Lockestep

by Jack Barnao

  "First, we make sure there's not a Jeepful of García's gunnies waiting for us. Then we hitch back into town and get in touch with Maria."

  "Who in hell's gonna stop for us? Look at us,” he said impatiently.

  "Some good-natured gringo. Which is why I want you to stay back in the bush while I do the thumbing. I look safer to pick up than you."

  "What're you sayin'?"

  "With that hat and a day's worth of whiskers, you look like a bandido. You step out, and most guys would automatically put their foot down on the gas."

  He swore but didn't argue, and when we could see the highway and be sure there was no welcoming party from García waiting for us, I tossed the rifle into the bushes. It had been a lifesaver, but it would be hard to disguise. Then I divided our water between us. Amadeo drank his share and sank down, hugging his money to his chest, and I walked out onto the shoulder of the road. It's my experience that people don't mind picking up bona fide travelers, so I put my pack at my feet, fixed a big dumb grin on my face, and stuck my thumb out. A couple of cars passed, locals who didn't figure a gringo was worth saving from the late-afternoon heat. Then a big van with Arizona plates pulled up in a squeak of dry brakes, and the door swung open.

  I bounded over, stretching my grin even wider. “Thanks a million. We're going to Zihua, and my buddy hurt his ankle, do you mind taking him as well?"

  The driver was a lean man in his sixties, wearing steel-rimmed glasses and a baseball cap with “Wilson Feeds” on the front. He nodded. “He American?"

  "Canadian. He's a nice guy. Thanks, just be a minute."

  I left my bag on the seat of the van and trotted over to Amadeo. “You've got a bad ankle, limp over to the van, all right?"

  He nodded and straightened up, favoring his right leg and resting his right arm on my shoulder. In fact, he was so convincing that the driver of the van said, “Hell, that looks sore. Want some ice on it?"

  "Just to get the weight off it is fine, thank you,” he said. “I'm gonna get a whole glassful of ice with my first margarita when we get into town."

  We climbed between the front seats and sat down on the bench behind the passenger seat. I dropped my pack beside him and sat up next to the driver. “We had this crazy idea of going bird-watching. Seemed good at the time. Then Greg twisted his ankle,” I embroidered.

  The old guy looked at me shrewdly, then flicked his gaze ahead again to the road leading downhill in front of us. “See many?"

  "Nothing unusual. Some warblers and doves, vultures, of course, grackles. But once Gimpy here started hurting we both lost interest."

  "Could've seen a manakin. That's the long-tailed, of course,” he said. “You a real birder?"

  I shook my head. “Naah. Just got bored with beach life. I mean, how long can you sit on a beach looking at rosy-breasted pushovers? Especially when they're all teamed up already."

  He laughed at that one, the dry creaky laugh of a man who doesn't use it very much. “Rosy-breasted pushovers. Haven't heard that one in a coon's age."

  "You a birder?” I just wanted him launched on a monologue, it would make the journey simpler.

  "A hobbyist,” he said, with the quiet pride of a man who knew every bird that ever flew. “I generally come down here in the winter. It's best along the tidal flats, all kinds of action there."

  From that he went on to talk about his life list and his disappointment at never having seen a nightingale. “Oh, I heard plenny of ’em, in Britain, waiting for D day. Then in Normandy. They sing at night, you know. Most beautiful song ever you heard."

  "I take it you were in Berkeley Square,” I said, grinning to show I was only kidding.

  "Not a damn sound there, except for German bombs dropping. Mind, it was a hell of a town for women. Even though there was thousands of us, hundreds of thousands, every GI seemed to end up with a girl.” He sighed. “I married mine. Lost her last fall. Cancer. Just when we were set to do some serious traveling."

  "I'm sorry,” I said. Everybody has a story, it's a pity that so many of them have downbeat endings.

  He was immediately embarrassed at showing his grief, and he chatted about birds all the way down. It took only twenty minutes instead of the twenty-four hours we had spent walking the same distance. When we reached the town monument, he grinned. “Second year that thing's been broken. Any luck at all, they'll take it down.” He spat out of the window and went on. “I'm turning here, heading for a place with a wall around it where the van'll be safe. El Paraíso. You know it?"

