Denis Johnson - The Stars at Noon

“There’s been a mistake. Can you help us?” I asked her.

“The best way to start is by talking to his companions at Watts Oil,” she repeated.

“Now we get a thousand helpful suggestions and no fucking help whatsoever,” I let him know.

“For heaven’s sake, get the manager on the line,” he said.

“I want to talk to the manager,” I said.

“He isn’t here right now.”

“At what time will he come back?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps after supper. Perhaps eight o’clock.”

“Thanks.” I hung up. “You’ll have to go in person,” I said. “Don’t bother with the phones down here. Same with the British Airways — go in person."

The Motel Whatsis's driveway was only a rut worn in the grass out front and curving out of sight beside the building. The whole time I’d been dialing and talking, I now realized, I’d been looking right at the front fender of a vehicle parked just around the building’s corner — wearyingly identical to the front fender of a Daihatsu jeep.

“Look at that,” I told the Englishman. “Wait a minute.”

Stepping out under the awning and creeping out past its shadow, I ascertained that the jeep had Costa Rican license plates; at which point I meant to back off, but the Costa Rican had already seen me, and so I came all the way round the building’s edge.

“Excuse me,” the Costa Rican said in English. He struck an attitude, one foot up on the rear bumper, polishing his sunglasses with a white handkerchief. His face was a cipher.

For some reason I laughed out loud. I suppose I was confused.

“Something funny?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Oh no? But still you’re laughing. What is your name, please?”

“Oh,” I said, “I have a bad head for names.”

“Please, hey, wait a minute,” he said. “I was in the U.S. for four years. I got married to my wife there. One of my girls she is going to school right now in Ann Arbor. So don’t fuck with me. That’s my statement.”

He put his sunglasses on and folded his handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

“Well,” I said after a long, dull minute — because I was frightened, and felt as if I needed his permission—“I’m going back inside now.”

“ Ho -kay, excuse me, no.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened his eyes. “I told you already once, don't fuck with me, or I’m gonna fuck with you. You better let me take your passport, because I’m gonna make a photocopy.”

“I can’t give you my passport.”

He held out his hand.

“I can’t give you my passport.”

“I know that your England friend is inside,” he said. “Did you think you were going to play a fucking game?”

“I can’t really talk to you.”

“What do you believe? Do you believe this is nothing? Do you believe you take this guy through the Mercado, fuck him, it's fun, and then it’s finished? Did you fuck him?” He grabbed my wrist.

“Let go.”

“I’m listening right outside the window, bitch. Do you know who’s playing in your game? A lot of people.”

I could see he was in pain. “A lot of people?” I said. I was so frightened of him I couldn’t swallow.

“You’re not gonna fuck him and then you just say, like that, it’s finish. You’re gonna have a lot of explanation to take care of. Goddamn it!” He shook his head. “Another fucking cunt playing games.”

“Okay,” I said, breaking free of his hold on my arm. “Señora! Call the cops! Señora!” I ran through the door into the lobby. It was empty. The lock was on the phone.

“The cops!” I heard him say with hard, false laughter, but he made no move to follow me through the door.

As soon as I saw the Englishman in my room, my heart fell. Just for those few seconds I’d assumed he’d run somewhere far away and I was done with him.

Well, but I wasn’t done with him. Somewhat stupidly I asked him, “Did you see who was out there?”

“Yes, I did. That’s why I’ve come in here.”

For the next few minutes we each behaved as if the other weren’t around. Our panic eliminated all belief in what was happening. I went into the bathroom and stood before the commode, baffled and blank, until I decided I must be looking for a cigaret.

He, meanwhile, sat on the bed looking between his knees at the floor with his glasses slipped down to the end of his nose.

Out in the lobby Radio Tempo was playing one I hadn’t heard — a black song, hard-rock disco, you might call it: Oh, baby, kick my butt — I’d love to kick your butt. .

I never found out what Radio Tempo thought it was or who in the world ran it. Its programming was unearthly. The gringo rhythms and Top 40 phrases hanging in the sodden air — I wanna; bay-hubee; shake, shake, shake; c’mown now —evidenced that we were using up our tiny lives, going around in these ridiculous circles, along the outflung fingers of an empire.

"Have you got a cigaret for me?" I asked him.

“Oh. Sure,” he said.

I opened the door to see if it was the Señora who'd turned up the radio, or just the housekeeper.

But it was the Costa Rican, sitting in a chair. He had his feet up on the hi-fi, and his eyes were closed.

I shut the door softly. “This man scares me.”

“He’s still out there, then.”

“That’s him. What is he trying to do?”

“He’s — I don’t know.”

“All right, all right,” I said, “but who is he working with up here? I mean what does he think he’s doing up here?”

“He’s nobody here really. He’s completely out of his area. I don’t know if he’s on a private mission, or if he’s in touch with — whoever. But I wish he would go away, I can tell you that.”

“Maybe you should talk to him. I think you should talk to him. You’re not going to London till you get all this straightened out. You’ve got to face some people. You’re supposed to face them, but it’s my window they're peeking into. Oh, please. You’re a businessman. Don’t you have contacts?”

“My contacts are no good. Do you have contacts?”

“A Vice-minister at Interturismo, and a Sub-tenente at Interpren. The vice-ministers and the sub-tenentes, that’s who I know. The slobs and losers. And they both just got done cutting me loose.”

“Too bad. You struck me as somewhat the Mata Hari.”

“This is a real revolution — the rot doesn’t climb any higher than the underlings. I never even get introduced to the other ones, the ones without a prefix on their rank.”

“Well then, won’t you get in touch with some body? This man at Interturismo, for instance, can he help me get back to the UK?”

“He's the one who turned us in, it had to be him. The worthless coward!”

“Maybe he saw no other way.”

“There is no other way. That's how it works down here.”

“In any case, he can’t help. What about your magazine?”

I had to laugh. “Roundup Magazine ? They talk to me on the phone, but they don’t do anything else. They’re no help. Look,” I said, “I can’t help you.”

“What sort of articles do you write for them?”

“I don’t write any articles for them,” I confessed. “I just talk to them on the phone. Once they sent me money.”

“Just let me stay. I’ll be out of your life tomorrow — I can't think.” The idea seemed to startle him. “My mind honestly will not function. It’s a remarkable sensation.”

“All right. We’re finished arguing. Stay or don't stay, it’s up to you,” I told him.

He could tell I just wanted him out of there. He said, “I’m not going anywhere with that man.”