Lockestep

by Jack Barnao

  "That's real big of you,” I said. “You and that bastard there as thick as thieves, and you pointing guns at me. I'd like an explanation while you've got both hands on the wheel instead of that carbine."

  "Yeah.” Thurlbeck almost chuckled. “How about that? Haven't fired an M1 since nineteen and forty-five, but it came right back."

  "Okay, so wear your marksman's badge with pride. In the meantime, talk."

  "Sure.” Thurlbeck nodded as we reached the edge of town and he slowed to a sedate thirty miles an hour. “I met the boyfriend here last year. I was having dinner with the local police chief, professional courtesy. Then García comes over and the chief introduces him as an upstanding local citizen. Gives him my pedigree and all.” He paused for a moment and cleared his throat. “At that time, my wife was looking pretty far gone. Traveling was a strain, but she wanted to come down here one last time, loved this place.” He cleared his throat, which had become husky. “So we get back to the hotel, we'd taken a room for her sake, she found it hard to be comfortable in the van. Anyway, the room was full of flowers. Like, I mean full."

  "García did that?"

  "Sure. There was a card there from him. Sweet. It thrilled Fay. Anyway, a day or so later some cute little girl came to see her while I was off birding, brought a piñata that she wanted delivered to her cousin back in Flagstaff. Her mother was with her, looked like a former nun. You get the picture."

  "Surely you didn't buy it?"

  "I didn't. But Fay did. She said I was just being a cop and the kid was a little angel. And you don't argue with people when they're that far down the one-way track. So I went along, and we took it home."

  "And somebody came for it?"

  "Yeah, some cute little ankle-biter turned up at the house and Fay gave him cookies and handed him the piñata."

  "And that was it?"

  "That was it. Until Fay died and I got a letter from the cancer society telling me that somebody called Vasquez had made a one-thousand-dollar donation in my name. That's when I knew for sure we'd been used.” He drove without speaking for about a minute, then went on. “So anyway, I knew who García was, and when things fell apart at his house, I put myself on the side of the angels. I figured you'd find some way out. That's why I left the keys in the van and tipped you off we'd be at the Parthenon."

  "Cozy,” I said. “I bet you'd have been real cut up if you'd come back and found me smeared all over García's parlor."

  "García told the kid not to hurt you,” he said. “And goddamn it, if they had, I'd still have taken your boy home for you."

  "I just love happy endings,” I told him.

  He drove back past Las Tres Marias and along the shore road to García's turnoff, scattering the same dumb chickens. Then he turned up the hill and pulled up to García's gate. It was still open, and he drove up to the house. Thurlbeck stopped there and turned to look at me. “What now? Can you make your plane?"

  "I don't think so. I'd like to phone my contact in Toronto and find out when we can get out. And in the meantime, let's find Greg's money. He's got some unpaid debts down here."

  "Right.” Thurlbeck grabbed his M1 and nudged García. They got out, and I backed out of the car with my hand on Amadeo's shoulder. He came like a good boy, and we walked into the house and back to García's study.

  The room was as I'd left it, except that the gunny I'd hit was lying on the couch, awake now, holding his leg and trying not to groan. And with him, standing behind the couch, was a familiar face, Jesús.

  "Hey. Good to see you,” I said. “Now the gang's all here."

  "Yes,” he said without expression, and then brought up the gun he'd been concealing. “Drop that rifle, señor,” he said to Thurlbeck. “Do not try to use it. If you point it even close to me, you're dead."

  Twenty-One

  "What gives?” I asked softly. “I thought you were one of the good guys."

  "I am,” he said, still watching us all like a cat surrounded by a choice of mice. Thurlbeck set down his rifle on the floor, saying nothing. Then Jesús pointed his gun at me. “Take off your coat,” he said. He was taking no chances, his gun never wavered. Jesús saw both pistols as I peeled the jacket. “Two guns,” he sneered. “Just like Wyatt Earp."

  He said something in Spanish, and García came around behind me and reached around me for the guns, taking them both away and giving me no chance to use him for a shield. Then he walked around in front of us, holding both guns, smiling like the bright boy in kindergarten. He raised one of them, and Jesús shot him right through the smile.