  "Yeah,” Amadeo said. “We took a couple broads there last night.” Classy or not?

  "Should've left one of them for me,” he said. “Anyways, y'all mind getting out here? You can get a cab."

  "That's fine, thanks. Can we buy you a beer first?"

  He shook his head. “Naah. It's been a long day. Came all the way down from Puerto Vallarta without stopping. I'm due for supper."

  We thanked him again, and he nodded without speaking as we got out, then drove away without looking back.

  "Old goat's likely lookin’ to get laid.” Amadeo grinned. He had a child's inability to keep anything in mind. His own problems were forgotten now. The dead men on the trail were history. He was amused at the passing scene.

  "He's probably had a bad couple of years, watching his wife die,” I said. “I hope he finds himself a nice bird-watching widow."

  Amadeo sneered. “Miss Lonely-fuckin'-hearts."

  I checked my watch. Five-thirty. Dusk was an hour and a half away, and García was still looking for us. “I don't think it's smart to go back to the hotel. It's a sure bet that García's watching it. Let's duck in somewhere for a meal and a beer, then head down to the boat."

  He nodded. “Makes sense."

  We started walking, drawing odd glances from the locals who were used to seeing gringos in smart new summer wear, shaved up and ready for romance. We looked like a couple of apprentice forty-niners.

  I kept up a constant watch for anyone trailing us. Amadeo didn't. He stumped along as if he didn't have a fortune in his hands and a vengeful drug boss looking for him. Ego, I guess. You drop it very quickly in enemy territory, but he didn't know the rules. I hoped that García wouldn't demonstrate them for him.

  We came into the center of town, and I stopped and bought us a couple of fresh T-shirts. It didn't compensate for the lack of shaves and showers, but at least we were clean enough to go into a decent restaurant without questions.

  We chose a good place, not Coconuts, but upscale enough that the waiter took one look at us and stuck us in a corner behind a potted plant. He wrinkled his nose, too. Mexicans are scrupulously clean, and we sure didn't match that description. Amadeo figured the water would be safe, and he drank a couple of jugs of it. I didn't. Montezuma's Revenge was the last thing I needed while I was watching both our backs. Cramps are more debilitating than most wounds. I ordered a couple of cervezas with Piñafiels and mixed some shandies. They both went down well, and I ordered another with our meal, huachinango. The fish was excellent, bigger and better than anything I'd seen at the hotel.

  As we were sitting there, a group of musicians came in, looking apologetic about their costumes, flamboyant national dress. But that wasn't the reason I watched them as they circled the tables, asking all couples if they had requests. I was interested only in the lead guitarist. It was my contact, Jesús, staying under cover.

  I was glad to see him. I knew he wouldn't be able to cover me through the next couple of days, but this was a lonely job, and I wanted somebody to know where I'd gone, in case Cahill had to send somebody in to find me.

  Jesús had chosen a good cover, I thought. He would be free most of the day and all night. And when he worked, he was circulating through all of the bars in town, keeping an eye on comings and goings. And it gave him a legitimate source of income, so he would never look suspicious to the Garcías of the world, who probably knew the business of everybody in town.

  While they were keening som
e Neapolitan love song for a couple of honeymooners with a poorly developed sense of geography, I borrowed a pen from Amadeo and scribbled the word “boat” on the corner of a thousand-peso bill. Amadeo was too busy with his fish to ask questions, but when I wrapped it up and beckoned to the group, he spluttered, “What's with you? They're playin’ for couples, fer Crissakes. You gay or what?"

  "A lifelong music lover,” I said. The group came over, and I passed the bill to Jesus and told him “'Guantanemero,’ por favor, amigo."

  He frowned at me and said, “I am sorry, señor. I do not know this song. I have a writing with our songs."

  His accent was thick today, part of his camouflage, I supposed, and I took the hint from his eyes and looked at the list he showed me. He held his thumb at the bottom of it, and written in pencil I read: “García is looking for you. Hide."

  I looked up at him. “You sure you don't know ‘Guantanemero'? It goes like this,” and I hummed the refrain. He allowed himself an oily grin. “Oh, sí. We know this one. How you write it?"

