Lockestep

by Jack Barnao

  "The spraying, I guess you mean.” Cahill humphed. “Dumb way of controlling it, I think. Some bastard'll always find a place to grow it. What they oughta do is legalize grass anyway, lean on the other shit."

  "Legalization doesn't work. Didn't in Britain, anyway. They still have a runaway heroin trade despite that prescription business. Addicts don't like anybody to know they're hooked."

  "Spare me the philosophy,” he said. “I just try and enforce the law. Doesn't matter how they write the goddamn thing, they'll still need coppers."

  "Okay, so you're off the unemployment rolls. Now tell me the good part, where are we staying and where's my expense money?"

  He opened the dressing table drawer, took out a brown envelope and tossed it on the bed. “We've got a thousand bucks, half of it is already changed into pesos. Apparently it's not expensive, living down there, and your hotel accommodation is prepaid. You're with a tour group, Sunbird International, staying at Cuatro Vientos."

  "The four winds. Yeah, I know the place. It's one of the big new spots they've built over at Las Ropas."

  "What's that mean?” Cahill was tired. He'd been part of the security team watching Amadeo and hadn't been out of the hotel for a week, except to call on me on Thursday night. He had no patience left but was still pro, still looking for hints that might be useful.

  "It's the trendy end of the beach inside Zihuatanejo Bay it means the beach of the clothes. Apparently a shipwreck washed up a bunch of clothing there. Recently they've started building hotels over there for tourists. It's about a mile out of town."

  "I'll keep it in mind if I ever get a vacation,” he said. “Now, sign for the cash and I'll introduce you to the boyfriend."

  He took me next door, where two other RCMP men were playing chess while Amadeo lay on the bed watching a movie on television. He was younger than I had expected, around twenty-eight, fit-looking, handsome in a loose-lipped Travoltaish kind of way. Cahill switched off the TV and told him, “This is John Locke, Greg, he's going to look after you."

  Amadeo lay back on his pillow and stared at me disdainfully. “He sure don’ impress me,” he said.

  The feeling was mutual, but I said nothing Cahill did it for me, snapping at Amadeo, “Nothing impresses you unless it's got big tits or a shotgun poking up your nose,” he said. “This guy is the best in the business. Don't give him any trouble, or he'll break your head."

  "Him'n who else?” Amadeo asked. “Now, can you get your fat ass away from the TV, I was watchin’ that movie."

  Cahill switched it back on. “Fill your boots,” he said, and hooked his head outside. I followed him and he shut the door behind us. “Nasty little prick. Since we offered him immunity, he's been figurin’ he was royalty. Wouldn't bother me any if his buddies wasted him after he's talked."

  "They may do that. They've got long arms, those people."

  When we got back in our room, I went over the projected plan of action a few times with Cahill. Apparently Amadeo had been tight about details. All he had said was that he would be picking up his cash from some hiding place and spending sometime with his Mexican wife. The room at Cuatro Vientos was just a cover. We wouldn't be staying there the whole time.

  "That's not a hell of a lot to go on, Martin. The way I read it, he's going to be looking for a chance to bolt. He's got enough friends in the drug trade that he could have me shot in the back without too much trouble, then pick up his money and run. Hell, even if he was in Dutch with the Mafia, they'd never find him in Mexico. If he's got cash stashed somewhere, he could vanish."

  "I know. The way I see it, you're in danger if you're away from the town,” Cahill said. “So you insist that he see his wife someplace where you can keep him holed up. The only dangerous part is when he takes you off somewhere to pick up the money. I figure that's when his business partners from up here will jump him, and you with him. They must know he's been turned around. We busted the door down on his house to get in."

  "They know, all right. And he knows it—that's why he wants to pay me ten grand to cover him. Probably didn't know anybody in his line of work he could trust to make the pickup with him."

  I had thought about this job a lot during the three days of waiting. It promised to be one of the harder assignments I'd ever taken on. I guess Cahill agreed, he sucked his teeth. “I wish I could go along with you. It's a tall order for one guy."

  "All in a day's work,” I said. “I've had to to watch my back before and stay on top of guys."

