Lockestep

by Jack Barnao

  He indicated the shade to the far side of our apartment. “Here's fine. You're the only customer's Pedro's got tonight."

  "I thought he would have been crowded—this is gringo time in Mexico."

  "Not since the earthquake. Everybody north of the line is nervous about coming here."

  We went into the edge of the bush and squatted down, talking in whispers. “You've made quite an impression on the locals,” he said. “Nobody's cleaned El Grande's clock for him in living memory."

  "I wanted his gun."

  "Yeah, I figured. That .38 I got you isn't the greatest, but it's easy to hide."

  "So, what's the word on Amadeo? Do the local boys know he's going to fink? Have they been asked to cancel his stamp?"

  "It's not that easy. They know he's finking, but the whole drug business is complicated. The guys here don't have any family connections with Canada. It's all just business. No matter who gets sent to the slammer up there, somebody will always come down here looking for supplies. They don't get involved."

  I was growing accustomed to the darkness of our shelter, and I watched his face. He was in his mid-thirties, Mexican looking, a hint of the Indian heritage in his high cheekbones and handsome nose, and he was lean, the leanness of worry. It wasn't easy being the law in a place as wide open for drug business as the state of Guerrero. He blinked frequently, another sign of worry. I figured he didn't need this baby-sitting chore on top of his other concerns.

  "They came to the hotel asking for him last night."

  "That's because he has a big mouth. The word is out that he's back here to pick up a pile of money. They want it, not him, although they'd kill him to get it, but what they really want is his loot."

  "What's going to happen now? Will they take another run at him? Will they kill him or try to snatch him?"

  "Snatch him is my guess. It wouldn't take long to have him singing like a canary, he's a gutless bastard."

  That meant that the main danger over the next few days was to me. Amadeo would get his, once he'd coughed up the location of his money. Me they would take out to get to him.

  "Then there's nothing to stop us going back to the hotel?"

  "No, but remember what the plan is. They want him alive, and that could mean knocking you over first."

  "Who will they send?"

  "Not El Grande. They've got a big organization, they'll send somebody who looks like a tourist, someone to blend in. He'll strike up some kind of contact and try to take you out. That's my best estimate."

  "We have to go back, Amadeo has to make a contact of his own, some guff about needing another guy involved. Doesn't sound like the truth, but that's all he's telling me so far."

  "Is it your job to see he gets his money?"

  I hesitated a moment before answering. How much did this man need to know? I've handled a lot of security work in the SAS and since then, and old habits die hard. In the end, after a ten-second pause, he laughed and reached out to pat me on the arm. “Okay, I don't need to know. But if you're staying in Zihua until next Sunday, keep your eyes open."

  "I will. But for now, how safe is this place? You didn't have any trouble finding us."

  "I didn't find you, I followed you, from Coconuts. It's on my circuit, and when I saw you there, I tagged along. There's nobody after you. Not so far anyway."

  "In that case I'll grab some sleep. Thanks for the advice, and I'm sorry about the thump in the neck."

  "Me, too.” He laughed and rubbed his neck again. “Get back to that lady, I'll stick around until daylight. Nobody will come after you once it gets bright."

  "Thanks, Jesus. I'll tell Martin what you've done."

  "Great,” he said. “That plus fifty pesos will get me a beer."

  "Fifty pesos. You must be buying it wholesale,” I said. We stood up and shook hands; then I went back into the apartment and locked the door.

  Ten

  Joan stirred when I went back to bed, but she didn't wake up. Neither did the other two in their room. Their snoring had settled down now. They were working in counterpoint, sounding like the rhythm section in a bad Afro-Cuban band. I lay and listened to them for about four repetitions and then, safe for a few hours, fell asleep.

