by Jack Barnao
After a while longer Amadeo came back into the cabin. Neither one of them said anything, but they lifted me up, levering my arms up so I couldn't struggle, and steered me through the door and out to the companionway at the back. Then Amadeo said, “We don’ wanna get blood on the deck in there. Out here we can wash it off with a pail o’ water."
"I like tidy guests,” I said. They still had me too tightly for me to do anything, but if they were taking me to the foredeck, we would have to walk in single file. Unless one of them walked ahead of me, I could make my move then.
They didn't think it through. El Grande got impatient and put his pistol in his pocket so he could grab my arms and force me forward, levering my arms up behind my back. As I stepped up onto the walkway around the little deck, I could see that Amadeo still had his own pistol pointed at me.
"Don't do it, Greg. We can get clean away. You can keep your money,” I said, but he ignored me. El Grande pushed me on until I was forward of the raised roof of the main cabin, then shoved me down. I rolled as I fell and came up on my feet. He had his mouth open to swear, and I kicked him, putting all my strength in it, up under the chin, snapping his jaw and probably his neck. He fell backward in a rush, like a sack of potatoes coming untied, and from six feet away Amadeo fired, but the other man had knocked him off balance as he fell, and he missed me by a foot. I didn't wait for him to take another shot. I dived overboard and pulled myself down into the dark water, as deep as I could.
Fifteen
Amadeo's yell of surprise was cut off as if a door had slammed, and I was in a void, hearing only the shrilling of the inboard motor and the rush of air escaping from my clothes as I sank. Being down under the water like that, in total darkness, is as close to a phobia as I've got. Agility and speed mean nothing there. You don't know which way is up. You just have to hold your breath and wait for your body to bob vertical as your feet draw you down and the air in your lungs lifts your chest. Then you can kick, knowing you're going to come out in the air on top instead of down on the seabed. I had grabbed a big gulp of air as I jumped, enough for maybe a minute under water, but it seemed like an hour before my body drifted upright. Then I kicked hard. The motor noise had receded a little so I guessed the boat had pulled ahead of me. If it hadn't and I came up into the propeller, it was game, set, and match to Amadeo.
I broke the surface, facing the mountains, rounded and fuzzy with trees, lit by the low moon. They looked a hell of a long way away. Behind me I heard the low purr of the motor and Amadeo's voice as he swore at Maria. It was difficult to turn with my arms behind me, but I kicked around and saw the running lights of the boat, only fifty feet from me. I concentrated on overbreathing as the boat turned to port and came around in a curve that would take it between me and the shore. I could see someone standing on the pulpit that jutted out from the bow of the boat. Amadeo, I expected, armed with both the pistols on board, looking to tie up all the loose ends with a bullet in my head. I took a last deep breath and let myself sink, making sure to stay vertical, hoping he didn't have a floodlight on board. The water is vividly clear this far out from the roiling of the beach.
I was less panicky this time, working on priorities. I couldn't swim ashore in shoes, with my arms behind me and a gun in my right sock. But I didn't want to lose shoes or gun. I had to get my arms in front of me. On land that wouldn't have been a problem. I skip a lot of rope in winter when the roads are too icy to run, doing it boxer fashion, in three-minute rounds, with the last thirty seconds spent jumping my knees up to my chest. All I had to do was retract my legs that high and pass my arms under my buttocks. Like I say, easy on shore, if you're limber. But in the dark water it meant sacrificing my buoyancy, letting myself slide deeper and deeper. And if my wrists locked under my upraised feet I couldn't swim. I would never come up again.
It took me no longer than the entire pre-Cambrian era. For centuries, it seemed, the note of the motor grew fainter as I sank and struggled. Then my ears started to pain me as I passed the equal pressure zone and I had to gamble, exhaling slowly to lower the pressure in my system while I heaved the rope on my wrists over the heels of my Nikes. And then suddenly it was clear. I clawed my tied arms upward and kicked like a madman, pushing up with the last of my strength until I popped through the skin of the sea into the moonlight and the blessed air.
