by Jack Barnao
When I came back into the room, the two women were sitting on the end of one of the beds, their arms around each other's waists. Debra had her head lowered and was sniffling, the other woman was alert, looking around at me as I came back and walked in front of them and crouched to speak to them. “How long have you been using the stuff?"
Helen said, “What's it to you?” But she wasn't angry, she was drained and weary.
"Just answer the question. I can help."
"Since the Los Angeles shoot. When was that, Helen?” Debra raised her head and spoke softly.
"September,” Helen said. “That goddamn party at Maxine's."
"And how much are you using?"
Debra shook her head, and her voice was trembly. “Not that much, not really, right, Helen?"
"It's gotten worse, month by month,” Helen said. “It used to be just parties, then every day, now it's all day. Don't lie to the man, Debra. I think he can help you."
"Cocaine isn't addictive. Not if you're snorting it,” I said, “It's habituating. That means there's no cold turkey, not like heroin. It's just a matter of being tough, of telling yourself no, like an alcoholic. Every day. No. You can do that, Debra."
She raised her face and looked into my eyes, and I sank out of sight in the blue of them, like a diver in the ocean. “I'm not sure,” she said.
"Well, I am. You didn't get where you are by letting things stand in your way. I mean, when did you last eat a proper lunch? Haven't there been days when you've just swallowed a couple of tissues instead of eating? Protecting your figure?” I've dated a few models, mostly they are disappointing, but they don't run up your grocery bills.
Helen broke the deadlock for me. “Come on, Debbie, you know that's true. If you can say no to dessert, you can say no to this nonsense. Haven't I told you that, lots of times?"
Debra's head sank again but she answered clearly. “Yes, you have,” she said.
I stood up. “Okay, Helen, you know what to do. She's down and she's going to stay down for a while. A drink might be good, or Valium, if you've got some, and some strong coffee. And stick with her. If it was my responsibility, I'd cancel the assignments for a couple of days, say she got too much sun, let her rest but keep her occupied. Play gin rummy. Trivial Pursuit, whatever."
She didn't answer, but she looked at me in a way that sent anticipatory little tingles down my spine. I turned away and grabbed Amadeo by the collar. “On your feet. We're leaving."
He had recovered enough strength to walk, painfully, and he lurched in front of me toward the door. Helen got there before us and put her hand on my arm. There was real strength in her fingers. “What's your name?"
"John Locke."
"Thank you, John. You've done more than anybody has ever done for her."
"Yeah, good. It would be smart to get her into a clinic when you get home. This pep talk is just first aid. In the meantime, we're next door. If you need help, call. But keep telling her about what she nearly had to do this time. The shock could break the habit for her."
Her grip tightened, and suddenly she stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the lips. I patted her on the shoulder. “You're a nice lady,” I said and left.
The Mexican kid from the end of the corridor had crept along until he was outside the suite. He looked at us and grinned, the hopeful, longing grin of the sexually underprivileged, dreaming his nightly dreams in his hammock. Maybe he'd caught a glimpse of the promised land when Debra first ran into the corridor. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a five-thousand-peso bill. Fifteen bucks, a fortune.
"Un regalo. Diga nada. Sigua trabando.” A present, say nothing, keep working. He grinned and nodded, gave me a fervent “Muchas gracias” and went back to the end of the hallway.
Our key was still hanging in the lock, and I opened the door and shoved Amadeo through it. He stumbled inside and collapsed on the nearest bed, curling up again, clutching his testicles.
It was already shading into evening, and I drew the drapes and turned the lights on. “Where did you pick up the coke?” I snapped at him. It was time for a change of procedure, I'd decided. I couldn't give him any more rope. I had to take charge.
He just groaned, and I went over and tore his hands away from his groin. “Answer me. Where did you get the stuff?"
"On the boat, where'd you think?” He was whining, a whipped pup, too sick to fight but too proud to be ingratiating.