  I was the first awake, at six-thirty, late for me but still ahead of the sunlight. It was day outside, the shadowed gray of morning when the sun is still behind the mountains. Birds were chattering, and the first of the day's vehicles were rolling up the hill outside the front of the complex, carrying the help to another day at Cuatro Vientos. The burro was mercifully silent. I got up and dressed, putting both pistols into the backpack, and walked out to the front of the place, wishing I had my running gear with me so that I could exercise properly. Just down the hill from me there was a tortilla bakery, a corrugated iron shack with a line of locals buying breakfast. Women mostly, and a few preteenage girls, all of them neatly dressed in clothes that were spotlessly clean. That's another of the many charms of Mexico, the people are all proud of their appearance. Outside of the big centers you don't find any bums.

  After a few minutes I went back and found Joan washing her face at the kitchen sink. She turned and looked at me, searching for any sign of condescension, now we had spent time together. I kissed her on the cheek, like a returning husband. “Can you hold off until town for breakfast, or would you like some tortillas?"

  "Sounds irresistible,” she said, pulling a disgusted face.

  "What's with the sleeping beauties?” I nodded toward the closed door of the other bedroom. “Are they making up for time lost to John Barleycorn?"

  "That's it.” She grinned. “Angie would have gone right back to the hotel, but Mr. Macho had something to prove."

  "Eighty-proof male ego,” I said. “He's a scalp collector, that one."

  "And you're not?” She was in her late twenties, and she had told me the night before that she was just getting over the end of a two-year relationship with a copywriter at her agency, she had cause to be suspicious.

  "No.” I left it at that. What had happened had been both delightful and convenient. But I like women too much to take an ornithologist's pride in adding a new one to my life list.

  After five minutes the bedroom door opened and Amadeo came out, rubbing his hands like a bank manager. “Finally made it, did you?” I asked, and he hated me with his eyes.

  Angela was a minute or two longer, and she looked as if she would have liked an Alka-Seltzer over easy for breakfast. An early-morning start close to Amadeo's grizzly chin hadn't done her hangover any good. We walked out to the front of the compound and waited for a few minutes until an empty taxi came down the hill from the hotel. We put the women into it, Angela diving into the back seat like a vampire escaping from daylight. Day-old tequila does not sit well in the gringo gut. Joan turned her face up to be kissed, and then I paid the driver and they were gone.

  Amadeo grinned as the cab pulled away. “That's quite a broad, that Angela. I'm tellin’ you, she's no angel."

  "Save the bragging for the pool hall back home. I was next door, listening to you not getting it on.” I turned away from him and flagged down another cab.

  Amadeo was angry. “Now listen,” he started.

  "Listen yourself. In case nobody ever told you, you're a punk, and only punks brag about women, especially after a bad attack of the droops."

  He bristled and looked as if he would like to take a swing at me, but I poked him in the chest with one finger and he turned away and got into the cab, and we rode up the hill in silence. I glanced at the Parthenon as we passed. A man in a brown uniform was standing on the marble lip at the front of the building, an old American M1 carbine under his arm. He looked like some kind of cop, the Mexican military always wear fatigues or combat gear. I wondered why they guarded the place so carefully. Was it furnished with expensive kitsch picked out by the same hand that gilds the angels on all the altars of the country? Or were they keeping it clear of visitors until the owner had been extradited and shot and s
ome new wheel could take possession, someone with enough clout to keep it guarded against that day?

  We went back into our room down the corridor, and I let Amadeo go in first. It was an unnecessary precaution. Nobody was there. He took the first shower while I slipped my running shoes on and pattered up and down the steps to the beach eighteen times, close to three thousand steps, until my pulse rate was up and I felt stretched. Then I showered and shaved and changed for the day. The weapons were a problem. I would have preferred to carry the .45, for its public relations value, but it was too big for the pocket of my jacket. I compromised by carrying the .38 and the magazine from the automatic. The gun itself I put in my pack and locked it back into my flight bag. If anybody did get hold of it, it would be useless to them.

  Amadeo sat on the end of his bed, watching me and smoking the fifth of the day's ration of cigarettes. He was sulking, more upset about his lack of performance the night before than about the chance of getting wasted by one of García's gofers. I finished my preparations and told him, “Okay. This is your big day. You make your magic contact, and we pick up your cash. No more runarounds. I know you can do it in one day; then we can get you somewhere safe."

