by Tom Riggs
As the truck began to pull away, he put the transmission into first and took off the handbrake. The car sped off and up as Munro pulled hard on the steering wheel, left hand down. The whole car juddered as the front wheel hit the high curb, but they made it over. Munro accelerated hard across the grass and they screeched onto the other side of the highway at some speed. He kept turning and then straightened out just in time to keep the car on the highway. He put the transmission into drive and continued to accelerate, hard. The engine groaned and shuddered but it worked, its pistons firing. In twenty seconds they were on the other side of the highway, heading north and doing fifty.
“Now we find another road south,” said Munro in answer to Anna’s question. He checked the rear-view mirror. There was no movement from the other side of the highway. The police cruisers stayed where they were. Anna looked at her side mirror and saw the same thing.
“Looks like we might have made it,” she said smiling. “Nice driving captain.”
31
It was late at night by the time they finally arrived on the outskirts of Acapulco. The roadblock outside Manzanillo had been the first and last that they had seen. It had taken them another ten hours of driving. Ten hours, three tanks of petrol and four hundred miles. The Camino was on its last legs by the time they reached the city limits. Like a horse taken on a forced march. The engine that had sounded so strong and muscular three hundred miles earlier, was now coughing and spluttering like an asthmatic old man. But it had got them to Acapulco. They left the highway at an early exit, driving into a poorly-lit suburb. In the distance, ahead of them, was a skyline reminiscent of a mini-Manhattan. Bright towers of light shimmered against the black sky. The road was only half metalled here, the street lighting sporadic. They drove down a narrow street of closed up shops. All of them seemed to be aimed at the tourists staying in the distant tower blocks. Travel agents, cafes, an English language bookshop. Munro thought they might have placed themselves a bit far from the action. Their chipped signs and dusty windows suggested he was right. Ahead of them was a large open space leading to a makeshift concrete bridge and presumably, he guessed, a river. Munro drove the Camino to the edge of the waste ground. A small food stall was open ahead of them, a wooden trolley with one bright exposed bulb that was attracting insects from the river. It advertised hotdogs and a small group was gathered around it. Munro stopped the car.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Anna.
“The Camino is about to die on us. From the GPS it looks like the apartment we’re going to meet my partner in is on the seafront.” He motioned to the glimmering skyline. “Maybe in one of those tower blocks over there. From the map it looks like Acapulco is a maze anyway. I think it might be easier to get a cab from here.”
Anna rubbed her eyes and did a cat stretch, she had been asleep for the last two hours.
“Sounds good, I’m dying to get out of this car anyway.”
Munro surveyed their cabin. Empty water bottles and crisp packets were strewn around their seats; the detritus of a long day’s driving. With no air-conditioning, it had been a hot sweaty drive. It was time to lose the Camino.
“Ok, grab your bag,” he said. “I’ll get one of the guys over there to drive us.”
She got out of the car and looked around. Dark, empty streets; a few dogs, dust and litter. “I’ll come with you,” she said.
As they approached the group standing by the hotdog stand, Munro saw that they might be in luck. Two of the cars parked at the edge of the river had taxi stickers on their sides. The men at the stand turned to watch the two gringos walk up to them. After quickly assessing Anna, they turned away and continued their conversation. Munro walked up to the lady at the trolley. Several pink frankfurters were just visible in a steel vat of water that was built into the trolley counter. A plastic pack of buns was torn open on the counter, next to a jar of what looked like mustard. The lady was spending her time simultaneously counting out money and swatting away the insects that had been attracted to the trolley by the light and the smell of food.
“You want one?” Munro said to Anna smiling.
“Urggh,” replied Anna making a face. “I am hungry but not that hungry.”
