Джеймс Чейз - So What Happens To Me?

‘You’re certainly handling this,’ he said. ‘You know I would never have thought of checking the runway.’

‘I’m sure it’s okay, but it just might give me the chance of finding out who Kendrick’s client is.’

‘Is that so important?’

‘Could be. I don’t like Kendrick. He could gyp us. If we know who his client is, we would be in the position to gyp him.’

‘Kendrick won’t gyp us.’

‘Let’s hope not, but I’ll be happier if I know who his client is.’

‘Well, all right. How are you for money Jack?’

‘I could do with three hundred dollars. I won’t be away more than a couple of days, and there’s the flight fare to Merida to take care of.’

He went to a drawer and gave me five hundred dollars.

As I put the money in my pocket, I said, ‘There’s another thing: have you a gun, Bernie?’

He looked startled.

‘You don’t need a gun Jack. What do you mean?’

‘We’re playing with dynamite. Kendrick now hates me like smallpox. I could just run into an accident when inspecting the runway. With me out of the way, his life would become a lot easier.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘If you have a gun, I want it.’

He hesitated, then went into his bedroom and returned with a .38 automatic and a box of shells. Silently, he handed them to me.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

There was an awkward pause, then he said, ‘Tomorrow I’m flying Essex to L.A. Harry and I won’t be back until Saturday night.’

My eyes shifted to Pam and then away from her.

‘So suppose we four meet at the cafe-bar on Sunday at 18.00?’ I said. ‘I’ll be back from Merida and could have some information.’

He nodded.

‘I’ll tell Harry.’

‘We’ll leave Kendrick out this time.’

Again he nodded.

‘One more thing Bernie. If I don’t show up on Sunday, forget this operation. Don’t go through with it: it won’t be safe.’

While he was staring uneasily at me, I left the cabin.

After a shower and a shave, I found the time was only 20.22. I could hear the sound of T.V. coming from Tim’s cabin. I knocked on his door.

‘Want to spend some of Mr. Essex’s money tonight, Tim?’ I asked when he opened the door.

‘Sure. Where do we go?’

‘On the town.’

It was while I was driving the Alfa towards Paradise City that I said casually, ‘How’s the runway shaping?’

‘Fine,’ O’Brien said. ‘No problem. It’ll be ready in three weeks: going like a bomb.’

‘I hear there’s a similar runway being built outside Merida. You wouldn’t know about that?’

‘Merida? Sure.’ O’Brien chuckled. ‘Now that was a real sonofabitch to build, but it’s finished now. My sidekick Bill O’Cassidy is putting the finishing touches to it. I was talking to him on the phone only last night. I wanted his advice about a rock problem I’ve run into. Bill is about the best man in this game. He told me he can’t wait to get out of Yucatan. He’s had a bellyful.’

‘But the runway is finished?’

‘Oh, sure.’

‘O’Cassidy? I knew a Frank O’Cassidy. Would that be a relation?’

‘Could be. I know Bill had a brother serving in Vietnam. His name was Sean. He was killed out there in the 6th battalion, parachute. He won the Silver Star.’

‘Not the same man.’

I pulled up outside the Casino.

‘Let’s eat.’

Later, after a top class meal, I said casually, ‘Your pal O’Cassidy. Would he be staying at the Continental hotel?’

O’Brien had had a lot to drink and thought I was just making conversation.

‘He’s at the Chalco.’

Just then two dolly birds moved up to us and asked if we would like some fun.

I said some other time and they smiled and went away, waving their hips at us. I signalled to the waiter, signed for the meal and pushed back my chair.

‘How about bed. Tim? You have a hard day’s work tomorrow.’

‘Damn fine meal.’ Tim got to his feet. ‘Man! Did you strike it good!’

My mind was pretty active on the way back to the airport. I decided I would leave for Merida the following morning. After I had left Tim at his cabin, I called the Florida Airlines and booked a flight to Merida, leaving Paradise City at 10.27.

I would be a day’s jump ahead of Kendrick and I had a feeling any jump ahead of that fat queer was a move in my favour.

A battered, rusty Chevy rushed me from the Merida airport to the Chalco hotel. The driver looked as if he should still be at school: his blue-black hair reached to the collar of his dirty white shirt and he continually leaned out of the car window to curse other drivers.

The heat was something and it was raining fit to drown a duck. I sat back on broken springs and sweated, and every now and then, shut my eyes as a crash seemed certain, but the boy finally got me to the hotel in one piece.

I paid him of in Mexican money I had collected at the airport and dashed through the rain into the hotel.

It was down a narrow side street, painted white and the lobby was clean with cactus plants, bamboo chairs and a tiny fountain that made a soft sound which encouraged a coolness that didn’t exist. I went up to the reception desk where an old fat Mexican sat picking his teeth with a splinter of wood.

‘A room for the night with a shower.’ I said.

He shoved a tattered register towards me and a police card.

I went through the motions, then a tiny, dirty boy appeared to take my bag.

‘Mr. O’Cassidy in?’ I asked.

The old man showed slight interest. He said something in Spanish.

‘Mr. O’Cassidy,’ I repeated in a slightly louder voice.

The little boy said, ‘He in bar.’ And he pointed. I followed the direction of his dirty finger and saw a door. I gave the kid the equivalent of a half dollar and told him to take my bag up to my room. The kid’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. The old man leaned forward and stared first at the money in the kid’s dirty hand and then at the kid. I doubted if the kid would stick with the money. I left them and entered the tiny bar where a radio played soft music, where a fat girl with long black plaits supported herself on the bar and where, at the far end of the bar, was a man, hidden by the Herald Tribune .

‘Scotch on the rocks,’ I said, moving down to the middle of the bar.

At the sound of my voice, the man lowered the newspaper and regarded me. I waited until the girl had given me the drink, then looked at him.

He was a man of around forty-five, big with reddish, close-cropped hair, a blunt, heavily tanned face and steady green eyes. He was the same ilk as Tim O’Brien: a man you couldn’t help but like.

I raised my glass and said, ‘Hi!’

His wide Irish smile was warming.

‘Hi, yourself. You just moved in?’

I wandered down the bar close to him.

‘Jack Crane. May I buy you a drink?’

‘Thanks.’ He nodded to the girl who busied herself with a Scotch and soda. ‘Bill O’Cassidy.’

He offered his hand and I shook it.

‘That’s luck. Tim O’Brien told me to look out for you.’

He lifted his eyebrows.

‘You know Tim?’

‘Know him? We were out on the town last night.’

O’Cassidy glanced at the fat girl as she brought him his drink then picking it up. he jerked his head to a table away from the bar and we went over there.

‘That babe never stops listening,’ he said as we sat down. ‘How’s Tim?’

‘Fine. He’s working like hell on this runway. You know about that, don’t you?’

‘Yeah. He’s in trouble with rocks.’ O’Cassidy grinned. ‘He doesn’t know when he is well off; I’ve had swamps to cope with.’