  "It ain't that easy."

  "You've got today, that's all. I didn't come down here to be used for target practice by somebody with a grudge against you. One day and we split."

  He blew out a long, thoughtful plume of smoke and looked at me over it. “What if I say it can't be done? An’ what about the proposition I mentioned?"

  "First my six months’ advance, then the proposition. I don't mind waiting if I'm paid.” It wasn't true, but that was only fair, he wasn't leveling with me, either.

  "See what I can do,” he said.

  We went along the corridor to breakfast. On the way I reminded him of the cover story about his nephew, in case we met the two Toronto women. They weren't in the restaurant, so we took a table for two overlooking the water. Amadeo ordered fruit for himself, and I had a guanabana shake and huevos rancheros, scrambled eggs with a healthy helping of jalapeña peppers. Mexican food isn't subtle, but it's got real authority.

  From our spot on the terrace we watched the beach fill for the day. A few early swimmers were out, including a middle-aged couple who went up and down the length of the beach, exercise swimmers by the look of them, glad to be out of their northern “Y” pool, out in the warmth and buoyancy of the gently heaving ocean. And the peddlers moved in, the Indian women in their crisp gingham dresses with trays of jewelry on their heads and the nimble children with their painted birds and their baskets. Relaxing over a coffee and watching them, I almost felt as if I were on a real vacation.

  "So what's the drill for making contact? We stay in the room or what?"

  "On the beach,” he said, getting up from the table.

  "That's conspicuous. If your buddies decide to stand off with a sniper's rifle, they can cancel your check really easy."

  "They wouldn't do that.” He waved the suggestion aside. “It'd be bad for business, an’ the people at the hotel pay them protection money."

  "You should have told me that last night, it would have been useful."

  "Yeah, well.” He yawned elaborately. “It wouldn’ of stopped ’em rousting us out, would it? An’ anyway, you got laid, so quit bitchin'."

  I sighed. “When did you first notice this poetic streak in your nature?"

  "Wha'?"

  I didn't want to attract attention, so we went back to the room and changed into swim gear, then I rolled my jacket and pants into a neat bundle and stuck them under my arm, the pocket with the gun in it on top. Amadeo looked at me pityingly and took nothing with him. He didn't have to; I was there to do the fighting for him.

  "We're just gonna be on the beach fer Crissakes, why d'ya need alla that stuff?"

  "The same reason a sailor puts his shoes on first when the alarm goes on ship."

  He shook his head. “Don't you never give anybody a straight answer? Wha's that s'posed t’ mean?"

  "It means he's ready for hot decks, not dancing around in agony while other people are doing their job."

  He shook his head again. He didn't understand. But then, security is like jazz, the way Satchmo described it to some writer who asked for a definition—if you gotta ask, you ain’ never gonna know.

  As we left the room, the door next to us opened, and I turned reflexively, my hand on the gun in my jacket, but it was just Helen, Debra Steen's companion. She looked tired, but she brightened when she saw me. I smiled back. “Hi, Helen, how's everything going?"

  "So far so good,” she said ambiguously, and then Debra came out to join her. She was made up, so you couldn't tell how she really looked, but she managed a weak smile.

  "Good morning, Debra, are you taking the day off?"

  "Yes, we're just going for some breakfast, and then we plan to sit in the shade and rest up for the day. It's been a tiring trip so far.” It came out like a press release, but the smile she greased it with would have melted the heart of the most cynical reporter. I hoped her client would let her off for the day, fashion people are money conscious to a fault. I figured he or she would be furious when the help went walkabout instead of working. But if the thought had occurred to either of them, they weren't letting it show. I just said, “Good idea. Perhaps we'll see you on the beach.” I let them pass and they went by, Helen smiling at me again, both of them ignoring Amadeo.

  "The first day's the easiest,” he said, turning down the corners of his mouth. The daydream still lived, his buying Debra's favors for a foil package. I let it pass.

