Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“Great. Which raises a very important point. Come on, tell me quickly. Am I still a trusted employee of the Bureau or not?”

“There have been no orders about a change in status.”

“Exactly. And I do have the picture.”

“You are still with us.”

“Fine. Order up a couple more of these, they’re really good.” The second coconut was soon empty and as he cleaned up the few drops that hung to the meat inside, the rich fumes of the rum rose to his brain and, in a single flash, revelation came to him, an idea that his subconscious had been nurturing for a long time, awaiting only unlocking by an alcoholic key. “Then here is the plan. I’ll meet you wherever you want and bring the painting, and we’ll take up our former relationship where we left off.”

“This hotel is watched closely. Therefore downtown ...”

“Negative. I don’t mean here. Give me at least a day and I’ll bring the painting wherever you want in the Republic. But not in Acapulco. I want to get out of this city and leave everyone still here looking for me. Understand?”

“It could be dangerous and I doubt if we can get you out of the city easily.”

“I’ll get myself out.”

“It would be best if I took the painting with me.”

“Negative again, Sones old boy. You know and I know and we both know the other knows that that painting is my ticket back to the job. My, but the coconut was good!” He sipped deep of the newly arrived one while Sones sat quietly in thought.

“All right. I can see no other way. We are making our contact in Cuautla, that is in Morelos south of Mexico City. There is a resort, Cocoyoc, that is close by. We are in casita seven.”

“I never heard of the place.”

“It is not far from Cuernavaca.”

“Well, I’ve heard of that so I should be able to find it. With some luck I’ll be there tomorrow. Thursday, but not before night. And D’Isernia said that he had to have the painting back by Friday night or the whole deal was off. He also said that he would contact me at the hotel in Mexico City, which is impossible now because of the police. So how do we find him?”

“No problem, in fact he has been in touch with us, very annoyed about your having the painting. We guaranteed the Friday delivery in Cuautla.”

“Very nice of you considering you had no idea where it was. That still doesn’t leave very much time to get it to Washington and back and have it checked for authenticity.”

“That has been considered as well. We have co-opted a specialist from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. I will arrange for the specialist to meet us in Cocoyoc. All of this is of course dependent upon your being there with the painting. You can do that?”

“Don’t worry, in the bag. But I’ll need your help.”

“How?”

“Loan me a pair of your swimming trunks and a sport shirt. And make sure there is at least a thousand pesos in the pocket.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Have another drink while you’re getting them and keep my plans to myself. Security is very loose on this operation as you said yourself.”

Sones hesitated, but apparently realized that there was no other way. He left without another word—so that Tony had to call the waiter and order himself—but returned quickly with the garments wrapped in a towel.

“The money’s there?” Tony asked, with a new-found suspicion inculcated by the past days’ events.

“A thousand, like you said.”

“Okay. I’ll swim out and you follow. Leave it by the pool outside and be on your way. See you in Cocoyoc.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s my secret.”

Tony smiled and laid one finger beside his nose and stifled a small belch. That was his secret, by God, and no one was ever going to find out.

With the towel-wrapped bundle under his arm Tony walked into the sea. It was cooler than the pool had been and quite pleasant. Police at the airport, bus terminal, Hilton, everywhere. Hah! They couldn’t stop him. They thought they could but they couldn’t. He walked on, knee deep in the water, and waved amicably at the private policeman who stood at the end of the beach where a subtle breakwater and not too subtle barbed wire separated the playground of the tourist from the plebeian strand beyond. The man waved back amicably, for his duty was to prevent illegal entry and it was no concern of his if a guest chose to leave in this fashion. For love perhaps, or the absence of it, the gringas were not at all like Mexican wives; he could think of many reasons why a quiet exit could be undertaken for the heady joys of the fine city beyond.

The waves came only as high as Tony’s waist as he rounded the barrier; he held his bundle above out of harm’s way. There were couples beyond enjoying the cool of the evening on the beach and he continued past them until he found a secluded spot in the lee of a sign that proclaimed the value of cerveza Carta Blanca. Here he stripped off and discarded the sodden shorts and replaced them with the slightly baggy and overly colorful trunks. The shirt matched, a jungle of wild blossoms now happily black in the shadows, and in the pocket was a crisp bundle of notes. Wonderful! Now the metamorphosis began. He strolled out onto the avenue, lost in the crowd of identical and even more exotic garb, and wandered toward the center of the city.

His first purchase was a pair of sandals from a curb-side vendor. There were ten one-hundred-peso notes in the bundle and the small merchant grumbled at the size of the bill but managed to have it changed in a store when Tony suggested he was moving on without buying. Before he left he asked directions to the central market where he would disappear.

The heat of the day still lingered in the streets, intensifying the thirst that dried his throat and settled a chalky deposit over his teeth. In an attempt to allay these symptoms he stopped at a stall for a bottle of cold beer which helped a good deal, if only temporarily. The master spy, what was his name?—Timberio—had mentioned a thirst after the drugging and he certainly was right. Temporarily fortified, Tony left the main streets and plunged into a narrow corridor that led to the lights and bustle of the market.

Mercado central. The central market. There is one in every Mexican city large enough to be called a city. Each one different, all very much the same. Open on a seven-day-a-week basis, with certain days the most popular. Stands, stalls, counters, corners, merchants, mendicants, noise, music, mariachi bands, beggars, something for everyone, everything for sale. Fruit stands piled high with tropical color; yellow, green and red bananas, black zapote, yellow-orange mango, purple cactus fruit. The herb merchant with his dried and aromatic wares carefully labeled each for its medicinal qualities; this coarse powder for gout and backache, that miraculous flower for cancer, the other to make tea for liver pain. A great bustle and air of excitement everywhere, odor of fresh meat at the rows of butcher stalls, newly dead carcasses flayed and hung, starvation-ribbed dogs under foot snatching at scrap, dodging the angry kicks. Just beyond, in logistic proximity, the food stalls and al fresco restaurants, meat steaming on embers before the consumers’ eyes, great caldrons of beans, hot crispness of tortillas, customers standing or sitting on stools, backs to the crowd.

Everything for sale; knives, machetes, mattresses, mattocks, harnesses, whips, brassieres, bicycles, all there, all could be bought. And in between the grander merchants the single salesmen, the man sitting on his heels with a handful of limes held out before him, the woman with the wooden box spread with the cigarettes from a single packet to be sold one at a time, next to her the chirmoles vendor packing tiny paper cones with the living contents of these wood grubs so favored as a sauce ingredient.