Quintana Roo (2 page)

“No.”

“Have you shot many?”

“A few.”

“Why do you do it?”

“Different reasons. A man doesn’t always have time to look at the why of things.”

Hooker sat down on the bed and pushed off his shorts. He got under the sheet and held Alita until at last she stopped shivering. Then they made love. It began gently but grew swiftly into a wild, walloping exchange as they let go of the tensions of the night. Afterward, as was her habit, Alita curled up beside him like a warm brown kitten, one hand resting on his body, and went to sleep. Hooker lay wakefully, staring up at the ceiling. He replayed in his mind the warning brought by the man Alita called
mueratero
. Quintana Roo means death.

Before the dapper little man had walked into El Poche earlier that night, Quintana Roo meant nothing to Hooker.

It was a Monday, so the crowd in El Poche was mostly local people. Veracruz was not a magnet for tourists, being a sort of stopover between the sea and the more glamorous cities inland. And even for the few tourists who chose to spend more than transit time in the city, El Poche was not a spot they sought out. Still, there were always the adventurous souls who would wander in to have a look at the “real” Mexico, much to the amusement of the regulars. By Monday, the tourists were on their way to Mexico City or Acapulco or Tampico or were back on their ships sailing for home. So on Mondays, the people who lived off the tourists — street vendors, taxi drivers, pimps, pickpockets, beggars, guides — relaxed and did their own celebrating. Among them was John Hooker.

The creaky overhead fans of El Poche revolved in slow, weary circles, barely stirring the smoky air up near the high-beamed ceiling. Down below, the people sat along the scarred mahogany bar or at the scattered tables, laughing and talking in half a dozen languages. Some of them danced to music provided by mariachis from a tiny bandstand. The slow-moving fans did nothing to alter the atmosphere of El Poche. It was a mixture of harsh Mexican tobacco, chilis, sweat, beer, raw tequila, and when the breeze blew just right, a whiff of the Gulf of Mexico.

Hooker, in sweat-stained khakis, sat at his regular table with Alita and handsome blond Klaus Heinemann. Alita wore a demure white cotton blouse and full skirt, setting her apart from the bar girls in their heavy makeup and tight clothes. Heinemann, in Palm Beach suit and open-collared shirt, looked, as always, as though he had just bathed.

Across the room and behind the bar, burly Paco Silvera leaned closer to the crackling speaker of a short-wave radio. With one meaty fist, he pounded the bar in vain for quiet.

“Can’t you burros be silent for one little minute?” he said to the bar patrons. “They are telling the scores of the American baseball.”

He got no response from the nearby drinkers, who continued their conversations at full volume. The mariachis played on relentlessly. Paco cursed them all and stuck a fat finger in his right ear as he pressed his left to the speaker.

Dios!
Better he should not have heard. Not only did the cursed Yankees win again, but Paco’s beloved St. Louis Browns took still another battering.

The voice on the radio changed and began talking about events in Spain, where the civil war seemed to be over, and Poland, where there was some disagreement over a place called Danzig. Paco snapped off the set. Although politics was a favorite topic in Veracruz, El Poche remained an island of noninvolvement. Paco saw to that. As far as he was concerned, politics led only to trouble, and there was enough of that in the course of a normal night at El Poche.

At the table, Hooker sipped a glass of tequila, chasing it with a fiery concoction known locally as
sangre de la viuda
, blood of the widow. It was preferred by the locals to the balancing act involving a slice of lime and salt that the tourists tried. Klaus Heinemann stuck to rye whisky imported from the United States, which he drank in moderation. Alita took the local red wine, which Hooker claimed reminded him of fuel oil.

“What are you going to do for a living, Hooker,” Heinemann was saying, “when the war cuts off your supply of rich tourists from Europe?” Heinemann was proud of his English, spoken with the barest trace of a German accent. His Spanish was equally flawless.

“Who says there’s going to be a war?” Hooker asked.

“Everybody. Hitler is mad, you know. He will march into Poland, you’ll see. We won’t have long to wait.”

“Even if he
is
crazy, would he go ahead with it when France and England have promised to fight for Poland?”

Heinemann waved the argument away with a slim, immaculate hand. “After Munich, who believes France and England? Certainly not Hitler. I promise you, Hooker, before it’s over, we will all be in this one.”

Hooker shook a Lucky Strike from the package and lit up. They were made in Mexico, stronger than the American version but still milder than the sawdust smoked by the natives.

“Not me,” he said. “I take care of Hooker and fight nobody’s wars.”

