by Jack Barnao
He pulled up at the clinic, making a U-turn in the narrow street so the side door of the van was against the clinic door. He got out and opened it. I touched Maria on the shoulder. “We're here now. Can you walk?"
She sat up, very slowly, and I put my arm around her shoulders and helped her up, easing her off the bed and down the step onto the hot sidewalk. There was an old woman sitting in a cane chair on the stoop of the clinic, but no other passersby close enough to see what kind of shape Maria was in. Thurlbeck went ahead, and I heard him speaking Spanish to the old woman, who pointed inside. I helped Maria after him into the dimness of a tiny ward with a couple of empty hospital beds and a strong smell of old-fashioned antiseptics.
I put her on one of the beds, helping her up so she could lie flat, which she did, groaning softly and putting one hand over her eyes. Thurlbeck had found the doctor, a heavyset guy in his fifties wearing a white coat with a bloodstain on the left sleeve. He brought him over, and he was all business, moving Maria's hand to look at her injuries, speaking soothingly to her as she opened her eyes.
Thurlbeck turned to me. “I'll wait here, all day if I have to. You do what you can to find this prick."
"Right.” I took the keys and went out to the van, slamming the side door and driving back up the street onto the main cross street and out to the highway. I watched the oncoming traffic as I drove, checking every pickup that passed. There were a number of them, but I didn't see Amadeo in any of them, just ordinary working stiffs moving into Zihuatanejo with produce for the market.
The gas station was a dusty little place with a couple of pumps, one for regular gas, one for diesel. I pulled the van alongside the gas pump and got out. A kid of about fourteen came up, wearing a Red Sox baseball cap, a souvenir from some gringo who'd stopped by. He spoke the rough, aggressive English of the standard salesman, the kind they advertise for in Canadian papers as “self-starters.” “Hello. Jou want to fill-er-up?"
"Yeah, please."
I let him start the gasoline pumping, then pulled out a five-hundred-peso bill and folded it, tapping it against my left thumb while he watched. “You been here all day?"
He nodded. “Sí. Since six hours."
"Did you serve a man in a pickup, a gringo, like me, only dark?” The word made him narrow his eyes, so I simplified. I stroked my hair. “Negro."
He didn't say anything, but his expression changed.
"Yeah, the man I want to see, he speaks Spanish like a norteamericano."
Now he nodded. “Sí. A norteamericano was here."
"What did his truck look like?” I wanted facts, not some fiction concocted to earn the five hundred.
"Was ol', a pickup, not norteamericano, was Guerrero."
"Bueno.” I grinned to let him know my grip on the bill was loosening. “What did he buy?"
"He buy gas, like you."
"Did he have a gas can with him, in the truck?"
"Sí. He have a can, but he no fill it."
"Was he alone?"
"Sí.” He finished filling the van, fastened the cap, then hung the nozzle up.
"And what did he do then?"
The kid shoved his cap back, then looked at me. “This guy is your frien'?"
"No. But I want to see him. Which way did he go?” I didn't have any doubt that he had headed up the highway, northwest toward Puerto Vallarta along the coast road, or maybe to the highway that led into the mountains and eventually Mexico City and anonymity.
The kid said, “He say can he use the phone. So mi padre say sí. An’ then he turn aroun’ an’ drive back."
"Bueno. Muchos gracias, amigo. Para usted.” I handed him the bill and pulled out two thousand to pay for the gas. He fumbled for change, but I waved him off. “De nada."
He grinned. “This guy, he cheap bastar'. I wash the window, he don’ teep."
That pleased me. It meant the boy was telling the truth. If Amadeo had bribed him, he would have said nothing, or lied, but he wouldn't have made up a story. I tugged the brim of his cap and grinned back at him. “Boston, bueno. Toronto Blue Jays muy bueno,” I said and he made a disgusted little fan's gesture and laughed.
