Stuart Woods - Santa Fe Dead

“Easy.” He remembered that he was going to have to do something about filing his tax return, unless he wanted another government agency searching for him.

“You park your car here,” the man said, pointing.

“Car?”

The man rapped on the side of the van. “Parked just here.” He handed over the keys. “Every afternoon, five o’clock, about, the two women go to El Toro Loco for a margarita, then they go to town for shopping, on this road, here. It’s a quiet road; you can hit them going or coming, take your pick. Must look like a robbery, yes?”

“Yes, I know.”

The man handed him a very small semiautomatic pistol. “Is.380, plenty big?”

“Yes.”

“Comes with this,” the man said. He handed over a Ziploc bag containing two magazines, a silencer and a pair of latex gloves, and, using a handkerchief, he dropped the gun into the bag.

“Gun and bullets don’t have no prints on them. You use gloves when you handle and when you drive car, got it?”

“Got it.”

“When you are finished, you drive into Acapulco and park car somewhere, walk away, leave nothing. Get a hotel. You call the man. He will arrange to meet you with the money; he will tell you where. Then you go back to Tijuana. Go now. Any questions?”

“Do the two women have names?”

“You know them: Tina and Soledad.”

He knew them. Wells was leaving no loose ends. He thought maybe he would like to fuck them first, as he had before. He took the plastic bag and his overnight bag, got out of the van and into the car, a well-used Toyota. He ignored the latex gloves and put on his own leather driving gloves.

First, he found the bar, then the house, then, using the map, he drove the road into Acapulco. There were two very sharp bends in the dirt road, a couple of miles from the bar, and a good ditch along the road. He saw only one car the whole time.

He didn’t want to be seen anywhere by anybody, so he avoided El Toro Loco and drove back to the beach. He found a narrow track off the road behind some bushes that gave him a view of the house. He backed in and left the engine running, the air-conditioning on. He checked his watch: three forty.

HE WAITED LESS than an hour before he saw the two women pull out of the driveway. He put the car in gear and waited until they passed and got some distance, then he followed. At El Toro Loco, they didn’t stop but turned toward Acapulco on the road he had just driven. He made the turn and accelerated to catch up; he wanted them at the first curve.

It was not to be; a battered pickup truck was passing in the other direction. Cato swore, then caught up for the next curve. As they made the turn to the left, he stepped on the gas and went for the “pit,” a maneuver he had used in the movies. He struck their left rear bumper hard enough to throw the rear end of their car off the road, which pitched the whole vehicle into the ditch, turning it upside down.

He took one last look around, then got out of the car and ran to theirs. “Tina? Soledad?” he called out.

“Yes, we’re in here! Who is it?”

“It’s Jack,” he called back. He ran around the upside-down car to the driver’s window and looked inside. The two women were still in their seat belts, their heads touching the ceiling.

“Jack,” Tina said, smiling, “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but get us out of this car!”

“Don’t worry, Tina,” he said. He shot her in the side of the neck, under the ear. Soledad began screaming, so he shot her, too, near the heart. She kept moving a little, then stopped. He felt both women for a pulse and found none.

Their handbags were lying on the ceiling next to their heads. He grabbed them both and checked the road again for traffic. Nothing. He emptied both bags on the ground next to the car and took two wads of pesos and American currency, then tossed the handbags onto the pile of things. Then he remembered that Tina wore a gold Rolex that Don Wells had given her, and he went back and took it off her wrist.

A moment later, he was driving off toward Acapulco, and he didn’t see another car until he reached the outskirts of the city. He drove into the center of town, grabbed his overnight bag, stuffed the gun and the plastic bag into it, locked the car and walked away. He found a cantina with a garden and ordered a Dos Equis, then got out his cell phone and dialed Wells.

“Yes?”

“It’s done.”

“I told you to call me late at night.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“What else did you forget?”

“Nothing. It went perfectly.”

“Meet me at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon at the FBO next to the main terminal at the airport. Be there early. When you see me get off the airplane and enter the building, go to the men’s room. I’ll meet you there and give you your money.”

“See you then,” Cato said and hung up. I wonder what else you’re going to give me, he thought, seeing that I’m the last loose end.

CUPIE AND VITTORIO were still making phone calls when there was a knock on the door of their motel room. Cupie answered the door. A tall, handsome man stood there.

“Ron! How are you? Come on in.” Cupie introduced him to Vittorio.

“I’m great, Cupie.” Gillette found a chair and settled down, looking way too good for his plain surroundings. “We all set to go?”

“We are. You have to take your girlfriend to dinner at a place called La Reserve at eight thirty. Give me her address, and a car will pick you up shortly before that.” Cupie made a note of it.

“What do I do there, just eat?”

Cupie showed him a photograph. “This woman will be having dinner there at the same time, probably alone. Her name is Eleanor Keeler, but she sometimes goes by the name of Barbara Eagle. I want you to see her, and above all, I want her to see you. Vittorio has arranged through a friend for you to be seated near her, and if possible I want you to chat her up. If that doesn’t work, follow her when she leaves and introduce yourself. You can use your real name; it won’t matter. That’s all you have to do, until tomorrow night.”

“Okay, got it.”

“Sorry, there’s also the postcard. Did you bring the photos I asked you to?”

Gillette took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Cupie.

“They came out great.”

Cupie looked at the postcard prints, selected one and handed it to Gillette. “I want you to write what I tell you to on the back of the photo.”

Gillette took a handsome fountain pen from his pocket, uncapped it and took Cupie’s dictation.

“Keep the postcard, then tonight, when you leave La Reserve, leave it in an envelope with Barbara’s name on it at the front desk. Then wait for her call.”

“What do I do tomorrow night?” Gillette asked.

“She’ll accept your invitation, so welcome her, make her comfortable, give her a drink, then tell her it’s just going to be the two of you. Fuck her, if you can; it won’t be hard. Vittorio and I will be at hand, but she won’t see us. After that, just go along with the play. That’s all there is to it.”

“And what’s the play?”

“It’s better you don’t know.” Cupie gave him a few more instructions, then sent him on his way.

JACK CATO FINISHED his cerveza, then left the cantina, looking for a hotel. He nearly threw the gun and the plastic bag into a Dumpster but thought better of it. He wasn’t out of this alive yet, and he wasn’t going to take any chances. By the weekend, he should be free and clear; he’d collect his truck from Tijuana and vanish into Mexico. He had a couple of ideas about where he might settle, and the money Wells was bringing him would move him into a better real estate bracket. He was beginning to feel good about his new country of residence.