by Jack Barnao
"Yeah, whatever,” Blackburn said. He jerked his head toward the back of the restaurant. “Come on, I'll show you around."
I followed him, and he took me out into the kitchen, where two young women were chopping vegetables. He spoke to one of them, the prettier one, in Spanish. “My wife,” he said to me, and I smiled and told her “Buenos días” and she returned it, without pausing in her work. Beyond the kitchen was an attached single room, simply furnished but with a bed instead of the traditional hamacas and with a good big bookshelf, filled mostly with paperbacks.
"That's the whole shebang,” Blackburn told me. “Unless you wanna check the bathroom."
"Why not?” I opened the door. The place was the same as the one at the hotel, large and spotless. He'd married himself one hell of a housekeeper.
"Happy now?” he asked. He had set down his suitcase beside the bed and was edging toward the night table. As I turned back from the bathroom, he made a lunge for the table and jerked the drawer down. I dived full length across the bed and slammed him a straight-arm punch in the kidney. He gave a groan and crashed down, pulling the night table over with him. I rolled over the bed and stood on his right hand, then set the night table on its legs again.
His wife appeared in the doorway, still carrying the big knife she was using to chop with. She screamed something in Spanish, and I smiled back at her and said, “De nada, señora.” It's nothing. She wasn't buying, so I bent down and picked up the gun that lay in the drawer. “Tell her to cool it or this thing could go off,” I told Blackburn, and he rattled at her in Spanish and she turned away and disappeared from view.
I took my foot off his wrist and checked the gun. It was a Beretta 9mm, a useful piece. “This thing standard issue for greasy-spoon proprietors?” I asked him.
He sat up, trying to nurse his right hand and his kidney at the same time. “We have a lot of cash on the premises, I need protection, this is Mexico, for Christ's sake."
"And the land-office business you're doing out front, you need a gun? Come on, Blackburn, cut the crap. We know what you are. Smarten up, hand us Amadeo, and we're on our way."
He swore once, then asked, “How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"Look,” I said patiently, “if all we wanted was some drug-pushing sleazebag, we could have picked up any of the retailers back home. You're safe as a church with us, once you put us in touch with Amadeo."
He looked up at me as I stood up, back a pace from him where he couldn't swing a sucker punch at my testicles. I could see him measuring the distance and deciding he wasn't fast enough to make it. Then he stood up.
"Right. Now as we go into the kitchen, I want to hear you laughing so the señora knows it's all in fun and she doesn't take that cleaver up alongside my head. Got that? Isn't that the funniest thing you've heard since Barney Miller went off the air?"
"Sure,” he said woodenly, then he began to laugh. It sounded like a man trying to get a snowmobile started, a rhythmic succession of puffs that got louder and surer over about four seconds. By the time he reached the door, he had it right, and his wife looked up and frowned at us, mystified. He waved a casual hand at her and took me on into the front of the restaurant. I had stuck his Beretta in my pocket, and I kept my hand on it as we passed the waiters. A pale-looking gringo couple had come in and were studying the menu while one of the kids hovered nearby. The other was wiping the top of a table. I hooked my head at Thurlbeck and he stood up, laying a couple of bills on the table.
He stepped ahead of Blackburn and opened the door, then fell in on the other side of him as we walked up the street to the van.
It was punishingly hot now, and the inside of the van was like an oven, but I shoved Blackburn into the front seat and then got in behind him, nudging him in the back of the head with a stiff finger. In his fear he must have thought it was a gun. “Right, now steer us to Amadeo, and no fooling, or you won't be going back to the little woman,” I told him.
"Put that thing away. We've got a deal, right? I take you to Amadeo, you take me to his money, okay?"
"Most of it,” Thurlbeck said. “This guy's left some debts unpaid."
Blackburn threw up his hands. “What's that s'posed to mean? You guys get the cream, I get the skimmed milk, is that it?"
"He killed a fisherman and beat the hell out of a woman,” Thurlbeck said. “We compensate the family and the woman. The rest is doggy doo, for all I care. Now where am I heading?"