I swung the van around and started back down the highway. This time I drove more slowly, thinking. Who would Amadeo have called? And why was he heading back to Zihua? Maybe he was planning to carry through on his dream of canceling García and setting up shop as the Man for the state of Guerrero. With El Grande in the morgue and a.45 on his hip, he might feel equal to the attempt. And maybe his phone call had been to some contact or other, someone who could help him set up the assassination. Bad news for García, potentially better for me.
Something else was niggling at me as I drove, and then I remembered, the boy had said Amadeo was alone. Knowing what kind of man he was, that probably meant he had gotten rid of the guy from the beach who had offered to drive him to the gas station. The questions were: How? And where? The thought made me even more observant as I drove, and as I came over a ridge about midway between the gas station and the turnoff to La Playa Blanca, I saw something that made me ease up on the gas. Vultures were gathering over an arroyo that ran under a bridge about a quarter mile down the road.
I pulled in and stopped on the shoulder, just short of the bridge, then ran down the embankment and through the brush to the arroyo, a scarred, dry riverbed about six feet deep. A heavy bird flapped away as I ducked under the corner of the bridge, then another, and I saw what they were eating.
Amadeo had shot him in the back and he was sprawled facedown on the hard-baked ground at the other end of the bridge, not quite under it. I checked the body but he was beyond help, so I just noted what he was wearing, white cotton short-sleeved shirt and light blue summer pants and a pair of flip-flops, not even a hat.
I didn't touch him. It was time to leave. Somebody would notice the vultures soon, and then they would come down to look, checking if it was an animal with a skin worth taking, and the hunt would be on. I had to get away. A gringo carrying a gun would be the prime suspect. You couldn't expect some unsophisticated local cop to bother checking the ballistics of the bullet in the dead man's back. I ran back and jumped into the van, hoping nobody had noticed it while it was parked. If they had, Thurlbeck would be a suspect when the investigation started.
It took me only twelve minutes to reach the clinic. Thurlbeck was sitting in a chair opposite the old lady, gossiping in Spanish. He looked like the kind of retiree you see in insurance company advertisements. When I arrived, he excused himself and the old lady smiled at the courtesy.
He stepped down to the passenger side of the van. “What did you find?"
"He's back in town. He killed the guy from the beach. I found the body in the riverbed. It's my guess he wants to have a meeting with García, maybe to try to ice him and take over, maybe to set up a purchase."
Thurlbeck sucked his teeth and looked at me without speaking, and I remembered he was a cop. Maybe he thought I'd killed the other guy. I just looked back at him and waited.
Finally he spoke. “I talked to Maria while the doc patched her up. She tells the same story you did about last night.” Then he grinned. “An’ you brought the van back like a good fellah. So I believe you. The only thing is, this is getting sticky. Somebody's going to find that body, an’ when they do the foo yung will be in the fan."
I'd already followed that line of reasoning, and I nodded. “They'll want to talk to us, as witnesses, but it's Amadeo they'll be looking for."
He nodded. “Yeah, but that won't do you any good. They won't want to let him go back to Canada to testify and get away free. They'll want to throw his ass in jail."
"You're right. Which means we have to get him out of the country before they know who they're looking for."
Thurlbeck sniffed and nodded. “Any luck at all, we'll have the rest of the day before they find the body, then identify it, then start asking at Playa Blanca and then start looking for Amadeo."
"And when they do, they'll star
t asking at the hotels, and they'll soon want to talk to us, for being interested in him at La Playa Blanca.” The thought did not thrill me. I've heard a little about the way these policemen conduct their investigations. I didn't want them asking me any questions, especially if they had the idea that Amadeo and I were a couple of kindred spirits. It's not that I don't like beer, but I prefer to drink it rather than inhale the stuff while hanging upside down.
Thurlbeck was making like a policeman, thinking logically. “If the kid at the gas station was telling the truth, then the first thing we do is make a search for the truck."
"Did you get a description from the lady at the beach?"
He grinned. “You're talking to a pro-fessional,” he drawled. “We are looking for a ‘58 Chevy, red color, box-bodied—you know how I mean, with the wheels outside the box. Guerrero license number 4763."
