Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“Friend, I am late arriving here and very tired. Would you save me the inconvenience of buying a ticket at the window by allowing me to purchase your ticket from you at a price ten pesos above the sum printed on its face?”

“Done,” the man said with instant decision. Money and ticket changed hands and the man hurried away to buy a second ticket. The quick transaction went unnoticed in the crowd. A moment later and he was aboard, taking one of the few remaining empty seats next to a woman of solid girth whose ample flesh lapped over onto his cushion, as did her armload of packages.

“Excuse me,” With his solid flank he pushed at her gelled one until it jiggled aside and gave him room to sit down. The flank’s owner sniffed loudly but said nothing. Within the minute the door closed, to the cries of the outraged ticket holders who could not be jammed in, while the barking exhaust of the bus echoed from the concrete walls and into the street. Safety, for the moment, lay with motion and Tony sighed inwardly, then realized that there was still one important point he was unaware of.

“Would you tell me where this bus goes?” he asked his seat mate. She first delivered a look that made silent comment upon his sanity or the quantity of alcohol he had recently consumed, and only after this message had been delivered did she reluctantly answer the question.

“Acapulco.”

Wasn’t that nice. Playground of the jet set, and perhaps not a bad choice. There was an international airport there, he knew from the ads in the travel section of the paper, and if he moved fast he might be able to get a plane back to the United States. He hoped the efficiency of the Mexican police did not extend to wiring his description to all airports in the country at once. He hoped. He nodded forward onto the attache case on his knees and dozed off with that hope, jogging and nodding as the bus forced its way through the city traffic, sleeping better once they plunged onto the toll road over the hills. When they made the occasional stop he lifted his head to see brown walls and dusty squares, occasionally a lurch disturbed him and he looked out at the sweep of valley and mountain they rushed through, replaced soon after by the acid green of jungle when they dropped down to the coastal plain. It could not be said that he slept well, but he did feel slightly better when with a great hissing of air brakes they pulled into the Acapulco terminal. This was done by completely blocking the width of Calle Costera Miguel Aleman ... the handsome boulevard that flanked the shore, then backing into the building. Tony blinked the sleep from his eyes and stepped out into the damp oven of the Acapulco afternoon.

“Pardon me, mister, but I would want to talk with you.” This was it; the expected touch on the sleeve, the long arm of the law reaching out for him, the end of the trail. There could be no escape now and it would be almost a relief to end this insane chase and be taken into custody.

Almost. While the tired part of his sensibilities wanted to flop down and toss in the towel there was a small hard core of resistance that would not allow it. No. He would not give in that easily. All of these conflicting thoughts warred and grappled in the seconds it took him to turn and look at the man behind him. As he did so his face grew slack, his eyes opened wide in simple wonderment.

“ Mande?” he asked, as bereft of any knowledge of the English language as the simplest peon. His accoster, a man with an exceedingly blue jaw and an official look, responded automatically in Spanish.

“What is your name?”

“Juan Lopez, why do you ask?” Spoken with the most nasal of vowels and elongation of the final syllables.

“A mistake. I am looking for a North American.”

Tony shrugged and turned away, walked away with the other man’s eyes burning holes in his back. One pace, two, three, five, he was at the curb and the light was green, crossing, halfway over before the cry.

“Come back here! I want to talk to you.”

Tony ignored it, walking on faster and faster. The policeman was suspicious, his clothes probably; every stitch radiated gringo in opposition to his linguistic cover. A whistle blew shrilly and he ran.

There was a park here, between the road and the water, not large but filled with stands and stalls and vendors of souvenirs for the tourist trade, its alleys and passages forming a maze to faze any minotaur hunter. Tony plunged into it with the thud of heavy feet close behind. Left, right, squeeze between a counter laden with stuffed armadillos, frogs, snakes, deformed foxes, this standing beside a tin-sided booth of postcards, ashtrays, toy banderillas, bullfight posters. Out behind the stalls, then down another narrow way.

It worked. Pursuer and pursued were swallowed up in the crowds and stalls. But for how long? This was a limited area and already more whistles were sounding in the distance. Tony slowed to a rapid walk with sweat bursting from every pore, his jacket clinging to him like an overcoat. He took a moment to stop at a bench and remove jacket and tie and thrust them crumpled into his attache case, to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. This was a little cooler and altered his appearance slightly. The attache case could not be hidden, but more than one businessman carried this badge of rank even here. With a hunted animal’s cunning he circled back and emerged from the maze almost where he had entered, backtracking while the pursuit rolled on. A minibus stopped not ten yards away and disgorged police who rushed into the park. He tried not to look at them as he crossed back over the avenue and strolled away from the scene. Keep moving, a few blocks farther on. Steps led down from the crowded houses on the hillside above and he turned up them, past a tortilleria with its patient queue of customers, past an open doorway with an indefinable object hanging above it. He stopped to catch his breath, looking up at the thing. An elongated silver tank of some kind with valves at one end. It had been decorated with snout and ears before, a twist of wire behind in the form of a tail, and lettered in red long porker. This small mystery was resolved by a sign behind it that read long porker diving school, learn to scuba here.

“The class goes out soon, sir, why don’t you join us?”

The lounger in the doorway extended the invitation in English so apparently Tony’s northern antecedents were still showing.

“I don’t have my trunks with me.”

“That’s all right.” The young man straightened up and removed the toothpick he had been worrying, eager now with the possibility of a fresh customer. “We supply everything you will need. Tank, mask, fins, weights, a bathing suit if you want one, good instruction, just one hundred and fifty pesos for everything.”

“That’s a little expensive,” Tony said, completely by reflex.

“For the first time, to show you how much you will like it, we will make a special price of one hundred and twenty-five.” He stepped aside and waved entrance; Tony went in more for a chance to sit down in the shade than any desire to enjoy the subaqueous pleasures of the bay.

“I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m not sure I’m really interested.” Two policemen went past the doorway talking loudly. “But this is too good a chance to miss, so I think I will.” He was safe here for the moment, breathing time, thinking time until he figured out what to do next. Somewhere to the rear a small baby cried? He looked around. Tanks, masks and ancillary equipment in racks on the walls, photographs between them of the school’s owner diving with various improbable people, yellowed newspaper clippings pushed into the frames for the sake of verity. Vice President Johnson, Grace Kelly, Senator Bilbo. The lure of the sea draws us all. A buxom young woman with long red hair came out of the rear room buttoning her blouse, her other hand securing an infant in burping position at her shoulder.