“Probably wise,” agreed Munro. He turned to the group of men and asked them in Spanish if any of them were taxi drivers and if they could take him to the La Costera, the avenue that ran along the sea front. Three of the men were uniformly middle-aged and uniformly fat, their guts extended almost as if they had malnutrition, although Munro knew it was more likely to be a life spent driving taxis and eating hotdogs. One of the men was younger than the others, and thinner. He had new Nike Airs, creased white chinos and a white tennis shirt on. He looked ready for a night on the town. Having all listened to what Munro had to say, the three older men looked at him, looked at Anna again, and turned away. The younger man, in the tennis shirt stepped away from the group.
“Hey man, I’ll take you,” he said in English. “These guys aren’t interested, they do the day shift. But I work La Costera at night anyway. I am heading that way. Thirty dollars ok?”
Munro knew that it was probably three times the going rate, but it was late and their options were limited.
“Thirty dollars sounds great,” he replied.
As they walked over to the two cabs parked by the river, Munro asked the cab driver: “How did you know I spoke English? Could you tell from my accent?”
The driver smiled. “Of course, man, although your accent isn’t bad. Most gringos who come here don’t even bother to try, so good work for trying. But I could tell straight away that you weren’t Mexican.”
Anna smiled to herself and whispered “So much for covert operations training, captain.”
Anna got to the cab first, opened the back door and got in. She closed it before Munro could get there.
“Guess I’m taking the front,” he said to himself.
Munro gave the driver an address he had worked out was three blocks from Rudd’s apartment and they set off.
“So what you doing all the way out here man?” said the driver. His English was almost perfect, with a strong American accent.
“We got a bit lost in our hire car, and it broke down. The office is closed, so we’ll have to sort it out in the morning.”
“That’s harsh man. But you better be careful though. You leave a car out round here and it won’t be there for long. The guys round here, they’ll fix your car up and then they’ll steal it from you.”
“Thanks for the warning.” But that’s exactly what I’m hoping for, he thought.
Anna leaned forward between their two seats.
“Do you mind me asking you something?” she said to the driver. “What do those three dots tattooed on your hand mean?”
Munro looked down. He had noticed them at the hotdog stand. Three blue dots, in a triangle between his left thumb and left forefinger. In most of Mexico and North America they were a gang sign. The sign of La Mara. He looked at the driver. He certainly had the close shaven head of a Mexican gang-banger. But he was young. No more than twenty-two.
“This?” he replied raising his left hand, “This is nothing. Just some stupid shit I did when I was younger, in San Diego.”
“You lived in San Diego?” asked Anna.
“Yeah,” he replied, “I went to high school there, played a lot of football. You know, what they call football in the States? Not our kind of football, they call that soccer. But I came back here after high school. I prefer it down here.”
Of course you do, thought Munro. But you must be the only one. He remembered Eduardo telling him that a lot of young Mexicans were being sent back from the States if they had been caught getting involved with the street gangs that plagued California and other border states. He had complained that the Americans were just exporting their problems over the border. The gangsters just kept on doing what they had been doing in San Diego but in Tijuana. It was hardly making the Mexican government’s job easier, Eduard
o had said.
As they drove towards the sea front, the road became better and the people more numerous. Had it not been for the brightly lit shops selling row upon row of beach towels, bikinis and sarongs, it would have been hard to tell that they were anywhere near the sea. Every square inch of Acapulco seemed to have been concreted over. Here and there, on some of the nicer streets that the driver took them down, a few palm trees had been left. But otherwise, it was like driving through a city rather than a beach resort. The concrete road was wide and well-maintained. It gave way to a concrete pavement that was also wide and clean. Large tourists waddled between the neon-lit shops, the older ones holding ice creams, the younger ones beers. All of them were white, many of them sun burnt. The shops were all two storeys. Concrete bunkers with retail on the ground floor and a windowless floor above for storage. The traffic had started to get heavier and they began to slow to a crawl. Munro wound down his side window and looked up. What really gave Acapulco its urban air was not the road and the shops. What really hid any charm that it may have once had was the tower blocks. Looking up, all Munro could see was concrete for at least twenty storeys. They had been built slightly back from the shops, but still dominated the streets. He realised that even at midday, the sun would probably be blocked out.
