Quintana Roo (3 page)

“A sap who’ll do anything for money,” Hooker translated.

“In essence, yes.”

“You know I work strictly in Veracruz?”

“I know your movements are somewhat restricted by the local government, but these things can be arranged.”

“No doubt.”

“Naturally, we had you investigated. Your local service seems to consist of escorting tourists to the various, ah, attractions of the city that the more conservative guides avoid. Your history before arrival in Veracruz is cloudy, but it seems to suggest that you might be able to handle this job.”

Hooker levered himself up from the desk. “Thanks a lot; the answer is no.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No. En oh. I don’t want the job.”

“I did mention, did I not, that Mrs. Braithwaite is prepared to pay you considerably more than your regular fee, whatever that might be.”

“You mentioned it several times,” Hooker said. “Money is not the point here, but if you need reasons why I want no part of this, I can give you two real quick.”

The little man sat with his hands folded in his lap, looking quizzically up at Hooker. “I should like to hear them,” he said.

“Okay. Number one, in spite of what you may have heard about me, I am not crazy enough to go into Quintana Roo for any price or anybody. Number two, I don’t do business with secretaries who try to put the ritz on me.”

Two pink spots appeared on Earle Maples’ cheeks. With an effort, he kept his voice level. “Then we have nothing more to talk about.”

“So it would seem.”

Maples cleared his throat with a little cough. “Is there another way out of here? No offense, but I would prefer not to walk back through that crowd of unwashed peons out in front.”

“No offense,” Hooker told him. He crossed the room and unbolted the door at the rear of Silvera’s office that gave out onto an alley behind the cantina. “I hope you aren’t planning on walking far. This is not the safest neighborhood in Veracruz.”

“So I perceived. Don’t worry, Mr. Hooker. I will be walking no farther than it takes to hail the first taxi.”

Hooker let the little man out and closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment thinking over their conversation, then shook his head and started back to the table.

Back out in the smoky, noisy main room of El Poche, Hooker walked over to the bar. Silvera was busy down below eye level adding water to the gin.

Hooker leaned over the bar. “Thanks for the office, Paco. You can tell the girls the bed is available again.”

Silvera stood up quickly and put on an injured look. “Hey, Hooker, you know I got no part of that action. I let the girls do a little business in here, sure, because it brings in customers, and the customers drink. My business is selling drinks. Anything else the people buy is their lookout.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Paco. But while you’re up, how about sending over another round to my table.

“Sí, señor, muy pronto!”
said Silvera, using the broad Leo Carillo accent he assumed sometimes for comic effect.

Hooker made his way back to his table. Alita was now sitting alone.

“Where’s the Kraut?” Hooker asked.

“He said he had to go somewhere to see about flying somebody someplace. I don’t remember exactly.”

“That’s close enough.” Heinemann’s air charter service was not earning much lately, and Hooker well understood that a business prospect could not be ignored.

Silvera came over and set a fresh tequila on the table in front of Hooker. He gave Alita another glass of the oily red wine.

“What did the little man want?” Alita asked when Silvera had gone.

“He had a job for me.”

“That’s good, no?”

“Not necessarily. The job is for a lady who wants me to go looking for the wreck of an airplane with whatever is left of her husband inside.”

“What’s the matter with that?”

“A couple of things. Mainly that the plane went down in Quintana Roo.”

Alita’s expression turned grave. She leaned across the table toward Hooker. “Don’t do it, Johnny.”

“It’s the plane Buzz Kaplan was on,” he told her.

“I know he was your good friend, but you don’t want no part of Quintana Roo. It’s a bad place for anybody from outside. Especially for gringos.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It’s true. The jungles there are full of Mayas.”

Hooker suppressed a smile. “Didn’t you tell me you were part Maya?”

“Sure. That’s how I know it’s a bad place. I’m civilized, Johnny. They’re not. There’s tribes in Quintana Roo don’t even know what a radio is. Never seen one. Or electric lights.”

“Maybe they like it better in the dark without a lot of noise.”