“We will see,” Heinemann said.

“What about you, Klaus?” Alita said. “You’re German.”

The muscles along Heinemann’s lean jaw tightened as he answered. “Yes, I am German. Once I was proud to say so, but no more. It is not an easy thing to be ashamed of what is happening in your own country.”

“Can we drop the discussion of world affairs?” Hooker said. “This is my day off. I want to get a little bit drunk with my friends, tell some jokes, sing some songs, and go home with the prettiest girl in Veracruz. Tomorrow I go back to hustling the tourist hotels for customers. I get paid to listen to their political opinions.”

Heinemann was not ready to lighten the mood. He said, “It’s different for you, Hooker. I have been away from my homeland for only two years. There is much about Germany that I miss. At the same time, there are other things that give me pain. You have been here — how long is it?”

“Seven years.”

“Ah, yes. A long time to be away from your own country, forbidden to return. Yet it is also time enough to let the wounds heal.”

“Let’s get off it, okay?”

The change in Hooker’s tone was subtle — a slight chilling, a hardening at the edges — but it was unmistakable. The message was caught not only by Heinemann and Alita but by customers at adjoining tables. They glanced quickly at the American, then got busy with their own conversations.

Hooker’s past was not a topic for discussion in El Poche. At least not when Hooker was present. There had been a crime of some sort that made it necessary for him to leave
Los Estados Unidos
, that much was known. The crime was said to involve the smuggling of guns or liquor, or perhaps both. There were whispers that a man had been killed. Perhaps more than one. Speculation about what Hooker had done and to whom was a popular pastime among the Veracruz citizens who knew him, as long as there was no danger that he might overhear. You never asked a man directly about his past there. Especially when something dangerous lurked behind his eyes.

The mariachis eased into one of the slow songs of passion and parting that the Mexicans loved. Alita said, “Dance with me, Hooker?”

“Why not.” Hooker started to rise but stayed in his chair when he saw Paco Silvera making his way across the room toward their table. The bartender’s heavy black brows were pulled together in a dark frown.

“Don’t tell me,” Hooker said when Paco reached them, “the Browns did it to you again.”

Paco rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Ai, those Yankees have made a contract with Satan. Even without the great Lou Gehrig they continue to win. Where is the justice? Can you tell me that?”

“No, Paco,” Hooker admitted, “I can’t.”

Silvera heaved a mighty sigh, then shook off his disillusionment with the Browns for the moment. “There is a … person at the bar who wishes to speak with you.”

“Anybody I know?”

“I don’t think so. He mentioned having a job for you.”

“I don’t take clients on Monday,” Hooker reminded him, “unless he looks very rich.”

“I would not say this one is rich,” Paco said, “but the smell of someone else’s money clings to him.”

Around them, the tone of the conversation in the cantina changed. The laughter took on an unpleasant edge. There were shrill whistles, and clearly heard from various parts of the room was the epithet
maricón
.

Hooker turned toward the bar to look at the dapper little man who was attracting all the attention. He was dressed in a blue blazer that nipped in at his narrow waist and pleated gray flannel pants of the latest cut. And most incongruous for the surroundings, he was wearing a necktie. Pale blue silk with a small figure. It was clear from his attitude that he did not understand Spanish and was unaware that he had been called the most vile of names for homosexual.

“Maybe I’ll talk to him,” Hooker said. He excused himself from the table and headed for the stranger at the bar.

As he walked through the crowded cantina, Hooker let his eyes range over the customers who were hooting and whistling at the little man. As they got the message that John Hooker was involved, they fell silent and nudged their companions, who might not understand the house rules.

By the time Hooker reached the end of the bar where the stranger stood looking around with distaste, the El Poche regulars were busy minding their own business.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Your name is Hooker?”

A nod.

The little man let his eyes flick over Hooker’s worn khakis. His upper lip twitched in delicate contempt.

“My name is Earle Maples,” he said.

“So?”

Maples sighed. He drew a soft leather wallet from an inside pocket and deftly removed a card printed on rich creamy stock. The letters in raised glossy ink said:
Braithwaite Worldwide, Inc. — London, Paris, New York
.

“Perhaps this will mean something to you,” Maples said.

Hooker read the card, then handed it back to Maples. His eyes said nothing.

Maples sighed again and looked around at the customers of El Poche. They seemed to have closed in without actually having moved.

“These, ah, surroundings are not conducive to discussing delicate matters.”

Hooker beckoned to Silvera. The bartender hurried over.

