“Bypassing several objections for the moment—how would you prove you’d found me?”
“In my luggage at the hotel is a small camera. It might also be possible for me to take back something you’ve written: an unpublished manuscript, perhaps.”
Luac chuckled. “Ahhhh! The price goes up! A Luac manuscript might bring a small sum of money, eh?”
Garson felt the blood rush to his face. “Oh, no! I didn’t . . .”
“Please!” Luac held up his right hand. “Don’t spoil things just when I was beginning to gain respect for you.” He dropped his hand to the cane. “Another question: What if some other enterprising journalist follows in your tracks and discovers that there is a Hacienda Cual near Ciudad Brockman?”
Garson frowned. “There’s something I’d really like explained. Why such a simple anagram on your name?”
“My own monument to human blindness, sir—and because of the pun.”
“What pun?”
“Cual. In Spanish it means which. The anagram becomes ‘Which Cual?’ And the answer: ‘The Luac Cual!’ Very neat.”
“Well, Mr. Luac, to answer your question: I plan to do such a complete story that there’ll be no ground for another man to cover.”
“Oh? And what of the idly curious—the human leaves that flutter on the wind?”
“We’re back to the heads on the gateposts, I see.”
“Yes. And you have such a distinctive head.”
Garson swallowed. “What do you suggest?”
“Forget all about me for a sum of money—say one thousand dollars.”
Playing to an unseen audience was beginning to tire on Garson. He shook his head. “No.”
“How about two thousand?”
Again Garson shook his head.
“You name the price, Mr. Garson.”
“Let’s drop the subject for now, shall we?”
“As you wish. It may be bootless, anyway. Raul may want to keep you here as a pet.”
Garson’s interest rekindled. Is Luac dropping a hint? He said, “He wouldn’t keep me here!”
“You have just made a foolish remark.” Luac lifted his cane, tapped Garson’s arm. “You don’t know what we can do.”
What’s he trying to say? Garson wondered. He said, “You haven’t seen my hand, either. By now, the American Consul knows where I am. They may get very stuffy about finding my head on a gatepost—or just finding me missing.”
Luac nodded vigorously.
He approves of this turn in the conversation, thought Garson. He said, “I intend to do a story on you, Mr. Luac. One of the most important magazines in the United States is expecting it of me. I’d hate to disappoint them.”
“Life has many disappointments, young man. Would you like to know what you’re up against?”
Garson sensed the undercurrent of the conversation: Information about our situation here. He said, “It would help.”
Luac gestured toward the lake with his cane. “The only roads out of here are across that lake. They are patrolled regularly by troops of vaqueros—our own cavalry.” The cane came down, tapped the floor. “Behind us is a swamp in which a man can lose himself in five minutes—and die two hundred feet from safety.”
“Very strategic,” said Garson.
“The location of the hacienda? Yes. The good ones were always laid out like forts.” Luac tugged at his goatee. “Then I have Choco. He was with Pancho Villa when he was eleven. His brother, you know, was one of Villa’s lieutenants. I’m afraid Choco learned some very bad tricks with Villa.”
The frustration of unanswered questions was almost too much for Garson. He sensed also that Luac was playing with him in some way—using him.
How do I get at the truth?
“Father!” Anita Luac’s voice came from behind Garson. She came in from the hallway, her soft curves sheathed in a white sharkskin dress.
Garson felt his blood quicken.
She put an arm on the old man’s shoulder, kissed his cheek, turned and looked squarely at Garson.
“I believe you two have already met,” said Luac.
Her smile carried a hint of mockery. The large brown eyes seemed to say: “I warned you!”
“I have had the pleasure,” said Garson. And again he wished that he could have shaved.
“You look just a little the worse for wear, Mr. Garson,” she said. The warm contralto voice, too, carried the veil of mockery.
“Mr. Garson may be our guest for some time,” said Luac. His voice sounded a shade reproachful, as though he reminded his daughter of something with the tone.
Her smile brightened. “It will be pleasant to have you here, Mr. Garson. It gets very lonely with just the same old faces.”
Has she been told to play up to me? Why?
The old man leaned forward on his cane, glowered at the hallway behind Garson. “Choco?”
Garson turned. Raul Separdo came into view, moving softly on the balls of his feet. There was something suggestive of dancing in his motions. Garson found it easy to picture one of Separdo’s ancestors dancing before a pagan idol while a priest tore out the heart of the sacrifice.
“Have we learned anything new?” asked Separdo. He bent his head to Anita Luac. “It’s good to see you again, Nita.”
Garson thought that her smile became a little strained. “You talk as though I’d been away, Raul.”
“Every moment away from you is like a year.”
Choco appeared in the arch of the hallway. “You called, Patron?” He swung a machete loosely in his left hand. The ends of his mustache drooped.
Separdo frowned.
“Yes, I called,” said Luac. “You are to drop your other . . . work, and . . . uh . . . devote yourself to guiding Mr. Garson while he is our guest.”
Separdo spoke without turning. “And if he attempts to escape, Choco, you may bring him back in pieces.”
Anita Luac drew in a quick breath.
“He is not to be harmed,” said Luac. “I hold you personally responsible.”
