The Scared Stiff (21 page)

"Hi, guys," she said. She took her seat, thudded her shoulder bag onto the floor beside her chair, and looked at our beer bottles. "I love that stuff," she said, "but I can't drink it. I've got to watch my figure."

"Everybody watches your figure, Carlita," Arturo said.

"Right," Carlita said, dismissing that pleasantry. Reaching for her menu, she said, "Have you two picked yet?"

"Not yet," I said, and opened my own menu.

Arturo said, "Carlita, how'd it go?"

"Oh, fine, fine," she said, airy as an éclair. "Lunch first, I'm starved."

I said, "You know this place, do you?" Because, though I'd been there several times, I thought it best to pretend I didn't know it.

She said, "Do you want me to order for you?"

"I'd love it."

"Smart man. How about you, Artie?"

"Sure," Arturo said.

Tiffany reappeared then, with a bottle of local seltzer for Carlita, complete with glass. She put them down and took out her little pad and pen, and Carlita walked Arturo and me through the menu, helping us choose. She was clearly very knowledgeable, much more than me.

Tiffany went away, and Arturo said, "Just tell us, Carlita. Do you know how we can get it?"

"Yes," she said. "But I really can't talk all that stuff on an empty stomach. Is Ifigenia still suing that publisher in Venezuela?"

Arturo grinned. "You know I can't talk about that," he said.

"It was worth a try," she said, and looked at me. "Your first time in Guerrera?"

"Yes," I said. Unfortunately, at the same moment, Arturo said, "No, he—"

"I'm
sorry," I said, into her grin. "I was thinking about the restaurant, first time in the restaurant. No, I've been in Guerrera several times. I was at Lola's wedding." Looking at the abashed Arturo, I said, "How long ago was that, Arturo?"

"Fourteen years," he said. "I remember you there."

"Before my time," Carlita said, and Tiffany arrived with a pot of tea and little handleless cups. Now all I need, I thought, is for Tiffany to recognize me as an old customer, though she's never recognized me before.

Nor this time. She went away and came back with food, and then she came back with more food. It was all very good, as expected, and we didn't talk again until we'd finished every last bit of it.

My fortune cookie was in Spanish. I handed it to Carlita, saying, "How'm I doing?"

She looked at the fortune, then smiled at me. "It says, 'You will be rescued by a beautiful woman.' "

"Good," I said, thinking of Luz but knowing that isn't what she meant. In fact, knowing that wasn't what the fortune had said. "I've been wanting to be rescued by a beautiful woman," I said.

Arturo said, "Carlita,
now
will you tell us? And maybe draw a map, where we go?"

"I'll tell you about it," she said, and finished her tea. "I know the clerks there, naturally," she said. "So I went in and told them a story, some research I was doing, not about
those
records but property records I know are kept nearby. I said I just wanted to look through them for a while, and they're used to me there, so they left me alone."

She bent down to her shoulder bag, found what she wanted in it immediately, and pulled out a letter-size envelope, which she tossed on the table in front of Arturo. "So I got it," she said.

I gaped at the envelope, and so did Arturo. Then he picked it up and opened it, while I said, "That's
it?
You already got it?"

"Well, I was there," she said, "and it was easy. Easier for me than for you."

Arturo had taken the form out of the envelope. He looked at it, wide-eyed, then folded it and put it back in the envelope. He folded the envelope and put it in his pants pocket. Then he looked at me and started to laugh.

So I started to laugh. Then Carlita started to laugh. Then Arturo lunged toward her, as though he were going to give her that bear hug after all, and she pulled back, still laughing, hands up defensively as she said the Spanish equivalent of
Down, boy, down.

We gradually stopped laughing. I said, "And it was going to be so hard."

Arturo said, "We had it all plotted out."

"The whole caper," I said. "Carlita, I feel like hugging you myself, and you know us cold Northerners."

"I know all about you cold Northerners," she said, with amused skepticism.

Arturo said, "Why you didn't
tell
us?"

"I thought it would be more fun," she explained, "if we ate first, so I could have my scoop a little longer."

