Zorn downplayed the dangers. The first part was simple: Five days on the road to Morelia; meet up with one of the connections; make the pit stop at the garage, where the sides are pulled off and the special panels put in; then five more days to La Libertad. We take over from there, Zorn had said.

But as Johnson learned on that first trip, that border crossing between Guatemala and El Salvador was pucker time. The soldiers, Johnson discovered, hated do-gooding gringos. It seems like they don’t cotton to a bunch of self-righteous religious types coming in to their country to find the type of salvation that they could just as easily find in their backyards. The soldiers kept him for an hour looking over his papers and searching the bus. It was obvious they were looking for any reason they could find to detain him or not let him into the country. Fortunately, the foundation had most everything covered, the visa, the paperwork. Permissos.

They never found anything. Nada. Dumb fucks. But Johnson told Zorn he needed some more help at the border. And I guess that’s what this dude is all about, Johnson thought.

Johnson owed Zorn, he figured. When he met him at that special luncheon at the Y three years ago, his situation was troublesome. He resisted most of the gang stuff at John Lewis, thanks to chess and books, but he wasn’t exactly sitting at the A table. Then he met Zorn and talked his ass off about chess and his brothers and wanting to be a teacher. Before lunch was over, Zorn told him if he kept a B average the foundation would pay for his college. Zorn seemed to love that idea. Before he knew it, a Herald reporter came to the John Lewis Homes housing project to take his picture with his brothers, playing chess and hanging out.

Johnson didn’t disappoint. The B average was the easiest part of the deal. Keeping away from the righteous pussy at Northwestern was the big problem.

Jesus Christ. Johnson banged his head on the roof, as the ambulance hit what seemed like a crater. They are going to have to do something about these shocks, or this fucker’s gonna be draggin through the mountains in Guatemala, Johnson said to himself.

Now, Johnson recognized the street. They were close. Turn right at Low’s; he was always amazed they had Chinese restaurants in Mexico. Then he knew to take a left at the end of the block and follow the hurricane fencing to the garage where the work was done.

They were in an area of shabby two-story homes, painted with once vibrant colors now muted by sun, dust, pollution and general neglect. A group of men sat on lawn chairs in the middle of the street drinking beer. Johnson needed to stop to avoid hitting them. His passenger sat motionless. One of the men approached the driver’s side, putting his hand on the door. (In Spanish: What’s your fucking problem?) The others too, approached Johnson’s side, and he began to feel uneasy, as a chill ran down his arm, despite the intense humidity of the early evening air.

His passenger, apparently, had had enough. Slowly, without bringing attention to himself, he pulled a 9 mm from his coat pocket and before anyone realized what was happening, had it pointed at the forehead of one of the men who approached the car. (In Spanish: You obviously want to die, so I suggest you continue being an asshole.)

The first man stumbled as he tried to back off; the others retreated quickly to the sidewalk. Johnson hit the gas, crushing one of the lawn chairs.

This is it, Johnson thought, last trip. Johnson was still shaking by the time they reached the garage. The lights were out. The passenger got out without saying a word and peered in the dirty window on the front door. Fuck, Johnson thought. They forgot us, or this is the wrong day.

Johnson’s eyes were burning, his head pounding, as he weighed his options. He wondered if the homeboys were getting their own pieces and looking for them, or if he should just peel out, leave this fucker at the garage, tell Zorn he was psychotic. Maybe he should just chill. But the man came to the driver’s side and put his Heckler and Koch to Johnson’s temple and pulled the trigger, putting an end to Johnson’s inner debate and splattering the windshield with Johnson’s blood and pieces of his brain, bringing his good-natured and promising life to an abrupt end.

1

Chicago, Illinois

February 1992

Henry Reed wondered, again, why he continued to live in Chicago. He was a writer, for Christ’s sake. He could live anywhere as long as he had access to a phone line. As it was, the February wind was sluicing down Michigan Avenue with a pure sense of mission, offering greetings from the lake. For that matter, where is the lake? Henry wondered. From his numbed perspective on Michigan Avenue, he gazed in the general direction of the lake, but everything—sky, streets, buildings and cars—was one gray, seething, smoking, monochromatic torture chamber.

