“See?” shouted Timoteo indignantly as he saw Emma approach. “I told you. I told you!”
“Shut up,” ordered the man, his voice somewhere between a bullfrog’s and a collie’s. He glanced over at Emma, not taking his eyes off the boy for more than a split second. “How’d you two get in here?”
Emma tried to smile. When in trouble, smile, her grandfather had always counseled. A smile, Pépé had declared, was the “irresistible flower of the face.”
“The gate was open,” Emma said. “We just drove in.”
“What about Julio?” barked the man with the shaved head. The flower of his particular face was Venus flytrap.
“Who’s Julio?”
“He’s supposed to be the guard, the lazy bum. I oughta break his head.”
“There weren’t any signs,” said Emma. “Nobody said anything. If we’re trespassing, I assure you it wasn’t intentional.”
“Kid claims he works for you,” said the man. “Says he’s your assistant. That right?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Emma evenly.
The man broke into a yellow-toothed smile.
“I was admiring his hat. We don’t get many Cleveland Indian fans down here. Barry Castleman’s the only one I know. He’s got his boat moored over in B-twenty-three, right near where I found your little friend here. In fact, he’s got the exact same hat. I’ve seen him wear it about a million times.”
“What an interesting coincidence,” said Emma, glaring at Timoteo. “I’m sure Timoteo would love to talk to this Mr. Castleman. He’s a great Cleveland fan, too. Aren’t you, Timoteo?”
“Yeah,” mumbled the boy.
“Thing is, Castleman’s out playing golf today,” the bald man went on in his distinctive growl. “But maybe we could just go over and wait for him. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Barry’s such a hospitable guy, he’s always forgetting to lock his boat.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr … ?”
“Garr. Sid Garr. I run this marina.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Garr. I’m Emma Passant.”
“Yeah. Your assistant here tells me you’re a famous magician.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
“Yeah. He says this is yours.”
Still holding the baseball bat in one hand, Sid reached down and picked up a chrome-plated Art Deco ice bucket.
“Part of the act, huh?” he chortled. “Funny—Barry Castleman’s got one just like this, too.”
Emma didn’t say anything. She was too angry to speak.
“I think maybe it’s time for me to call the policía.”
“The ice bucket is mine,” said Emma after a moment, seeing the panic in Timoteo’s eyes. “You’re right. It’s part of my act.”
“Yeah?” said Garr. “Then you won’t mind showing me. I ain’t been getting much entertainment since Madonna walked out and left me for a younger guy. Come aboard.”
Timoteo tried to rise from his chair on the boat, but the big man pushed him back.
“I didn’t do nothing,” he muttered, hanging his head.
Emma ignored him and stepped carefully from the dock onto the boat. There were witnesses all around. It wasn’t as if Sid Garr could whack her over the head with his baseball bat and toss her into the water. Could he?
“May I?” Emma said, reaching out her hand when the boat stopped rocking.
“Sure,” said Sid, handing her the ice bucket. “This I gotta see.”
Emma took off the bucket’s top, turned it over and placed it upside down on Timoteo’s head.
“Hold on to to this,” she said to the boy. “Use both hands.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Timoteo warily raised his hands and placed them on either side of the ice bucket. Garr watched in unconcealed amusement.
“Are you holding it tightly?” Emma asked Timoteo.
“Yeah,” said the boy.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
Emma gave the bucket a sharp whap with her open hand.
“Hey!” yelped Timoteo, looking up with surprise.
“Don’t let that fall off your head,” ordered Emma.
“But you—”
“Now, open your mouth and say ‘aaah.’”
Timoteo looked at her with a puzzled expression.
“You want me to leave you here with Mr. Garr?”
“Aaaah,” said Timoteo.
Emma put three knuckles of her fist into the boy’s mouth and whapped the ice bucket on his head again with her other hand, even harder this time. When she pulled her fist out of the boy’s mouth it was full of pesos—a colorful pile of notes in every denomination.
“Hey! How you do that?” cried Timoteo with new respect, turning the bucket over and scrutinizing it for remainders. “Do it again! Make more money appear from my mouth!”
Emma had practiced the art of palming for years during down moments in restaurant jobs, experimenting with everything from meager tips to toasted bagels. She had never found much use for the skill in her act, however. Making Sweet’n Low appear from thin air in a Greek joint was pure magic. Onstage it just seemed like a trick.
“I wonder if I could persuade you to keep this, Mr. Garr,” said Emma, handing the stack of pesos to the bald man. She wouldn’t have used nearly as much money had she had a chance to count it off properly from the wad in her pocket.
“You trying to buy me off?”
“Not at all. Why don’t you just think of it as kind of a souvenir?”
“A souvenir,” said Garr, taking the bills. “I like that. That’s real creative. Hey, you’re okay, honey.”
“And maybe you could give these to that Mr. Castleman,” said Emma, snatching the ice bucket from Timoteo and handing it over to Garr, together with the stolen baseball cap. “It sounds like he might appreciate them.”
“I’ll do that,” said Garr, storing both items in his armpit and putting down his baseball bat so he could put his “souvenir” in his pocket.
“How you do that? How you do that?” said Timoteo. “Teach me. Teach me.”
