T. Boyle - The Harder They Come

“Yes, certainly,” Salas said, his voice a creeping baritone, heavily accented. He shifted his gaze to Sten, or seemed to — you couldn’t really tell what he was looking at, which, of course, would have been the point of the dark glasses. “Why don’t you, sir, begin by giving us an account of events, what did you see, what did you do, et cetera.”

Sten told him. He had nothing to hide. He’d done what anybody would have done, anybody who wasn’t a natural-born victim, anyway. There was no need to go into detail about the trip itself, the state of the roads or the recklessness of the driver — not yet — so he began with the bus pulling into the lot and how everybody had descended into the sun, guidebooks, binoculars and birding lists in tow, and how he’d gone across the lot to the fat woman’s palapa .

“And why was that?” Salas had produced a pack of Marlboros, shaking one out for himself and offering the pack to Sten, as if this were the interrogation scene in a police procedural, and that struck him as funny, so he laughed. “This is amusing?” Salas said. “The recollection? There is something amusing about the death of a man in my jurisdiction?”

“No,” Sten said, waving away the pack as Carolee sat there tight-lipped beside him and Salas struck a match and touched it to the tip of his own cigarette. “No, not at all. I was thinking of something else, that’s all.”

The moment hung there. Potamiamos, handsome as a cutout from the cruise line brochure, tried to look stern — or worried, maybe he was worried. The thought caught Sten up and he felt the smallest tick of apprehension.

“You went to the palapa . And why was that?” the lieutenant repeated on a long exhalation of smoke.

“I was thirsty. It was a long ride. I dry out easily.” He smiled, but it was a smile that gave no ground, lips only. Lips and teeth. “I’m old. Or didn’t you notice?”

Salas nodded. “And then you went behind the stall, did you not? Into the jungle there?”

“Right. I had to piss. You know, pressure on the bladder?”

There was a moment of silence. Salas, his face unreadable, turned to the cop beside him. “ ¿Qué dijo? ”

The second cop flicked his eyes at Carolee, then leaned forward, cupping one hand to his mouth. “ Para orinar, ” he said.

“Ah, I see,” Salas said. “It all comes clear now — you were urinating.”

The Senior Second Officer rediscovered his smile and now they were all smiling, smiles all around, urinating, the most human thing in the world, and what had they thought — that he was an accomplice? That he’d been hiding? That he’d worked all his life and paid his taxes and retired to come down here to this tropical paradise and mug tourists? “Yeah,” he said, smiling still, but there was an edge to his voice, “I pissed on a tree back there. Any law against that?”

Apparently not. No one said a word, but the smiles slowly died all the way around. He wanted to go on, wanted to get things out in the open, wanted to throw it in their faces: All right then, charge me, you sons of bitches, go ahead, but I’ll make you regret it, all of you! The words were on his lips when Carolee raised her water glass, ice cubes clicking, and took a quick birdlike sip. They seemed to have arrived at some sort of impasse. The room expanded, then shrank down again till it fit just exactly right. Finally, the lieutenant ducked his head to remove the dark glasses, revealing eyes that were darker still, eyes that were almost black, heavy-lidded and set too close together. “We are not here to accuse you,” he said. “We are here to assist. And to clear up any difficult feelings or dissatisfactions you or your wife may have. We are gravely sorry for what has transpired and we extend our sincerest apologies.”

Someone at the bar behind them let out a laugh and the lines hardened in Salas’ face, lines that traced his jaw muscles and pulled tight round his mouth. He wasn’t much older than his own son, Sten realized, thirty maybe, thirty tops, but his job — poking at the underbelly of things, interviewing gringos, sweeping the dirt under the carpet — bore down on him, you could see that at a glance. Sten had an impulse to reach out to him, to thank him, but he couldn’t relax, not yet, not till the boat weighed anchor and they saw the last of this place.

“The man you”—a pause—“ encountered, was a criminal, well known to us. Let me tell you, his death is no loss to the world.” His lips parted and here came the smile again. “In fact, from a certain perspective, you could almost say that you’ve done us a favor.”

The other cop nodded in assent. “One less problem. Or headache, is that how you say it? One less headache?”

“Yes,” Salas agreed, “that’s exactly it. Now,” swinging round to face Carolee, “we will require a statement from you, señora — and my colleague here, Sergeant Araya, will assist you in that.” He squared his shoulders, as if coming to attention, though he was still seated and his iced tea stood untouched before him and the cigarette burned unnoticed in his hand. “And you, sir, Mr. Stensen, I would ask you please to accompany me and the Senior Second Officer”—a nod for Potamiamos—“to another portion of this ship, a cabin we have secured for this purpose, in order for you to make identification of a man we have reason to believe was an accomplice in this business.” He made a motion toward the door, sweeping an arm in invitation.

Sten remained seated. He looked to Carolee, who’d sat there wordlessly to this point. “It’s okay,” he said, “no worries. I’ll be right back.”

Potamiamos rose. He and the lieutenant exchanged a glance. The party seemed to be breaking up.

“All right,” Sten said, “I’ll take a look at him. But I’m not leaving this ship.”

“Oh, no, no.” Potamiamos very nearly clucked his tongue. “No, there’s no question of that.”

They walked down the corridor to the elevator, Potamiamos to his left, Salas to his right, and everybody, every reveler aboard, stared at him as if he were being led off to a detention cell somewhere, and he supposed there must have been a secure room down there in the depths of the ship to accommodate the occasional passenger or crewmember who drank too much or went floridly berserk. They had a sick bay, didn’t they? And a pharmacy. And just about anything else you could imagine. They were a small city afloat and all contingencies had to be anticipated and prepared for.

He was a head taller than either of his — what would you call them? — escorts , but still he couldn’t help feeling a sense of unease, no matter how many times he told himself he was in control, because he wasn’t, he wasn’t at all, and he half expected some sort of trick, a roomful of cops, handcuffs, the cloth bag jerked over his head and a quick hustle down the gangplank and into some festering hole like the one in Midnight Express . The tendon clicked in his knee again, once, twice, and then they were standing before the elevator and the doors were opening on a scrum of passengers in tennis togs, terrycloth robes, shorts and T-shirts, dinner jackets and cocktail dresses. The Senior Second Officer greeted them with a blooming smile and a cheery “Good evening, folks, enjoying yourselves?” while Salas held the door and shepherded Sten in amongst them. Most of the others were going up and Sten and his escorts made way for them as the elevator stopped at various decks, even as a fresh crew of tennis players, high rollers and shuffleboarders crowded in, and then they were going down, stopping at each floor, until they were belowdecks, in the crew’s quarters, where passengers were not allowed.