Blackburn directed him up the street until we were clear of the waterfront, then across and back down on the north side of the little inlet that runs beside the barracks. The road was rough, and Thurlbeck glanced at Blackburn quickly. “Where exactly are we headed, buddy?"
"He's in my casa, up on the hillside,” Blackburn said.
I didn't look up. I was checking the Beretta I'd taken from him. It had a full magazine and one up the spout. I put the safety back on and put the gun in my pocket. Then I handed the .38 to Thurlbeck. He took one hand from the wheel to accept it without comment. I didn't want him to have to do any shooting, but if things went haywire, two guns would be better than one.
"Right here,” Blackburn said. I glanced up and saw we were turning up the hillside, following a road that led back and forth through hairpin turns toward a couple of big, opulent places high over the water, the Beverly Hills of Zihuatanejo.
"You're living kind of rich, aren't you?” Thurlbeck said.
"Nothing much else to spend money on,” Blackburn said easily. “I don't travel a whole lot, and women cost peanuts."
Thurlbeck glanced at him again. “Women aren't cattle,” he said in a cold voice.
"Sorry. I forgot you two guys were on the side of honor and justice,” Blackburn said. I didn't like the fact that he was getting so chipper. It meant he had something up his sleeve. Maybe he had a couple of hungry Dobermans waiting for us at his casa. Ah, well, even the best of dogs isn't bulletproof.
We looped our way up the hill in low gear until we came to a high wall with iron gates set into it. Bougainvillea spilled over the walls, making a scene that would have looked good on a postcard. Having a wonderful time, wish you were here.
"Honk,” Blackburn said. “Two long, one short."
"No,” Thurlbeck said. “I wasn't born yesterday, son. For all I know, that's your signal that trouble's coming. Get out and open the gate. It's your house."
"Suit yourself.” He slipped out of the seat but Thurlbeck put one hand on his arm. “John gets out first, he's gonna have his gun on you, so don't get cute."
I opened my door and stood waiting for Blackburn to get down. He went ahead of me and opened one side of the gate. “Now the other,” I told him. “My buddy hates walking."
He shrugged and swung the other gate open. Thurlbeck drove past us and around the circular driveway to the portico of the big white house. I noticed there were bars on all of the windows. Burglar proof, and also a handy prison if you locked a guy into one of the rooms. Maybe Amadeo was penned up inside.
I prodded Blackburn with my left hand, keeping my right in my pocket on his Beretta. He opened the door and called “Carlos."
"No crowd scenes, just get Amadeo out here,” I said.
"I guess you've never had servants,” Blackburn said, stylishly tossing his hair out of his eyes. He stepped inside, into a tiled entrance hall with open doorways on four sides. “Carlos'll bring him out when I tell him to."
Footsteps sounded on two sides of the entry and suddenly there were two men looking at us, both holding guns on us, one of them a shotgun.
Blackburn laughed out loud. “Which one you gonna kill, hotshot? Get one, the other'll blow you in half. Now gimme my gun back."
Behind me I could hear Thurlbeck coming in. “I'll take the one on the left,” I called, but before I could draw and fire, he spoke.
"Forget it, kid. We've got you."
I spun around, openmouthed. He was standing there, in his feed-store hat, looking like a Norman Rockwell painting,
only now he had my .38 pointed at me.
"You mean you're part of this?"
"Give him his gun back,” Thurlbeck said. “You got no chance. You'll stop one, the other two of us'll put you down to stay, and I don't want to see that.” He was right, I had the Ancient Mariner's chance, I could stoppeth one in three.
Blackburn reached out and took his gun. “There. That's a whole lot better,” he said.
The two Mexicans kept me covered, and I stayed close to Blackburn. If either one tightened on the trigger I could still throw him in front of me. Not a big chance of survival, but the best I had. Only Thurlbeck said, “I'm behind you, remember. So don't try anything fancy."
Now Blackburn let his gun dangle casually from his hand. “So, okay. Come on in and meet Don García."
