Lockestep

by Jack Barnao

  I was set to play another game, but the old man shook his head and pointed to my watch. I wondered what kind of schedule he was on but realized that he had seen through my giveaways and didn't want to press his luck by going another game. So I quietly slipped him a thousand-peso bill “para mi maestro,” for my teacher, and he made a modest little gesture but kept the bill gratefully, then bowed and left.

  The crowd melted away, and I was starting to stand out like ears on a frog, so I nodded to the waiter, left a little change, and moved away into the market. There were other openings that overlooked the parked truck. I would have to watch from one of them. Maybe I'd be lucky and find somewhere else inconspicuous.

  The aisles were still crowded, and I made my way through them, ducking under the canvas awnings, hung about five foot eight from the ground, plenty of room for the average Mexican, even in his sombrero, but a pain for a six-footer. I didn't linger but moved toward the next spot, the only building in town that had collapsed during the earthquake of the previous fall. It looked like a bombed-out building in Ulster, except that it wasn't blackened with smoke and nobody had spray-painted “Long live the Provos” on the wall.

  I reached it and stood beside the shattered wall, staring out at the truck, then turning to glance at the crowd. My hopes of finding Amadeo were fading now. He might be off striking a bargain with García and getting ready to bring in a new shipment of cocaine from Colombia. Once his business contacts were made, he would be free to hire a car and he would leave the truck and take off. Besides which, if somebody found the body in the arroyo, the police would be looking for the truck, and there were enough of them in town to turn it up quickly. And then, as I wondered what to do next, I glanced around again and saw Jesús coming toward me.

  I flicked my head at him and he came over. There were a couple of other people close by, just shoppers, incurious about me, but he played his role carefully. “Buenos días, señor,” he said. Then, in his accented English, “I learn the song you tell me."

  "I was going to come to Coconuts again tonight and have you play for me,” I said noisily. Then the shoppers walked by into the white-hot sunlight, and I said quickly, “Amadeo got away. He stole that truck and killed the driver. I think he's gone to see García."

  "No,” he said quietly. “No, he's gone right by García, he's in touch with one of García's runners, a guy who brings in coke. I saw them talking in town. I've been looking for you."

  "Is he still there?"

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. This was earlier, maybe an hour ago. They were standing on the street outside the restaurant the other guy owns. He's an American, married to a girl from Zihua. She's his front, her and the restaurant. It's called El Huachinango. His name is Blackburn."

  "Any idea where my man would have gone?” A dumb question, but maybe he did know. He was on top of what happened in town. He would know any safe houses the drug dealer might have set up.

  "No. He's still in town, I guess. This runner, he would probably take a down payment from Amadeo, then deliver a shipment, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. You can expect Amadeo to stay under cover until then."

  I thought about that one. It was surprising to learn that a drug shipment could be arranged so quickly. It probably meant that the runner had a stash somewhere nearby and would get it out if the price was high enough. Interesting, but the sixty-four-dollar question was, what did that mean about Amadeo? Would he find his own cover until the coke was delivered? Or would he put himself in the hands of the runner? It seemed to me that the best thing to do was to go calling at El Huachinango and ask a few pointed questions, at the point of my pistola, if necessary.

  Jesús was becoming nervous. I guessed I was wearing out his credibility as a troubador. Guitar pickers don't mingle with turistas through the day, they're off in their hamacas resting up for the requests and the big tips later in the evening. He spilled over with his concern. “I must go. People will see me with you and talk."

  "Okay, thanks for the help. How can I reach you again if I have to?"

  "I will be in the restaurants, starting at dusk. Usually I get to Coconuts around nine o'clock."

  "Thanks.” More people were passing us, glancing at us in the small-town way that means they are storing everything up in their memory. “But you really should learn ‘Malagueña.’ It goes like this,” I said, and hummed the melody, loudly enough and far enough off-key that even the passersby grinned at me.

  "Sí, señor. I weel practice har’ an’ play for your señora thees evenin',” he said.