“You just be quiet for a minute or I’ll turn you into a toad.” Timoteo shut up.
“I appreciate your consideration in this, Mr. Garr.”
“No sweat,” said Garr amicably. “I appreciate yours.”
“Actually, if you’re in charge here, then you’re the man I came to see.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I’m looking for a boat.”
“Well, we got plenty of ’em. What kind of boat you want?”
“Well, it’s sort of a long story … Is it possible for me to use your bathroom first?”
“Sure, it’s possible. I just don’t know if you’d want to, that’s all.”
“I’d want to, believe me.”
“Thing is, it ain’t exactly the most elegant facility in the world,” said Sid, a blush racing up his fat face, over his bushy eyebrows and across the vast expanse of his naked head. “Now that Madonna’s moved out, I mean. She kinda cleaned it more oftener than I did, if you catch my drift.”
Emma closed her eyes in pain at the thought of it, but didn’t say anything.
“In the bow,” said Sid. “Down the stairs. Don’t step on the cat. I already stepped on him once today. He don’t like it.”
“Thank you,” said Emma.
“Okay, I meet you at the car,” said Timoteo, rising from his chair. Garr caught him by the arm.
“You stay here with me.”
Garr and Timoteo were still sitting in awkward silence when she returned from the facilities a few moments later, only slightly worse for wear.
“So what boat you want to know about?” grunted Garr, looking almost happy to see her. He clearly had no idea of what to do with a ten-year-old.
“It might not be here now, but it was somewhere on San Marcos about thirty years ago.”
“Thirty years ago? You must be kidding. Thirty years ago I was
a candy-ass kid learning boiler maintenance from the U.S. Navy.”
“Aren’t there records you can check that go back that far?”
“Sorry. Marina’s only fourteen years old.”
“Well, maybe it was still around when the marina opened,” said Emma hopefully. “Boats live a long time, don’t they?”
“Sometimes. If they’re maintained okay. What’s the name of this tub?”
“The Kaito Spirit.”
“Never heard of it. It’s not here now, that’s for sure.”
“Can you check your records? It’s very important to me. I’ve come all the way from San Francisco to find it.”
“San Francisco, huh?” said Garr, his thick lips curling into the wicked yellow semblance of a smile. “Nice town. I knew a broad once in San Francisco … well, never mind. But she was okay.”
“Can you check?”
“Yeah, I guess. Come on. Keep an eye on light-fingered Louie there.”
“Timoteo. My name is Timoteo.”
Garr struggled to his feet and led the way onto the dock and back toward the gate where they had come in. Several men in shorts, boat owners from the look of them, nodded to Garr as they walked through the marina. The bald man acknowledged them with grunts. Emma walked directly behind Timoteo, with her hand on his shoulder, though the boy showed no apparent inclination to escape.
Eventually they came to a small wooden shack along the outer fence, a few hundred yards past the parking lot. The shack had no windows and was painted white. The padlock which was supposed to secure the door was open and hung uselessly from the side of the latch.
Garr, his bushy eyebrows colliding angrily in the center of his face, yanked the door open. Out fell a man who Emma could only assume was Julio, judging by the guilty expression on his face as he hit the ground and woke up. He had been sleeping upright on a chair. The shack wasn’t large enough to contain much more than Julio, his rifle, and a few stacks of books.
“Julio, goddammit,” shouted Garr, kicking angrily at the man’s shoes. “If I catch you sleeping one more time, I’m going to throw you in the ocean, you understand? You gotta do your job, man. Go back there and guard the gate, goddammit. What if there had been trouble? Jesus H. Christ!”
Julio scrambled to pick up his rifle, then fled in the direction of the front gate.
“Is there a lot of trouble here?” asked Emma.
“Nothing major, just kids looking for what they can get, mostly. We pay the cops pretty good, and the San Marcans are really pretty honest, just miserable poor. When the revolution comes, though, look out. Bad business, believe you me. You get the kind of poverty they got here, you’re just asking for trouble. So let’s see what we got here.”
Garr entered the shack, rummaged around in the stacks of books, and came out with two ledgers and the straight-backed, armless chair on which Julio had been sleeping.
“What was the name again?”
“The Kaito Spirit.”
“Whose was it?”
“My grandfather’s. Jacques Passant.”
“Navy man?” asked Garr hopefully.
“No, I don’t think so. He was French.”
“Too bad,” said Garr, disappointed. “Don’t get many Navy men down here. Just guys who learned their sailing out of a bank account.”
He placed the chair on the dusty ground in front of the shack, sat down, and leafed through the books for a few minutes.
“No Kaito Spirit,” said Garr finally, closing the volume. Sorry.”
“Well, it was a longshot.” Emma sighed. “It would have been too easy to find it on my first stop, I suppose. There must be dozens of marinas on the island.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know. The ocean. A lot of people down here must have boats. Don’t they?”
“This ain’t exactly yacht-club territory, honey. Most of the locals don’t got two sticks to rub together. The only reason you see all these boats is Las Calvos. People sail the Caribbean and stop here to play golf. Las Calvos is supposed to be one of the top courses in the hemisphere.”