The boat had passed in front of me and was circling back. Amadeo was calling out instructions to Maria, who was at the helm, but he didn't sound as if he'd heard me surfacing, there was frustration in his voice. I trod water and watched the boat as I sucked in air and bit at the knots on my wrists. They were on the undersides of my hands, the top when I had been lying with my hands behind me, and I had to screw my neck around like a bird to get at them, but I was just able to reach, and I worked at loosening them with my teeth.
It took me five long minutes, while the boat circled twice more, forcing me to sink out of sight again as it approached me, bow on I was tiring, but finally I pulled the last knot loose and unwound the rope. I reached down then and pulled off my running shoes and socks, keeping the gun inside the right one. Then, as I struggled out of my jacket, I saw the boat sheer away and head southwest. He was free. And if Maria had done what she'd promised, they had enough provisions on board to sail all the way to Colombia if they chose. He could start all over in the drug business.
I swore, then concentrated on saving myself. I wrapped shoes and gun into my jacket, which I zipped up and tied with the sleeves and the rope that had tied my hands. Then I made a check of direction to the closest land, related it to a star behind me, and started backstroking slowly toward the shore.
Swimming is hypnotic. Themes come into your mind and stay there as if you were in a trance. I found myself oblivious of where I was, listening to the long-ago chant of the Royal Marine sergeant who had given me and my fellow SAS recruits our distance-swimming lessons. He had gone ahead of us in a power boat, ostentatiously taking it easy while he harangued us nonstop as we swam across the coldest bloody loch in the whole of Scotland. And when we reached the shore, proud of ourselves, he had formed us into two ranks and doubled us eleven miles in our wet clothes and boots before he let us stop for a breath. Tonight I could remember every word he had bellowed from the boat. They hadn't been clever, only infuriating, giving extra strength to every stroke we took. “What a bunch of pansies. Christ! A Marine could swim this piddling little pond with an anchor under his arm. Call yourself swimmers? Bunch of bloody ponces, the lot of you.” Then in an aside to his companion, “Yes, please, Corporal, I will have another cup of tea."
That last sentence became my mantra. I couldn't get it out of my mind. I stroked on “yes” and “will” and “tea,” lifting my weary arms back and kicking each time I said them. I had the sleeve of my jacket between my teeth, the weight of shoes and gun resting on my chest, as I sucked in air on every stroke, ignoring the lead that was creeping into my arms and legs, concentrating on the words and on the star behind me until suddenly I heard the rushing fall of surf, and I knew I could make it.
I was lucky. There are only a few places in and around Zihuatanejo Bay where the rocks reach right down to the shore, and only one coral reef, at La Playa Las Gatas, Cat Beach, and I missed all of them, coming ashore on a narrow sand beach on the headland at the south end of the bay. The full force of the open ocean spends itself in the surf out there and the six-foot wave spun me head over heels as I came out of the water, knocking me down with the force of a concrete wall falling on me.
I stumbled out of the water and collapsed on the sand just above the waterline. Slowly my strength came back. The air was warm, still in the high seventies, so I didn't chill, but I was as close to exhaustion as I've ever been. The long march over the mountains had been a strain, and now the fight and the long swim had spent any nickels and dimes of vigor I had left in my bank. I was flattened, but I was angry at myself, playing back my last moment on the boat. Could I have taken Amadeo? Could I have hopped over El Grande's
body and kicked him senseless? And if I had, would Maria not have picked up his gun and shot me? Who could tell? I'd given the assignment everything I had short of my life, and I had lost Amadeo. I didn't relish breaking the news to Cahill, even though he had told me to bail out if things got too hairy.
I must have dozed, but I woke with a start when the incoming tide slapped itself over my bare feet, and I started up and ran back a couple of paces, reacting automatically. I found I was stiff but after a half minute of stretching I was back to almost normal, and I put my shoes and wet socks on, tucking the .38 into my waistband, then pulling on my damp jacket and walking along the narrow beach around the edge of the bay toward Las Gatas.