  "Here.” I wrote the word on his list, adding “30-foot catboat, Juanita. Maria"

  He read it and beamed again. “Muchas gracias, señor.” Then he tuned a string, and they all warbled into the song.

  I sat and watched them and listened until they had finished, then applauded politely. Amadeo grimly concentrated on his dinner. When they had gone, he hissed at me, “I feel like a goddamn fairy, sittin’ here with you serenadin’ me."

  "Roll with it. You just learned how to charm some sunstruck tourist lady. Could be useful when you take up your new career as a gigolo.” He just swore and went on eating.

  By the time we finished dinner, it was dropping dark. The streets weren't well lit, so we were inconspicuous in the gloom as we walked down to the waterfront. We came out opposite the outdoor basketball court, where two teams of girls were playing, to the delight of the silent crowd of mainly young local men sitting on the stone surrounds. It's a very formal country, and the men don't see a lot of native skin, On turistas, yes, but not their own women. Those flashing fifteen-year-old thighs were enough to start a sexual revolution.

  We walked north on the beach for another hundred yards, past the back of the coast guard barracks, and then ducked out to the street and onto the pier. The music boat was just docking, winding up its gig with a bravura version of “We'll Meet Again,” with all the trumpets competing for lead. Vera Lynn would have spun in her groove. A slow tide of revelers was coming against us down the length of the pier, middle-aged couples, some of them holding hands under the spell of the music and margaritas. A few locals were standing around, glancing at everyone who passed. They could have been boat owners looking for custom, or equally, García's foot soldiers, looking for us. Amadeo strolled, seeming casual but glancing around for Maria. In that environment, close to the boats, our day-old whiskers and torn clothes didn't seem out of place. We might have been fishermen or yachtsmen in from a carefree cruise.

  "She ain’ here,” Amadeo said at last.

  "Can you recognize the boat? Maybe she's just standing off, waiting for you to come aboard under your own steam."

  He gazed out over the harbor, shading his eyes from the town lights. “Looks like there. That's the right kind of boat, an’ that's one o’ the permanent places to tie up."

  He pointed out to a catboat, with its characteristic single mast and aluminum curved boom, like a closed bracket. In the dim light it looked right to me.

  "So let's grab a dinghy and go aboard. We can't hang around here trying to second-guess Maria.” I was anxious to get him out on the water, where his range of possible tricks would be diminished and where intruders couldn't creep up on us.

  "Right.” He turned away, and I followed as he went to the first set of steps that led down to the water. There was a small boat there, a rough old wooden craft with a good outboard. The owner was a middle-aged guy, sitting in the stern. Amadeo spoke to him briefly, then said, “He'll take us out, come on."

  I checked around. Nobody was paying us any attention, so I stepped down and sat just forward of the boat owner, where I could jump him if he pulled a weapon, before he had time to use it.

  He cast us off and started the motor. He had it tuned well and it caught first pop, and we chugged out between the other moored boats, many of them with parties of gringos aboard, laughing and drinking and listening to music. Relax, Locke. This is a vacation paradise, remember.

  The boat we were making for was out past the others, about three hundred yards from the pier, perhaps twice that from the town beach. Our boatman asked Amadeo a question, and he nodded and pointed to the port side. The boatman nodded back and slowed the motor, curving in so he came up to the port side from the stern. Amadeo gave him some cash and then, as we approached, stood up to jump aboard. I thought he might have bribed the boatman to take me off before I could follow him so I got up behind him and was one second after him onto the deck of the Juanita, dropping my pack beside the basket he had set down and drawing El Grande's pistol from my belt.

  There were no lights aboard, and we stood for a moment on the deck, adjusting our eyes to the shadow of the companionway down to the accommodation. Amadeo said, “I hope that dumb bitch ain’ up on shore somewhere, waitin'."

  Around me I could hear the faint overlapping beat of the music from the other boats and an occasional squeal from the basketball players on the waterfront. There were no sounds aboard but our own breathing. But I still didn't relax. Amadeo moved to the head of the companionway and called, “Maria?” softly. We had swung slightly as the other boat sheered away, so that the moonlight was splashing down the steps and I could see that the doorway was still broken, the way I left it. And then, back from it, about one pace in, I made out the shape of a crouching figure, with a pistol pointed at Amadeo.