“Is your office available, Paco?”

“For you, I make it available,” said the bartender. “Give me a minute to make sure none of the girls is using it.”

Hooker and Maples stood waiting uncomfortably while Silvera pushed his way back toward the rear of the building.

“You do recognize the Braithwaite name,” Maples said. He touched careful fingers to the knot of his tie.

“Nolan Braithwaite,” Hooker said. “One of the ten richest men in the world.”

“According to
Time
magazine,” Maples said. He dismissed that publication with a sniff. “Actually, Mr. Braithwaite was in the top five.”

“Impressive,” Hooker said dryly.

“In some circles it is,” Maples confirmed.

“His plane took off from Panama a year ago and never landed anywhere,” Hooker said. “He must have gone down somewhere on the Yucatan peninsula, according to the flight plan. Most likely Quintana Roo.”

Maples’ attitude shifted subtly. A hint of respect came into his eyes.

“You know more than you let on, Mr. Hooker.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“May I ask how you happen to be acquainted with the facts of Mr. Braithwaite’s disappearance?”

“I know about Braithwaite because a good friend of mine was on the plane with him. I don’t give a damn for Nolan Braithwaite, but I miss Buzz Kaplan.”

“Kaplan …” Maples rolled the name through his memory. “Ah, yes, the fellow Mr. Braithwaite took on as a bodyguard here in Veracruz before the flight to Panama. There were three of them on the plane. Mr. Braithwaite, his pilot, and your friend, Mr., uh, Kaplan.”

Hooker waited. Maples brought out a linen handkerchief and dabbed at his lips.

Finally, Paco Silvera returned through the haze of smoke in the big room. “The office is yours, my friend.”

“Thanks, Paco.” Hooker motioned for Maples to follow and made his way back along the bar to a door at the rear corner of the building.

Silvera’s office was a cubicle next to the kitchen that also served as overflow space for the storeroom and other, unnamed functions. It contained a roll-top desk, a creaky swivel chair, and a daybed, sometimes used by the bar girls to entertain clients. In one corner was a stack of empty beer cases.

Hooker closed the door and nodded Maples into the chair. He perched on the edge of the desk and looked down at the little man.

“Are the surroundings satisfactory now?”

“They will do.”

“Then what do you say we get to the business?”

Maples cleared his throat. “I was Mr. Braithwaite’s secretary. I now hold the same position for Mrs. Braithwaite.”

“The wife?”

“Or widow, as is more likely the case.”

Hooker waited for him to go on.

“That,” Maples said finally, “is what Mrs. Braithwaite wishes to determine. She wants the wreckage of the airplane found and solid evidence brought back of Mr. Braithwaite’s fate.”

“Do you have any idea how big a job it would be to locate the wreckage of one little airplane in all those square miles of jungle?”

“You did say the intended flight path was known?”

“That doesn’t make any difference. The way things grow down there, the biggest airplane in the world could be swallowed up in a week. This has been a whole year.”

“I grant you that the odds are not in favor of success; however, you would not be starting out blind.”

“How do you mean?”

“The survivors of a missionary group that had gone into Quintana Roo reached a more civilized village in the Yucatan last month with reports of what appeared to be a downed airplane.”

“You said survivors?”

“Unfortunately, the group was attacked by hostile natives before they were able to investigate thoroughly.”

“That figures,” Hooker said.

Maples went on, ignoring the comment. “However, they did indicate on a map the approximate location of the wreckage.”

“Having a map doesn’t make it a Sunday drive in the country.”

“I am aware of the difficulty of the project, Mr. Hooker. Let us even say the near impossibility. Mrs. Braithwaite is a determined lady. She will pay generously for the attempt, with a generous bonus in case you should succeed.”

“What makes her so eager all of a sudden?”

“As things stand now, the considerable Braithwaite holdings are in limbo. Mrs. Braithwaite is, of course, in comfortable circumstances, but the bulk of the corporate assets is tied up for the seven years required to declare her husband legally dead.”

“So the lady is getting antsy about the dough,” Hooker said.

“As a matter of fact, yes. And as I say, she is prepared to pay you quite generously to undertake the expedition.”

“Why me?”

Maples made another invisible adjustment to the perfect knot of his tie. “Candidly, Mr. Hooker, we have been unable to find anyone else who would take the job. We went first to the more, uh, legitimate guides, but they all refused as soon as mention was made of Quintana Roo. Your name was offered several times as a man of venturesome spirit who could be approached for work that others were unwilling to take on.”