  "Right. I want you in lockstep with him, everywhere. If you want, I can get you some cuffs, you can handicap him a little while you're going anywhere suspicious."

  "It won't take cuffs. I can cover it."

  "Yeah, I think you can, that's why I volunteered you for the job.” He reached out his hand and we shook solemnly. “Take care of yourself. If it's you or him, make sure it's you gets out."

  "Every time,” I assured him. “Now let's crash, that flight leaves at six, we're going to have to be out of here around three forty-five."

  It was snowing when we left for the airport, a thin, mean snow that promised to turn into the biggest blizzard of the winter. I was wearing my British overcoat on top of light summer gear, a cotton windbreaker and blue jeans, ideal for Mexico or for the airplane but inadequate for February in Toronto. I gave Cahill my coat and asked him to bring it back when he picked me up the following Sunday. “You just get back here with the prisoner an’ I'll buy you dinner,” he promised.

  "I'll be looking for something more than fish-and-chips. But if the government's picking up the tab, I'll take you someplace."

  "You're on,” he said. Then he got serious. “One of our guys is taking care of Amadeo until you get through security. Go right to the gate, and he'll be there. After that, he's all yours."

  "Just what I always wanted, a hood of my very own."

  Terminal One is about thirty years old and is crowded to the walls when a charter flight leaves. I got in the lineup with several hundred people at the Sunbird counter and kicked my bag ahead of me until I got my boarding pass. My seat had already been chosen, the girl told me. I was on the aisle in the smoking section, which meant that Amadeo would be between me and the window. I thanked her and checked the bookshop but it was closed. I'd anticipated that and packed my copy of The Reason Why, by Woodham Smith, the story of the Charge of the Light Brigade, one of the British army's more spectacular screw-ups. It would pass the flight for me, and I didn't count on having time to read once we touched down in Zihua.

  The only personal weapon I was carrying was my clasp-knife. It's big enough to set off the metal detector and get security people in a flap, so I had stuck it in my toilet bag and had to hope that my luggage made it onto the flight, something that doesn't always happen even in the best regulated airlines. In the meantime I got through security without any problems and walked around the corridor that circles the concourse until I reached Gate 32, where I found Amadeo sitting smoking next to one of the RCMP men from his room. There wasn't space next to them, so I just nodded to the Mountie and tapped my watch. He nodded in return, and I stood by the window watching the activity around our aircraft until they called the flight. Then I went over and joined the pair of them, and when we reached the gate, the Mountie nodded to me and I was officially in charge.

  Amadeo looked at me and said nothing, just held out his boarding pass to the attendant and walked through the gate and down the boarding tunnel. I fell in behind him, checking how many of our fellow passengers were already wearing the sun visors they'd been handed by the Sunbird representative in the departure lounge. They all looked excited and were chatting about how early they'd had to get up, or how much they'd drunk the night before. They ran heavily to middle-aged moms and pops, with a few younger couples and one or two wistful pairs of young women who were flicking the occasional covert glance at Amadeo and me, probably wondering if we were gay.

  Amadeo had a carry-on bag with him. I assumed the Mountie had gone through
it ahead of time, but when we reached our seats I nudged him in the back and said, “In the overhead compartment, Greg."

  "Don't you trust me?” he sneered.

  "Would you?” I asked him, and smiled politely at the hostess who was pushing upstream against the flood of passengers, like a spawning salmon making the run upriver.

  The same stew came back with a salver of candies and he waved her away. I took one and unwrapped it and sat back, waiting for him to talk. He looked like a talker. He had the self-importance of the middle-management hood, used to holding court to a bunch of mouth-breathers. I figured the best way to find out his plans was to listen for a while. Questions would only make him cunning. If that didn't work, I would be more direct.

  After a couple of minutes he squirmed in his seat. “Couldn't you guys afford first class? This is the Chinese way to travel."

  "You generally fly first?"

  "Always,” he said. “First cabin all the way."

  "Which way is that?” I dropped the question in and got the expected response. His face pulled up into a sneer and he said, “You wanna know my route?"

  "There's no first class on this flight, and it's the only direct flight to Zihua."

  "It sure as hell ain't the only way to get there."

