Joe Gores: Menaced Assassin

La Paz didn’t look much like the novel’s descriptions any more. No little palm-frond huts: the poorer people of La Paz had beaten-out five-gallon kerosene tins for roofs; commercial developments and funky fast-food joints lined the highway. Rich houses with red tile roofs dotted the higher ground, and they passed a large resort hotel complex with wrought-iron gates ablaze with bougainvillea set between ornate concrete and stucco balustrades. Still had nice sandy beaches, though.

Five minutes later, the guide said in slurry, heavily accented English, “Turn left. Up here. Next left.”

Tony slowed the heavy Chrysler, turned in at the sharply angled driveway. Gravel crunched under the tires. The heavy steel gates were open, with a single armed guard on either side of them. Branches brushed the top of the car as they passed.

“Sorta lax security,” said Tony in barely veiled contempt.

The thick tropical foliage abruptly ended as the drive widened into a broad parking area. On the right a number of small buildings spread out over the open grassy ground. There were a black Mercedes, a red Ferrari, a chunky olive-green Range Rover, a Cadillac Fleetwood sedan, a Corvette.

“You park here,” said the guide, his voice surly.

Several men in civilian clothes lounged about by the cars, eyes watchful. One was wiping down the sparkling Mercedes: a fully auto Ingram MAC-11 was lying on the fender he was polishing. The man working on the red Ferrari had a mini-Uzi on a leather strap worn bandoleer fashion over his shoulder and across his chest. Red got out, his hand hovering by the tails of the brightly colored sport shirt he wore outside his slacks. When he nodded, Tony opened the rear door for Mr. Prince.

The way led through an arbor and on the other side was the mansion. The heavy perfume of tropical flowers swept over them. It was immense, Spanish style, set on a knoll overlooking the bay. They were greeted by a tall lean distinguished-looking man with a beautifully barbered white goatee and flowing white hair.

“Senor Prince, you honor my household.”

Ignoring Tony and Red, as was proper, he shook Prince’s hand. Mr. Prince returned his slight bow.

“You honor me with your hospitality, Governor.”

At the front of the mansion, a cool breeze was blowing up across the face of the low bluff from the achingly blue bay. Below were sparkling waves sweeping up to break upon a creamy white sand beach with gentle thuds before sliding back down to mate with their following clone.

Sandpipers on spindly legs were tiny moving dots at the lip of the advancing and retreating waves. A little girl in a blue one-piece swimsuit was rushing in and out of the water, shrieking with distant laughter sweet as birdsong. A small black and white dog ran in and out with her, yipping to her laughter.

“My daughter,” said the governor with pride in his voice.

“She is very beautiful,” said Mr. Prince.

“I am pleased that she takes after her mother.”

A tall elderly woman in a one-piece cotton dress was standing on the beach watching the girl. She seemed to be alone. Tony nudged Red’s arm.

“Lousy security,” he said.

“Look by the big boulder.”

Two soldiers in uniforms were lounging against the rock with AK-47s. The girl looked up and shaded her eyes and saw her father and waved extravagantly. The governor’s aristocratic face was wreathed in smiles. The smiles drew sharp crinkles at the corners of his eyes and etched lines in his lean cheeks. His eyes were almost black, with warm depths. He waved back. So did Mr. Prince. Their little group returned to the house.

“I am sorry my wife is not here to greet you. She is in Mexico City. Last-minute Christmas shopping. Shall we go in?”

The mansion was dim and spacious and quiet and cool. Everything gleamed, from the red waxed tile floors underfoot to the crystal chandeliers overhead. The carpets were thick and handwoven in bright Indian colors.

“I understand your election was very successful.”

“It was what you North Americans call, I believe, a landslide?” He raised an eyebrow quizzically as he spoke. Mr. Prince nodded. “Of course we are a poor country, but with NAFTA we hope to steal some shipping from Oakland and San Diego…”

In the living room, every wall was covered with paintings, the polished antique furniture had beautifully worked Mexican silver and ceramic artifacts on the surfaces. The chairs were of rosewood with spindly legs and hand-crocheted seats. There was a marvelously handmade model sailing ship five feet long on a davenport table behind the couch which faced the sea through tall front windows.

“I understand your Las Vegas has the fastest-growing economy in the United States,” said the governor.

“It’s got everything,” bragged Prince. “Weather, access to California, cheap labor, entertainment…”

“And the gambling.”

“The backbone, of course,” agreed Mr. Prince seriously.

Red stood with his back to the wall, his head on a swivel. A hell of a lot of firepower around this place, casually displayed. It worried him, a little. Tony, as usual, was out of it, a fucking tourist, walking around touching stuff; Red could see the governor keeping a wary eye on him. Bull in a china shop.

None of the furniture looked as if anyone ever sat on it. To one side was a grand piano with ranks of faded family photos marching across its polished top in silver frames. A grandfather clock tolled the seconds with a pompous pendulum beat.

“Shall we have some breakfast?”

The dining room had a very long polished hardwood table and two walls of glass looking out on the spacious grounds. Red half expected to see strolling peacocks. The other walls were of polished hardwood. There was a museum quality to the mansion, as if nobody lived there.

Tony was already in the kitchen, chowing down with the help. Red took his stance just inside the door, his back to the wall, his hands laced in front of his stomach. The butt of his gun was only inches away.

The governor said to him, a trifle sharply, “There is no threat of danger here, young man.”

“It’s my job, sir,” said Red in his low soft voice.

“I see.” The governor paused, then jerked his silvery head in a little nod. “Yes. Your job. Quite admirable.”

The breakfast was bountiful, beautifully served on fine china and solid silver cutlery. Papayas with limes, eggs done Mexican style with chiles, hot tortillas and warm rolls, juice, coffee in silver pots. The napkins were lace, hand-embroidered, as was the antique tablecloth, its ivory color maintained by washing it in tea.

“The gambling is the backbone, you say, Martin?”

“It makes the rest possible. The house never loses money, its percentage is built right into the odds.”

“A marvelous source of income…” Red finally understood why the governor had invited Mr. Prince to breakfast. “If we here in Baja California de sud should locate a casino in La Paz to bring added revenue for needed government spending…”

“I’m sure you would find our industry supportive,” said Mr. Prince smoothly.

“And the necessary technical knowledge…”

“Would be forthcoming.”

For a percentage, of course, thought Red, and understood why Mr. Prince had accepted the invitation. A small percentage; but a toehold here in Mexico! Fun in the winter sun-with gambling! Dynamite.

The driveway in from the main road had been plowed, snowbanks stood four feet high on either side of Dante’s rental car. He fought the wheel; even with chains crunk-crunk-crunking against the insides of the fenders he could end up in a snowbank. The sky was deep blue, the sun off the snow dazzled the eyes.

The drive curved across the open rolling ground, he saw the long low single-story ranchhouse. There were barns and outhouses and even a bunkhouse with smoke drifting up from a stovepipe through the roof. It looked like a Christmas card.