Mexico Fever (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 12)

by George Wier

  “I don't know. A few days, maybe.”

  “Come to see the pyramids?”

  “No.”

  He shook his head.

  I offered my hand and he frowned and slowly took it and shook. “I'm Bill Travis.”

  “I see,” he said. “I am Phillip. You may call me Phil. I run the airport for twelve hours every day. I sell fuel. Do you need fuel?”

  “Not now,” I said. “I will need to gas up when I'm ready to leave. Is there some place I can tie down?”

  “Tie...? Are you camping?”

  “No. The plane.”

  “What for do you need to tie the plane? We have no wind here. We have nothing here, just in case you did not know.”

  A chicken walked by and Phil made as if to kick at it. The chicken sped up and moved along.

  “You have chickens,” I said.

  “We have chickens and we have eggs. Do you wish for either?”

  I shook my head again. “No. What I need is a ride into town, and the recommendation for a good hotel.”

  “Oh.” Phil turned his head toward the jungle that lay in the direction of town, as if that might jog his memory. “Well, you need a ride.”

  “That's right. I need a ride.”

  He regarded me again. “We do not have rides here. But, if you can make it into town, go to the center of town. There they will have hotels.”

  “How should I get to town, other than by walking?”

  Phil frowned again, as if framing the question seriously to himself. He peered at the ground at his feet, as if consulting it. After a moment he looked back up. “Well, you can walk to the gate to the Pyramid Plaza and wait for the autobus. Or, you can take Señor Burro.” Phil pointed and I followed his gaze.

  There, tied to a tree, was my worst nightmare. A burro, or what we commonly refer to in the states as a donkey.

  “If I take Señor Burro,” I said, “which road do I take to town?”

  “There is only one road. You just tell Señor Burro where you want to go. You say, 'Señor Burro, take me to Pisté,' and he take you. You say, 'Señor Burro, take me to aeropuerto,' and he take you. If you don't need him anymore, you tell him 'Go home, Señor Burro,' and he go home.”

  “How much will you rent him to me for?”

  Phil raised his hand and gave a dismissive wave. “For nothing. I hate Señor Burro. Maybe you will kill him. Will you kill him and poke out his eyes?”

  “I don't think so,” I said.

  “Okay. You...mucho sueño.”

  “What?”

  “How you say? Tired.”

  “Oh. Yes. Mucho sueño. Tell me, Phil, is there another gringo in Pisté? An old man?”

  “There are many old gringos in Pisté. Gringos may no go home, or have to go to old people house.”

  “Nursing homes. You're referring to nursing homes.”

  “Si. Si. Who is this gringo?” he asked. Very clearly, this was the most exciting event of Phil's entire day. A tired gringo who looks as though he's been ridden hard and put up wet comes flying in on a single-engine prop, needs a ride to town, and starts asking questions.

  “A friend,” I said. And then I thought about Dick Sawyer, his eyes boring into me, telling me about a revolutionary named Sunlight. I was in enemy territory. It was time for me to shut up and get to town. “Don't worry. I'll find him. He's an old man who drinks too much. I need to take him back to the United States. He has a room in a nursing home waiting for him.”

  Phil shook his head, as if I had just confirmed his entire world view.

  “Si. That is what I say about the old gringos, but no one believes me.”

  “No one believes anything anymore,” I said.

  Phil shook his head in complete agreement.

  “I'll take Señor Burro.” I noted that Phil was about to speak, so I decided to cut him off. “And no, I will not kill him.” Phil shrugged, turned around and went back into the office.

  *****

  Long before I got to Pisté, I was ready to kill Señor Burro.

  Before we were too far along the narrow, winding blacktop road that ran from the airport to the town, Señor Burro stopped in the middle of the road, turned his head back and regarded me. His black eyes seemed to consider me, my weight, and the weight of the travel kit slung around my neck. He stood like that for several minutes.

  I gave him a gentle nudge with my heels in the sides of his belly. He didn't so much as flinch.