I worked with an actress once, keeping ardent fans from smudging her makeup on location. Later, when I was smudging it for her, she let me in on the secret of all good acting. The best line is silence. I took her cue now. Of all the things I'd thought possible, Thurlbeck's letting me down had been last on the list. He seemed straight as a die. I just walked, obedient to Blackburn's nudge on my elbow, following one of the Mexicans who backed ahead of me down his corridor until we came to a big tiled room furnished in elegant rattan, with plants and statues and, of all things, a miniature shrine of the Virgin. García was in one of the chairs, smoking a cigar.
He took the cigar out of his mouth and smiled at me. “Buenos días,” he said.
I nodded. “Buenos días to you too, buddy."
He stood up and came forward. Not all the way, not so close I could grab him and play any games, but in that big room he was able to take three of his small paces and still be clear of me.
"You give me much trouble, señor,” he said.
"We aim to please.” I was studying him. About fifty-five, just over five feet tall, and wiry. He looked like he might clap his hands together explosively and start clicking out a flamenco on his tiled floor. But he didn't. He looked at me.
"You kill my frien',” he said.
"There was a lot of it going around."
His English wasn't up to that, and Blackburn translated, I guess. His Spanish didn't amuse García.
He ignored me and walked around to shake hands with Thurlbeck. They smiled and exchanged what I took was Spanish for “long time no see."
"Well, old home week,” I said. “Birds of a feather."
"Cool it,” Thurlbeck said without menace. He didn't need any in his voice, he still had it in his hand. The .38 I'd given him.
My mind was racing. It didn't seem likely that they would let me survive long. On the other hand, they probably wouldn't shoot me here, in García's den. Blood is a bitch to get out of rattan furniture. I decided I would hold off my big effort. If Thurlbeck put the gun away, I would grab Blackburn as a shield and take his Beretta back off him. That still left two men against me, but I'd rather die trying than roll over for these back-stabbers.
García went back to his chair and waved us to seats. I kept standing, but he nodded to Blackburn, who told me, “Siddown. If you try anything, you're dog meat. The señor wants to talk to you."
I sat, alone in a big rattan armchair. It was solid and low to the ground, there was no chance of rolling it backward and making a dive for the door. On the other hand, like I said, they probably weren't planning to waste me here.
García smoked in silence for about a minute. The Mexican with the shotgun stood to one side of him, his gun on me. Blackburn and Thurlbeck had me quartered, one each side and forward, where they wouldn't be in one another's line of fire. They both sat with their guns in their laps. The other Mexican nodded to García and left. No need overdoing things, I guessed. Three of them could take care of an unarmed man.
At last García took his cigar out of his mouth and laid it aside in a big onyx ashtray. “I unnerstan’ you're the bodyguard for Señor Amadeo."
"Full marks,” I said, and Blackburn translated it as “Sí."
García grinned. He had fine white teeth with enough gold in them to show he hadn't bought them in a china store. “You pretty good,” he said.
I didn't answer, and he let the grin fade away. “So tell me, what is your plan?"
"I'd like to set aside a little something every payday and retire to Florida at age sixty-five,” I said. It was the next best thing to silence.
Again Blackburn translated, and García showed me his gold again. “Funny also. I like that. You are muy macho."
A hell of a thing to put on my gravestone if any of the triggers in the room got pulled.
"An’ I unnerstan’ that Señor Amadeo has mucho dinero.” When I didn't answer, he translated for me, letting his smile die again. “Many dollars."
"Loaded,” I said. “I helped him dig it up. He's carrying a fortune."
"How much dollars?"
"Quinientos mil."
He sucked in his thin little cheeks and nodded his head agreeably. “'Alf a million dollars. You sure of this?"
"It's about the only thing I am sure of today."
He ignored that and spoke to Blackburn in Spanish. Blackburn said, “Don García asks, what is he carrying this money in?"
"You mean you don't know? He came to see you."
"He was empty-handed when he came to see me. I guess he doesn't trust me that well,” Blackburn said.
They had dealt me a card, a very small one, but at least I was an active player. Great. I hate being dummy. “Oh, then you don't know what to look for,” I said mildly.