  "Good. It's worth five bucks,” I said and clapped him on the back, hard enough to make him stagger. He smiled and left. And I turned to glance at the truck, baking quietly in the heat. When I looked back, he was gone.

  There didn't seem to be any more point in watching the truck. If Jesús was right, Amadeo was back in the drug business for real. That meant he would rapidly start making the necessary payoffs to divert the police away from himself. And if their investigation of the murder of the man from La Playa Blanca brought them to his door, he would get real neighborly and point them in my direction.

  I had to outrun the coppers and get my hands on Amadeo before the police found the body in the riverbed. My first move was to join up with Thurlbeck. I did it by walking out to the truck and standing beside it, putting one hand on my head in the “come to me” sign you use when you're on patrol. Thurlbeck immediately stepped into sight from a doorway on the other side of the street, and I nodded minutely and walked away to the place where he had dropped me off. He walked up behind me and touched my elbow, so that I fell into stride with him, walking on past the back of the market.

  "What happened?"

  "Amadeo's in town, talking business to one of García's runners. My contact tells me this guy runs a restaurant. I thought we'd start by going down there and talking to him. See if he'll let us know where our lad is hiding."

  "Okay. I'll immobilize the truck.” He turned away and I waited while he walked back and lifted the truck hood and took out the rotor arm from the ignition. He came back to me, grinning. “That should hold him,"

  We found his van and drove back through town, going up and down the streets until we found El Huachinango. It was a simple little place, not likely to appeal to tourists. It had waist-high walls all around it, with a metal grille above them, and was thatched with banana leaves supported on tree trunks placed wherever necessary in the floor space. Now, nearly noon, it was deserted except for a couple of waiters playing backgammon. One of them got up when we came in and came over to us, smiling.

  I smiled back and ordered a Tecate. Thurlbeck shook his head. “Agua mineral, por favor,” he said, and the boy went to get our orders.

  "Not big on beer?” I asked him as we sat.

  "Used to be real big on it, but I haven't had a drop since 1951, June twelfth."

  I nodded and told him, “The owner is an American, name of Blackburn. You want to ask for him, the kids don't seem to have much English."

  "Sure thing.” He waited until the boy was pouring our drinks, then he asked him in Spanish if Señor Blackburn, his friend, was in.

  The boy spoke rapidly, and Thurlbeck smiled and looked politely upset at the answer and made some comment. The boy left and we sipped our drinks. “Seems the señor was called away. He'll be back later, my amigo thinks. And he's always here for dinner, to talk to the tourists who come in."

  "What say we just sit and wait for him?"

  Thurlbeck inclined his head, “I think so; it's coming up on siesta time, no sense dashing around in the heat.” He grinned. “This beats birding all to hell,” he said happily.

  "Good.” I took another glug at my Tecate; it's a good crisp beer, not unlike a German brew, one of my favorites. Thurlbeck watched me. He seemed charged up with enthusiasm, like a kid who can't help talking but won't mention the thing that's really on his mind.

  "Beer is the only thing I miss,” he said at last. “It wasn't my tipple. I was a sour-
mash man. But when it's hot and I smell that beer, I can remember the way it all used to taste.” He glanced at his glass gloomily, then raised it and sipped again.

  "You used to hammer it?"

  "Yeah. I was a two-fisted drinker for about five years, after I got back from Europe. Started over there. We were in some tough fighting up near Caen, right after D day. Lost a lot of good buddies and had some near misses myself. I started drinking every chance I got."

  I looked at his lined face, trying to imagine it forty years younger, flushed with fear and liquor. He met my eyes and sniffed.

  "Calvados, that was my tipple in Normandy. Then Cognac as we got farther east. Then when the war was over, the pressure came off and I cooled it.” His glass had left a damp ring on the tabletop, and he smudged it away with his fingertip. “Then one day I was in a shootout at a bank in town. My partner was killed. I dropped the guy who did it, and the manager poured me a stiff drink, and suddenly I was back on.” He set down his glass and shook his head. “Kept at it until I came home one morning and found my wife and kids gone, moved out. I went to see her, and she said I had to choose. Her or the booze. No contest."