In a couple of places the tide was up to the cliffs, and I had to leave the beach and scramble over jagged rocks. I was tired and I slipped a couple of times, skinning my hands and knees, making a fresh tear in my jeans. After twenty minutes I came to the row of outdoor bars along the beach. There's nothing much to them. Bamboo and palm-thatched open bars with concrete-block buildings at the back, where the owners live and store their precious supplies of beer and liquor. By day they do a lively trade with tourists who come across from the town pier on local ferries. Now, at nine o'clock, it was dark except for a couple of candles and the glow of a fire as one of the women cooked a late supper for her family.
I debated whether to stop. Mexico is an odd country. The people are largely honest, despite what you hear, but there isn't much love for gringos, and a lone norteamericano in an isolated place like this might seem a gift from a benevolent heaven. But my thirst won. I had swallowed some seawater as I swam, and my mouth and throat were parched. I needed a nice safe hygienic beer. And anyway, the only way to get by without being seen was to walk up around the settlement, over the rocks behind it, and I couldn't face that challenge, tired as I was.
I came up to the first place with a candle burning and called out cheerfully “Hola, amigos. Tienen ustedes cerveza, por favor?” Hi, friends, do you have any beer, please? Not the smartest choice of question. They would think I was borracho—drunk—God's gift to the felon. But the lights of Cuatro Vientos were a long, hard mile away over soft sand that sucked at my feet. I needed that drink.
A woman came out and said in an angry tone, “No hay. Cerrado.” But then a man's voice spoke, and she backed into the bar and a fat man came out, grinning to let his amigos know this was his sucker for the skinning.
"Yes. We ‘ave beer,” he said. “Is five hun'ed pesos.” Five times the daylight rate.
"Es demasiado.” Too dear. I shook my head and walked on, but he followed me, carrying the bottle by the neck. I wondered when he would make his move. His anger in smiling all day at tourists who didn't even try to speak his language was eating him up. He would make me pay for it.
"Cien pesos,” I said over my shoulder. A hundred was plenty. He looked as if he would move on me no matter how much I paid. I just wanted to get the beer and walk on. We were out in the open now, in the center of the beach, and I saw that he had the beer in one hand and a machete in the other, his right. He changed the nature of the transaction, keeping it simple for me. “Dinero,” he said. Money. And he waved his machete to show me how he intended to collect.
"Look, it's been a long, hard evening. Now, why don't you sell me the beer, and I'll let it go at that,” I told him, but if he understood one word of it, he didn't let it show. He raised his machete and waved it at me, about a foot from my face.
"Dinero,” he repeated.
I backed off a pace. “No tengo dinero,” I said, and pulled the little.38. “Tengo pistola."
He dropped the machete as if it had been struck by lightning. I held my hand out to the beer. “Una cerveza, cien pesos. Sí?"
He managed to croak out “Sí, muy bien, señor.” Yes, very good, sir. I nodded politely and took the beer out of his hand. It was frosty to the touch. He glanced down at his machete, lying a yard away, but he made no move toward it. I put the bottle under my arm and pulled out my change. There was a hundred-peso piece among it, and I handed it to him. Then I raised the beer bottle toward all the darkened bars and called out, “Buenas noches, amigos,” and waited until he backed away before turning my back on him and crunching on over the sand.
At the end of the beach the rocks come down to the water, and tired as I was, I couldn't find the path in the darkness, so I lay and rested for a while, not sleeping, I didn't trust the guy with the machete, but I gathered my strength and built up my night vision until I was able to find the track and head on down to the corner of the hotel beach. From there it was sand all the way, and I took my shoes off and walked on the firm wet surface of the water's edge, passing the row of modest little Mexican hotels, listening to the musical ripple of the language and laughter and guitars as Mexican tourists enjoyed the same atmosphere the guests at Cuatro Vientos were paying fifteen times as much for.
