Westlake, Donald E - Novel 43 (16 page)

 
          
The
fact was,
Vernon
, like most Belizeans, was convinced the
Guatemalan claim was just nonsense, old history. The Belizeans wouldn’t permit
Britain
to give their land away, and the British
wouldn’t permit the Guatemalans to just come in and grab it, so that was that.
So if some crazy Guatemalan Colonel shows up with money in his hand, willing to
pay for a lot of dumb things like maps and photographs, why not take his money?
Vernon
knew
what was going on here was a simple con job, himself giving worthless trash for
real cash, but he also realized that to an outsider it could possibly look
like, give the impression of, even appear to be . . .

 
          
.
. . well, treason.

 
          
Expressionless,
the Colonel closed his hand around the film roll, making a casual fist. “Wait
there,” he said, and turned away, returning to his car. When he opened the
right rear door of the Daimler,
Vernon
caught a glimpse of long bare legs against
the black plush. His heart ached in his breast. He wanted to live in a country
where he could be a colonel. Maybe the crazy Guatemalans would pull this off
after all, and he . . .

 
          
No.
That wasn’t a future he could think about.

 
          
The
driver’s door of the Daimler opened and the blank-faced soldier came around the
rear of the car with a white envelope in his hand. He gave it to
Vernon
, turned about, and went back to his place
in the car, while
Vernon
lifted the flap and looked at the sheaf of U.S. greenbacks inside. He
couldn’t count it now, not with them still here. Lifting his eyes, he saw the
woman looking at him again out the back window. She didn’t gaze with normal
curiosity, as one human being looks at another, but with a flat and feral
expression, as though she were an animal staring out of its cage. Or was
he
the animal, and she among the humans?

 
          
The
Daimler backed in a half circle, then drove away.
Vernon
stuffed the envelope into the pocket that
had contained the map, and started the long walk back. The sun was higher, the
day hotter, the jungle smells stronger. The money was heavy in his pocket.

 
          
Parking
in the forecourt of the
Fort
George
Hotel
, Kirby stepped out of the pickup and nimbly
dodged a peach-colored topless Land Rover with official license plates, which
had rushed in the EXIT side of the hotel’s circular driveway and now slammed to
a stop at the entrance. Its driver, a skinny black man, hopped out and strode
briskly inside, and a moment later Kirby followed, strolling into the cool dim
lobby and seeing the driver in converse with the desk clerk.

 
          
The
house phones were around to the side. Kirby called Lemuel first, let it ring
six times, and was about to give up when there was a click and Lemuel’s voice,
hushed, suspicious, frightened, said in a half whisper, “Yes?”

 
          
Kirby
was used to his customers being a little spooked, since they weren’t used to
the criminal’s life, but Lemuel was overdoing it. His manner as soothing as
possible, Kirby said, “It’s Kirby Galway, Mister Lemuel.”

           
“Galway!” Lemuel managed to sound
both relieved and aggrieved. “Where are you?”

 
          
“In
the lobby. I just have to take, um, those people . . . You know?”

 
          
“I
certainly do.”

 
          
“To
the airport. Then we’re done with them.”

 
          
“Good!”

 
          
“You
might as well wait in the room until—”

 
          
“Believe
me, I will!”

 
          
Smiling,
pleasantly surprised at how well his drug'dealer yam had gone over with this
one, Kirby said, “We’ll
both
breathe
easier once they’re gone. I’ll give you a call when I get back, we’ll have
lunch in the hotel before we go out to the site.”

 
          
“I’ll
wait right here,” Lemuel promised.

 
          
Kirby
broke the connection and was about to dial Witcher and Feldspan’s number when
he was briefly distracted by seeing, out of the comer of his eye, the passage
through the lobby of what appeared to be a goodTooking woman. He turned his
head, but she was already past, striding rapidly in the wake of the skinny
black man from the Land Rover; so she was his passenger. There was only time to
register that she was tall, with brown hair under a large floppy^brimmed hat,
and that she was dressed for hiking, in khaki shirt and new blue jeans and tall
lace-up boots. She carried a gray attache case in her left hand, and a large
and apparently heavy canvas shoulder bag bumped along on her right haunch. Then
she was gone, and Kirby dialed the other room number, and Witcher answered on
the first ring: “Alan Witcher here.”

 
          
“And
Kirby Galway here.”

 
          
“Oh,
good! We’re all set, we’ll be right down.” There were mutters in the
background; sounding annoyed, Witcher said, “Would you hold on, please? Just
one second.”

 
          
“Sure,”
said Kirby, and spent the next several seconds listening to muffled
conversation and a repeated
thumb-thumb
.
Oh, of course; Witcher had covered the mouthpiece by pressing it to his chest,
and Kirby was listening to his heart.

 
          
Then
his voice:
“Gerry
wants to know,”
Witcher said, with worlds of meaning, “if your friend is anywhere down there.”

 
          
Kirby
grinned. Got them both, by God! “No,” he said. “He’s gone away up-country.
There’s a fella up there he says is cheating him. He took a couple local boys
and left first thing this morning.”

 
          
“Oh.
” Witcher didn’t seem to know what to do with all that information. “Just so
he’s not in the lobby.”

 
          
“You’re
safe,” Kirby assured him.

 
          
“I’ll
tell Gerry,” Witcher said, putting the charge of cowardice back where it
belonged.