"I don't even mind," I said. "This is wonderful."

"Good. And thanks for lunch." She reached for the strap of her shoulder bag. "I'm off." She stood, shrugging the shoulder bag into place, and pointed at me to say, "And remember the deal. If they get you, I'm the exclusive."

"Promise," I said. "Carlita?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think? Are they gonna get me?"

"Well," she said, "they get almost everybody sooner or later."

"I'll keep beautiful women around," I suggested, "to rescue me."

"A good idea," she said. "Artie, say hello to Ifigenia, and be
good
to her for a while."

"Okay," Arturo said.

She grinned and winked at me. "See you later, Felicio," she said, and was off.

In a funny way, I was disappointed. I'd wanted to do the caper. Hiding in the men's room, eating Ifigenia's
quesillo
in the Hall of Records at midnight, sliding out in the morning just before Leon Kaplan would march in; then all of a sudden, it became too easy.

But that was a quibble; basically, I was delighted. We'd had a terrible danger hanging over our heads — mostly Lola's head, but mine too — and now, as far as we could see, it was swept away. So I returned to the back of the Impala, Arturo got behind the wheel, and he drove me back to Casa Montana Mojoca.

And along the way, we also resolved the question of the
quesillo,
though not quite as easily. Arturo was very hoggish about that dessert, until finally I said to him, "Arturo, what am I gonna say, the next time I see Ifigenia and she asks me how was the
quesillo?"

"What makes you think," he wanted to know, "you're gonna see her again?"

"I'll make it my business to see her again, Arturo," I said.

He glowered at me in the mirror, but he knew when he was beaten, and there was no further discussion on the subject of
quesillos.

Being basically a sunny guy, Arturo had gotten over it by the time we reached the ferry, because, as he himself said, "She'll make another."

"I'm sure she will," I said.

It was midafternoon by the time we reached the river, and two other taxis shared the ferry with us, containing two middle-aged couples dazed by sightseeing. They wanted to chat and smile and share their experiences, but I did not. The ferry coming the other way had one taxi on it, with two Guerreran businessmen inside — white guayabera, powder-blue guayabera — arguing furiously. My old friend with the beer truck was nowhere to be seen.

Arturo deposited me at last under the porte cochere, and I rescued the
quesillo
from among the beer bottles on the floor in front. "Let me know what's going on," I said.

"I will," he promised.

"See you later."

"So long," he told the
quesillo
.

Two days later, Saturday afternoon, Arturo phoned to say that Leon Kaplan was gone, had flown out from San Cristobal that morning. Arturo, being a cabdriver at that moment — though not Kaplan's — had been at the airport and had seen him go.

It was over. Kaplan might still have his suspicions, but he had no proof and he wouldn't get any proof. Guerrera was the only place there could possibly be evidence, so if he was leaving Guerrera, it meant he'd given up.

After Arturo's phone call, I was too restless to stay in the room, so I went out and walked the manicured grounds for a couple of hours, alone with my thoughts. This had been much trickier, much more difficult and dangerous, than I'd guessed, with jail for Lola and murder for me, but it was over now. What a relief.

I got back to the room around five-thirty. What would I do till dinner? Nap? Shower? HBO or CNN?

There was a knock on the door. What was this, another invitation from Dulce de Paula? I called through the door, "Yes?"

"Rooh sehvice."

"Wrong room," I called. "I didn't order anything."

"Tree two tree," called the voice. "Emory."

Well, now what? I opened the door and in they came, the six of them: Manfredo and Luis and the other Luis with the bad arm and José and Pedro and
poco
Pedro. Without, at least, his machete.

"Listen," I said, talking fast, "let me explain something. The situation isn't what—"

One of them, walking by me, gave me a casual open-handed push on the chest that made me sit down quite suddenly on the bed. So I stayed there and went on talking, while they fanned out around the room.

"—you think it is, there isn't that much money anyway, not as much as you think, and anyway you aren't getting any—"

They were gathering my stuff. They put the green vinyl bag on the desk and started dumping my stuff into it, talking to each other in that guttural Guerreran Spanish all the while. They weren't listening to me, I knew they weren't, but I kept on anyway.