"So let's make a sweep.” I turned to the van. “If it was me driving a truck like that, I'd dump it dose to the market among all the farmers’ trucks, where it won't stick out."
He walked around to the driver's side and got in. I opened my door and got in beside him. He shoved his cap back on his head and wound the window down. “Market'd be a good place to start,” he said.
He drove slowly up the street and turned left at the top, the four-lane main road through town. It was in poor repair, with potholes every few yards, but there was a boulevard down the center with dried-out grass and a few dusty trees. On the north side of it lay the three blocks of the market, a thrown-together affair with a few buildings and a cluster of permanent stalls with canvas covers joining them all up, so the whole thing looked like a circus tent. There were elderly trucks all down the curb next to the stalls, farm trucks mostly, with empty produce baskets in the backs of them.
We drove in silence, checking everything we passed. Then Thurlbeck said, “If you see him, on foot, I mean, tell me. I'll go another thirty yards an’ drop you off. No sense me goin’ up against a.45. I'll be better off telling the police what happened if he sees you first."
"Makes sense.” I took my eyes off the scene long enough to take my gun out of my sock, check the load with a glance, and then slip it into my waistband. “Going past him is sensible. I don't want to get into any shooting matches. He's not that great with a gun, he'll likely kill some poor bastard and the crowd will jump him, and some farmer will cancel his check with a machete."
Thurlbeck humphed in what might have been amusement. “You know what I'm thinking?” he said. “I'm thinking our best bet is to find García and talk to him."
I frowned. The last I'd seen of García's men, they were trying to round me up for a nice quiet drowning, if I'd been lucky.
Thurlbeck glanced at my face and nodded. “Yeah, I know what you're thinkin'. The only thing is, we know García's a rounder. If we promise him the money that your buddy's carrying, he won't care what happens to the guy. Hell, for half a million bucks he'd give you his sister."
I straightened my back and took a deep breath. “This is going to be even less fun than getting your pants pressed while you wait."
He didn't laugh. “I know. But if we don't find the truck, or if we find it but don't find him, we'll need help rounding him up."
All that was true, but I'd killed García's bodyguard. It was better than even money that García was feeling miffed. He might be tempted to let Amadeo go, but take out his anger on me.
Thurlbeck wasn't considering that one. “I'd like to see the little bastard get his. But not here. If he can do some good by testifying before your courts, let him do it. He won't live long after that, believe me. They can give him a new name, but the only place it'll ever appear is on his headstone. Those guys don't fool around."
"I just don't want to lose him, that's all,” I said as we reached the end of the short stretch of four-lane and Thurlbeck turned north, around the back of the market.
"Nor me,” he said. Then he touched me on the arm at the same moment I saw what he had. The red pickup was sitting on a patch of waste ground beside the market, in the thin shade of a jacaranda, but Amadeo was nowhere in sight.
Eighteen
Thurlbeck drove around the corner without slowing down, then stopped to let me off. “I guess you know how to stake a place out,” he said.
"Yeah. I've done it before."
"Good. I'll get rid of the van and come back. You won't see me unless you're good, so don't panic. I'll be close by."
I raised one finger and nodded. He winked and drove away, and I moved to the inside of the sidewalk, against the back wall of one of the buildings that made up the market.
Amadeo had parked his truck well. There was no place to watch it from complete cover. If this had been nighttime, I could have swung up unnoticed onto the roof of any of the buildings that overlooked the waste ground. But in daylight that was impossible, so I kept going, away from the truck, until I reached the first entrance to the market and could duck inside.
It was jammed with stalls, so close together that any North American fire department would have closed it down instantly, but the cheerful, casual Mexicans hadn't bothered. All the space between the stalls was packed with shoppers, mostly women carrying sturdy nylon-mesh shopping bags and buying their groceries quietly, without the haggling that gringos expect to be part of every exchange. I squeezed through, stopping only to pick up a liter of orange juice in a heavy glass bottle. It would keep me going in the heat, and the bottle itself could be a distraction if I had to move in on Amadeo without using my gun.
