Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

With this came the first glimmerings of an idea. Not the best idea so he filed it away for consideration after he had worked on other and more secure schemes. Except none of these came to mind easily, or at all for that matter, so with a great deal of reluctance he had to return to his first brainstorm which revolved around the fact that the only people he was acquainted with in Acapulco, other than his drinking companions of the previous evening and the departed FBI agent, were the members of the Italian Agenzia Terza. Could that acquaintance be turned to his advantage? He had one important thing going for him, the fact that they considered him a dangerous and intelligent agent for the opposition, a false belief admittedly but one now even more strongly rooted since his dramatic escape from their clutches. What was needed was a plan that would enable him to take advantage of this belief without putting him in the way of bullets or spiked spaghetti. And it wasn’t as though they were enemies since the paintings would go to Italy in the end. Grunting with the effort he cudgeled his brain.

No more than half an hour later he took the first step away from the bench, starting on the path which he hoped would lead to success; in any case he had very little to lose at the moment. Perched in sun-baked solitude by the shore was the concrete blockhouse of a public convenience and, as he pushed open the caballeros sign one more time, the thought came unbidden that being a secret agent meant spending a lot of time in this sort of locale. There were no horsemen in the gloomy interior, or occupants of any kind, and he quickly changed clothes, putting the peon into the morral and taking out the Yankee. A little creased by being slept on, but the creases were well disguised by the active floral pattern. There was a discarded newspaper in the corner that he could put to good use, though the headline that caught his eye was far from reassuring, murder in mexico: death by violence. He read quickly about the hapless North American tourist murdered in a singularly brutal fashion, no details given, by his roommate who was now fleeing justice although the police were closing in. It did not make inspiring reading. Smoothing out the newspaper, with the damning headline facing inward, he used it to wrap the clothes, machete, hat, into a not too untidy bundle. He slicked his hair back with some water, then, one at a time, put his feet into the sink and washed them and the sandals free of dust and grime. The reflection in the mirror was that of a seedy gringo, but at least a gringo. Now the next step.

The door to El Restaurante Italiano was already gaping open. This time, however, with very little effort, he resisted its gastronomic blandishments, memories of his last visit being still quite clear. Instead of entering he leaned in through the doorway blinking at the sudden gloom, and spotted the waiter setting a table to the rear.

“Hey, you. Tell Timberio that I want to see him out here. Now.”

The waiter looked up at the hail and dropped a plate that shivered into fragments on the floor, then stood with mouth open and eyes bulging. Very satisfactory if this is what they thought of him. Tony broke the paralysis by waving his bundle in the man’s direction with a certain threat in the gesture so the waiter jumped back, then ran into the kitchen. Tony strolled the few feet to the corner where he could see people approaching from any direction, then leaned against the wall and tried to adopt a sinister air. A hung-over expression asserted itself instead and he twisted his lips in what he hoped was a cold sneer.

Within seconds Timberio popped from the door, and vanished just as precipitously when he saw Tony nearby. The second time he peered out cautiously in all directions before sidling carefully down to whispering distance.

“What is it you want?”

“To talk business just as I did last time.” Sneer. “Before you blew the whistle with that drug attempt.”

“I am sorry, it was a mistake.”

“You had better believe it was. I only came back—and this is your last chance—because money talks. Talk money.”

“I am sure that something can be arranged.”

“Name a figure.”

“Five hundred thousand lire.”

Tony reached inside his bundle and seized his hat, then poked the entire thing in Timberio’s direction. “I have a gun in here and I am a deadly shot, so no more tricks. Say a million.”

Timberio shied back, beginning to sweat. “Yes, a million, it can be arranged.”

“That’s better. I don’t have the painting with me.”

“Payment on delivery.”

“Of course. Give me a thousand pesos now and the balance when I hand the painting over. I need it for the man who is holding the painting for me—and also as a symbol of your good will.” A globe of fiery gas rose at this instant from the churning vat of his stomach and Tony laughed to cover the sound of the eructation. Necessarily, the laugh that emerged had a singularly artificial and echoing quality which Timberio misunderstood as the laugh of a cold killer, for he stepped back again, eyes on the bundle.

“No need for guns ...”

“There had better not be.” He removed his hand and tucked the parcel back under his arm.

“I will give you the thousand now on one condition. I and one other operative will come with you.” Tony chewed this one over but could see no way out of it.

“All right, we’ll do it that way.”

Timberio went back to the restaurant but returned fairly quickly with a solid young man who had a scar that half closed one eye and muscles that strained his thin shirt—a suspicious bulge at the waist as well, which was surely a concealed gun. Well, he had no choice. Timberio looked around carefully before passing over a green wad of bills. Tony ruflled them with his thumb, it seemed ample enough, before putting them away.

“Here we go,” he said and started down the hill with his watchdogs close behind. “Wait here,” he said in front of the Long Porker. “If anyone is with me the message will not be passed to release the painting, that has been arranged. You can see there is no other exit.”

Timberio nodded reluctant agreement then stood back against the opposite wall to watch, while his operative joined the line at the tortilleria where he had a clear view through the door. Strong in his gringo personality, Tony entered the establishment. Redhead and baby sat talking to a prospective customer; she looked up and nodded.

“Come back for another lesson?”

“I just might, But I want to look in the back room, think I left a towel there.”

She waved a languid agreeing hand and he passed by. The workroom was empty, the bathroom door locked and emitting the sound of rushing water. Someone there, he must do this quickly. The box was still in its place beneath the others. He stood on tiptoe, pulled it out, clutched the tottering pile in fear as it all threatened to fall on him, restored its balance and had just pushed the boxed painting inside his parcel as the door opened and the man who had first drawn him to the establishment emerged. He looked suspicious.

“You want something?”

“Just to check in there, think I left a towel yesterday. Nope, doesn’t look like it, be seeing you.”

Followed by a rapid exit to be joined quickly by his bodyguard.

“Did you see me pass the message? Everything is arranged. I will be met at the rendezvous in ten minutes by a messenger with the package.”

“What rendezvous?”

“There,” Tony said, pointing at the familiar whitewashed blockhouse around which so much of his activity seemed to rotate. “He will meet me there.”

Neither representative of the Agenzia Terza seemed surprised at the choice of location, perhaps it was a common locale for agenting gambits, but followed quietly instead.