  I shoved him sprawling as a bullet flew through the space his chest had been occupying a second before. Then I fired into the center of the muzzle flash that still glowed in my after-vision, the sound of the .45 filling the whole bay. There was the clatter of a falling gun and a rushing thud as the figure collapsed backward out of out sight.

  Amadeo scrambled to his feet. “Jesus Christ"

  "Keep down. There may be another one."

  He dropped flat and whispered from there. “What're we gonna do?"

  I held one finger to my lips and picked up my pack and tiptoed to the bow. The boat was heavy enough that my movement didn't register below decks. I stopped beside the forward ventilator, a plastic hatch, hinged upward from below. I knew it served the forward cabin where I had confronted Maria my first time aboard. I felt into the side pocket of the pack and came up with my map of the district. Not much, but it would have to do. I turned away from the hatch, concealing the flare as I struck a match, and lit one corner of the map, which I had formed into a torch. Then I shoved it through the hatch and listened as it fell.

  Bingo! A woman screamed and a man swore. I pounded back along the deck and vaulted into the cabin, half stumbling over the body of the man I'd shot but hitting the inner cabin door with the full weight of my straight leg, sending it crashing inward. I was fast, but not fast enough. The man inside had Maria by the hair, and his gun was jammed against her head. He had a revolver, and the hammer was back. All it would take was two pounds’ pressure on the trigger and she was gone.

  The paper flare on the bed was burning down and as I leveled my gun at the man's face, I recognized him. El Grande. Then, as the last of the paper burned and the flare died away, the lights clicked on, and I flicked a glance back to see Amadeo at the cabin door with a grin on his face and the dead man's pistol in his hands, pointed at me.

  I dropped to one knee, but he didn't flinch. “Don’ try nothin'. You can't kill me, or I won’ be able to sing my song, will I?"

  He was right, but I didn't drop my gun. “I'll kneecap you,” I said. “You can still testify from a wheelchair.” He was holding a revolver. The hammer was down, and I had a second to fir
e before he could cock it, even on double action. But he wasn't trying to. He spoke rapidly in Spanish, and the other man said something short. Then Amadeo said, “If you look up, you'll see that the señor has his gun on you. That's two of us. Either way you're dead if you don’ do like I say."

  The Mexicans invented the standoff and that's what we had here. I could get one of them. The other would get me. From four feet away neither one of them would miss. Amadeo said, “Put the gun down nice ‘n’ easy an’ you live. Try anythin’ an’ you're dead meat."

  Slowly I laid the gun on the deck and stood up. If they got sloppy now, I would win. Under the old rules there would be two corpses in the cabin. Mine and one other, possibly the woman's. This way I was still alive, and given any kind of break, I could think of something brilliant and noninjurious to my health.

  El Grande said something and Amadeo translated. “Lie down on the floor, your hands behind you."

  I did it, still watching for the chance at a leg sweep if one of them took his eyes off me for a moment. But they didn't. All that happened was that El Grande let go of Maria and shoved her. She chattered at him fearfully and Amadeo chimed in. Then she stepped past me into the cabin and came back with a piece of rope. Both the guns were still pointed at me. El Grande directed her as she tied my hands behind my back, kneeling on the base of my spine as she did it. She pulled the ropes as tight as she could but not as tight as the men would have got them.

  Then El Grande told her something else, too fast for my meager Spanish to understand, and she left the cabin. A moment later I felt the motor start up, then the rustle of the anchor cable coming in. Now I knew what they had in mind. They were going to take me out to sea and drop me overboard, probably after I'd taken a bad beating, or worse. Not nice.

  El Grande lit a cigar and dropped the lighted match on my hands. I shucked it off, and he laughed. Then he said something else to Amadeo, who left, heading up to the deck. I had a chance now, not much of one but a chance, if El Grande tried to kick me. But he didn't. He sat down on the bunk, his gun loosely pointed at me, and enjoyed his cigar for about five minutes. I didn't try anything. I lay there like a bundle of laundry and waited for him to make his first mistake.