“I would take my grandparents’ campsite over this place any day,” said Anna, her thoughts mirroring Munro’s.
“You don’t like Acapulco, lady?” said the driver.
“Not really my thing,” she said smiling to soften the blow.
“You should see the beach,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful bay in all of Mexico lady, maybe in all of the world. They call Acapulco the pearl of the Pacific. Liz Taylor, Elvis, Sinatra, they all came here. The pearl of the Pacific, lady.”
And then came the property developers and the concrete, thought Munro. The same old story.
Eventually the cab pulled up at the fake address Munro had given the driver. Munro gave him two twenties and told him to keep the change. Fifteen minutes later they were at 165 Avenue Costera, the address that Rudd had given for his safe house. They looked up. It was a huge tower of condominium apartments, at least twenty storeys high. A bank of several hundred buzzers was in front of them.
They looked at each other. The building was a concrete monstrosity, level upon level of cement and glass.
“Well at least we’ll be able to give you a proper bed,” he said.
Munro had never been so pleased to see Rudd’s smiling face in his life. The door opened to their apartment and there he was, looking every inch the European tourist. Baggy polo shirt, shorts, socks and sandals. He had also managed to acquire a slight sunburn during his short time in Mexico.
“Charles, it’s damn good to see you,” said Munro after they had hugged each other hello.
“Good to see you too Jack my boy, very good.” He saw Anna standing behind Munro in the doorway. “And this must be Miss Neuberg.”
Anna stepped forward coyly, holding her bag close to her like a child.
“Hi there,” she said smiling.
“Pleased to meet you my dear, very pleased to meet you. Let me take your bag.” Rudd stepped forward to take her bag, shooting Munro a dirty look while so doing. Munro caught the look and shrugged. He had offered to carry her bag when they got out of the taxi, but she had refused. Rudd took her bag into a small living room-come-kitchen. It was as standard as a holiday apartment could be. Totally functional. Four pine chairs around a small pine table, a sofa to seat three and an armchair for dad. He guessed that there would be four sets of cutlery, four plates and four bowls in the cupboards in the kitchen area. There was a microwave, a kettle, two electric hobs and a coffee maker. Behind the sofa was a large sliding glass door, half open. Munro saw that they also had a small balcony, no doubt designed to hold four.
“So this is your safe house,” said Munro. “Very cosy.”
“It’s anonymous and it should keep us out of trouble until we can get on a flight,” replied Rudd walking over to the kitchen. “Talking of which, there is a charter flight to Manchester in two days. I think that is our best bet for you Anna. I have an English passport for you my dear. With a bit of peroxide, you should pass as one Melissa Jones no problem. I’ll be on the same flight, checking everything goes ok. Jack, I’ve put you on a Lufthansa flight to Zurich leaving the next morning. I’ve brought your Swiss passport, Herr Meyer.” He paused and looked at them both, rubbing his hands together.
“But enough of that for the moment,” he continued, “I’ve made some soup. You two must be starving.”
As Rudd walked over to the kitchen Anna and Munro looked at each other and smiled. In his shorts, socks and sandals he did look slightly comical.
“Good outfit by the way Charles. It’s perfect,” he said.
“What do you mean?” said Rudd slightly confused. “Mrs Rudd packed for me. It’s bloody hot out here I warn you. Filthy climate.”
Rudd installed Anna at the small pine table with a bowl of soup. She wolfed it down in silence as Munro put their bags into the two bedrooms.
“I’ve put you in the double room Anna,” said Rudd. “You should be more than comfortable. Jack, you’re in the children’s’ twin with me, I’m afraid. Unless you’d rather camp on the floor.” Turning to Anna he continued. “Did you know Anna, that Captain Munro here actually sleeps better on the floor than he does on a proper bed?”