“You can’t mean that this is the only marina on San Marcos?”
“It’s the only one on this side of the island,” grunted Garr. “There’s another big one in Puerto Lavera, up north, where you find the good beaches, but that’s about it. The kind of folks who can afford these kind of craft don’t have reason to go anywhere else on San Marcos but here and Puerto Lavera. Unless they’ve got their own estates. There are some of those. They got private docks. Nothing else in the whole country but dirt and poor people.”
Emma was silent a moment, trying to think.
“Was the marina in Puerto Lavera in existence thirty years ago?” she asked finally.
“Sure. It’s the been around since the twenties.”
“How far of a drive is it?”
“Two or three hours, through the interior,” said Garr, scratching the graying beard stubble on his face. “You can’t drive there, though. Not from here.”
“Why not?”
“Roads are for shit, and there’s no gas. Bandits, too. Leftist guerrillas. Whatever you want to call them. You gotta take a plane from San Marcos City. But get yourself a room first, that’s my advice. You’re in the middle of tourist season, and it gets pretty crowded up there. Most of the decent places are sold out months in advance. A buddy of mine went up last week and had to share a room with eight cock-a-roaches and a rat.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Emma, discouraged. “Is there a place to get gas near here? And maybe something to eat?”
“Yeah, Las Calvos.”
“Anywhere else?”
“What’s wrong with Las Calvos? I woulda thought you’d love it there.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
Garr looked her over as if seeing her for the first time.
“There are gas stations in Benitra, that’s up the coast a ways.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, it’s against regs, but I suppose I could sell you a tank for a hundred and fifty pesos.”
“A hundred fifty pesos! Isn’t that pretty expensive after the nice souvenir I gave you, Mr. Garr? I only need about half a tank.”
“Half a tank, whole tank, the risk’s the same to me, and that’s what you’re paying for. Now for twenty pesos more, I’d be glad to throw in a couple of salami sandwiches …”
“I’ll take them.”
“ … only I ate them for lunch.”
“I guess I’ll just take the gas then.”
Garr grinned broadly, walked Emma back to her car and had her pull around to the first dock, where an old-fashioned pump was concealed. It took a few minutes to fill her tank. Timoteo had gotten into the car and Emma had handed over the extortionate payment before Garr spoke again.
“I just remembered,” he said, leaning in on the door. “There used to be a marina in Migelina. You might poke around there, see if they got any old records, before you schlep all the way up to Puerto Lavera.”
“Where’s Migelina?” said Emma.
“South of the city. An hour’s drive, maybe.”
“But the marina isn’t there anymore?”
“No, not for twenty years, but there are still some old-timers around who might remember this Kaito Spirit you’re looking for. There’s some rich folks with their own docks down there, too, from the old days. Migelina used to be a resort town, pretty fancy —the Las Calvos of its day, until it got clobbered in Hurricane Jane. They still talk about that one. Wrecked the whole south of the island.”
Emma thanked Sid Garr—though for what, she wasn’t sure, the interlude had cost her a small fortune—and drove out of the marina’s sandy parking lot to the gate, where Timoteo had to get out of the car to open it. Emma didn’t want to bother Julio, who was sitting against the fence fast asleep, his rifle on his lap.
Timoteo was uncharacteristically quiet, and Emma didn’t speak until they were several miles away from
the marina, back on the road they had taken up from San Marcos City.
“That was pretty stupid, Timoteo,” she said finally.
“What?” grunted the boy, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively.
“Stealing those things.”
“I didn’t steal nothing. A man gave them to me.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know. A man.”
“Lying about it is worse.”
“I’m not lying. Why you call me a liar?”
Emma stamped on the brake. There was no one behind her—there was no traffic in sight. The car skidded to a halt on the pitted concrete road. She leaned across the seat and opened Timoteo’s door.
“Get out.”
Timoteo looked up at her, startled.
“Why you want me to get out?”
“I don’t like thieves. Get out.”
“I’m not a thief. I’m your guide. You can’t find your way back to San Marcos City without Timoteo.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You are joking,” he said, laughing nervously. “You make joke on Timoteo.”
“Get out, Timoteo. I’m bigger than you are and I’m as strong as a hickory stick. I’ll throw you out physically if I have to.”
Staring at her, the boy slid over and got out of the car. Emma leaned over and shut the door.
“You don’t know nothing,” Timoteo said, leaning in the open window. “You are ignorant lady. How you are going to talk to people without me? What if the police stop you again? What are you going to say? It is many miles back to San Marcos City.”
“I thought you were my friend, Timoteo.”
“I am your friend.”
“No, you’re not. I can trust my friends. My friends don’t steal. My friends don’t lie to me.”
“Okay. I not lie to you or steal anymore.”
“How am I supposed to believe you?”
“Because I’m telling the truth.”
“You said you were telling the truth before, but you were lying.”
“I’m telling the truth now.”
“How do I know that? All I have is your word.”
“My word is good. You believe me.”
“Well, sorry. I don’t. That’s what happens to liars. People stop believing them, even when they aren’t lying. How can I ever know if you’re telling me the truth?”
The Girl Who Remembered the Snow Page 15