“Don’t fool with me, Johnny. They’re bad. They do hurtful things to people. I remember stories my mother told me.”

Hooker reached across and touched her hair. “You can stop worrying. I turned the job down.”

Alita relaxed. She smiled, showing strong white teeth. “That’s good. I don’t want anything to happen to you, like the
muerateros
.”

“The what?”

Before Alita could answer, a commotion out in the street drew the attention of the crowd in El Poche. Chairs scraped on the floor as men got up and headed for the open front door to see what was going on.

Hooker started to rise.

“Where you going?” Alita asked.

“To see what’s happening.”

“Please stay, Johnny. This is our night for fun together.”

“There’s plenty of time left for fun,” Hooker said. “I’ve got a feeling I shouldn’t miss this.”

He made his way through the crowd and out the door. The hot, moist air outside was little relief from the smoky interior of the cantina. On the other side of the street, a semicircle of local people had gathered to watch something on the sidewalk under a dim street lamp.

The people made way for Hooker as he shouldered through to the front row of spectators. Earle Maples was standing with his back pressed against the rough brick wall of a warehouse. His blazer was torn at the pocket, the silk necktie pulled askew. A smear of blood on his upper lip had dropped down onto his shirt and the flannel slacks. Maples’ little eyes darted about like those of a trapped animal.

On the sidewalk between the little man and the onlookers were two young street hoodlums.
Cholos
, in the local slang. One was tall and thin as a snake, the other chunky with a badly pock-marked face. They paraded back and forth in front of Maples, hands on their hips, swishing in exaggerated feminine postures.

“Hey,
maricón
, you like me?” the tall one said.

“Maybe you want to suck me off,” said his friend. He grabbed himself between the legs and made kissing sounds, glancing at the crowd for their approval.

Encouraged by their laughter, the pock-marked
cholo
minced forward and reached for Maples’ crotch. The little man covered himself with both hands and cringed against the wall. He looked ready to cry.

“Let’s see what you got down there,” the stocky one said. “You got a cock or a pussy? Come on, show it to us.”

Hooker stepped up onto the sidewalk. The people who were watching moved back to give him room. The two
cholos
stopped their tormenting of Maples and looked at him. They were not fron the neighborhood and did not recognize Hooker.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Leave him alone and get the hell out of here.”

The words were spoken softly, but they carried clearly in the damp air over the suddenly hushed crowd. The shorter of the two youths glanced over to be sure his friend was watching, then took up a stance in front of Hooker.

“What’s the matter, gringo? Is this your little boy friend?”

Hooker sighed. He well knew the drama that was supposed to be played out now. There would be an exchange of tough-smart talk with escalating threats of violence until it reached the point where somebody would actually have to strike the first blow. He saw no reason to go through all the tiresome preliminaries.

He grabbed the stocky
cholo
by the front of his rayon shirt, yanked him up on tiptoes, and hit him with a clubbing right hand on the side of his pock-marked face. The boy’s teeth came together with a loud click, and Hooker dropped his limp form to the pavement.

The tall snaky one now had a knife in his hand. From the boy’s uncertain handling of the weapon and the way his eyes darted around looking for help, Hooker decided he was not an experienced knife fighter. Nevertheless, anybody with a blade in his hand was dangerous, so Hooker wasted no time. He went straight at the thin youth, keeping his hands high and moving to hold the boy’s attention. When he was close enough, he kicked him in the balls. The knife clattered to the sidewalk as the
cholo
went down clutching his
cojones
.

Hooker retrieved the knife, a cheap boy scout imitation, folded the blade, and dropped it into his pocket. The two
cholos
recovered sufficiently to limp off down the street. Hooker went over to Earle Maples, who stood frozen against the wall, his eyes wide and shocked at the display of sudden violence.

“You hurt?” Hooker asked.

“I-I don’t think so. Look here, I suppose I owe you some kind of thanks for this.”

“Forget it.”