  "You're a tough sonofabitch,” I said. “That wouldn't have done it for most drinkers."

  "Thought the world of that woman,” he said. “Her parents were killed in the blitz. She didn't have anywhere to go after I brought her home. But it didn't stop her moving out. She said she would save up and take the kids back to Britain. So I quit."

  He glanced around at the blackboard. “You wanna eat lunch? We won't get another chance. And I operate better on a full gut."

  "Done. Why don't you order?"

  "Okay. How about some nachos? They're not real heavy, and the peppers'll light up your life."

  "Sounds good."

  He ordered and we ate, hoping that Blackburn would return. But he didn't, so we ordered another drink and did some more talking.

  Thurlbeck cleared his throat, the way a doctor would before he tells you to get your affairs in order. “I've been thinking. We've got some information that García would like to hear. About one of his guys talking to Amadeo."

  "The best news he'd like to hear is that he'd got his hands on me. I've embarrassed the guy, shot some of his heavies, and kicked the head off his bodyguard. He'd like to peg me out on an anthill someplace and sit around while I groaned."

  Thurlbeck waved that one aside. “You're forgetting. He's in the drug business. This isn't like one of the Mafia families. Those guys out at the farm, they were peons, he can replace them with a snap of his fingers."

  "What about El Grande? That guy was a landmark around here. Knocking him over was like blowing up city hall. People notice things like that."

  Still Thurlbeck shook his head. “And you're forgetting that Amadeo has half a million bucks with him. I know these guys, I've dealt with every kind of slimebag you can think of over the last thirty-five years. For that kind of bread they'd talk to anybody."

  I sucked my teeth, it felt luxurious, knowing they were all there. I didn't think they would be once García got his hands on me. “No dice. You saw the way his people were after me this morning. He wants my ass. If he got his half mil, it would just make finding me a little sweeter, that's all."

  Thurlbeck looked at me steadily. I looked back at him, seeing him as he must have looked forty years ago, a lean young GI with his M1 and his mission, to hand Hitler his head. He looked tough. “What was the motto of this outfit you belonged to?” he asked quietly.

  "The SAS? Who dares wins. Why?"

  He grinned and sipped his mineral water. “You ain't gonna win if you don't,” he said softly. “You really want to go home without this prick?"

  I raised one palm to slow him down. “You know better than that. But our best bet is to find Blackburn and talk to him for a while. Maybe I can scoop Amadeo without sticking my head into the guillotine."

  "How long you reckon to give him?” he asked. “All day? All night? Say he's gone off on a drug trip and doesn't get back for a week. You plan to sit here drinking beer and hoping he'll have news for you?"

  "Okay. Let's put some edges on all this. Let's say we'll wait until dinnertime. If Blackburn hasn't come back, we'll get Jesús to point us at García.” I kept my voice nice and even, but I was hoping Blackburn would oblige. Seeing García would be a lot less fun than a root canal job.

  Thurlbeck checked his watch. “It's twelve forty-eight. What do you say we give him till seven?"

  I nodded slowly. “All right. Six more hours sitting around and then the fun begins."

  He raised his glass to me, and I matched him, and we both relaxed. And then a young guy with blond hair and a good tan walked through the door, carrying a suitcase. One of the waiters stood up at once and spoke to him in Spanish, and Thurlbeck grinned. “Speak of the angels, hear their wings,” he said. “Guess who came home early."

  Nineteen

  The waiter must have told Blackburn we were looking for him, because he nodded neatly and went on toward the kitchen, picking up the pace a little, ready for the now-you-see-him, now-you-don't trick out of the back door. I beat him to the kitchen by a pace, grinning like a long-lost army buddy and sticking out my hand. “Hi, Blackie. Long time no see."

  It bought the kids off, but it didn't cut any ice with him.

  "Do I know you?” He had the pinched, nasal vowels of the born New Yorker.