Getting coffee now would be useless, he thought. It would be cold before it hit the cup. If he could just survive the 75-yard walk to the Herald Building, the ten stories to Heston’s office, he would live to fight another day. Besides which, as soon as he arrived at his editor’s office, his editor’s secretary, Andrea, would offer him a warm cappuccino and a biscotti or croissant, and he would hesitate for a moment, feigning some mild concern about his weight—he was, after all, 280 lbs. of U.S.-inspected, prime eastern Colorado stock. Andrea would press, and he would give in. Biscotti, croissant, or whatever Heston had ordered from his favorite French bakery in Lincoln Park.

Michael Heston, executive editor of the special assignment team, ran counter to everyone’s idea of the grizzled editor. An opera buff and art collector, Heston was a snob, but a brilliant editor. Henry knew him to be gay, or highly suspected that was the case, but Heston was serenely asexual. He never talked about a lover and chose to attend official functions—when he deigned to come—unaccompanied. He had resisted the move to Chicago from Paris, but his penchant for collecting art overwhelmed the modest salary he was paid at the Herald-Tribune. The Chicago Herald offered to triple his salary and lured him away with the chance to lead what was unofficially known as The Entrepreneurs, an eight-member group of writers and photographers that usually worked on one to two projects a year with the total freedom to choose their stories. Everyone knew the paper put the team together to work on Pulitzer-worthy longer pieces. They—the writers and photographers—would travel together internationally for months at a time, and expense accounts were generous. Twice each year the paper published the group’s work in special sections, fodder for prizes and awards. The team had won four Pulitzers since it was formed eight years ago. Henry’s Pulitzer was for a six-month assignment covering the Russian mob and its emerging presence in the United States.

What Heston may have lacked in the endearing grumpiness of the cliché, he made up for it with his instinct for a good story. All his ideas had a brazen riff that drew the readers in but could be as subtle and complex as a Puccini aria. He called them Italian Parliament stories, seemingly simple on the surface, but with depth and machinations. Layers, Henry. It’s all about layers. Seduce me. Tease me. Be blunt. If you want me to read 35,000 words, give me something transcendent, he said to Henry when they first started working together.

Would you like some coffee, Henry? Andrea asked. She had been with Heston for the eight years of the team’s existence, and while her personal tastes in music elicited a sniff of condescension from Heston—she preferred Pink Floyd and King Crimson—they both loved to cook, and they spent their first hour together in the morning talking about marinades and sauces and what they had prepared the night before.

I’m too cold to be coy today, Henry said. So, thank you, yes, and any baked goods you may have laying around. Is Jean-Michel here yet?

Not yet. He called and said he was moving too slow because of the cold. C’est tres froid aujourd hui, ma petite, he said before hanging up. Then he called back and said he’d be 10 minutes late. He should be here soon.

Heston loved that Andrea spoke French, too. Consequently, he was able to overlook the Pink Floyd—bloated, pretentious twaddle—for the simple pleasure of hearing her say "Bonjour" every morning and talking for a hour about their favorite Tarte Tatin in the city. Like Heston, she was a francophile, who, thanks to a gift from her parents, studied cooking in Paris after finishing her degree in art history from Northwestern.

When the three of them—Heston, Andrea and Jean-Michel—lapsed into French, he would excuse himself and get another coffee. Without fail, he would return and Jean-Michel and Heston would be in an argument about how French Canadians were not really French, or who was the most French.

"What do you know about the French, Heston? You were born in Iowa. You are the worst kind of poseur, Jean-Michel said on one occasion. You are pretend French."

Within minutes, they would be chatting amiably about the years when they both lived in Le Marais.

Jean-Michel was a French Canadian from Montreal, who spent the majority of his career as an agency photographer based in Paris. He and Henry met in Mexico when the paper Henry was