Almost instantly a possibility presented itself. A swimming pool that was both inside the building and out. He sat on the edge, the towel dropped coyly behind him as he slid quickly beneath the surface. Breast stroking slowly so he could look around, Tony bobbed his way into the dim-lit premises.
This pool was the complete Venice of swimming pools, ap—
parently designed exactly to his specifications. It wound about inside the hotel, encircling a herbaceous dining area that was connected by a bridged canal. Although it was far better lit than he really desired, he made his way along the canal looking up at the infrequent diners and imbibers and seeking some opportunity.
There was nothing. He completely encircled the area, swam back outside, then returned. The pool was almost empty, as were the tables, in this interim hour between day and evening pleasures. This little tour could not go on forever, fatigue was creeping up again and he was getting a generally waterlogged feeling. Once more around and back to the towel and other plans. Perhaps this time someone would leave a purse or a key at the pool’s edge and he could indulge in a bit of piracy. There was one newcomer at a poolside table, a thin man wearing dark glasses, against the actinic dangers of the candles perhaps. Glasses? Glasses! Glasses like that, seen somewhere before, the pimp’s mustache below the prying nose, the last dying survivors of a head of hair glued down on the skull above. A familiar combination, very familiar indeed. Tony dived and surfaced at the tiled edge.
“Sones,” he whispered, “Ross Sones.”
The FBI agent was sucking at a straw that projected up from what appeared to be an entire coconut, and he kept on sucking, evidencing by not the slightest twitch of a muscle that this aquatic encounter was in any way out of the normal. Only when he lowered the nut did he permit his eyes to flicker down once and away.
“I have been looking for you, Hawkin.”
“Well that’s just fine because I have been looking for you as well. What on earth is that thing you are drinking from?”
“You are in trouble you know. A coco preparado, sometimes called a coco-fuerte. It is a green coconut with the top sliced off and the milk inside laced with rum and chilled with ice.”
“It sounds like just what I need, please pass it down.”
“You know that—”
“I know that I say nothing until I get a drink. Give.”
Sones looked casually about, then quickly slipped the coconut into Tony’s waiting hand. He rested it on the tile and sucked
deep. Wonderful. A purple flower tucked into the top of the coconut added a touch of gay color, the rum in the drink pumped the juice of life into his veins.
“When I say trouble, Hawkin, I mean big trouble. The CIA has leaked a report at a very high level that you murdered Davidson. Not only that but you exceeded orders and obtained a certain painting and the people who supplied it are very annoyed since they thought they were giving it to us.”
“Now just a minute. Us, we, the FBI do have it since, as far as I know, I am still an employee. As to the murder thing, it’s a frame.”
“There is a witness …”
“I know, and he’s rich with my money too. But …”
“You wish another drink, senor, since I see you have finished?” The waiter appeared silently out of the darkness and hovered expectantly. “What, yes, I suppose so.” For a fraction of a moment there Sones had lost his cool, but it was quickly re-established.
“The same? And your friend in the piscina—would he like one too?”
“Yes, by all means,” Tony said, the last dregs slurping in his straw. “I will join my friend.”
Sones nodded and waited until the waiter had withdrawn before he spoke. “You have the painting?”
“I know where it is. But if I am fired because I’m a murderer I am holding onto it.”
“I didn’t say …”
“Yes you did. Look, is there any reason why I should have killed Davidson? The idea is madness. Someone was waiting in the room when we got there, knifed him and went out the front door. Period. I didn’t do it and I know nothing else about it. That two-timing CIA man Higginson knows a lot more. He’s the one who framed me by seeing to it that the corpse was found instead of making it vanish.”
“Yes, I can believe that. The CIA, I should have known. Though there is also the matter of your giving information to the Israelis.”
“What information? I was hit on the head and shlepped off by them. I didn’t tell them a thing that they didn’t know already.
What they were really interested in was this contact man, Kurt Robl, and Goldstein mentioned the name Hochhande, which means nothing at all to me. As to the paintings, they seemed to know all about them and couldn’t care less.”
“Our security cover has not been tight on this operation.”
“You can say that again—the understatement of the ages. And for your information a sinister group called the Agenzia Terza has also moved in.”
“I would not worry too much about them if I were you. They are not what you would call a major threat.”
“Major or not they caused me enough trouble. And they seem to have a point there about the paintings belonging to them.”
“In the long run the art will be returned to Italy, but when it goes it will be donated by the American Government. There has been trouble for years over this Monte Capitello thing and we want to clean the slate once and for all. Bring in the evidence that the entire mess was a Kraut plot and they blew up the museum and stole the paintings and here we are bringing them back after all these years to set the record straight. And when credit is given it will be seen that the FBI really carried the ball.”
“Great. Which raises a very important point. Come on, tell me quickly. Am I still a trusted employee of the Bureau or not?”
“There have been no orders about a change in status.”
“Exactly. And I do have the picture.”
“You are still with us.”