Hooker looked out over the crowd; it was beginning to dissipate now that the fun was over. On the far side of the street, he spied a scruffy individual called Little Nose in recognition of a knife wound acquired some years before. He made a fair living now pimping for his wife and her sisters. He was also the owner of a 1933 Ford, which he employed as a taxi when he was sober enough to drive. He was leaning on the fender of his automobile, looking disappointed that the promised bloodshed had not developed. He snapped to attention when Hooker beckoned to him and came across the street at a trot.

“
Buenas noches
, Señor Hooker.”

“Nose, I want you to take this man home, wherever that may be. And don’t overcharge him any more than you usually do.”

Little Nose spread his hands and tried to look innocent. Ignoring him, Hooker turned to Earle Maples. “And you stay the hell out of this part of Veracruz.”

“That piece of advice is hardly necessary,” Maples said, dabbing at the blood on his upper lip. He followed the taxi driver back to his Ford.

Hooker returned to the open doorway of El Poche. Alita was waiting there for him.

“Are you finished for tonight beating up on people?” she said.

“I sure hope so,” he told her. “Let’s go have some fun.”

Oh, sure, lots of fun, Hooker thought sourly. It was late Tuesday morning, and he stood in his shorts looking at his splintered front door. On the writing table lay the crumpled note delivered the night before by the zombie, or whatever the thing was.

Quintana Roo es la misma como muerte
.

Hooker had made up his mind the previous night that he wanted no part of Quintana Roo, but now that somebody was pushing him so hard, he was having second thoughts.

A face appeared on the other side of the broken door. It was a nicely structured face with startling blue eyes, topped by what appeared to be naturally blonde hair. Hooker stepped closer to get a look at the body that went with the face. It was about five feet six, dressed in an expensive white outfit. The muscle tone, as near as he could tell, was excellent, the shape unmistakably female. Hooker’s eyes traveled back up to the face.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, “are you John Hooker?”

He nodded.

“I’m Connie Braithwaite.”

“I met your secretary last night.”

“Yes, he told me about it. That’s one of the reasons I’m here, to thank you for what you did for Earle. I understand you saved his life.”

“He might have overestimated the danger. There wasn’t much chance of him getting killed, though he could have got bruised up some. He wasn’t a good choice to send down to El Poche.”

“I know that now.” Connie Braithwaite looked uneasily up and down the hallway. “I wonder if I might come in?”

“Sure.” Hooker reached out to open the door. The knob and a good-sized chunk of the wood panel came off in his hand. “We had a little ruckus here last night,” he explained.

Connie stepped into the room and looked around at the shambles left from the night before. Hooker watched her closely for some sign of disapproval. He saw none and liked her for that.

“Earle doesn’t always make a good impression on people,” she said. “Not many men would have gone out of their way to help him.”

Hooker figured her to be about thirty, maybe a couple of years older, but well taken care of. Clearly, she had taken some pains about the way she looked that morning. Abruptly, he became aware that he was standing there wearing nothing but his shorts.

“Excuse me while I put something on,” he said. “Have a seat, if you can find one.”

Connie gave him a smile. She picked up one of the wooden chairs that had been knocked over in the melee and sat down. She crossed her legs with a whisper of nylon and watched him as he took a pair of pants from a hook in the wardrobe chest and stepped into them. He pulled on a blue cotton shirt and stepped into a pair of huaraches.

“So you were married to Nolan Braithwaite,” he said.

“As far as I know, I
am
married to Nolan Braithwaite. If you’re trying to calculate the age difference between us, it’s twenty-six years. Nolan will be fifty-seven. If he’s still alive.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And yes, I did marry him for his money. At least partly that. You would be surprised at how important money becomes when you don’t have any.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I get to thinking I’m the only one who’s ever been poor. Selfish attitude, isn’t it?”

Hooker said nothing.

Connie looked over at the gas stove in the tiny kitchen alcove. A blue enameled coffeepot sat on one of the burners.

“Is there any coffee in that thing?” she asked.

“It’s yesterday’s. I can heat it up.”

“That’s fine.”

