T. Parker - Laguna Heat

It was a long time — an absurdly long time, he remembered later — that he lay there, keeping those unmoving feet in the sights of his gun.

He remembered, too, as he lay in the soft moss of the floor, his fingers finding the little hole in his side, and his thumb finding the larger one behind it. Between them, he realized, was what little fat he had collected in thirty-two years, and perhaps all of the luck.

And, he remembered finally standing up to the early colors of morning, the rich ocean blue in the background, the room encased in green moss, and the man lying back in the toppled chair, motionless except for the purple on his shirt and the first breeze of the day in his gray hair.

For the next three days Shephard remained on the Yucatan, explaining and reexplaining his presence on Mexican soil, his pursuit of the American Azul Mercante, the attempted arrest that had ended in gunfire and death. A Cozumel detective named Ruben Cortez received Shephard, exhausted and bleeding, on Monday morning, and drank hot coffee in his sweltering office while Shephard recounted the night’s events. When Cortez had made copious notes and finished his fourth cup of coffee, he entrusted Shephard to the care of two uniformed deputies, who drove him to the small infirmary that passed as the city’s hospital.

When his turn finally came, Shephard was stretched out on a cool white table, where he was X-rayed, bathed, and after an inexplicable wait of an hour, stitched shut. By then, the city’s mayor had arrived to regard Shephard with a curious but unmoved expression. He was particularly interested in how the gringo had entered his country with a gun but no fresh pursuit papers from his department, as was the usual procedure. As Shephard lay on the table and explained the casual methods of the Veracruz federales, his mind constantly wandered north to Jane, her lovely face, her words, “I love you.” When he finally sat up and felt the tight pinch of the new stitches in his side, he realized that over the last couple of days, few waking moments had not included thoughts of her.

The mayor was satisfied that the federales had done a poor job at Customs, willing as are all minor officials to blame their superiors in government. He turned over the matter to the governor’s assistant.

The assistant, a dapper man named Jaime Vogel, arrived an hour later, read Cortez’s report, then dropped the papers to the desk with irritation. Shephard looked into his half-Aryan face: high cheekbones and pale eyes, framed by jet black hair that was oiled perfectly into place. Vogel smelled of after-shave.

“No papers of pursuit,” he began. “No license to carry a firearm in Mexico. And you turn Isla Arenillas into the O.K. Corral. Mr. Shephard, this is quite irregular. Perhaps your Justice Department should know of this.”

Shephard was allowed to call Hannover, who thought at first that it was all a joke. But as the story came out over the static-cluttered lines, Hannover became attentive and businesslike, congratulating Shephard on a job “splendidly handled and executed.” He hung up in order to contact the U.S. Justice Department “with our end of the story.” Shephard was freed on his own recognizance for one hour, which he used to walk to the Presidente, charge another night’s lodging to his sadly overdrawn credit card, and to call Jane. There was no answer.

Justice Department officer Paul Rodriguez arrived late that afternoon. He locked horns with Vogel on official matters — mostly in Spanish — and Vogel seemed to be taking some pride in his stubbornness. When an agreement was reached, Rodriguez, speaking in English, asked Vogel how his sisters were and sent regards to Vogel from someone in the States.

Around eight they crowded into a tiny room behind the jail, where a white-clad assistant uncovered the body of Azul Mercante. Lack of refrigeration had made itself apparent. Rodriguez and Vogel haggled over photographs and dental records, which appeared from the former’s fat briefcase. Vogel finally signed the release papers with a flourish, then shook hands all around and excused himself into the streets of Cozumel.

Shephard was back at the hotel just after nine, taking the elevator to his second-floor room. From his window he could see the water surging onto the rough rocks below. He smoked a cigarette on the balcony, where the billowy blue smoke hung in the humid air. The radio in his room played only Dixieland jazz, which he turned off before calling Jane.

She finally answered. She had been outside with Cal, whom with the help of Little Theodore she had relocated to her house on Laguna Canyon Road. “At this point, Cal and Buster are getting to know each other,” she said.

“When can I get to know you?”

“Please make it soon. Tom, are you all right?”

He told her only that everything had been taken care of, and he would explain later. Then they talked for nearly an hour, about trivial things mostly, with Shephard unwilling to speak of the last days, and Jane respectful of his distance. It was a lovers’ talk, he thought later: enthused, aimless, and with a pleasure that would carry over into his dreams.

“Has Harmon been back?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. And Theodore hasn’t slept a minute.”

Shephard spent the next day on the beach, drinking Tecate beer with limes, dozing, watching the iguanas basking on the rugged rocks. That night he dined alone in the hotel, which he judged to be very good but overpriced. He called Jane twice and talked too long. As his adrenaline slowly subsided, he began to feel a deep exhaustion setting in, one that a night’s sleep would not cure. It was a draining of spirit, a hollowing, a need that he wasn’t sure how to fill. He called his father and was happy that he had returned safely, but Wade’s voice somehow depressed him. He talked to Louise again, and ran out of things to say.

Late the next morning he flew out on reservations made by Hannover at the department’s expense. Coach, but a window seat just the same.

Jane was waiting for him at the terminal, and Little Theodore was with her, grinning through his tangled jungle of beard, sipping a Bloody Mary that seemed miniaturized by his hand. “Aw, ain’t that cute,” he growled as Shephard and Jane kissed. “You stayed down in Mexico one day longer, I was gonna ask this princess to marry me.”

Theodore drove them back to Laguna in a big Cadillac that listed heavily to port when he got behind the wheel. “This runt gives you any trouble, just call Theodore,” he told Jane as she got out at Shephard’s apartment. “Good work, Shephard. I’m glad to hear you shot that sonofabitch.”

Late that night Shephard was lying flat on his back in his apartment, recounting to Jane his trek through the jungle, the moss-encrusted ruins of the Hotel Cora, and the ghostly presence of Azul Mercante. He didn’t mention Mercante’s story about an affair with Colleen; the words seemed unfit to repeat, unnecessary.

“Well, I guess it’s all over now,” Jane said. “But that hole in your side is awful. And I’d still like to know why Harmon wanted those files of my father’s — if it was Harmon who stole them.”

Sal came upstairs with a halibut he’d caught at Moss Street that evening, a joint clenched between his teeth. “Good to have you back, bro,” he said. “This halibut is the kind. Filet it and fry it with a little lemon and butter. The next time you go to Mexico, try an’ get a little fishing in, will ya?” He left a few minutes later with a wink at Shephard and a lewd glance at Jane, who had stretched out on the floor for a nap.

At nine the phone rang and Shephard immediately recognized the voice.

“Tom Shephard, Marla Collins here, from Bruce Harmon’s office. Hey, I read in the papers what happened in Mexico, and I thought it might not matter much, but I want to tell you who Bruce has been working for. The rotter fired me yesterday, so I guess I’m getting even. Still interested?”