Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

With vicious thoroughness the phone call seemed timed to arrive at the precise moment when he had sunk into the deepest depths of sleep, unconscious and unaware. The ringing nagged at him, tugging and jangling, and would not go away no matter how he twisted and pulled the pillow over his head. In the end it roused him, bringing him back reluctantly to semi-consciousness so he could grope and fumble for the offending instrument, knocking the entire apparatus to the floor until he eventually found the handpiece and raised it. Wrong end too. Finally, with growing anger that was beginning to wipe away the dregs of disturbed sleep, he got the right end to his ear and mumbled something into the other.

“Is that you, Mr. Hawkin?” Mumble. “Listen, I must hang up quickly. This is a message from Rooster. He says to tell you that he is very sorry but something has gone wrong, a slight error.”

“Wrong? Error? What?”

“Yes. You see the body of your friend Mr. Davidson has just been found in a canal in Xochimilco Park. The police will now be on their way to see you. Good-by.”

For a good sixty seconds Tony just lay there with his tired mind trying to fit all the pieces together. Phone. Who? True? Lies maybe. But if it were true ... What would happen to him if the police were on the way here now and his roommate had been found dead with a knife wound in his back, while Tony had in his possession a deadly butcher knife that fitted the wound precisely? It was very obvious what would happen to him and as this reality drilled home through his sluggish brain cells he found himself standing beside the bed, covers tossed wide, eyes rolling like a trapped animal. Flight! He had to get out of here.

His fingers fumbled as he pulled on the clothes he had taken off, when?, it seemed like just minutes before. The shirt had a mourning band inside the collar while the pattern of the necktie had been enlivened with a splotch of kosher mustard. Never mind, speed counted, no time to find another. Jacket and trousers rumpled as well; refugee not fashion plate. Could he take his luggage? He considered this while he tied his shoes. No, impossible, there was no time to pack anything. But he must take the painting, get it to Washington, that could go in his attache case with his passport and other papers. Fine, work of a second.

The painting was in the case and the case locked and he had actually started for the door before memory caught him neatly between the eyes so sharply that he skidded to a stop. Hadn’t he forgotten something, one little thing?

The knife. How the police would relish finding that here. It was still on the floor of the closet where D’Isernia had placed it. Click, open the case and toss it in. Clack, lock it and out the door. Slam.

“Good morning. Looks like it’s gonna be a nice day.”

The voice, close to his ear, jolted Tony so hard he almost dropped the case, but he held it more tightly and turned to face the man just emerging from the next suite. Stetson hat of great expanse, high-heel boots elaborately tooled and decorated, face as leathery as the boots, wrinkled and wattled. Not the police at all, just another tourist, nothing to fear. The sound of his own heart, as loud in his ears as a pile driver, slackened a bit.

“Good morning. Yes, nice day.”

They discussed the weather all the way to the elevator while Tony wondered why he was doing this and not just bolting. Act normally, that was the cue. Be calm, talk with this son of the old West, and make his exit gracefully from the hotel. He had definitely decided upon this wise course when he noticed that the indicator showed the elevator rising toward this floor and, clearly as though all were glass, he saw the police who were jammed in it shoulder to shoulder.

“Late, got an appointment, good-by.”

Off and running toward the exit sign down the hall leaving Tex gaping behind him, through the door and down the stairs to collide with the bellboy who was coming up them.

“Just the gentleman I was hoping to meet, senor. For some inexplicable reason a great number of police have entered the establishment and have been asking for you. They rise now in the elevator.” The vision had been true! “I thought perhaps you would care to avoid embarrassment and exit through the service entrance.”

“Done! Show me the way.”

They clattered down the stairs to the ground floor and along an ill-lit hallway toward an open door and sunlight.

“I cannot thank you too much.”

“There is an easy way to express one’s gratitude, senor”

“I was about to do that. Here, take this for your services.” They were at the entrance now, bills changing hands again, when Tony had a second vision, as clear as the one he had had of the police—jammed elevator. This involved a man who could be bought, for any man who could be bought would certainly be on sale to others.

“And take this as well,” Tony said producing more money and pointing off to the right. “If the police should ask, by all means tell them that you saw me and that I went that way.”

“As good as done.”

Tony walked quickly off to the left, but no more than ten steps. When he looked back over his shoulder the doorway was empty. He turned and crossed the street and hurried away in the opposite direction. Not too fast, make haste slowly. There were other pedestrians here and he accommodated his pace to theirs while trying to ignore the growing sensation between his shoulder blades, his ears ready for the cries that would stop him, followed by the bark of the volley of bullets. When he reached the corner he could bear it no longer and, as he turned, he risked one long look behind him before the wall intervened. Prophecy again. Burned on his retina was an image of the nark of a bellboy pointing down the street in the direction he had originally taken, while blue-coated figures rushed past him like hounds upon the scent.

A false scent. Now he had to muddle his trail some more while he considered what he should do next. The squeal of protesting brakes sounded in his ear as a battered bus proudly titled “La Dulce Vida” stopped at the curb to disgorge passengers. In an instant Tony was in the midst of pushing figures with baskets, dangling squawking chickens, bags of beans, crates of cucumbers. This wave rushed away and a minor backwash of passengers streamed past to board the bus. It was natural to join them and he swept in, to fumble out the copper coins in payment and to stand, surrounded and lost in the crowd as the vehicle rumbled away.

What next? For the moment he was safe, but the haven was only a temporary one. He searched for an answer but could find none; his mind wasn’t working too well, the affairs of the previous night and the resulting fatigue were taking their toll. For the moment it was all he could do to hold to the smooth metal of the pole and jounce along with the other passengers. Soon, he would decide soon, he held to this optimistic thought as he came as close to sleep standing up as he could.

The rest of the passengers decided for him as the bus ground to a halt one last time. There were shouts of instruction and the wild clucking of suspended hens as everyone exited, Tony as well, carried along with the press. When he was outside and had managed to force his way clear he saw that they were in the open-ended cavern of a bus terminal, Estrella de Oro, a great sign read over the entrance and this star of gold was marked prominently on all of the vehicles here. A column of cities was picked out in red letters against the dirty white of the wall, but they were distant and hard to read. What was close was a rumbling giant of the road, tires as high as his shoulder, with a winding cue of prospective passengers snaking toward its open door. Without further thought Tony joined the end of the line and others grouped up behind him. They had shuffled forward a few paces before he realized that all the others held tickets, no doubt purchased inside the station. This was not a good thing. He liked the idea of boarding this bus at once, wherever it was going, though he disliked immensely the idea of asking for a ticket, being surveyed by the agent, who would undoubtedly be a man of suspicious manner and keen memory who would later tell all he knew to the police. What could he do? The man ahead of him, a farm worker in simple cotton and wide sombrero, clutched his slip of pasteboard between work-gnarled fingers. Tony leaned forward and spoke quietly into his ear.