  "Not if you want to stop off in Mexico City. I've always found the smog a bit unpleasant.” I'd decided to milk the one advantage I had over him. He figured me for a lightweight, so I cultivated the image, slipping into the languid officers’ mess drawl used by the Eton and Sandhurst upper crust in the British army. I'd never cared for them particularly, but they all had one thing in common, they were a lot tougher than they appeared.

  "If a little smog gets to ya, you'd never last in my line of work. We live hard,” he said.

  "You just told me it was first cabin all the way. Which is it?"

  "You some kinda Limey?"

  I just snorted as if he'd amused me, closemouthed, not telling him one way or the other. I had no doubt he thought that anybody with an English accent was a wimp Leslie Howard has a lot to answer for. They should never have rereleased Gone with the Wind.

  "I worked with an English crowd for a while."

  "Oh, you did?” He was bursting with contempt now, mocking an English accent. If he'd had a silver dollar in his pocket, I'm sure he would have screwed it into his eye like a monocle. “What work you do? Offer candy t’ little kids?"

  "I'm more interested in the kind of work you do. I understand it pays well."

  "Don’ worry. You couldn't handle it. It's men's work."

  "Really? You need to be a man to push nose candy to high schoolers?"

  Now he looked at me, his face stone cold. “Did anybody ever tell you you're an asshole?” he hissed.

  "Plenty of people.” I beamed at him like an English vicar. “One time each."

  "Well, listen, asshole,” he whispered, but before he could complete his sentence I caught his hand and rolled his fingers back. He bent, reflexively, trying to minimize the pain, and smashed his head against the padded back of the seat in front of him.

  The man whose seat he'd bumped looked back at him in alarm. “You all right, Mac?"

  "Cramp,” I explained over Amadeo's head. “It happens sometimes, he'll be all right now."

  I let go of Amadeo's fingers, and he sat up, rubbing them with his left hand. “Cute,” he sneered. “You won't catch me like that another time."

  "I don't need to, do I? Now, what were you going to say before you hit your head?"

  "It'll wait,” he said.

  "I don't think so. You're not paying me ten long ones for nothing. I assume you're counting on your business buddies to play rough. I can do a better job of taking care if I know what to expect."

  He thought about that, but he was still smarting from the shock I'd given him, and besides that, he had another five hours of safety ahead of him before we deplaned, so in the end he said, “Jus’ relax, okay? I'm the guy's in danger, not you. I'll tell you when you have to get excited."

  "Fine. Then I'll go on with my book.” I smiled politely and opened The Reason Why. Amadeo glanced down at it once or twice, then looked away, books weren't his kind of action. He proved it when the stewardess came around with magazines. He told her, “Yeah, gimme People,” and took it without even a nod of acknowledgment, flipping through it until he came to a shot of a girl in a swimsuit that he fixed on, staring at her as if she were a talisman, while we rolled down the runway and into the sunshine that lay five thousand feet above snow-covered Toronto.

  As soon as the no-smoking light went out, he lit a cigarette and started chain-smoking. When the drinks trolley came around, he ordered rye. I had a Scotch and set my book aside. His magazine was still open at the same place, and I asked him, “She a friend of yours."

  It gave him a chance to sneer, and he took it. “Don't you know who that is?"

  "Should I?"

  "Should you? You might say. That's Debra Steen, she's the girl in all the swimsuit commercials, hair, diet pop. Hell, you can't watch TV, you don’ see her five times a night."

  I had a quick vision of him playing house in Toronto, being the thoughtful hood, sitting around his big plasticky palace with a wife with lacquered hair, watching TV on the nights when he wasn't out peddling coke. A funny mixture of a man.

  "I guess I've missed her,” I said.

  "Yeah, well, you're missin’ a real treat. I wanna tell you, she's got everythin'.” He held the photograph up admiringly.

  I studied it. The girl was pretty, dark, and slender, almost boyish, and there was a hint of mischief in her eyes. She didn't smolder, she twinkled with promise, and the camera had a love affair going with her. She looked to me as if she would be a disappointment in the flesh.

  "Good-looking girl,” I said politely to humor him.

  "Don’ she get you goin'?” He was astonished.

  "That's just a photograph. She might surprise you if you bumped into her on the street."