At last I reached the hotel, and I stopped and thought about my next move. Jesús had said García was waiting for us. I wondered if that really meant me as well as Amadeo, or just the turncoat himself. Probably I was just an inconvenience, a fly he would swat as he grabbed the man he really wanted. But if I went in alone, he would jump me and have me tortured until I told him where Amadeo was. It was still a risk I couldn't afford to run. But I needed dry clothes and a shower and a night's sleep before I was fit for anything.
I sat and put my shoes and socks on, tucking the pistol into my sock again, trying to form a plan. At last I made one. It was time to call any markers I had out. I marched up the steps into the forecourt where the bar stood. And fortune smiled. Beth and Kelly were sitting at one of the tables. It was dimly lit where they were, a cheerful Mexican nod in the direction of romance, while saving big bucks on the power bill, ideal for honeymooners or for bodyguards on the lam. I went up to the women and spoke softly. “Hello, ladies. May I join you, please?"
They looked up, surprised, and Beth said, “John! What happened? You look a wreck."
"What you see is what you get,” I said, trying to make it sound flippant. “How are you two?"
"Fine,” Beth said. She was craning close to look at my growth of beard and the flush of new sunburn that even my sombrero hadn't been able to keep off. “Where did you and your friend get to yesterday?"
"He got away on me,” I said. This woman was too bright for any more games. I was going to have to level with her, at least part of the way, if I was going to get help. And I needed it badly.
She had a drink in front of her. just mineral water by the look of it. She picked it up and sipped carefully, not disbelieving me but not ready to invest any more concern unless I started telling the truth.
"I need help,” I said, and she looked at me over the top of her glass, her lips pursed over the straw she was using. “I don't have any right to ask for it, but there's nobody else I can ask."
Kelly spoke first. The librarian. She lived among romance, tiered shelves of the stuff. “What kind of trouble are you in?"
"Personally, none. But Amadeo is in a whole lot of it, and I'm his bodyguard. I'm down here on assignment from a government agency to take care of him while he does some personal things. Then I have to take him home."
Beth lowered her glass. “You've told us a number of different things, you know,” she said softly.
"Security. But he's broken it now. He's picked a fight with the biggest drug boss in Mexico. We went undercover yesterday, but he got away from me, and I hear that the drug boss is watching our room.” There, as much as they had to know if they were going to help me.
Beth said. “This all sounds a little fanciful, you know.” She was cool, maybe bruised a little from the way I had dipped into and out of her life, without fulfilling the implicit promise there was between us.
I held out my arm toward her. “Feel that jacket."
She did and said, “You got it wet."
"I got wet all over. I was thrown off a boat out past the mouth of the harbor. That's how fanci
ful it all is. Right now I need some dry clothes, a razor, and a night's sleep, but I think my room is being watched by somebody working for the drug business."
Kelly spoke first. “You were thrown off a boat? What for?"
"They were trying to kill me, but I can swim a lot better than they thought, that's all.” I looked from one to the other of them, they were still skeptical, the defense mechanisms of single women who have been lied to by a lot of men. Was I trying to tell them a story that would open their bedroom door to me? And if so, was it worth it?
I said, “Look, this is nothing to do with either of you. I'm sorry to have taken up your time. And I'm sorry I've had to spin you some fairy stories along the way, trying to cover up for Amadeo."
They looked at one another, two good friends who had seen a lot of liars come and go and had sat over drinks, like this, or maybe morning coffee, picking up the pieces. Then Beth said, “You say you need help."
"I do. I need someone to get my clothes and toilet gear from our room, and I would like, but can live without, a shower and a night's sleep somewhere safe. Once I've showered, I can get a room somewhere without attracting attention to myself."
"Do you have your key?” She held out her hand.
"I do. Would you do it for me?"
"Why not?” Beth stood up, smiling. “This seems to be my week for doing good deeds."
"It is,” I said. “But please, take a bellboy with you. Don't go in there alone, in case somebody's waiting inside. If there is and he wants to know where I am, tell him. It's my battle, not yours."
"The key,” she said.
I gave it to her and sat back while she walked away, tall and willowy and courageous. I felt humble. I hadn't done anything that entitled me to this kind of support.