by Tom Riggs
Munro thought back to the police report he had seen in Porlamar. No laptop had been recovered from Richard’s room.
They took his laptop.
“That’s good Anna, that’s really helpful. Can you remember seeing or hearing anything else though? Really anything. It might not have seemed that important at the time, but anything could be important.”
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I sometimes overheard him talking on the phone, but I could never properly make out what he was saying.”
“Did you hear him say anything Anna, anything at all? A name, a place, something that was out of the ordinary.”
Anna did not answer immediately and instead looked out onto the empty lane as she thought.
“There was one thing, now I come to think of it,” she said. “We ended up sharing a room in Manaus, it was cheaper and Richard was keen to save money. I was in the bathroom next door when Rich took one of his calls. The walls were pretty thin and I couldn’t hear that much because of the running water. He was speaking in an almost whisper. But there was one word I heard him say a few times. I only remember it because it’s quite a weird word, I don’t know what it means. But he did say it a few times.”
“What was it?” asked Munro.
“Japura,” said Anna. “The word he kept on saying was Japura.”
28
The moon had disappeared behind some unseen cloud by the time they left their secluded eating spot. What people there had been in the Argentine restaurant eating steaks and barbecued chicken had disappeared. Presumably gone back to their posadas to check the swell reports, smoke some weed or get an early night in preparation for the dawn surf. The moon had disappeared, the people had gone and the whole place seemed deserted once again. But it was still relatively early.
“Not much going on round here is there,” remarked Anna as they came out onto the dirt road.
“No,” said Munro. “A surf town, out of season. Not much reason to come if there’s no surf.”
“It’s still early though. I’m not sure I’m ready for another night in that pick-up just yet…can we walk around a bit, captain? Walk off these steaks?”
“Only if you stop calling me captain.”
“Deal,” laughed Anna as she rubbed Munro’s arm. She was tactile, he was beginning to notice. Tactile and slightly drunk. She had quickly finished three beers and devoured a large steak and chips. She certainly had a healthy appetite. Munro looked at her as she walked through a narrow pool of light cast by one of only four electric streetlights. Looked at her for a moment too long and quickly looked away.
“Let’s walk back via the beach then,” he said motioning towards a path leading down past a deserted outdoor bar.
As they walked past it, they saw that the bar was open, but only just. The wooden boards had been taken off the small thatched hut and a few candles had been lit on some of the tables close by. The bar was lit by a low orange bulb, coming from somewhere underneath the counter-top, down by the crates. It lit up the bottles of rum and vodka on the shelf behind the barman as if it was on fire.
On the beach the wind had dropped and the sea was relatively calm. The tide was out and the waves were lapping at the shore about twenty metres away. It might as well have been a different ocean from the pounding wind-blown swell they had seen on arrival. Anna stumbled slightly as they walked along the deep sand and took Munro’s arm. He held it there, torn between not wanting to be rude and knowing it would be the wrong move. He thought of Rudd back in London, starting to make his way to Acapulco with two fake passports. Just to be caught with them could land him in a Mexican prison. He was a family man and he was making his way to Mexico to help them. Help him. He unhooked Anna’s arm from his and picked up his pace. Anna said nothing, but he could tell from her hunched-away body language that he had slightly annoyed or embarrassed her. They came into the clearing to see that the small party at the other end was still going. Dark figures were huddled around a fire on the beach. One of them was playing what looked like a guitar. Munro thought about getting closer to check them out. Evaluate the risk. But he thought he could evaluate the risk from where he was. A few stoned hippies and a guitar were unlikely to be much cop against him and a nine millimetre.
“Were you comfortable in the cabin last night?’ he asked Anna.
“I was fine. But I feel bad making you sleep out the back.” She took a step closer to Munro. So close that he could smell her. She smelt good. She looked good. She took another step towards him and put her hand on his arm, raised her face so that it was inches from his. All he had to do was turn his head down.