  "How's ‘at? You crazy, what? Look at her?"

  "I guess she's not my type. I like more curves, don't you?"

  "Oh, sure, curves is nice.” He frowned at the girl. “Only this one looks like she'd really be special."

  "They're all special, each one in her own way.” There, the Locke philosophy.

  He shrugged. “What I wouldn't give to take a run at this one.

  "Thought this was going to be a family visit,” I said carefully. “You'll make your wife jealous, and Mexican women can be really fiery."

  He looked at me coldly. “Not Mana,” he said. “She knows better'n that."

  A typical Latin macho male, not above laying down the law with a well-timed slap or two. Still, Mana had probably known what she was getting into.

  "Says here that this girl is in Mexico for an extended fashion shoot this month,” I read.

  "Here, lemme see that.” He grabbed the magazine and read the page through, painfully slowly. “Hey, yeah. How about that? Shit, wouldn't it be somethin’ to run into her?"

  "Don't hold your breath, it's a big country?"

  He waved me down. “Not that big when you're talkin’ swimsuits."

  Mexico must have three thousand miles of coastline, but I didn't want to burst his grubby little balloon, so I sipped my Scotch and then said, “I need to know a little something about your plans, Greg. The way I see it, your friends in Toronto must know you've been picked up. But there's been nothing in the papers, so they're starting to think you've been turned around. They could be feeling unfriendly. If I'm going to watch your back for you, I need to know what's happening."

  "Nothin’ tonight. We check in, have a few laughs, take a swim maybe, then tomorrow, my wife gets there. I go see her, like where she's at."

  "Where's that going to be, the same hotel?"

  "I'll tell ya when it's time."

  "It's time now. If the boys you're in business with in Canada know where you're headed, you could be in real trouble."

  "They
don’ know. Hell, you think I tell guys where I'm gonna be the whole time? I come, I go, I'm my own man."

  He was expanding again, recovering the face he had lost when I slowed him down. And, in fact, he held all the cards. No matter what he told me, I would not be able to trust him. It was going to be a sleepless week anyway, so I might as well let him think he was being clever. “Okay, but remember you're paying for protection, and I can protect you better when I know what's going down."

  "You already know what's goin’ down. I've gotta pick up a package, an’ I wanna see Maria because she's gonna have to dig herself a hole to hide in for a while, an’ she'll need bread. Okay?"

  "Okay.” I finished my drink and set the glass down. “How about seconds on your rye?"

  We had another drink and then they served lunch, typical airplane food, and typically, he sneered at it. I didn't, but then, I've been in the army. Once you've eaten their food for a few years, airlines seem luxurious, even to a moderate kind of gourmet like myself.

  After the meal he snoozed most of the way to Manzanillo, waking up to fill out the entry form the stewardess handed him. I did, too, listing my occupation as geologist. It's a precaution, bodyguard sounds menacing, and the last thing I needed was attention. I've even got a few of my father's business cards with my name on them. Locke Explorations, John Locke, BSc. As long as nobody wants me to talk in detail about pre-Cambrian rocks, I can wing it.

  The aircraft landed at Manzanillo at eleven-thirty local time, and it was already hot, thirty-two degrees Celsius, the captain told us. We were given permission to stay on board if we wished, but I didn't want to draw attention to us, so we de-planed into bright sunshine and the unmistakable spice-and-cigar-smoke smell of the tropics. The sun was almost overhead, and a few lazy turkey vultures were circling on stiff wings, riding the thermals that rose from the runway. After a couple of months of cramping chill in a Toronto winter, it was blissful.

  Amadeo said nothing, didn't look around or up at the birds, just stumped across the hot concrete to the airport concourse. We went in and lined up with the other passengers to have our entry forms stamped and the duplicate filed. Amadeo spoke in rapid Spanish to the immigration man, too fast for me to follow. My own grasp of the language is rudimentary, tourist Spanish, heavy on nouns, light on verbs, and very slipshod on tenses, but I can get around. Whatever he said didn't seem significant; we went through the gate and into the concourse, where we found ourselves mixed in with the returning Sunbird crowd, all of them brown against the pallor of this week's crop.