Medina’s right hand went to the revolver in his belt holster. “Sí, Patron.”
Separdo looked at the floor behind Luac, smiled. “I came to tell you that we have a message from the colonel of police in Ciudad Brockman.”
Luac’s goatee quivered. “Oh?” His tongue flicked over his thin lips. “What does my friend Bartolomé want?”
“He wishes to know if we have seen an American tourist named Hal Garson. Both the Consulate and Turismo have called him from Mexico City.”
Garson stared at Luac. Score one for me! Villazana did as he was told!
“Ahhhh,” said Luac. “Send the good colonel my regards, Raul. Tell him that Mr. Garson—an old friend—has kindly accepted our hospitality for an indefinite period, and that he would like his luggage sent up from the hotel.”
Separdo nodded.
“You will recall my wise counsel of last night, Raul?” asked Luac.
“Yes, Antone.”
“This is why Olaf still relies upon my judgment rather than yours, Raul. Olaf realizes that you are too—ahhh—quick.”
Separdo scowled. The corners of his mouth trembled. Slowly, he smiled, turned to Anita Luac. “Are we going riding today, Nita?”
“Why . . .” She hesitated, glanced at her father.
“I’m sorry, Raul,” said Luac. “Nita will be helping to guide Mr. Garson today.”
Separdo’s fingers curled stiffly like claws, then relaxed. “Of course. And Choco will be with them.”
“Choco always guards my daughter, Raul.”
“But naturally, Antone.” Separdo looked out at the lake. “Such a beautiful lake,” he murmured. “One never knows, does one? Beauty may conceal so many things.”
Garson noted that Anita Luac was watching Separdo as a bird might watch a snake. Her hands were clenched into fists.
“As you say, Raul,” said Luac. He turned to Garson. “Choco will loan you a razor if you wish to freshen up before looking
around.”
Medina lifted the machete in his hand. “Shall I loan him this one, Patron?”
Anita Luac laughed. It was like a release from hysteria. Garson realized that Medina’s words had been aimed at just that effect.
“One of the little ones will do,” said Luac. Laughter wrinkles deepened at the corners of his eyes.
Separdo nodded to Garson. “You must be careful that you do not cut yourself, Mr. Garson.”
“Be sure you give the message correctly to the colonel of police,” said Garson. “I wouldn’t want him to worry about me.”
“Worry is a bad thing,” said Separdo. “No one must worry.” He left the room, still with the lithe motions of a dancer.
Garson stared after Separdo. What’s his real function here? What hold does he have on Luac?
“We will continue our discussion another time,” said Luac.
“Mañana?” asked Garson.
Luac chuckled. “Sí. Mañana.”
***
Chapter 5
“This is my father’s study,” said Anita Luac. She opened a door off the hallway, preceded Garson into the room.
The noon sun beat down on the terrace beyond the room’s front windows, reflected with a rippling glare off the white-washed ceiling.
Anita Luac crossed to the front windows, dropped bamboo screens across them, masking the view of the lake and sun scorched hills.
There was a hot mugginess in the room that Garson noted immediately as he entered. He wondered how Luac could work in that heat.
“Father uses this room at night,” she said, as though answering his unspoken question. “He prefers the summer house in the garden during the day.”
Garson nodded, looked around him. An intricate bird pattern in green had been worked into the golden tiles of the floor. A long trestle table stood parallel to the windows, its top littered with papers. A heavy rattan chair with a green velvet cushion had been pushed back from the table. The back wall of the room was entirely window-pane mirrors that reflected the masked view of lake and hills. Book cases floor to ceiling filled the side walls.
The green notebooks, thought Garson. He saw them on the right.
Medina followed them into the room, leaned against the doorway.
Garson moved idly across to the book case, studied the green-backed ones. He saw the marked one immediately, pulled it out.
“Your father suggested that I might like to read some of his work.”
He flipped the notebook open to the title page: “The Duke of Pork.” Garson frowned, thought, I’ve seen that somewhere. Below the title was written: “By George Merrill.”
A pseudonym?
Then he recalled both author and title—published within the current year in . . . He could not remember the specific magazine.
Garson turned to Anita Luac. “Has all of this stuff been published?”
“Some of it. Many have never been submitted.”
“Oh? Why does he write them?”
She shrugged. “He’s a writer.”
“Of course, but . . .”
“He calls the unpublished ones my insurance policy. If I ever need money—after he’s gone . . .” Again she shrugged.
“You have only to submit this work by the famous Antone Luac.” Garson nodded. “How does he submit the things he writes under a pseudonym? I mean: How does he conceal his identity? Does he have a friend working for him in the States?”
“Perhaps you should ask my father.”
“I shall.” He tucked the notebook under his arm.
She moved toward the door. “Shall we look at the rest of the house now?”
“Lead on.”
They ended the tour at the dock that jutted into the lake beyond the front terrace. Garson stared thoughtfully across the water, noted from this new vantage point a large brick building down the lake to his left. Every door in the house had been opened for his inspection—almost as though he were buying property.
Just what am I supposed to buy here? he wondered.