Munro took a step back, away from her.
“I am sorry Anna…really I am.” He paused before continuing quickly. “But you’ve just gone through two massively traumatic situations. As you well know, your emotive responses aren’t functioning properly. If I got into that cab with you I would only be taking advantage of you. You’re my prime witness to a murder. I am sorry, believe me I am. You’ll never know just how sorry I am..”
“Of course,” she said, too quickly, embarrassed and hurt. “But you’ll be uncomfortable.” And with that she opened the cabin door, took out a blanket and passed it to him without looking at him. “See you in the morning.”
Munro took the blanket and climbed up onto the cargo bed. He spread out the blanket and lay down. The stars were out, and all he could hear was the breaking of waves and some guitar music. Anna was wrong. He was very comfortable. He couldn’t be more comfortable. He instinctively felt for his pistol. Feeling it there, comforted by its weight, he closed his eyes. He was asleep in seconds.
29
Munro woke first, early. The sun had not yet risen, but it was beginning to get light. The hour before dawn. The coldest part of the night. He got up from the cargo bed, took a towel and went to find a shower. If Anna could find one, then so could he. There was a small gate leading off the track between the beach and main drag further inland. The sign on the gate said Hostel Rosa. A hostel was good. It meant communal showers, a high turnover.
Fifteen minutes later, showered and shaved, Munro was walking down the track towards the beach. He had picked up two cups of coffee, two fresh orange juices and a tray of pastries from a café that he found in town. The croissants and muffins smelled freshly baked and he was looking forward to breakfast on the beach. He was also looking forward to seeing Anna.
He turned a corner of the track towards the clearing and stopped dead. A police motorbike was leaning against one of the palm trees separating the beach from the corner of the car park. He kept walking, but slower now, thankful that he had decided to bring his pistol with him. He turned into the clearing proper. A motorbike cop was standing behind his pick-up, writing its number plate into a notebook. Munro kept walking. Keep cool, keep smiling. The cop had a pistol strapped to his waist, but no rifle. No machine gun. He was also smartly dressed, everything tucked in and tight-fitting. His uniform was dark blue and Munro saw that he was a state police trooper, not federal.
“Hola señor ay un problema?” said Munro. His Spanish was good, he hoped it was too early for the cop to notice his slight accent.
The cop turned. He was young, with a fuzz on his upper lip that showed he had barely started shaving. And he was smiling. He had a good face, smiling eyes.
“Si señor, ay un problema,” he said although his smile indicated that it was not really a problem. “Parking es prohibidado aqui por la noche.” No night parking. Of course. Munro looked around the clearing. The hippies with the guitar were long gone. Nice of them to have passed on the message.
“Perdon señor,” said Munro as he put the coffees and pastries down onto the cargo bed. “Quanto questa?” How much. Munro went to take out his wallet but the cop stopped him.
“No no señor, no fine. No necessary pay.” He had noticed Munro’s gringo accent. Not good. “You do not have to pay a fine, just please, no park here again at night. It is no safe.” And with that he smiled and w
alked over to his bike. He waved at Munro just before gunning the bike up the track and towards town.
Once the cop had gone, Munro woke Anna. She was sleepy and a bit confused first thing in the morning but did not seem to hold anything against him. As she wolfed down her coffee and croissant, Munro told her about the cop.
“He sounds like a good cop though?” said Anna.
“He was. He was honest, a rare commodity round here.”
“So I don’t see what the problem is,” she said between mouthfuls.
“The problem is, that he has our number plate and he knows I am not Mexican. We know that this Hector guy had the state police in Nayarit - where your grandparents were - under his control. We saw the state police pulling over cars like my hire car in Jalisco state too, so we have to assume they control the police there too. We’re in a new state now, called Colima. But there’s no reason to think he doesn’t have these ones too. It’s only a matter of time until that guy’s report gets back to the bad guys.”