"Are you using it? Or were you going to try and slip some to me and leave me dying of an overdose while you headed for the hills?” He groaned but didn't answer, and I prodded him in the shoulder with a stiff finger. “Speak up and sit up. If that's the first belt in the nuts you've ever had, you've never played any sport."
Machismo made him roll on one side and sit up, on the edge of the bed, still hunched over. I don't know why that eases the agony of a kick in the equipment, but it's standard posture for a long time afterward.
"No, I don’ use it. But it's useful sometimes.” He wasn't looking at me, making a big show of crouching, looking at the tiles, but I guessed my hunch had been right. He'd been hoping to get the stuff into me somehow, knock me over so he could put the boots to me, and leave. Nice guy.
"Well, it's gone, and if you pick up any more, I'll stick it up your nose until your brains fall out. You got that?"
He didn't answer, but when I tapped his shoulder again, he nodded. “Right. Now rest up while I bring the bags over. Then we're going down to dinner, where you're going to be charming to those nice square ladies from Toronto. Sitting under a warm shower might help."
He groaned and said he couldn't do it, but I told him he was going to, to get used to the idea. Then I went back to our first room. I knew he wasn't in any shape to run away in the time it would take, so I quickly searched his bags. He had nothing in them but his clothes and toilet equipment, including a bottle of expensive cologne. I sniffed it and decided he had more money than taste, then repacked his bags and made up the beds so it looked as if we'd been lying in them. I stuck the rifle back into its blanket and put it under my left arm; then I picked up all three bags in my left hand and went out, leaving the lights off.
There were only a couple of people around, guests waiting for taxis to take them into town for dinner, and they didn't look my way as I came by the front desk and down the corridor to the new room. My brand-new amigo, the kid I'd tipped, reached out to grab a couple of the bags for me, but I grinned and told him, “De nada, gracias,” it's nothing, thanks, and let myself into the room.
Amadeo had taken my advice and was sitting on the bathroom floor under a warm shower. I dropped his bags on the bed and then dropped my own and put the rifle under my mattress. I was feeling high with the anticipation of trouble, all my senses working faster than normal, the way they would need to be for the next few days until Amadeo had his cash and we were heading north again. I knew I was in danger, but my system was geared up for it.
After a couple of minutes I called out to Amadeo, “Let's roll, you'll melt if you stay in there any longer.” He groaned but got to his feet and turned off the shower and dried himself slowly, moving like an arthritic old man. He dressed again, then lit a cigarette, pulling on it carefully, as if he thought it might explode in his face. But it helped him to straighten out.
"So, okay, let's go sparkle,” I said.
He grunted. “I can't eat nothin'."
"Then have a couple of margaritas, they'll take your mind off your sorrows.” I put my right hand on the pistol and opened the door with my left. “Out you go, the dining room is on this floor, behind the desk."
He dropped his cigarette and trod on it, then straightened himself up and went out ahead of me. The kid in the corridor bobbed his head and gave us a “Buenas tardes,” and I grinned and Amadeo nodded and we went into the dining room.
I found us a table for four against the wall, and the waiter bounced up with the menu. Amadeo looked up at him and ordered a couple of margaritas, and I added, “Y una cer
veza, por favor,” and he beamed, lots of drinks meant a better tip. He brought the drinks and left us with the menus. I sipped my beer while Amadeo downed his first margarita and reached for the second.
"You reckon the salad would be safe?” I asked him.
"In this place?” He looked at me with a ghost of his familiar scorn in his eyes. “This is a gringo place, they wash everything in bottled water. Why'd you think I'm takin’ their ice cubes?"
"Living dangerously? Getting in practice for the next couple of days?"
He shook his head. “It ain't gonna be dangerous. I make my contact, we duck outa here ‘n’ pick up the cash ‘n’ leave. Them other guys won’ know we're gone. I don’ know why I bothered bringin’ you along."
"I hope you're right. But if you've got contacts here, it figures they'll have contacts of their own."
"We'll have to be careful, that's all.” He picked up the menu and scanned it. “I can handle the seviche an’ maybe the chicken."