  Amadeo gave a little yelp. Thurlbeck and I did nothing.

  "I want your money,” Jesús said. He gestured at Amadeo. “Where is it?"

  Amadeo looked at me and licked his lips fearfully. “It's hidden,” he said in a small voice.

  "Then we'll go find it,” Jesús said.

  I was weighing my chances. There were three of us to distract him. If I could get close enough to dive at him, we were home free. And in the meantime, we didn't have García to worry about anymore.

  Amadeo said, “Look, if it's just money, we can work this out."

  Jesús laughed. “Sure we can. I know that. But I'm not making any deals. I want the whole half million."

  Amadeo tried. “That's kinda heavy,” he said. “Whyn't I give you half an’ put you on the payroll. You'll make that kinda bread over an’ over working for me."

  "Tell me where it is, or I'll shoot you in the kneecap,” Jesús said. “You'll tell me then and wish you'd told me now. Where is it?"

  "It's in my room,” Amadeo said. I like pragmatic people. “At the hotel. I went back there this morning and put it with my clothes."

  I didn't like that. Moving a suitcase was a one-man job. I wondered if Jesús would shoot us all and go for it alone.

  "Nice try, Greg,” I said. “That's where you left it, but I've been there. I moved it since then."

  "Where to?” Jesús whirled to face me. “You been playing games with me, I'll shoot you."

  "And you'll still be stuck here in this dead-assed town, warbling out ballads for the tourists. No future in that, Jesús. Placido Domingo you ain't."

  He ignored that. “I said, where is it?"

  "I'm not telling you until I get some assurances,” I said.

  Amadeo was staring at me, his mouth partly open. I wasn't sure whether he was marveling at my self-assurance in the cannon's mouth or wondering how I'd found his stash.

  "I can shoot your knees off just as easy,” Jesús said.

  "Yeah. You can kill me, too, but I'm not taking you to the money until I get those assurances. Now why make it difficult? I won't be able to lead you there if I'm on one leg, will I?"

  Let's hear it, for sweet reason. He stared at me angrily for a full thirty seconds, then asked, “What's the deal?"

  "I want our lives. That's all. You get your money and go walkabout. We go back home and forget all about you. You still win, only we walk."

  He thought about it. “I can make you talk,” he said.

  "You can try,” I told him. “But a big part of the training I took was in how to stand up to interrogation. You could be days getting it out of me. Or you could be wafting out of town this afternoon, humming ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’ Your choice."

  He swore. “Okay. You can all go. But I want you with me until I've picked up the money."

  "Deal,” I said, and stuck out my hand. No harm in trying. But he only sneered. “Out in the car."

  He walked behind us down the corridor, the other two leading, him at the back, a pace behind me, safe from a leg sweep but close enough to hit me square in the spine if he pulled the trigger. I didn't play any games. Outside, he said, “Locke, you drive. You two, in the back."

  They all got in behind me, Thurlbeck sitting next to Jesús, I noticed, and we headed out, at an undertaker's pace, down the hill. My mind was racing, trying to come up with someplace to go that would give me a chance, but where? If I told Jesús I'd
moved the money out of town, he would get suspicious, and if I took him somewhere isolated, he would shoot all three of us. He could do it, he'd already proved that on García. No, it had to be somewhere crowded. And then I remembered the pickup truck, standing outside the market. Just in time because he was asking, “Where are we going?"

  "You'll see when we get there, Jesús. I wouldn't want you thinking you could go it alone."

  "Don't get cute,” he said. “I'm losing my patience."

  "Relax, Jesús. I don't care about the money. It's drug money, I wouldn't touch it myself, it's all yours,” I said. Maybe not the most tactful speech I could make in the circumstances, but a statement of Locke policy, for better or worse.

  He said nothing, and I drove back through town and around to the back of the market. I pulled in over the bumpy ground beside the pickup truck, which was still where Amadeo had left it.

  "It's in the truck?” Jesús asked incredulously.

  "I left the keys with my amigo at the diner. Give me a moment and I'll get them back."