  "Sure you do, we sang side by side in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.” I kept up the grin until Thurlbeck joined us. He flipped open his wallet, giving us a quick flash of his gold-plated badge.

  "Adams, FDA,” he said.

  Blackburn burst out in a torrent of Spanish, and one of the waiters jumped to his feet, but Thurlbeck smiled at him and canceled whatever order had been given, in Spanish just as rapid. Then, for my benefit, he spoke to Blackburn in English. “This won't take up much of your valuable time, so why don't you sit down here with us, nice and friendly, and tell the kids to stay where we can see them."

  Blackburn came with us to our table. He was still clutching his case and held it on his lap when he sat down. Thurlbeck said, “We're not interested in you, Mr. Blackburn. We understand you're a pillar of the community here, married to a nice girl, running this place. That's fine. Cooperate with us, and things go on just the same as ever, you make your trips south and come back with nose candy, some other sucker takes it up where we have to worry about it. That's all fine and dandy."

  Blackburn leaned back, casual as hell, except for his viselike grip on the handle of the case. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  "Tell him, Johnnie,” Thurlbeck said.

  I sat up straight, a Mountie removed from the musical ride and put on a chair instead of his horse. “Rodgers, RCMP,” I told him. “I'm in pursuit of one Gregory Amadeo, fugitive from justice."

  Blackburn sneered. “What're you guys smokin'? Neither one of you has authority here. Whyn't you finish your beer and go. I'll tear up the check, you can still charge it on expenses."

  "Very generous.” I matched his sneer. “You want to see some authority that holds good in this place, is that it?"

  "Show me.” We were like a couple of kids going “Naaah, Naaah, Naaah” at one another in the school yard. I opened my jacket, revealing the Colt. “Guaranteed good anywhere,” I said, trumping his ace.

  He dropped the sneer but stayed cool. “What are you? Some kind of nut? Pull that thing, and Raúl would have the shotgun from behind the bar and take your head off."

  I glanced at the backgammon players. One of them had raised his head when he heard his name mentioned. He was a long way from the bar. “I could drop him before he got there, and we both know it, so cut the crap. Just come along with us like a good boy."

  He was starting to sweat. His face was glistening, and his fine white lace shirt was sticking to his chest with it. I studied him, making him more tense. He was handsome in a dated, flower child kind of way, his hair overlong, his face r
ound, his eyes a clear blue. Only now they were narrowed with the most fear he'd shown in a long time, I guessed.

  "Come where?"

  "To wherever my good buddy Greg Amadeo is waiting for you,” I told him. “Only first, you're going to take us all over this place so we can see that he's not out back with la señora, drinking a beer and waiting for that suitcase."

  He glanced from me to Thurlbeck, licking his lips. “I don't have to show you anything,” he said tautly.

  Thurlbeck took over, his voice relaxed as morning sunshine. “No, and we don't have to tell you that Amadeo is not only a wanted man but he's got access to a lot of cash. Now us—” he waved his hand at me and then himself—"we get regular pay-checks. We don't need any cash. But a businessman like yourself, you probably do. So I'm suggesting that you take us to Amadeo and then we take you to his cash. Fair?"

  Blackburn didn't relax, but his eyes narrowed a little in interest. “How much cash?"

  "Enough that you could buy Coconuts, or build someplace just as fancy,” Thurlbeck said. “Interested?"

  He didn't roll over and play dead. “I might be” was all he volunteered.

  I took over as the hard-nose. “So you've got a choice. Cash on one hand, pain on the other. Which'll it be?"

  He grinned, slowly, as if his face was coming unfrozen after dental work. “Cash sounds good to me."

  "Very sensible. Now just show me around this nice place of yours so we know Amadeo's not here, then we'll go outside and my partner will drive us wherever you say."

  He stood up, dangling the suitcase casually. “Sure. Come on with me."

  "You two go. I'll stay and watch the store,” Thurlbeck said. “I wouldn't want either of your camareros making any phone calls while our backs were turned.” He beamed and raised his glass.