It must have been a minute before I reached an opening in the market that gave me a view of the truck. It was still there, and the first stall inside was a refreshment booth with a low counter and a few stools. I took a stool at the end of the row and ordered a Piñafiel and sat nursing it and trying to look invisible. It was difficult. I'm a head taller than most of the locals, and fair hair stands out like a red hunting hat against all of those bobbing blacktops. And as I sat there, I weighed up the situation. Finding the truck didn't mean we would find Amadeo. He might have abandoned it now and be on his way to a confrontation with García.
That reading didn't sit well with me. If all he had wanted was a ride to town, he wouldn't have killed the guy from La Playa Blanca. It figured that he had changed his mind while he drove up to the gas station. After his call from there, he must have decided that he could get back in the drug business here. It meant that he had murdered the truck's owner for nothing. I wondered if he'd glanced sideways as he drove back over the arroyo as he came back to town. Would he have grinned and said, “Sorry about that"?
The other alternative was that he intended to drive over the border, south possibly, into Guatemala, just a couple of days’ travel. Probably by then the police would be looking for him and the truck, but liaison between the various levels of law enforcement agencies in Mexico is ragged. And with half a million bucks in a plain gray wrapper he had enough money to buy his way past anybody short of Saint Peter.
For the moment, though, it was worth watching the truck, if only I could find a way to look less conspicuous, so Amadeo wouldn't notice me if he passed. It wasn't easy. Most of the stall's patrons were market workers. The place was too grungy to appeal to tourists, and those who passed the place glanced at me as if they figured I must be conducting some kind of medical experiment with myself as guinea pig. And then an old Mexican sat down next to me and smiled. I smiled back and said, “Buenos días, señor."
He murmured the same thing and then lifted his shopping bag up on the counter. In it he had a cloth chessboard and a cigar box filled with his men, an old Spanish-style set carved from onyx.
He flopped out the board on the countertop and indicated the men with another smile. I nodded and said, “Sí, con mucho gusto.” Yes, I'd like to. Then the waiter came up. He was young but hard-nosed, the way people get when they're born and bred on the margins of survival. He spoke sharply to the old man, but I gave him a big grin and said, “Desayuno para mi amigo, por favor."
The old man thanked me and ordered his breakfast and started setting out the men. I watched him and kept one eye on the truck. It made a perfect cover. I was still in plain sight, but I was not a lollygagging tourist anymore, I was a chess player giving the local hustler a game on his home turf, perfect reason to be sitting in this place, and given the curiosity of people anywhere, we would soon be surrounded by spectators. Amadeo wouldn't notice me if he passed this way.
The old man drew white and opened pawn to queen four. I responded with the king's Indian defense, Fischer's favorite, knight to king's bishop three, and we soon had a good game going. I play a fair game of chess, if I do say so. I learned from a fellow officer in Ulster. It was unsafe to leave the barracks between patrols, and we spent weeks at a time cooped up when we weren't taking care of business on the street. It added a lot to my general knowledge. I learned chess from a champion, and heard all the old songs of the forties and fifties from another officer who had every record ever cut before rock became the rage. Neither kind of information is worth money, but it's all part of the general education I should have gotten in college but didn't.
The old man's breakfast came, and I paid the waiter and sat back, pretending to study the board while the old man ate. He looked underfed, but he ate with perfect manners. Then he turned to the board, and soon we had a crowd of loungers around us. It got harder to watch the truck without being obvious. But I managed it, and managed to beat the old man, too. It was tactics that did it. He was a cautious player, and once I realized that, I became a little more dashing until I was two pawns up on him and then played a careful game of attrition. The crowd got noisy then, and I glanced at the old man and saw that I'd hurt him. He was Zihuatanejo's answer to Bobby Fischer, and I'd humbled him, which had not been my intention. So I did what any gentleman would have done, played him twice more and let him win, once by allowing him to fork my king and queen with his knight and once by letting him pin a rook to my king with a bishop. He was quietly jubilant and honor was satisfied. And there was still no sign of Amadeo.