 
          
Hanging
up, Kirby went over to the broad front doorway and looked out at the
peach-colored Land Rover, which was just leaving via the ENTRANCE. The girl, in
front beside the driver, was slipping sunglasses on. The floppy-brimmed hat, a
very sensible defense against the tropic sun, kept him from seeing much of her
face. Her jaw was perhaps a little too strong. Then the Land Rover was gone,
and a stir in the lobby recalled him to business.

 
          
Kirby
helped the bellboy load luggage into the back of the pickup while Witcher and
Feldspan checked out, and then they came outside, both behind large-lensed dark
glasses. Witcher looked irritable, Feldspan hung over. Good mornings and
handshakes were exchanged, and Feldspan said, “We’ll make the plane, won’t we?”
His voice was shaky; behind the dark glasses, his eyes asked for pity.

 
          
“Plenty
of time,” Kirby assured him.

 
          
“Of
course there is,” said Witcher. “Get hold of yourself, Gerry.”

 
          
Gerry
didn’t; nevertheless, they all got into the pickup, jounced away from the
hotel, and made their way back through the sunny town. Once on the road out to
the airport, Kirby took a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket, handed
it across Feldspan to Witcher, and said, “This is the place we’ll meet.”

 
          
Opening
the paper, Witcher read aloud: “Trump Glade,
Florida
. Route 216 south eight point four miles
from movie house. Left at sign reading Potchaw 12. Dirt road. Fifteen point two
miles to red ribbon on barbed wire fence.” Witcher nodded. “And that’s where
you’ll be, I take it.”

 
          
“Rent
a car,” Kirby told him. “Don’t take a cab.”

 
          
“Certainly
not.”

 
          
“And
it’s just you two there,” Kirby said, “or I don’t get out of the plane.”

 
          
“We
understand,” Witcher said. Between them, in the middle of the seat, Feldspan
lowered his head, raised a quaking hand to his brow, and faintly moaned.

 
          
“When
I’ve got something to deliver,” Kirby said, “I’ll cable you in
New York
and give you a day and a time.”

 
          
Witcher
said, “What if you have something too large to bring out that way? The jaguar
stela, for instance. That could be eight or ten feet tall, and it would weigh a
ton.”

 
          
“We’d
have to do that by ship,” Kirby told him. “There’s places up the coast where we
can bring in a small boat at night. It’s expensive, and a lot trickier, but if
we’re careful it’ll be okay. I tell you what; if I have anything too big to fly
out, I’ll take Polaroids of it, give them to you guys, and once you have a
buyer we’ll arrange to get it out by boat.”

 
          
“Fine,”
Witcher said.

 
          
“I
think I’m going to be sick,” Feldspan said.

 
          
“Gerry,”
Witcher said, through clenched teeth.

 
          
Kirby
angled across the empty road and parked on the left verge, beside the easygoing
Belize
River
. “Better here than in the plane,” he said.

 
          
So
Witcher, disapproval etched in every line of his being, got out of the pickup,
and helped Feldspan out and walked with him down to the river bank. Kirby
whistled quietly to himself and looked out at the pleasant day. If he were a
man who fished, he’d want to fish right now.

 
          
A
horn honked. Kirby looked over as Innocent St. Michael went by in his dark
green Ford LTD, heading toward the airport, waving at Kirby from his
air-conditioned luxury. Kirby grinned and waved back. Innocent sure did like to
visit the airport.

 
          
When
Feldspan returned, he was paler but somehow better. “I’m sorry,” he said.

 
          
“Happens
to us all,” Kirby assured him. The line of Witcher’s mouth said it didn’t
happen to
him.

 
          
There
were no more events till they reached the airport, where Witcher insisted on
unzipping his bag atop the pickup’s tailgate, so he could remove two Sony
Walkmans from it, one of which he extended toward Feldspan, saying, “You
know
this will make you feel better,
Gerry. ”

 
          
Feldspan
looked with repugnance at the Walkman before him, then seemed to remember
something. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes.” He flashed Kirby a guilty glance through
his dark glasses as he accepted the Walkman, hooked it onto his belt, and put
the earphones in place on his head. Now he looked like something from “The
Wizard Of Oz.”

 
          
Kirby
grinned at him, amused. So these boys were smuggling something out of
Belize
in their Walkmans, were they? And they
didn’t want their pal Kirby to know about it. Idly, he wondered what they’d
found, idly decided it was probably marijuana.

 
          
Extending
a hand, Witcher said, “We’ll hope to hear from you.” His earphones were draped
around his neck.

 
          
“Two
or three weeks,” Kirby promised, shaking his hand. Then he shook Feldspan’s.
“Have a nice flight,” he said. Feldspan smiled gamely.

 
          
“Come
along, Gerry,” Witcher said, hefting his bag. His earphones were now in place
on his ears.

 
          
Kirby
stood by the pickup and watched them walk to the small terminal building.
Witcher was swaying and snapping his fingers and just slightly boogalooing to
the sounds coming into his ears. After several steps Feldspan started to do the
same, in pale and shaky imitation.

 
          
In
a shaded spot at the comer of the building, working on his molars with his
slender gold toothpick, stood Innocent St. Michael, also watching Witcher and
Feldspan. His eyes looked very interested. It was hard to be sure with his hand
up in front of his mouth that way, but he might have been very faintly smiling.

 
          
Hmmmmmm,
thought Kirby.