"—of it, none of it is coming down here, you don't gain anything by killing me, the scam worked, will you
listen
—"

Two of them went into the bathroom and came back out with my toilet kit and the hotel's shampoo and body lotion, and dumped everything into the vinyl bag.

"—to me, this isn't necessary, you're only going to get yourselves in terrible trouble, the insurance company's paying off, there's nothing to worry about, there's no risk in me being alive and you aren't getting anything out of it anyway, and — will you
listen
to me, for Christ's sake, will you just
listen?"

No. One of them came over, pulled a long length of cord out of his pants pocket, that hairy kind of cord that's put on packages, blond in color, and stood in front of me to say,
"Manos."

He didn't speak English. "You don't speak English?" None of them spoke English.
"None
of you speaks fucking English?"

"Manos"
he said. He was beginning to look impatient.

I didn't want to give him my hands. I didn't want to give him anything. For Christ's sake,
why
can't I speak adequate Spanish? Or why can't at least
one
of these brain-dead assholes speak English? Why do we have to have all these different languages anyway? Why can't we all speak together, all understand one another, why can't we all be brothers?

No. We've got to be fucking homicidal cousins.

"Manos."

Two of the others came over. One of them lifted my left forearm and the other lifted my right forearm. They didn't seem to notice I was resisting, I was even fighting back. I was still saying words, too, in that useless English, but by now even I wasn't listening to me.

The two assistant executioners moved my forearms closer to each other until my wrists touched, when my pal Manos tied them together with the hairy cord. I knew enough to clench my hand and forearm muscles, so I'd have at least a little slack when he was done, but it was still pretty tight.

Meantime, another one had gone to one knee in front of me and was tying my ankles together with a similar piece of cord. Over to my left, my clothing was being removed from the closet and dresser and jammed any which way into the vinyl bag. The one who'd pushed me onto the bed in the first place came over now and pulled something out from under his shirt.

Oh, they're going to slit my throat right here, I thought, in horror and despair, but what he brought out was a bundle of white cloth. He shook it open, and it was a giant cotton laundry bag, with CASA MONTANA MOJOCA stenciled on it, the kind of bag they would use for dirty sheets. Full, it would stand about four feet high, with a white drawstring at the top. The bag was frayed here and there, but I'm afraid it looked sturdy.

The guy holding this bag gave me a second push, which flopped me onto my back on the bed. The two who'd helped with the hands now lifted my tied-together feet, and the pusher slid the opening of the bag over my shoes.

"Hey, wait a minute," I said, and one of the others came over from my vinyl bag to stuff one of my socks into my mouth. A clean one, but still.

"Ngngngngng,
" I said, which they understood about as well as they'd understood everything else I'd said so far and cared about as much, too.

They stood me up. They raised the bag up around me. They pushed down on my head, crumpling me so that I bent at the ankle and knee and hip and neck and would have bent at other spots too, if I could. They drew the drawstring closed over my head and I heard them knot it. And then I heard the vinyl bag zip shut.

They weren't going to kill me here. They were going to remove me, along with everything connected with me, so that I would never have existed in this room. They were going to take me and my vinyl bag away to somewhere private. I wasn't sure what they'd do with the vinyl bag once they got it there, but I was pretty sure I knew what they meant to do with
me.

I was completely off balance, scrunched up in the laundry bag, but they didn't let me topple over. They held me, casually but firmly, and after a minute I was lifted, and two of them carried me, one with an arm wrapped around my ankles, the other holding the laundry bag knot over his shoulder, so that the back of my head was against his shoulder blade and I would be transported head first.

I heard the hall door open. I felt myself being lurched forward. Behind me, I heard the hall door shut.

We moved in sporadic treks. I suppose two of them stayed out ahead to be sure the coast was clear, and two brought up the rear to be sure no one overtook us, while my two porters bore me on. Then, as we stopped yet again, I heard some sort of metallic rattling sound, and a pause, and my stomach spasmed as we
dropped!