“You think he’ll bother to write a report? It’s hardly the crime of the century, parking in the wrong place.”
“He’ll definitely write a report. He looked like a rookie, keen to please. He was writing our number plate in his notebook when I arrived. He’ll file that report today. He’ll probably even run some checks. God only knows why he didn’t straight away. He probably wanted to get back for some breakfast. But he’ll run those checks soon. Which means we need to change cars soon. Very soon.”
Anna said nothing but instead turned away.
Munro looked at her. He had been too hasty. She was still clearly embarrassed and more than a little hurt about the night before.
“I’m sorry about last night Anna, but we need to get out of here.” And with that Munro drank the rest of his coffee and threw the cup into an oil drum that was being used as the car park bin. Anna did not get into the cab immediately and instead walked onto the beach to finish her coffee. The sun was rising and the ocean looked grey in the dawn light. The swell was perfect, a couple of early morning surfers were starting to paddle out. Munro wished he could join them. He hated being cooped up, especially in a small cab with no air conditioning. Especially with a girl who now it seemed couldn’t even speak to him. It was going to be a long day.
Hector woke early too. After his argument with Silvano the night before, he had been tired and gone to bed. His conversation with El Cazon had been short. He could tell that the patron was unhappy about what he had done to Silvano. Unhappy but not surprised. How could he be? He knew who Hector was. He knew what kind of business they operated in. Men had to be disciplined all the time in their line of work. And they had to be disciplined hard. Usually taken out. When you employed criminals, it was the only way you could keep them in line. If not, people would be stealing money left, right and centre. Stealing money, stealing product. It would be mayhem. Chaos. And you could not have chaos. El Cazon knew that. He understood. Even so, he had sounded angry. But so be it. El Cazon may have been annoyed, but above all else he was a pragmatist. Besides, Silvano was not even dead. Injured, yes. But not dead. Hector had not killed him. He had just disciplined him.
He walked out of the master bedroom to find only the driver up. As soon as the driver saw Hector he stopped what he was doing, pouring some juice, and started to edge away from his new boss.
“Come here hijo,” said Hector.
The driver hesitated and then walked towards Hector. He was unarmed but wearing the black combat outfit that his gang usually wore. He was unusually tall Hector noticed, and fat.
“Si Hector, jefe.” Boss. “How can I help you?”
Hector smiled. The man was at least a foot taller than him and heavy built. But he was scared. You could see it in his puffy overweight face and weak eyes. But that was good. Scared was good.
“What is your name hijo?”
The man paused. He was far from a boy and did not like Hector calling him one. Not out of pride. Out of fear. The last person Hector had called boy, had had his chest and lungs burnt away with sulphuric acid.
“My name is Teo, Hector. Teodoro Lopez.”
“Teo, good to meet you properly.” Smilingly Hector held out his hand, which Teo took.
“Teo,” continued Hector still holding the driver’s hand, “as you know Silvano has hurt himself. As such, there is now a position open. You are Los Negros, si?”
“Si Hector, of course.”
“You have passed all the initiation ceremonies?”
“Yes Hector, last year.”
“You killed a man?”
“I have killed many Hector. Many.”
“Are you ex-GAFE?”
“No Hector, I am from Sonora. I grew up in the same barrio as Silvano and El Cazon. I have been with El Cazon since I was thirteen.”
“Good. Then, in Silvano’s absence, I promote you to be my deputy.”
Teo took a deep breath. Hector let go of his hand and he took a step back.
“But Hector, I am not qualified…”
“No, Teo,” said Hector cutting him off quickly, “you are qualified. You are qualified because I say you are qualified.”
“Of course, Hector.”
“Now. As my deputy, you are responsible for herding our friends in the police force to find El Ingles. You understand Teo, my hijo?”
Hector took a step towards his new deputy and patted him lightly on the cheek. Teo said nothing.
“Now go and call those lazy conyos in the police and find El Ingles. Or I will be very disappointed Teo. Very disappointed indeed.”