Hooker struck a wooden match and held it over the gas burner. He kept his face well back out of range while he turned the handle, having learned when he moved in that the stove sometimes started with a small explosion. This time, however, the ring of blue flames came out without mishap.

He went back and picked up another of the fallen wooden chairs, placing it across the table from Connie Braithwaite. He offered her a Mexican Lucky Strike; when she declined, he lit one for himself.

“You said there was another reason for coming up here besides to thank me for saving your boy’s ass.”

The startling blue eyes did not blink. “I came to ask you to reconsider taking the job Earle told you about. He said you had some rule about not talking business with employees. Okay, now you can talk to the boss.”

“I just told him that because I didn’t like his attitude. I’ve got more important reasons for turning the job down.”

“Such as?”

“How much do you know about Quintana Roo, the territory where your husband’s plane is supposed to have gone down?”

“Not much, really. It’s on the eastern end of the Yucatan peninsula. It has no cities to speak of. Most of it is jungle. There are miles of coastline on the Caribbean but no beaches. The place is uninhabited except for some isolated Indians.”

“You’ve got the general idea,” Hooker said, “but there are a few more things you ought to know.”

“I’m listening.”

“Those isolated Indians you’re talking about are Mayas. They’re not the friendly folks you see selling serapes outside the hotels. There are tribes in the interior of Quintana Roo, where people are born, grow up, get old, and die and never see anybody from outside. And it’s probably just as well, because the old Mayas had a lot of unpleasant customs, like sacrificing young children to their gods and eating the liver out of a defeated enemy while he was still alive and watching.”

Hooker paused. Connie Braithwaite sat quietly, waiting for him to go on.

“Quintana Roo has snakes with a bite that can swell you up like a sausage and kill you in minutes. It has jaguars, which are very nasty-tempered cats, and caymans, which look like alligators but bite harder. A cayman can break a man’s back with its tail. There are more than a thousand different kinds of insects, and all of them bite. Should I tell you about the diseases, or are you getting the picture?”

“The picture I’m getting is that you don’t want to go to Quintana Roo.”

“Correct.”

“Did Earl Maples tell you about the money involved?”

“Several times. He said you would pay a bundle.”

“I will. You can name your own price, Mr. Hooker.”

“I don’t know where the story got started that Hooker will do anything for money.”

“You’re not going to go all sensitive on me, I hope,” she said. “As far as I know, there is nothing obscene about offering a man money to do a job.”

“A good point. You sound a little desperate, Mrs. Braithwaite.”

“I guess I am. It’s very important to me to find out what happened to my husband.”

“You realize the chances of finding him alive are close to zero.”

“Yes, I know that. But if Nolan is dead, I want proof.”

“So you can untie his money, I understand.”

“That’s right. I’m not going to give you any song and dance, Hooker. I don’t think I could fool you, anyway. If by some chance we do find Nolan alive, I’ll be glad. But if he’s dead, I don’t want to have to wait seven years to get what’s coming to me. Do I sound greedy?”

“Yeah, but aren’t we all.”

“Does that mean you’ll take the job?”

“It means I’m thinking it over.”

The coffee on the stove began to boil, making the lid dance on top of the pot. Hooker got up and poured the thick black brew into two heavy cups.

“Like anything in your coffee?”

“Sugar, please. Two spoons.”

Hooker took a sack of sugar from a shelf over the stove and measured two teaspoons into one of the cups. To his own he added a shot of tequila. He brought the cups back to the table.

Connie Braithwaite blew on her coffee to cool it, keeping her eyes on Hooker.

“I’ve been without my husband for a year,” she said. “What with all the legal details, I haven’t had much time for … recreation.”

“That’s too bad,” Hooker said.

“What I mean is, this trip wouldn’t have to be
all
business.”

“Excuse me, but does that mean you would plan on going along?”

“Of course. I’m not afraid of snakes and bugs. And I’m in good physical shape.”

“Oh, I can see that.”

“Well, thank goodness. I was beginning to think I’d gotten myself all pretty for nothing.”

