Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

An indefinable measure of time passed and they were in a different bar although Tony had no memory of going there. It was during this mysterious transition that Pablo vanished, as well as the Bantu who was undoubtedly still asleep at the last table. However, there were new friends to share a new bottle and when Tony had trouble pouring from it they were only too ready to oblige. About this time he also discovered that sleeping on the table was a very good idea and he did this, occasionally waking to listen to the friendly hum of conversation, then drifting off again.

When he awoke next it was to brush at the flies that were walking on his face, stirred into activity by the low rays of the rising sun that were burning through the open door. He blinked at this then screwed his eyes shut again instantly since the light pierced through them and directly into his brain like a heated needle. Sleep battled with discomfort and discomfort won. His arm was asleep where he had been lying on it, while a sore ache spread through his midriff. With a great deal of effort he managed to roll over and pull out the morral that was digging into his side. But the flies and sun were inescapable and eventually, groaning weakly, he opened his eyes and tried to understand where he was. On the floor. In a bar. Alone. The owner, who was sipping a cup of coffee behind the bar, wished him a good morning when he saw that he was awake. Tony could only produce a groan in reply.

It was terrible. Sleep has its own physiological rules, the engines of the body idle while the internal chemistry operates at a reduced level. Now, awake, the messages of distress were starting to come in. The needle of pain that had shot through his eye into his brain stayed there and even grew in intensity while at the same time, he had never had a dual headache before, a sort of clamp of anguish encircled his skull whenever he attempted to move it. In addition to this torment there were internal agonies that came and went with some regularity. Not to mention the nausea, the all-embracing, world-trembling nausea such as he had never experienced before. Another groan, rich with feeling, was dragged protesting from his lips, cracking its way through his dry throat. “Water ...” he said in a hoarse whisper and the bar owner nodded with understanding.

“Here, a large glass, drink it all down.”

Tony managed to sit up and to take the cloudy glass, but his hand shook so that the water slopped over the edge and he had to seize it with both hands, canceling the vibration of one out with the other. The effort exhausted all the energy he had available so he sat, slumped, against the wall, the glass on the floor beside him, and tried to force coherent thought through the alcohol-numbed channels of his brain. With some reluctance memory returned. The Hilton, yes it had all started there with those damn loaded coconuts aswim with rum. He must have been half-crocked by the time he left the hotel and what followed, followed quite naturally. People always said Indians shouldn’t drink. He normally didn’t, not since the Army where the numbness of drink substituted for despair. It was foolish, but it was at least over and he could go back to his plan, weaker, poorer, but wiser. How poor exactly? Trembling fingers searched his pockets.

Poor nothing, broke. Whether his drinking companions had rolled him or simply drank his substance was not important. It was gone, all of it, gone. A few copper centavo pieces, almost worthless, were all that remained. Gone.

With this discovery came an overwhelming depression that sank him into even deeper misery, full distance from the elation of the previous evening. Master spy, that’s what he was, the super foreign agent who could do anything. And failed completely inside of one day. All gone, every bit of the money, and with it any chance of success. A total failure.

“After the water,” said the bar owner, “you must have a hair from the dog that has bitten you. This will also help the tremors of the hand, telegrafista it is called, as in the motion of the fingers of a telegraph operator at the key, a symptom of tequila drinking. It will pass. Here.”

A smaller glass appeared almost under Tony’s nose, filled to the brim with the transparent and deadly liquid that brought about his downfall of the previous night. Its sharp cactus-needle odor assaulted his nostrils and bitter bile rose up into his mouth at the same time in response. He could not.

“Drink it, it is the only way.” Spoken from the source, the man who knew.

Tony realized that he had to do it, had to sober up and look for a way out of this mess of his own creation, but forcing his traitor hand to seize the glass was a totally different matter. He assembled the shattered shards of his will and tried, driving that vibrating member up to seize the glass and hurl the contents down his throat before nausea reversed direction.

Down it went, burning like lava, searing a track that led straight to his interior where it exploded; he shuddered as with the ague. But the burning died down, carrying with it most of his worse symptoms, permitting a measure of intelligible thought at last. The owner nodded with approval. He should nod, a good part of Tony’s money now rested in his ancient cash register. Payment in advance for drink, floor space and eye opener. Perhaps more.

“Would it be possible to use your premises to wash?” Tony asked. His hand grated over a chin like coarse sandpaper. “And to shave as well?”

Without too much reluctance a towel and razor were supplied: the hard cake of yellow soap would have to do for everything. Once washed, cooled, shaved, nicked, and blood-spotty Tony had to admit that he did feel a little bit better. The next thing was money. With much greater reluctance the owner permitted him a single phone call, his credit was obviously running out, which had only even more depressing results. Mr. Sones had checked out of the Hilton earlier that morning, undoubtedly while he lay snoring in a drunken stupor, and by now was halfway to Mexico City.

With shuffling tread Tony exited, wincing at the searing light, his feet automatically taking him downhill to the shore. There was a concrete bench here under a palm tree and he slumped onto it and tried desperately to see a way out of this dilemma, but he could not. A charter boat thud-thudded out to the open sea and far off a ship’s whistle hooted. He sank deeper into black depression. Someone sat on the bench next to him and he was not even aware of it until the newcomer spoke.

“Listen, Joe, you got contacts here, you look like a guy what knows his way around. If you can put me in the way of some good grass, couple of lids or more, I’ll make it worth your while. Whaddaya say?”

The speaker was American, camera-hung, gaily dressed and eager.

“No spik English.”

Disgruntled, the prospective pot purchaser walked away. Tony felt a measure of disgust. So that was what he looked like? A marijuana pimp or something. He had indeed sunk about as far as could be sunk.

No! A rush of indignant self-assurance booted him in the rump. Never! He was a well-disguised international agent, that was all. A beautiful disguise that worked to perfection, a disguise improved by a night on a bar floor; he might even have done that on purpose for authenticity’s sake. Foreign agents brook no bounds when it comes to doing their job. All right, he had one or two too many (one or two what? Bottles?), but that was a mistake he would not repeat. His cover had not been blown, he was still relatively intact and on the job. Just a little bit lighter in the pocket, that was all. How much was it? Eighty dollars, no more, a minute fraction of what the government was spending on this operation. All he needed was some more money and he would be back on the job crossing swords with the best of them in this dangerous game of wits.