With that Hector turned back into the kitchen and went towards the fridge. The conversation was over.
Munro and Anna were back on the road before the sun had fully risen, heading south on highway 200. The road was empty, well tarmacked, and close to the coast, and the going was good. The coast mostly consisted of low rocky cliffs over the pounding Pacific swell. Here and there the cliffs gave way to small shingle bays, where a few fishermen had set up wooden huts. Their boats were dragged up onto shore. Large grey nets hung from them, dirty and weather-beaten. The sun was out and the sky was clear. The ocean glistened and if Munro had been looking, he would have seen the odd sea eagle flying high over the horizon. But Munro was not taking in the view. He was distracted.
They needed to change cars, that much was certain. But how long did they have? The young cop would definitely run some checks on the car he had found illegally parked. And what would he find? Possibly not much, possibly a lot. He would definitely find that it was not registered to a gringo who looked like Munro. The ranchero he had bought it off was little taller than five foot and overweight. Munro was six three and lean. It would not take a diligent rookie cop long to work out that something was not right. Not long at all. Whether or not Hector and his men would be informed was not something that Munro could work out. Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever, they had to change cars.
They were twenty miles north of Manzanillo when Munro saw what he was looking for. He took the pick-up into a central lane so that he could turn left, across the oncoming flow of traffic.
“What are we doing?” asked Anna. It was the first thing she had said since they had left Santa Rosa.
“We need to change cars,” replied Munro. “Only a matter of time before that cop works out that I am not the legal owner of this one. He might even work out that I am the guy who just killed five of his fellow officers.”
Anna didn’t reply and instead turned away to look intently out of the window.
Seeing a gap in the oncoming traffic, Munro gunned the pickup across the highway and onto an exit slip road. The land had flattened out here, the mountain range had started to run further inland. They drove for five minutes through a barrio of low concrete shacks, sun baked and dirty. Washing hung from most of them and the women and children milling around stared at them as they drove past slowly.
“Is this a good place to change cars?” asked Anna. “We stick out like a sore thumb a
round here. Everyone’s staring at us.”
“They probably stare at every car that drives through here. Not much else to do.”
They drove for a couple more minutes until the barrio started to give way to rocky scrub. On the left was an old disused petrol station, its pumps long gone. Only the forecourt and roof remained, as well as an old ‘Texaco’ sign that must have dated from the 1950s. Where the attendant’s office should have been was now a concrete garage, wide enough for two cars. Only one was in there, an old Dodge Ram pick-up. Various other cars, in various states of disrepair lay around the forecourt, slowly decaying into the rocky ground. Munro parked the pick-up where one of the pumps might once have been and got out the cab.
“Stay in here and don’t talk to anyone,” he told Anna.
She didn’t reply and instead turned to stare out of the window.
As Munro approached the garage a small man emerged to greet him. He was an old man, bald. His blue overalls were covered in oil and he was carrying what looked like a piston.
Five minutes later Munro walked back to the cab smiling.
“Grab your stuff, we’re changing cars.”
“You’ve bought a new one?”
“Not exactly. Jorge there, the owner of the garage, is going to do some essential repairs to the pick-up. In the meantime, he says we can use the courtesy car.”
“Courtesy car? This doesn’t look like the kind of place that provides a courtesy car.”
“I had to give him a thousand-dollar deposit for it, which I am guessing more than covers the cost.”
Just then they both turned at the sound of an incredibly loud engine.
The mechanic had driven up from behind the back of the garage. He was driving an odd looking 1970s vehicle. It looked like a cross between a saloon and a pick-up truck. It was burgundy red and was the shape and height of a wide cruiser. Like something you might have seen a pimp driving in a 70s cop show. But where there should have been a back row of seats and a boot, there was instead a cargo bed, like the back of a pick-up. This particular model was battered to hell, its front fender was attached with string and wire. But it did have a certain charm.