"Good, that'll put the roses back in your cheeks."
We sat and waited. The room was beginning to fill, and the happy noise level was building. Already the crowd we had arrived with was dividing into cliques. And the court jester had appointed himself. He was an overweight man with a red face and knees to match. Probably a used-car salesman from some suburban lot. Honest Jake or Crazy Casey, free carnations for the ladies, free dirty jokes for the men. He was wearing shorts and a Lacoste shin, and he stopped at several of the tables to lean over and tell jokes that had everyone loving him. Wait until Wednesday, I thought, when the same wisecracks started recycling and he was reduced to making personal comments on how many margaritas Joe had taken, or how much time Fred and Lois were spending in their room. Then the faces around the tables would start looking like Mount Rushmore. Tonight, though, in the first flush, he was the star.
Beth and Kelly came in, changed and made up for the evening, elegant and casual, the thrown-together look that had taken them every minute of the time we'd been apart. Kelly still looked like a librarian, but Beth turned a number of heads as she steamed across the room like a cruise ship through a yacht basin.
We stood up, Amadeo painfully, making it a bent-kneed gesture rather than a real effort. “Back problem,” he said gruffly. Beth looked at me, and her eyes widened microscopically. She knew the real problem. She thought.
Our waiter came back and took drinks orders for the women. He was young, like all the help, and Kelly looked at him frankly. He smiled back, polite and professional, but I could read his rating in his eyes. Seven out of ten for Beth while Kelly would be safe with him anywhere except maybe a desert island, in the second year of being castaway.
The drinks came and we sipped and talked, Amadeo saying very little but being polite. They wanted to know what we were doing the next day. They were planning to get up at first light, before the sun came up over the eastern mountains at around seven, and play tennis. It was all very civilized, and I explained that Greg had been told to take things easy this trip and we were just going to grab some sunshine. “That must be easy for you,” Kelly said to him. “You have olive skin."That pleased him and he opened up to her about his ancestry, and she stared at him happily, transposing him to the cover of some bodice-ripper romance, with herself fifteen years younger and thirty pounds lighter. I watched the pair of them relaxing, spinning themselves a little web of self-hypnosis that they could lie curled up in, like a hammock, had Amadeo not been under my care. But for the moment it took the pressure off me, leaving me free to enjoy the dinner. The seviche was excellent. It's a simple dish, raw fish, marinated in lime juice with a trace of coriander and finely sliced onion. I was enjoying it until I glanced up and saw El Grande standing in the doorway.
I beamed at Kelly, who was talking about Romance languages, and then tapped Amadeo's ankle. “Excuse me, Greg, you remember that old friend of yours, the big guy?” He looked up in alarm, but had enough presence of mind to keep his head turned away from the door.
"Yeah, I know who you mean. Is he here?"
"Unless he's been cloned since you came down here last. He's in the doorway.” Both the women looked around at the door, but that didn't make us conspicuous, most of the people in the room were looking up now. El Grande had that effect on people. He had presence, like Orson Welles. He stood there, radiating importance. For a minute or so he stood in silence; then he spoke to one of the waiters in passing. The boy shook his head but pointed to the other waiter, ours. And then there was a lot of nodding and pointing of fingers, and the big man came slowly between the tables toward us.
Amadeo wiped his mouth on his napkin and set down his fork. I did the same and put my right hand in my pocket. The big man had his hands at his sides, empty. It didn't figure that he would make a move on us here, in front of a crowd of witnesses, but as far as he was concerned, this was war, and Amadeo had committed treason. And he had contacts and money. He could probably buy himself immunity if he decided to leave Amadeo facedown in his fish.
He reached us and smiled at the women, a grim alteration of the creases in his face, then started speaking rapid Spanish.
"Hable inglés!” I said curtly. Speak English.
He turned his head and looked at me as if I'd just crawled out of a cheese. “No hablo."
"Sure you do,” Amadeo said. He stood up. “If you'll excuse us for a moment, please, ladies, I have to talk business with this gentleman."
