J. B. Hogan

He Liked It That Much

El Machete was a little jíbaro, the Caribbean equivalent of a hillbilly, from the central highlands who’d been convicted of hacking his wife to pieces with the same sharp machete he used for working in the cane fields. Somehow he escaped La Piedra, the maximum security prison on Boca Tierra, and disappeared into the crowded streets of San Sebastian. For a jíbaro, he showed remarkable skill at eluding the sophisticated tracking techniques of the Boca Tierran and San Sebastian police.

Once he fled out the back of a rundown shack in the projects as the cops were coming in the front; another time he’d been chased down the blue brick streets of Old San Sebastian only to vanish just when the police thought they had him trapped.

The escape that captured the imagination of the entire island, however, had El Machete eluding the law on a fat-tired, run down old bicycle. The cops raced up and down alleys and side streets in their VW squad cars, sirens blaring, red lights flashing, but El Machete somehow got away again, leaving the police red-faced, the media with the hottest story in years, the nation with what most nations revel in, even crave: an outlaw the system can’t catch, control, or conquer.

“Get this cabrón,” the governor told the national police. “I don’t care how.”

“I want this son of a bitch in custody,” the mayor demanded of his police chief, “immediately. If not sooner.”

The police fanned out all over San Sebastian. They hauled in prostitutes from the tourist section, rounded up informants, stopped people on the street, chased cars around town with weapons dangling wildly out the windows of unmarked vehicles, made a timely push on leftists and subversives.

Early one morning, a couple of weeks after the famous bicycle escape, the police raided a house near UBT, Boca Tierra’s main university, said to be occupied by a group of socialist students. The students were presumed to be harboring El Machete, darling populist hero of the press. The leftists were sure to help anybody like that, the police reasoned, even if he was a brutal murderer.

The students were all sleeping when the raid began. One couple slept in the master bedroom, two men and a girl slept in three twin beds in the other bedroom. In the living room, one young man slept on the couch while another lay on the floor wrapped in a sheet.

“What the . . . ,” the youth in the master bedroom cried out as the window shattered and several men clambered into the room. He could hear the sounds of the rest of the raid as other windows and the heavy front door were broken into. The girl leapt up beside him, exposing her slim, brown body, naked except for a skimpy pair of flimsy panties. The police made a concerted effort to keep her out of bed and standing, arms across her breasts, in the middle of the room.

In a matter of moments, the entire group was collected in the living room, with the exception of the young man sleeping on the floor. In trying to flee, he had been caught at the door and was still there, lying face down, a .38 revolver held to his head by a blue-uniformed officer. The naked girl continued trying to cover herself as best she could but one of the police, an older pot-bellied man, kept slapping her arms away from her chest. Several minutes went by before the chief detective entered the house. A police sergeant followed closely behind.

“Very good roundup, Sergeant Rivera,” the detective said. “Now where is he?”

“Uh, who, Lieutenant?” the sergeant asked.

“Rivera,” the lieutenant barked.

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Rivera said quickly, “I’ll determine that right now. Robles! Angel Robles!” The pot-bellied cop hurried from beside the naked girl.

“Sir,” he said to the sergeant.

“Where is he, Robles?” Rivera demanded. “Where’s El Machete? You were the one who called in the raid, weren’t you?”

“He must be here, sir,” Robles said, pointing to the students.

“Idiota,” Rivera bawled, “I suppose he found the fountain of youth, did he?”

“Sir?” Robles scratched his head.

“These are children, Robles, children. El Machete is an old man. What were you thinking? Lieutenant Marín is waiting. Waiting for us to produce the killer. Is he here Robles?”

Before Angel could answer, another uniformed policeman rushed into the house and ran up to Lt. Marín. Marín immediately headed for the door.

“Come on Rivera,” he yelled. “El Machete was cornered but escaped again. Vehicles are in pursuit. He’s halfway across town. Come on. Let these people go. Now!”

“Yes, sir,” Rivera said, signaling the other officers to release the students and join the chase for El Machete. “Let them go.” Angel started to leave too, but Rivera stopped him.

“Stay out of this Robles,” Rivera snarled, “keep away.” He pushed Angel out of the way and then called to an officer standing at the back of all the activity. “Muñoz . . . front and center.”

“Yes, sir,” Muñoz said, coming to attention before Sgt. Rivera.

“Get your partner out of here,” Rivera ordered, “and keep him under control. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Muñoz addressed Rivera’s back as the sergeant whirled and stormed out of the house.

Muñoz and Angel were left with the students. The students, relieved but becoming indignant, began to chatter among themselves. One of them made an obscene gesture at Angel.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Muñoz said, pushing Angel toward the door. “In a few minutes these students will be ready to kill us . . . and I can’t say I blame them.”

“I’m hungry, Hector,” Angel told his disbelieving partner, “let’s go eat breakfast somewhere.”

“Ave María,” Hector said, shaking his head, “Blessed Virgin.”

Officers Muñoz and Robles breakfasted semi-American style at the Nuevo Pio-Pio on warm, buttered pan de agua and cafe con leche. As the officers savored their bread and coffee, across from them an old campesino was shoveling down a meal of chicharrones and mofongo con caldo. The heavy mixture of fried chicken strips and blob of fried green bananas drowned in a broth made Angel grimace as he watched the man eat.

“That jíbaro eats like an animal,” he told Hector, “he makes me sick.”

“Don’t look at him,” Hector said.

“Disgusting,” Angel said.

“He’s just an old man,” Hector said. They finished their bread and coffee.

“We better get back on patrol,” Angel said, “Sergeant Rivera’s a little angry.”

“A little,” Hector laughed, “he’s ready to bust you down to traffic control.”

“Hmph,” Angel grunted. The officers walked to the cashier and paid. They passed by the jíbaro on their way out.

“I ought to arrest him for eating like a pig,” Angel muttered. The old man looked up at the policemen and smiled. He was missing most of his front teeth and caldo ran down from his mouth onto his unshaven chin. Angel belched and looked away. Hector snickered. The jíbaro kept smiling.

“Díos mío!,” Angel exclaimed, as the officers went out the door, “my God!”

Back at the table, the legendary fugitive known to all Boca Tierrans, except himself, as El Machete continued wolfing down his bowl of food. He really liked the big city of San Sebastian. The people were friendly and you could always get lots of food, and pretty cheap. Good tasting food, too. He might just stay in San Sebastian a good long time, he told himself, drinking the rest of the mofongo con caldo from the bowl. It might be a nice place to live. He liked it that much.