Medina squatted by the lakeshore, rolled a cigarette, tipped his head back to protect his mustache as he touched match to tobacco.
Garson thought back to the room that had been pointed out as Raul Separdo’s. There had been a desk without paper, a single chair, a bed made without a wrinkle. The room had felt unoccupied, as though Separdo had carefully kept every imprint of himself from showing there. Garson had the feeling that even Separdo’s fingerprints were removed from that room daily. The effect was one of rigid concealment.
Concealment of what?
He focused on the building down the lake from them, pointed at it. “What’s that building there—the one in the trees?”
Anita Luac moved up beside Garson, threw a pebble into the water. “That is another thing you must ask my father.”
“Is that where they take the trucks?”
She stared at him silently.
Garson noted a total cessation of movement from Medina.
The tableau was broken by a call from behind them: “Nita!”
They turned. Raul Separdo walked toward them across the terrace, a cardboard box under one arm. His face appeared flushed, eyes glittering with an intentness that made Garson uncomfortable.
Separdo stopped in front of them, spoke to Anita Luac while keeping his attention on Garson: “Nita, your father wishes to see you.”
“Right now?”
“Immediately.”
She nodded to Garson. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.”
She crossed the terrace to the hacienda, went inside.
Separdo glanced down at Medina, who had not moved from his position beside the lake. “Why do you wait here, Choco?”
Medina flipped his cigarette butt into the lake, got to his feet, turned. “Because the Patron said to guard his guest.”
“You may go with Nita.”
“I’ll wait. She doesn’t need protection from her father.”
Separdo’s face darkened. The muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched. He turned to Garson. “Would you care to walk out to the end of the dock with me?”
Garson abruptly sensed menace like a thick fog in the air. He nodded toward the box under Separdo’s arm. “What do you have there?”
“A surprise.” The box emitted a scratching, bustling noise. “Come.” Separdo took Garson’s arm.
They walked to the end of the dock. The feeling of menace grew stronger with every step. Garson heard Medina’s footsteps behind him. They stopped at the end of the dock. Garson glanced down at the rowboat there, noted that the chain was secured by a large padlock.
Separdo placed the cardboard box on the dock, slipped a hand under the lid and withdrew a young rooster. The bird squawked once. Separdo dangled it from one hand, appeared to notice Luac’s green notebook under Garson’s arm for the first time.
“What do you have there?”
“This?” Garson touched the notebook with his right hand. “Mr. Luac suggested that I might find some of his work useful to pass the time.”
“Such time as there is,” said Separdo. “Observe.” He turned, flipped the rooster out into the lake.
It landed about ten feet from them in a splashing of wings, floated awkwardly for a moment. Abruptly, the bird was propelled half out of the water. Its wings beat frantically. It squawked twice: a quavering, agonizing sound. Then it went under. The water around it began to boil with hundreds of flashing forms. A slow red stain spread through the area.
“Caribe,” murmured Separdo. He stared at the water with an intentness that frightened Garson, turned and looked directly into Garson’s eyes. “They are called also piranha.”
Garson swallowed in a dry throat, recalled his spill into the lake the night of his arrival. “I thought piranha were native to South America.”
“These were stocked here especially to take care of meddlers,” said Separdo. He stared at Garson with a gleeful intentness.
Medina ste
pped closer.
Garson felt the wild pulsing of his heart, the trembling of fear in his arms. Is Separdo going to push me into the lake?
“We will go back now,” said Medina.
Separdo whirled on him. “Stay out of . . .”
“You’ve had your fun,” said Medina.
“One day you will go too far, Choco!”
Medina’s hand hovered above his gun butt. “One day the Patron will say to me, ‘Choco, we have decided—Olaf and I—that Raul is no longer needed.’ I will not play with you on that day, Raul. It will be quick!” He hooked his left thumb toward the shore. “Now, we go.”
A violent shivering passed over Separdo. His lips twitched. The light in his eyes was like flame.
“See if you can beat me,” murmured Medina.
Garson realized with a kind of awed remoteness that he was witnessing a scene that might have occurred fifty years before in the Old West: a trial of nerves. And he realized also that the evil-faced Choco Medina must be the only force on the hacienda keeping Separdo in check . . . with the exception of the mysterious Olaf.
Who is this Olaf? he wondered. What role does he play in all of this?
Separdo’s trembling subsided. He turned to Garson with a look of thinly suppressed violence. “I will go after I have said what I came to say: Mr. Garson, do not get any ideas about Nita Luac! She’s not for you!” He turned, brushed past Medina, strode off the dock, crossed the terrace, entered the house.
“I thought I was going to have to take him that time,” said Medina. He sighed. “I will be glad when we’re off of this powder keg.”
“What hold does Separdo have on Luac?” asked Garson.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garson. It’s not my place to give information.”
“Thanks, anyway.’
“My pleasure.”
“So Anita Luac is not for me.”
“Nor is she for him,” said Medina. “Shall we go?”
They moved toward the shore.
Anita Luac emerged from the house, joined them at the edge of the lake.
“Your father didn’t want to see you at all,” said Garson.
She glanced at him, frowned, looked at Medina. “Choco, what happened out there?”
A Game of Authors Page 6