  "Now just minute.” I turned and looked at him. His face was pale and jaundiced under his tan and native color. “You expect me to believe this crap?"

  "Go try the doors if you don't believe me.” I said.

  "Turn your pockets out first. Let's see if you've got the keys.” He waved the gun at me, and I obediently emptied my pockets. All I had was some cash, my knife and handkerchief, and the plastic container holding my passport and big bills. No keys.

  "Believe me now?” I asked, acting a little aggrieved.

  "So go get them,” he said. “Forget this trash. It'll be here."

  "I need a tip for the guy on the counter,” I argued, and picked up my container. A man feels lost without his passport in a strange place.

  I nodded to him and got out of the car, unfolding the plastic container to take out some money. He pressed the control to open his window and it slid down silently. “Any tricks, and these two die,” he said. His eyes were like flint.

  "I know. I've seen you in action."

  I walked away over the dusty ground with the sun clanging on my shoulders like a golden gong. God, it was hot. So why was I shivering?

  The same kid was at the counter, and he looked up and grinned when I came back.

  "Hola.” I grinned back. “Mi jugo de naranja, por favor.” Hi, my orange juice please. He nodded and reached for the liter of juice I had bought that morning and left there. I like that about Mexicans. I could have left it a week, and it would still have been there. He brought it out from under the counter. It was hot to the touch.

  I slipped him a thousand pesos, and he looked at it in surprise. “Muchas gracias, amigo,” I told him. “Tiene usted una caja, por favor?” Thanks, do you have a box?

  He frowned, then turned away and dug out a small box that had held some kind of groceries. He held it up tentatively, and I nodded and grinned. “Sí, es muy bien.” Yeah, that's good. He handed it to me, and I stood the orange juice bottle in the middle of it, then removed the cap. I dug my finger into the top and tasted it. The tasting was for his benefit. I just wanted to check the temperature. It was about the way I like my showers. He looked at me in puzzlement but folded his thousand pesos away and said nothing. I winked at him and turned away.

  I walked back to the car and went to Jesús’ window, which was still open. “Never take anything for granted,” I said cheerfully. “I had it hidden in the market. Wanna see?"

  Good old-fashioned greed got the better of him. He craned his head up to look into the box and I jolted it, filling his face and eyes with semiscalding orange juice. He gasped in shock and drew back, but not before I had hold of his hair and had smashed his nose against the edge of the window a couple of times. Then Thurlbeck's voice said, “Nice goin', John. I've got his piece."

  I opened the front door and got in. Thurlbeck was holding the gun on Jesús, who was clutching his broken nose between his hands. Blood was seeping out between his fingers.

  "Let's go,” I said. “Don't let him jump, we need him to do some explaining."

  We drove back to García's house. I half expected Amadeo to argue, to want to get his precious money, but he didn't. He was too relieved to have his life. I figured he'd done a lot of growing up in the time I'd been minding him.

  I pulled in, past the dead dog, which was a smorgasbord for the local flies by this time, and parked at the door. “Let's go back to García's office,” I suggested, and we all got out, Jesús reeling a little, still holding his nose.

  The gunny was still lying on the couch, but he had rolled over so he could get a better look at García's body. There went his pension plan, I guessed. I told Jesús to sit in the big chair and he did, after Thurlbeck had patted him down and pronounced him clean. I glanced around. There was a phone on the coffee table beside the couch. “You're the one with the connections,” I told Thurlbeck. “Call the police chief and tell him we've got a murderer for him."

  Jesús started to say something, but I gazed at him, and he dried up. Then I said, “Nobody says a word about your drug enforcement work. You can use that as you want to. We're turning you in for the murder of García. Any justice in the land, they'll give you a medal."

  I doubted that. But at least it promised him some gold at the end of the rainbow, so he sat and held his leaking nose while Thurlbeck called in.

  He hung up and said, “They're on their way. Leave the talking to me, he knows me."

  "Done,” I said. “Now get back on the Don Ameche and get me this number in Toronto, could you, please?—my Spanish isn't up to it."