Anna smiled at Rudd, “I can believe that,” she said. “It explains a lot.”
“It’s true,” continued Rudd. “He has a huge comfortable bed in his house in England, but he sleeps on the floor next to it, on his roll-up army mat.”
Munro ignored them and went into the kitchen area. He began rummaging through the drawers, idly, looking for nothing in particular. Anna finished her soup and stood up.
“I’m gonna go to bed now guys,” she said linking her hands and stretching up. “I assume as my flight isn’t for two days you don’t need me for any more witness work right now?”
“Not at all my dear,” replied Rudd. “You go and get a good night’s sleep. You should have everything you need in there.”
“Thanks Charles, thank you so much for everything.” She walked over and kissed Rudd on the cheek. “Good night.” She looked over at Munro, “Night captain, sweet dreams.” And with that she went into her room. Munro looked up from the kitchen but did not have a chance to say anything in reply before she closed the door.
Once the light had gone off in Anna’s room, Rudd and Munro went out onto the small balcony. The condominium was at the end of the floor, their view took in most of Acapulco bay. La Bahia de Acapulco. It was a long gentle curve, defined at night by the lit-up towers that lined it. The curve ended with some steep cliffs, also lit up by electric lights. Beyond the towers was an urban sprawl of dim streetlights and cars. The town stopped abruptly where the land rose into the Sierra Madre mountains that encircled the bay. They both stood in silence and took in the view.
“It’s quite spectacular in the day,” said Rudd. “You can see why it’s such a popular place. Huge sandy bay, backed by high green mountains. And some pretty amazing cliffs at the far end.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Munro. “Shame about the tower blocks.”
“And all the people. By the time I arrived this afternoon you could hardly see the beach there were so many people on it.”
“Must have been lovely when the conquistadores first rode in here though. Like all these places. We just got here five hundred years too late.”
Rudd was quiet for a moment as they both looked out to sea.
“Want to talk about what happened?” he said eventually. “In the wood, with those police. Those now dead police.” He paused, waiting for Munro to answer. Instead Munro just looked out to sea.
“Did you really have to kill all of them Jack? I mean seriously, five men! What the hell were you thinking? We’re meant to be the good guys for God’s sake.”
“It’
s not like that Charles,” replied Munro quickly. “It’s really not. We’re not in England or America here. Half of the police here are working for the cartels. The cops are the bad guys. The men I killed were about to gang rape Anna. Gang rape her Charles. Is that what police do?” he did not wait for Rudd to answer. “I can guarantee you they would have killed her afterwards.”
“You don’t know that Jack. You should at least have given them a chance. You can’t just turn up in a country and go in all guns blazing. You can’t. You’re not in the army any more for God’s sake. You don’t work for the government anymore, neither of us do. When we went private, we lost any modicum of protection that service gave us. You know that, and you should act accordingly.”
Munro was silent as he looked at his partner.
“I do know that Charles,” he said eventually. “But what was I meant to do? A girl was about to get hurt. Badly hurt. I acted because I could. I couldn’t have left an innocent girl to get brutalised by six men. I just couldn’t.”
“I know you couldn’t Jack, and I would have probably done the same thing. You just need to remember that you’re a civilian.”
“I know that,” he said bowing his head in a mock act of contrition. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”
“Ok,” smiled Rudd. “Lecture over. Let’s talk about Miss Neuberg there. What’s her story? She seems pretty calm for a murder witness who has just been rescued from near-death by a man she’s never met before.”
“She’s a tough cookie, there’s no doubt about that. Clever too.”
“Do you think she is innocent?”
“What do you mean?” asked Munro. Although he knew what he meant. The thought had occurred to him too.
“Well. She’s with her boyfriend in Venezuela. Boyfriend is murdered. She witnesses murder. Does she go to the police? No. Does she call her embassy? No. What does she do? Goes on another holiday, this time to Mexico.”