  "Okay, let's hit the beach. But don't get out in the open, stick under one of the umbrellas, that way they'd have to get close to hit you. Close I can handle.” I nodded toward the end of the corridor, and he looked at me expressionlessly and then sauntered ahead.

  The hotel was at its busiest now. Guests were heading for the beach or the tennis courts, and chambermaids were moving along the balconies with their carts of replacement commodities for the rooms. Everyone was as bright as the morning sunlight, which was already hot but still bearable. The air was clear, filled with the chatter of birds, grackles and magpie jays and the occasional tiny Inca dove. People were calling out to one another and trying their few words of Spanish on the smiling help. Toronto's snow and Amadeo's troubles were part of another world.

  Amadeo let himself down the steps painfully, like an old man. I guessed his hangover was lingering, sending little reminders from the temperance society up his spine every time his foot jarred down, but he nodded and made gracious grunts at people we passed, and soon we were down on the sand, scoring ourselves a couple of chairs in the shade of a palm-thatched umbrella table.

  Amadeo groaned and lay back flat in his. I picked an upright chair and sat comfortably, checking around as if I were waiting for someone to join us. We were as safe as we could get. Behind us was the wall of the bar, blank at its closest point. Nobody could take a shot at Amadeo from there. Our only hazard was from anyone who came along the beach and approached us. And if they did, and Jesus was right about their game plan, they would most likely not take Amadeo out. Their target would be me, preferably with a poisoned drink or a needle full of nastiness. That kind of approach would be simpler to handle.

  As a bodyguard I do a lot of sitting around, but most of the time it's possible to read. Here it wasn't, so I kept up a surveillance on everything that moved. A few swimmers were running through the gentle surf and kicking out into the deeper water, and the para-sailing boat was back at its usual stand, the helper unfurling the chute while the boat bobbed on the waves at the length of the line from him. And the same pelicans were looking for breakfast, plunging into the waves and coming up with their bills convulsing over their catch. Peaceful.

  After about fifteen minutes Helen and Debra came down the steps and out to a table near us. Amadeo looked at them and thought his Penthouse thoughts but said nothing. A couple of hotel guests passed, nodded politely, one
woman stopping to speak to Debra, who smiled her professional smile, as wide as the beach itself, and then settled back into her chaise longue. And then a man in his thirties came down the steps. He looked like business. His clothes were casual but not casual enough, the kind of careful carelessness that comes with a big price tag from stores on Fifth Avenue, if you don't have the contacts to get them wholesale. I watched him, wondering if he was Amadeo's contact. He looked slick enough, but he ignored us and went straight to the women.

  "Debra, honey, how are you? You look just fine."

  "I'm really not, Gerry,” she said nervously, and Helen stood up at once.

  "Hi, Gerry, I'm sorry about the delay, but Debra is really under the weather. Another day working in the sunshine, and we're liable to lose her for a week, you wouldn't want that?"

  His voice sank but not so far that I couldn't hear the anger or pick out some of the words. It amounted to his not wanting to force anybody, no matter how goddamn temperamental, but it was a pity that some people couldn't be more professional. That's why they had hired her, because she was supposed to be a pro, the best in the business, and you didn't expect pros to jerk you around, costing you per diems for a whole goddamn crew and setting the job back by a day just on a goddamn whim.

  Amadeo looked at him and grinned. “He's really pissed at her. I'll bet you a hundred bucks she goes back to work."

  I said nothing, feeling for the girl's insecurity and the withdrawal she was going through. You can't walk away from any drug that easily. I wondered what she would do. After about a minute she showed me. She stood up and walked past him, her long body limber in her high-cut swimsuit, moving like the Girl from Ipanema. He walked beside her, still talking, still waving his arms until the surf broke across his loafers. He swore then and made a grab for her arm, but she ignored him and ran into the water, letting the waves break against her thighs and then throwing herself headlong in a clumsy dive and swimming away from him, not stylishly, just clawing at the water, until she was too far to hear him over the crashing of the surf.