“Mrs. Braithwaite, are we still talking about the price you’re willing to pay somebody to go looking for your husband?”

“No,” she said quickly. “The price is whatever we agree upon in dollars. Nothing else is promised. I’m just suggesting that things can happen sometimes that make a business deal more pleasurable.”

“I think I get the picture,” Hooker said.

The bead curtain closing off the bedroom rattled suddenly. Alita stepped out into the room, then stopped suddenly, doing a bad pantomime of being surprised. She was wearing a silk wrap-around thing that barely covered the essentials.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?”

Connie looked up with a polite smile. Alita answered with one of her own. Behind the bright feminine smiles, a challenge was given and accepted.

Hooker shoved his chair back and got to his feet. “Alita, this is Connie Braithwaite.”

“Ah,” said Alita, “the lady whose husband was in the airplane crash.”

“That’s right.” Hooker turned to Connie. “This is my friend, Alita Ruiz.”

“She’s lovely,” Connie said.

“Buenos días,”
Alita said, batting her eyes unnecessarily.

“How very nice to meet you.”

“Me, too.”

The seconds ticked by in awkward silence.

“Do you want some coffee?” Hooker asked Alita.

“I’ll get it. You two go right on with your … business talk.”

“I was just leaving,” Connie said. “What about it, Hooker? Have you made up your mind?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think fast, will you? I want to get started as soon as possible.”

“I’ll let you know by the end of the day. Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Palacio.”

“I’ll get word to you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Connie stood up and gave her hand to Hooker. She held the pressure for a second or two longer than was necessary. Then she turned to Alita.

“It’s been a pleasure … Alita, wasn’t it?”

“Sure. A pleasure,” Alita said.

Hooker walked Connie Braithwaite out through the broken door, then came back and sat down at the table.

“What did you mean you’ll think about it?” Alita said.

“I meant I would think about it.”

“Last night you didn’t want no part of Quintana Roo.”

“So now it’s morning, and I’m reconsidering. How about scrambling some eggs?”

Alita strolled unhurriedly across to the kitchen alcove. From the ice box she took a bowl filled with eggs and a handful of wrinkled green chilis. She spoke without turning around.

“When did you start changing your mind? When the blonde lady said she was going along on the trip?”

“No. I think that’s a bum idea.”

“I bet you do.” Alita took a chopping knife from a drawer and began dicing up the hot chilis with an excess of vigor.

Hooker sat for a while watching her, then sighed. “All right, let’s hear it.”

She dropped a spoonful of lard into an iron frying pan and lit the gas burner beneath it. As the lard began to sizzle, she turned around with wide, innocent eyes.

“Let’s hear what, Johnny?”

“Whatever is eating you. I can’t enjoy my breakfast with you stomping around here crashing pots and pans together.”

“I didn’t crash no pans.”

“No, but you were about to start. I know the symptoms.”

Abruptly, she ran over and dropped onto his lap. She nuzzled the base of his neck. “Do you like her better than me, Johnny?”

“Don’t be silly. I don’t even know the woman.” He lifted her head and looked at her seriously. “As a matter of fact, I’m beginning to wonder how well I know you.”

“Now you’re funning me. You know all about me.”

“No man can know a woman that well.”

“But the other one is blonde and rich and everything I’m not. She looks like one of those ladies in the American movies.”

Hooker massaged her back. The warmth of her skin came through the thin silk wrapper. “Those women in the movies aren’t real. They’re only shadows.”

“This Connie what’s-her-name is real enough.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re going to see her today.”

“That’s strictly business.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

Alita wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. She looked up with moist coffee-colored eyes. “You do adore me, don’t you, Johnny?”

“Sure.”

“Mucho?”

“Even more
mucho
if I had some breakfast in me.”

She kissed him, slid out of his lap, and went back to the lard sizzling in the frying pan. She added the chopped chilis and stirred in the eggs. Without turning around, she said, “If the blonde lady goes to Quintana Roo, I want to go, too.”

Hooker groaned.