  “Señor Burro,” I said. “Take me to Pisté.”

  He looked back straight ahead for a moment, then turned and regarded me again.

  “Do we have a problem?” I asked him.

  He began walking sideways toward the jungle undergrowth. In there were hundreds of miles of jungle, Mayan ruins, deadly snakes, jaguars, and all manner of things I've probably never thought of.

  “Whoa, there, hoss!”

  He continued side-stepping. I felt the fronds of what appeared to be large elephant ear plants brushing at my head. As he raked me past them, they rained down water on me.

  And then Señor Burro laughed at me. It was deep, dusky bray, but the humor was unmistakable.

  “Stop it!” I exclaimed. I kicked him hard and he flinched, bolted straight ahead for a few paces, planted his forehooves, then kicked backwards. After that, he seemed satisfied and continued walking.

  After another fifty paces, he repeated the same procedure.

  When it began again a third time, I changed tactics. As he moved over to the foliage, I slid off. He stopped, stared at me, and cocked an ear.

  “Go back to the airport, Señor Burro. I'm walking from here.” I turned and began walking towards town. I heard him bray once, an exclamation of sorts, but I ignored it and continued on.

  He butted me hard from behind and I took a tumble onto the road.

  I got up slowly, dusted myself off and said, “Now I understand why Phil wanted me to kill you. You're not just an ass, you're...worse.”

  I walked on, and momentarily Señor Burro came up beside me. He nudged me with his head.

  “What?” I asked, but continued walking.

  After a moment, he caught up to me and nudged me again.

  I got the communication. I stopped and he came up beside me, turned his head and looked back at me, as if to say, “Get on, you dope.”

  “Okay,” I said. “One more try.”

  I got on.

  About the moment I could see Pisté in the distance, he tried to do the whole side-wise shuffle again, but I abruptly slid off the opposite side—the side you're not supposed to dismount from.

  “Fooled you,” I said.

  He brayed laughter again, but he followed me the final leg of the journey to Pisté.

  “Go home, Señor Burro,” I said.

  He stopped, looked around and made out as if he were otherwise unaffected by anything, then turned and slowly made his way back in the direction of the airport. I hadn't killed him, and he was lucky on that score. But then again, I had no death-dealing instrument of vengeance upon my person. Not so much as a penknife.

  I walked into Pisté with my backpack firmly around my shoulders, and into another world.

  *****

  Mexico. Mexico for me has always carried with it a certain mystique. An old language of love mingled with the raw hot-bloodedness of the Aztecs and a go to-hell-attitude the envy of the world. La Ley De Fuego—the law of fire—the unwritten but most well-kept law of the land was the order of the day, and had been since the time of Coronado and Kukulcan before him. Mexico. A swath of admixed colors to the slap-beat of an out-sized acoustic guitar and an aroma of spice on the wind-swept narrow village streets that carried a heat no temperature gauge could measure. Mexico had lived in my dreams since childhood. And now I was here.

  I didn't care much for her smell, nor for the raw heat of the sun on my sweat-beaded brow.

  The streets were clean, nearly spotless, even though the poverty was clearly prevalent, as witnessed by the decayed a
nd almost haunted look of the buildings. This, in contrast to places I have visited. For instance, were one to try to pick up the trash on the streets and in the alleyways of Brooklyn, New York, it would be like attempting to empty the ocean with a teacup. There are some who say that Mexicans are insufficiently challenged by their environment. I'm not so sure about that. No matter how you slice it, it's a Third World country, and the environment—which includes the economy, a caste-and-class system of wealth and poverty, and the prevalence of both disease and crime—is probably so overwhelming as to make one throw up his hands in surrender.

  I walked into town until I found a cab, and then, after waking up the driver—who had been mid-siesta there in the shade of a boarded-up abode building—successfully wrangled him into taking me to the center of town. It cost me two bucks.

  And he had no air conditioning.

