Outerbridge Reach Read Free Page B

. . . something.”
    â€œSure,” Strickland said. “Charlotte Something. The little Hun who was au p . . pairing in New York.”
    Biaggio shrugged and sighed. “Her eyes are pure.”
    â€œI never noticed that,” Strickland said. He stood up and went to the bar to buy a beer. The bar was selling Cerveza Hatuey, a Cuban beer, at ten dollars a pop.
    â€œYou know, don’t you,” he told Biaggio, “that pure-eyed little Charlotte is fucking a minister of state.”
    â€œThey’re friends,” Biaggio said.
    Strickland burst out laughing. His laughter was loud and explosive. Strickland was aware that his laughter discomfited others. That was fine with him.
    â€œThey’re friends!” Strickland cried happily. He mimicked Biaggio’s Ticinese accent. “They are a-friendsa!”
    Biaggio appeared bored with his own disdain.
    â€œYou’re embittered,” he said after a while. “Temperamentally you belong with the Contras.”
    â€œThey’re no longer worthy of my attention,” Strickland said. “You’re in the Contra mode.”
    â€œFuck you,” Strickland said. “I’m a man of the left. Wait until you see my film.”
    â€œIs it finished?”
    â€œHell no, it’s not finished. It has to be cut. But I’ve shot all I need. So I’m short, as we used to say in Nam. I’m so short I’m almost gone.”
    â€œStrickland,” Biaggio said earnestly, “I have to borrow your jeep tomorrow. And your driver. I’m taking Charlotte to the front.”
    Strickland uncoiled a burst of merriment. Biaggio winced. The marimba band had stopped playing and Strickland’s unsound laughter attracted the attention of people at the nearby tables.
    â€œI myself,” he told the American, “don’t share this obsession to find absurdity everywhere. To find contemptible the honest impulse which—”
    â€œGet off the dime, Biaggio. What do you mean by ‘the front’?”
    Biaggio looked at him uneasily.
    â€œI was thinking of . . . thinking of going to Raton.” Seeing Strickland at the point of mirth, he raised an imploring hand. “Please,” he begged of his companion, “please don’t laugh.”
    â€œThere’s a brigade headquarters in Raton,” Strickland said. “There’s an army airfield there. If Raton’s your idea of the front, I understand how you’ve survived so many wars. You can have the jeep for f . . fifty dollars if you’ll return it to Avis for me. You’ll have to drive it yourself because I’ve already paid off the driver.”
    Biaggio slapped his forehead.
    â€œYou know I don’t drive.”
    â€œThen fly. Or get Charlotte to drive. Remind her not to hit any mines.”
    Strickland’s attention settled on the front pocket of Biaggio’s yellowing white shirt. With a quick predatory gesture he removed a laminated card from it before the Swiss could intercept his move.
    â€œPartito Comunista d’ltalia,” Strickland read from the card. “I suppose you’re going around town flashing this.”
    â€œAnd why not?” Biaggio demanded. “Since it’s mine.”
    Strickland tossed the card on the table.
    â€œThe best thing is to be known as a Mason,” Biaggio said, retrieving the card. “The Masons run everything in this revolution. They are the true ruling cadre.”
    As the marimba orchestra took up a song of the people, a party of Americans entered the garden. Their overalls and metal-rimmed spectacles served to identify them as internationalists. Among them was a tall, dark-haired young woman whose skin had been turned the color of honey by the sun. Around her neck was the
banda roja
of the national youth movement. The two men watched her pass.
    â€œYou know who that is, Biaggio? That’s Garcia-Lenz’s reserve popsie. She’s