Donald Westlake - High Adventure

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 good-looking 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.”