  I quickly found that not only the hotels, but the cantinas and coincidentally all the gringos, were in central Pisté. Essentially, I was home.

  I got out in front of the Pisté Hotel. There were two men in neatly-pressed uniforms out front, and its twin flags drooped in the heat.

  As I got out, a line of army trucks and jeeps rolled past, including a humvee with a fifty-calibre machine gun mounted on the back and a troop carrier truck chock full of young, bored-looking infantry.

  I looked back down at my driver, gestured toward the convoy.

  “Federales?”

  I was expecting a shrug, but he said, “Si. Los militares. Por que los insurgentes.”

  “Insurgents?”

  “Si.”

  “Crap.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” he said, put his car in gear and pulled away. Quite suddenly, downtown Pisté didn't seem so all-fired quaint.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I got a room at the Hotel Pisté. I paid in cash and it cost thirty-five bucks. I wasn't expecting too much, but when I opened the door and found myself in the penthouse suite with its own rooftop swimming pool and a view of the city, I figured I had died and gone to heaven.

  I needed to make phone calls, but I had nearly reached the point of sensory deprivation from lack of sleep. I threw myself in the center of king-sized bed.

  And dreamed.

  *****

  Phil stood atop the Chichen-Itza great pyramid. He was bared to the waist and had in his right hand an oversized machete. Before him on an altar constructed of old airplane parts was Señor Burro, properly trussed up with a rope all the colors of the rainbow.

  “What'd I do? What'd I do?” Señor Burro said.

  “Esta insurgente,” Phil said. “You forfeit your eyes and your life.”

  “You can't kill him,” I said. “He may know where I can find Walt.”

  “Your friend, the gringo,” Phil said. “He is dead.”

  “Do you know this for sure?” I asked.

  “It is my belief. And here, in Mexico, belief is everything.”

  As Phil raised the machete to deal the deathblow to Señor Burro, a cacophony of artillery opened up from the jungle across the plaza.

  Phil dropped the machete and ran around behind the temple atop the pyramid, disappearing down the opposite side.

  “That was close,” Señor Burro said. “Get me out of here!”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I have to find Walt.”

  “Hurry up, then,” he stated. I turned and ran inside the Temple of the Sun...and found myself in a bar with a bunch of old gringos. They lazed about on old metal chairs, sipped at various colored drinks, and perused old newspapers.

  “Has anybody seen Walt Cannon?” I asked.

  “Cannon?” a British fellow asked. “It's not war yet. There's no need for artillery!”

  “Shut up,” I said. “It's a fellow's name. Cannon. Walter Cannon. Texas Ranger, retired. The Governor's best friend.”

  “I say old chap, you're all in a dither. Why don't you sit down and have a toff of the old grog?”

  “I can't. I have to get Walt, refuel, and get back home.”

  The Britisher folded his newspaper, upon which, plain as day, was a picture of the Maine sinking in Havana harbor. “If you must persist in these delusions, you'll have to consult with Sunlight.”

  “Yes! Sunlight! Where is he?”

  At that the fellow laughed. It was like touching off a match to a fuel depot, because the population of the bar also began laughing.

  “My dear lad,” the Britisher stated, “Sunlight is everywhere. Even in the dark.” He gestured toward the darkened portal of stone at the rear of the bar. There were steps going down steeply into the dark, and a dim, aquarium-like glow, as if water were lapping at the steps and fish were swimming.

  I strode quickly to the portal and peered down the steps. But the Britisher was directly behind me and gave me a shove.

  I toppled forward, head over heels, and fell downward into the night.

  *****

  I awoke abruptly.

  “Walt,” I said.

  It was 3:48 a.m.

  I checked my phone. No calls and no messages. Also, it was running rapidly out of juice. I rifled through my pack and found my charger and plugged it in. I watched as it started gaining charge.

  It was too early in the morning to call anyone, so I left it on the charger.

  I showered, changed and went downstairs. It was time to get to work.