Beth glanced at me, her eyes wide. I smiled and got up, and Amadeo said, “Vamos,” let's go, and the three of us walked out into the lobby.
El Grande headed toward the outdoors, but I called him back. “This is fine, we can talk here,” and I steered him down the corridor, past the kid on watch, who was carefully not watching us but was reading a comic book, classic literature at his level in Mexico. When he avoided looking up at us, I guessed he knew who El Grande was and what he did. He wanted no part of our business.
The big man started speaking in Spanish, but Amadeo shook his head. “This man is my friend, we speak English for him to hear."
"Señor García wants to talk to you,” the man said.
"I have no business with Señor García this time. I am here with my friend, who wishes to see Mexico. It is very cold in our country, we come only for the sunshine."
"The sun shines in many places,” El Grande said. “Yet you come here to our little town. Señor García notices, he wishes to speak with his good friend Señor Amadeo. It is friendship to see him."
"I will come to his house on Tuesday at three o'clock,” Amadeo said. I was interested in that snippet. It meant he was planning to pick up his money and vanish tomorrow, Monday. Come Tuesday, there would be nothing more than a faint smell of his Paco Rabanne left in town. He hoped.
"Señor García has business on Tuesday. He wishes to see him this evening, to pay his respects."
"That would be discourteous to my friends, we have arrangements, I will come on Tuesday."
It was degenerating into a verbal shoving match. They would talk until they were both as blue in the face as Amadeo was in the chin. I broke the tie. “Seems to me, Greg, we could break our appointments tomorrow for an important man like Mr. García. If he sent his car for us at three, we could go with him then."
Amadeo looked at me with surprise. He hadn't expected diplomacy, just violence. “That would be good.” He nodded. “Thank Señor García and tell him we are tired from our flight, but we will see him tomorrow."
"I will tell him. Now go back to your putas,” he said.
It was my opportunity. He was the worst weapon the other side had. If I could handicap him now, it might buy us time and safety. I smiled at him. “Only a man as ugly as you are needs to go with whores. Or do you go to the market and buy yourself a little pig, a blind pig?"
He swore and lashed out a swinging right hand that would have broken my jaw. I ducked and used his own momentum to run him into the wall, face first. I brought his hand up behind him, and he had to wrestle ba
ck, using brute force to try to free himself. It wasn't enough. I let go and stood back, kicking him hard in the back of the knee so he buckled. Then I stood on his calf and kneed him in the back of the neck, giving it a lot more fellow-through than I'd given Amadeo. He sprawled face first on the floor, and I bent over and took his gun and stuffed it into my belt. Amadeo hissed in concern, but I called to the kid I'd tipped earlier. “Take him out to his car.” The sentence was beyond my Spanish but he got the drift. He came and knelt solicitously beside the man and touched his shoulder respectfully, speaking softly until he stood up, painfully, and limped out, not looking back.
Amadeo was white. “You shouldn’ of done that. He's gonna kill you."
"He wanted to anyway. Now he's going to be slow for a day or two, and we have an extra gun. Let's get the hell out of here."
Nine
Amadeo swore through clenched teeth. “We better. García has all kinds of clout. If he wants, he can have the cops put us away forever."
That wasn't going to happen. A guy who sets as much store by machismo as El Grande wouldn't whine to some five-foot-four cop with a rusty pistol. He would square it himself with a sawed-off shotgun. But they had been planning that anyway; we weren't in any new danger. The only thing that had changed was that Amadeo was scared. That might prevent him from trying to duck out of my company. He needed me for real, not just as a sop to the Mounties back home, and he was starting to recognize the fact. Plus there was an extra bonus. I had slowed their hit man down and scored us a worthwhile gun. Not that a .45 pistol is the Peacemaker that Samuel Colt intended—it's not accurate enough—but when it goes bang, the world tends to listen.
"He won't go to the cops. But we should leave anyway, in case he comes back with a shotgun. We'll go back to the boat."