“Fine. Order up a couple more of these, they’re really good.” The second coconut was soon empty and as he cleaned up the few drops that hung to the meat inside, the rich fumes of the rum rose to his brain and, in a single flash, revelation came to him, an idea that his subconscious had been nurturing for a long time, awaiting only unlocking by an alcoholic key. “Then here is the plan. I’ll meet you wherever you want and bring the painting, and we’ll take up our former relationship where we left off.”
“This hotel is watched closely. Therefore downtown …”
“Negative. I don’t mean here. Give me at least a day and I’ll bring the painting wherever you want in the Republic. But
not in Acapulco. I want to get out of this city and leave everyone still here looking for me. Understand?”
“It could be dangerous and I doubt if we can get you out of the city easily.”
“I’ll get myself out.”
“It would be best if I took the painting with me.”
“Negative again, Sones old boy. You know and I know and we both know the other knows that that painting is my ticket back to the job. My, but the coconut was good!” He sipped deep of the newly arrived one while Sones sat quietly in thought.
“All right. I can see no other way. We are making our contact in Cuautla, that is in Morelos south of Mexico City. There is a resort, Cocoyoc, that is close by. We are in casita seven.”
“I never heard of the place.”
“It is not far from Cuernavaca.”
“Well, I’ve heard of that so I should be able to find it. With some luck I’ll be there tomorrow. Thursday, but not before night. And D’Isernia said that he had to have the painting back by Friday night or the whole deal was off. He also said that he would contact me at the hotel in Mexico City, which is impossible now because of the police. So how do we find him?”
“No problem, in fact he has been in touch with us, very annoyed about your having the painting. We guaranteed the Friday delivery in Cuautla.”
“Very nice
of you considering you had no idea where it was. That still doesn’t leave very much time to get it to Washington and back and have it checked for authenticity.”
“That has been considered as well. We have co-opted a specialist from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. I will arrange for the specialist to meet us in Cocoyoc. All of this is of course dependent upon your being there with the painting. You can do that?”
“Don’t worry, in the bag. But I’ll need your help.”
“How?”
“Loan me a pair of your swimming trunks and a sport shirt. And make sure there is at least a thousand pesos in the pocket.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Have another drink while you’re getting them and keep my plans to myself. Security is very loose on this operation as you said yourself.”
Sones hesitated, but apparently realized that there was no other way. He left without another word—so that Tony had to call the waiter and order himself—but returned quickly with the garments wrapped in a towel.
“The money’s there?” Tony asked, with a new-found suspicion inculcated by the past days’ events.
“A thousand, like you said.”
“Okay. I’ll swim out and you follow. Leave it by the pool outside and be on your way. See you in Cocoyoc.”
“What are you going to do?”
“That’s my secret.”
Tony smiled and laid one finger beside his nose and stifled a small belch. That was his secret, by God, and no one was ever going to find out.
Eight
With the towel-wrapped bundle under his arm Tony walked into the sea. It was cooler than the pool had been and quite pleasant. Police at the airport, bus terminal, Hilton, everywhere. Hah! They couldn’t stop him. They thought they could but they couldn’t. He walked on, knee deep in the water, and waved amicably at the private policeman who stood at the end of the beach where a subtle breakwater and not too subtle barbed wire separated the playground of the tourist from the plebeian strand beyond. The man waved back amicably, for his duty was to prevent illegal entry and it was no concern of his if a guest chose to leave in this fashion. For love perhaps, or the absence of it, the gringas were not at all like Mexican wives; he could think of many reasons why a quiet exit could be undertaken for the heady joys of the fine city beyond.
The waves came only as high as Tony’s waist as he rounded the barrier; he held his bundle above out of harm’s way. There were couples beyond enjoying the cool of the evening on the beach and he continued past them until he found a secluded spot in the lee of a sign that proclaimed the value of cerveza Carta Blanca. Here he stripped off and discarded the sodden shorts and replaced them with the slightly baggy and overly colorful trunks. The shirt matched, a jungle of wild blossoms now happily black in the shadows, and in the pocket was a crisp bundle of notes. Wonderful! Now the metamorphosis began. He strolled out onto the avenue, lost in the crowd of identical and even more exotic garb, and wandered toward the center of the city.
•;
His first purchase was a pair of sandals from a curb-side vendor. There were ten one-hundred-peso notes in the bundle and the small merchant grumbled at the size of the bill but managed to have it changed in a store when Tony suggested he was moving on without buying. Before he left he asked directions to the central market where he would disappear.
The heat of the day still lingered in the streets, intensifying the thirst that dried his throat and settled a chalky deposit over his teeth. In an attempt to allay these symptoms he stopped at a stall for a bottle of cold beer which helped a good deal, if only temporarily. The master spy, what was his name?—Timberio—had mentioned a thirst after the drugging and he certainly was right. Temporarily fortified, Tony left the main streets and plunged into a narrow corridor that led to the lights and bustle of the market.