"Forget it, kid,” Thurlbeck said. “You told me, remember?” He turned to García and spoke to him in Spanish. García nodded.
My actress's advice failed me. “Boy, I sure had you figured wrong, Thurl, baby. Next thing, you'll be telling me your wife's alive and well and you're a big man with the sauce, right?"
"Cool it,” Thurlbeck said, and this time there was anger in his eyes.
Blackburn looked amused. “Not working out the way you planned, is it?"
"All part of life's rich pageant.” I shrugged.
"And what do you wan’ señor Amadeo for?” García asked.
The old “When did you stop beating your wife?” question. If I said I wanted to take him back to lay the Canadian drug business in an early grave, they would shoot me. Hell, those people were their best customers. “I'm a bodyguard,” I said. “Last week I was keeping teenyboppers from beating a rock star to death with their brassieres. This week a drug dealer. Them's the breaks."
García ignored the answer except for the nut of it. “Thees man is your clien', yes?"
"Yes."
"An’ when you take him back, he talk to the police an’ many frien's of mine go to prison?"
"Now you're getting it.” I was still watching all three guns. Blackburn and Thurlbeck were laid back, their guns had drooped. But the Mexican was still earning his pay. The shotgun never wavered.
"This is an evil thing that Señor Amadeo want to do,” García said. “He is a man without honor."
"Or scruples, or a good insurance plan."
García ignored me. He took out a leather case and lit another cigar. It smelled good, but then, he could afford the best. When he had it going nicely, he started speaking to Blackburn in rapid Spanish.
Blackburn answered and then García nodded. He stood up. “You will stay here,” he said.
"Great. Can I have a beer while I'm waiting?” I wondered what was coming. Why was he keeping me alive? Or was he?
Thurlbeck said, “Cut the comedy. You're only alive as a favor to me. Don't get me teed off."
"I'll put you on my Christmas card list,” I said. “What happens now?"
Blackburn answered that one. “Señor García wants to have words with Mr. Amadeo, some serious words."
"You're going to shoot him?"
"Planning to beat the rush,” he said. “He wouldn't last a day after testifying against those Canadians. This way we cut out some of the embarrassment that could happe
n."
"You don't need them. There's a million customers up there, someone else will be smuggling cocaine before Amadeo hits the floor."
"If it ain't broke, you don't have to fix it,” Blackburn said. “Listen to your buddy here, don't press your luck. You're alive on his good will."
"And you're going where?"
"To see your boy,” Blackburn said. He was cool now, literally. The sweat on his face had dried and he looked easy. I guessed he had opened up to García and was no longer in danger of being taken for a turncoat, trying to run his own sidelines under the Don's nose. He'd be around to feed more customers at his restaurant, instead of feeding the fishes.
"And where's that?"
"You don't need to know,” Thurlbeck said shortly. “Now get down on your face and put your hands behind you."
"Not again,” I said, but I did it.
Blackburn tied the knots, cranking them up a lot tighter than Maria had the night before. And he looped my elbows together as well, then he cut the rope. That was a relief. But he ended it instantly, throwing a couple of loops around my feet. “We don't want to see you on set,” someone said. It sounded like Thurlbeck.
His choice of words made me frown, facedown on the tiles. On set? Were they making a movie? Maybe a snuff movie of Amadeo's last moments, a souvenir to ship up to their good customers in Toronto, a token of goodwill. Who could tell?
García said something short and Blackburn answered him, in Spanish, and then Thurlbeck spoke and I could hear the question in his voice. Blackburn answered tersely and Thurlbeck said, “Ah, sí, el Parthenon."
On set? The Parthenon? I wondered if the ex-police chief who built the place had incorporated a murder chamber he rented out for local events, the way the Knights of Columbus rent their hall for weddings. Then I heard their footsteps receding and the clumping of the front door being shut.
Behind me I heard a match scrape. I gave a squirm and rolled over, face up. It was even less comfortable but it gave me a view of the room and of my guard, who had laid his shotgun on the tiles and was sitting in García's chair, smoking the stub of the big man's cigar. You could see his simple face working. Man, this is the life! it registered.