  He dialed the operator, and within a couple of minutes I was talking to Cahill.

  "You okay?” was his first question.

  "Couldn't be better. But I'd like to get out tonight if possible. Is there a flight, and if so, can you get me aboard?"

  He shuffled papers for a moment and came back on the line. “Seventeen-thirty hours, local time there, Holiday Air. They're expecting you and the boyfriend."

  "You mean you knew I was coming back today?"

  "Dummy.” He's Irish, but he never majored in blarney. “I've had a notice out to all of them for the last week, any flight coming into Zihua has seats for you and Mr. Sunshine. Go to the desk and ask to see the captain. He'll put you both aboard first."

  "Nice going. That gives me time to pick my stuff up from the hotel. See you around eleven. What's the weather like?"

  He told me, and I shuddered. Then the police arrived and Thurlbeck started explaining. Jesús tried to cut in, but the police chief just looked at him, and his voice died. They had him out of there, with handshakes all around, even for Amadeo, before the ambulance had come to collect first García's body, then the wounded man. They do not treat the help well in Mexico.

  The last word on the subject came from Jesús. “I'll remember you for this,” he said. I'd had the same promise made by a PLO gunman one time, so I took this one with a grain of salt.

  "And I'll remember you,” I promised him, and they led him away. Nobody had laid a glove on him yet.

  "That was some speech you made,” Amadeo said admiringly to Thurlbeck. “Shit, you cleaned up the mess at the Parthenon as well.” He grinned. “How'd you like to work for me?"

  Thurlbeck looked at him straight. “First off, I want that money. We've got to compensate the kid from La Playa Blanca, his family anyway. The rest goes to Maria."

  "That dumb bitch!” I thought Amadeo was going to stamp his foot. “Didn't even have enough brains to fill the goddamn boat with diesel. None o’ this need've happened except for her."

  Thurlbeck came over and stood in front of him, dangerously close, if Amadeo had been dangerous. “I don't like you,” he said calmy. “Shut your mouth, and keep it shut until you're on the witness stand. Got that?"

  There was no violence in his voice, but Amadeo shriveled. He suddenly found his toe caps as interesting as this month's Reader's Digest.

  Thurlbeck drove us back as far as hi
s van, then changed vehicles, leaving the Continental alongside the curb. I wondered how long it would stand there. Who would fill García's shoes? And would he want a Continental? Maybe the guards at the Parthenon would bring it inside for the police chief if he ever got out of jail in California.

  We drove up Cuatro Vientos and got our keys from the desk. There was a clutter of people there, but I was weary and didn't notice who they were. Gringos, I'd noticed, not dangerous. One of them was Beth. She caught my arm. “John? What happened?"

  "Oh, Beth.” I straightened up and tried a grin. “Sorry about the confusion up there. Some heavies wanted to talk business."

  "I saw what happened,” she said, but she didn't look at me, she was looking at Thurlbeck. Then she glanced back. “You hit that man in the arm, but he was still going to shoot you."

  "He would've. Except that my friend here is an ex-GI from the big war, and he knows about guns."

  Now she turned to Thurlbeck. “You killed him,” she said, but her voice was admiring.

  He cleared his throat. “I'd rather not talk about it, please. And it's in the hands of the police now, sub judice. We've been told not to say anything."

  Beth made her mouth into a perfect O. Behind her a couple more people had recognized us and were standing very still, remembering what they had seen at the Parthenon, wondering whether we were Superman and his team. Beth was radiant. I realized again what a beautiful woman she had been, until only a very few years ago, and how handsome she still was. She was looking at Thurlbeck, who was smiling like Gary Cooper.

  I waved at him, “I'm sorry, what am I thinking about, may I introduce you. This is..."

  "Calvin Thurlbeck, ma'am,” he said, and took off his feed-store cap. His hair was still blond over the top. He looked pretty good himself for a guy of sixty.

  "Beth Andersen,” she said. They smiled and shook hands. You could almost hear the orchestra swelling. I figured I'd better move fast if I wanted a bit part in their drama. “Calvin is staying down here for a while, Greg and I are going home,” I said.