  *****

  No one was at the hotel desk, so I peered inside of the bar. There was a lone gringo nursing a drink. One of the beautiful things about Mexico, if you're a drinker, is that he bars never close.

  I gave him a nod, and he gave me a slow nod back; the kind of nod that seemed to say, “I really don't care to talk to you.” I left the man in peace, walked back across the lobby and out into the street.

  I decided to take a little walk, try to get my bearings. From the front of the hotel, the airport and the Chichen Itza plaza were several miles away in an almost unwavering line. A left hand turn right off the steps of the hotel on the cobblestone streets would take me there. The remainder of the city was a vast unknown. However, I was probably safer here than I was, say, on the streets of downtown Austin at this time of night.

  I turned to the right and walked.

  The streets began to darken and narrow a mere block from the hotel. The quiet was all-pervasive, as if a caul of death hung over everything. Somewhere within a hundred miles, perhaps behind the adobe walls beside me, Walt Cannon was asleep, the shackles around his wrists caked with blood, despair in his heart. He had probably already made his peace with himself and with God.

  They don't make them like Walt Cannon anymore. The man had spent twenty-two years in the Highway Patrol and another twenty in the Texas Rangers. He was a career lawman who lived up to the iconic image of the tough-as-nails Ranger Corps—the one riot and therefore one ranger mythos that was the envy of law enforcement the world over. But besides all that, he was a good man. He would give his life for anyone, even a perfect stranger, if called upon to do so, and never bat an eye. Unquestionably he had taken human life in the course and scope of his job, and no doubt, he wrestled with those demons every day of his life. But it's a testament to the man that he continued to do so, long after the fact. He had gone up against drug lords and smugglers, human traffickers, murderers, thieves and criminals of every ilk. By all rights, having survived so long, he should have settled down for the remainder of his days to a life of drinking beer, playing dominoes at the local Knights of Columbus Hall, and listening to country music. I know I sure as hell would have. Except for one thing. He was Walt Cannon, and he had a friend who needed to tie up a loose end before he shuffled off the mortal coil. And therefore, as his friend, I had come to find him.

  But how? It was the one thing I had wrestled with during the long plane ride to Pisté. How to find him? And finding him, I'd be finding the men who were holding him for ransom. Which meant there would be hell to pay for my troubles.

  I made another block and turned down an alley that seemed to l
ead to some distant lights—what I took to be a business district of some sort up ahead. And then I got the itch between my shoulder blades. The itch like I was being followed.

  I came to a doorway in the dark and flattened myself against it. I listened.

  When the heart is beating and the blood is pumping in your ears, the least sound is magnified, both by the ears and in the imagination. There was a scrape of some kind, forty feet away behind me. The sound of something hard scraping on cobblestone.

  To hell with it, I thought.

  I called out into the dark, “If you don't want to get shot, I would go a different way.” This, of course, was a very large lie. I was no more armed than an infant in diapers would have been.

  There was a decided crack sound, as of someone wearing boots stopping abruptly and hitting a rock the wrong way with the sole of his boot.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I'd say that's close enough.”

  I allowed my eyes to adjust and peered back down the street. A distant light from around the corner had captured a figure and had thrown his silhouette on the adobe wall of a dwelling. Whatever or whoever it was didn't look quite right. The proportions in shadow were all wrong. But the shadow was faint, and there was no telling what it had combined with.

  I stepped back onto the street and continued along, my ears peeled all the while.

  Yes, I decided. There was decidedly someone there, following me. Marking my footsteps but keeping their distance.

  I turned a corner, got down on one knee and waited. I was coiled to spring forth like a striking snake. Whoever it was, they were going to get a hundred and seventy-five pounds of Bill Travis square in the chest at point blank range.

  Whoever it was, I decided, they were big and clumsy. Some of his footsteps were quiet and careful, but every third or forth was overly loud.

  The footsteps slowed as he approached the corner.