Mercado central. The central market. There is one in every Mexican city large enough to be called a city. Each one different, all very much the same. Open on a seven-day-a-week basis, with certain days the most popular. Stands, stalls, counters, corners, merchants, mendicants, noise, music, mariachi bands, beggars, something for everyone, everything for sale. Fruit stands piled high with tropical color; yellow, green and red bananas, black zapote, yellow-orange mango, purple cactus fruit. The herb merchant with his dried and aromatic wares carefully labeled each for its medicinal qualities; this coarse powder for gout and backache, that miraculous flower for cancer, the other to make tea for liver pain. A great bustle and air of excitement everywhere, odor of fresh meat at the rows of butcher stalls, newly dead carcasses flayed and hung, starvation-ribbed dogs under foot snatching at scrap, dodging the angry kicks. Just beyond, in logistic proximity, the food stalls and al fresco restaurants, meat steaming on embers before the consumers’ eyes, great caldrons of beans, hot crispness of tortillas, customers standing or sitting on stools, backs to the crowd.
Everything for sale; knives, machetes, mattresses, mattocks, harnesses, whips, brassieres, bicycles, all there, all could be bought. And in between the grander merchants the single salesmen, the
man sitting on his heels with a handful of limes held out before him, the woman with the wooden box spread with the cigarettes from a single packet to be sold one at a time, next to her the chirmoles vendor packing tiny paper cones with the living contents of these wood grubs so favored as a sauce ingredient.
Into this exciting atmosphere Tony plunged, rubbing shoulders and treading on heels as his were tread upon. First the hat vendor with his rising rows of somber sombreros, endless theme played upon wide brim and high crown. A purchase, simple white straw, press on. A beer to wet the throat. White pants, white shirt, the daily dress of the field worker, the farmer. These carefully wrapped in newspaper, a machete added for authenticity, the bundles then stuffed into a straw morral, the bag carried or worn over the shoulder. Tony winked at no one in particular and went, by a circuitous route to be sure he wasn’t followed, in the direction of hombres, the cavernous concrete public toilet. Here, in a metal-sided booth, he effected the change. All traces of the Yankee tourist who had entered vanished, were wrapped in paper and stuffed into the morral, and a man of the people emerged, one more of Mexico’s teeming masses. Now he was invisible.
A small celebration was in order and the swinging, slatted doors of a cantina named La Cucaracha drew him on. His skin was tanned enough, his hair dark enough, his Spanish good enough for this guise. The police would never see him, not notice the gringo spy within the simple farmer. It was a ploy that could not fail. Smoke and loud music from the juke box washed over him and he pushed to the wood bar and called out.
“Beer.”
“The beer here is too warm and I would not recommend it.”
The man who said this stood at Tony’s side, tall, wide shouldered, dressed in the same manner, a tiny glass clutched in his great hand, a look of eternal unhappiness drooping his hanging mustaches even lower.
“What would you recommend?” Tony asked with eager anticipation.
“Mezcal? Gloomily, but it was his natural manner; he was enjoying himself greatly. “The kind from Tequila.”
“A very good idea. Will you join me?”
“I accept with pleasure. I am called Pablo.”
“Antonio.”
With slow anticipation each licked the base of his thumb so the salt would adhere when they shook it on, seized up lime wedges between salty thumb and forefinger, raised the glasses with the transparent distillate of the cornucopious maguey in the other hand, then performed the pleasurable ritual of a lick of salt, a drink of tequila, a bite of lime, to blend all the flavors in the mouth at the same time in the indescribably fine combination that, according to those who know, is the only way to take tequila.
“Now I will buy you a drink,” Pablo said.
“You will not feel insulted if I disagree. The uncle of my wife who recently died left in his will a small sum of money which I now have. He was a good man, this uncle, and liked to
drink, so I will buy a bottle with uncle’s money and we will drink to him.”
“That is a very fair and loyal idea. I can tell he must have been a fine man.” Pablo rapped loudly with the thick glass and the bartender hurried with their order.
When the level of the bottle had crept lower, at the end of an interesting anecdote involving some stolen chickens, Tony mentioned a certain feeling of hunger and Pablo nodded solemn agreement and rapped again with his glass.
“Two sandwiches.”
Tony watched, with a measured amount of trepidation, as the bartender cut two rolls in half and from a hulking glass crock removed two very green, large, and exceedingly hot peppers, each of which he mashed into one of the rolls. Then, as a further savory, he poured some of the pickling sauce from the crock over the bread, this sauce being a little bit hotter than the peppers themselves, before placing the finished product on the wood before them. Pablo ate his in regular bites, masticating each mouthful with bovine thoroughness before swallowing, and when he was finished he licked the last drops of flavor from his finger tips. Tony ate his as well, enjoying every bit of it although tears streamed from his eyes all the while; he was out of practice. They sipped at the tequila to hold the nourishing sandwiches down.
Farther down the bar a very drunken man loudly proclaimed that Jalisco was the finest city in Mexico and all other towns made of goat droppings, which is not the truth, and when he became too pushing in his claims someone hit him and he was thrown into the street, so naturally the topic turned to place of birth. Pablo was from the village of Tenoztlan here in the state of Guerrero, not far distant, and he knew, since he cared about these things, that Antonio was not from Guerrero but from a more distant state.
Montezuma's Revenge Page 8