by Lionel White
Angel Cortillo shook his head.
“You’ll be very foolish if you let her know anything of your plans,” he said.
“That is just the point, Angel,” I explained. “That is why I must go back and pick her up. We have taken a room in a small hotel some six miles south of town.
Perhaps you know the place. La Casa Pacifica. Run by a man named Homer Billings. Perhaps you know���”
“I have heard of it. I know of Senor Billings. He is married to a young Mexican girl. He is somewhat of a man of mystery, a man of dubious reputation. I feel, my friend, that you are beginning to surround yourself with rather dangerous companions. Did Captain Hernando Morales recommend this Homer Billings?”
I said that he did.
“In that case, I would watch him very closely.”
He looked at his watch. “Perhaps you had best go now, amigo,” he said. “You will not want that young girl to be wandering around loose in Ensenada. When shall I hear from you again?”
I stood up, and we shook hands solemnly. “I will be in touch with you as soon as I have made my contact,” I said. “And Angel, you may-be sure I shall be very careful. No one, no one at all will know of our relationship or of your participation.”
He hugged me once again before I left, and once again I winced with pain.
“Amigo, I love you like a brother, and that is why we shall do business together. Also, of course, I love to make a dollar, even if it’s a dishonest dollar.” He grinned broadly, and a moment later I stepped from the deck of the Rosita Maria to the dock. Cactus, the German shepherd, growled a farewell.
At exactly ten o’clock I stopped in front of the movie theater where I had left Sharon. She came out of the door as I pulled to a stop.
7
I had a surprise waiting for me when I arrived back at La Casa Pacifica shortly after eleven o’clock. After picking Sharon up, I had stopped at a liquor store to purchase a bottle of bourbon, and Sharon had said she was hungry. We found a small Mexican restaurant, and I drank a bottle of cold beer while Sharon went through two portions of chili con carne. She suggested we stop by a nightclub and have a couple of drinks, but I told her that I was anxious to get back, and that we could drink when we returned to the motel.
Driving into the walled-in yard in front of the place, I picked up in my headlights a long black Cadillac limousine, parked next to the lodge’s broken-down Buick, and I gathered that we were no longer the sole guests in the establishment.
Homer Billings, my host, was alone in the lobby. He beckoned to me, and I walked toward the desk. He spoke in a very low voice.
“You have guests, Mr. Johns,” he said. “I believe you are expecting the gentlemen. They are waiting in your room. It might be best if your wife,” he lifted his head and looked over to where Sharon was standing, “were to wait in the lounge while you talk with them.”
For a moment I was annoyed, but then I quickly realized that Captain Morales must have had an obvious reason for making the reservation at La Casa Pacifica. I don’t know how much he had told Billings, but he must have said something to him concerning our relationship and why I was there. My irritation evaporated, and I was suddenly gratified that Billings had not let me walk in to greet my visitors cold with Sharon at my side. I walked back and spoke quickly to Sharon.
“Our host has invited us to have a drink with him,” I said. “You go ahead into the lounge. I have to stop up in the room for a few minutes and I’ll be right down.”
She looked at me curiously for a moment or two and then shrugged. “There’s a toilet off the lounge,” she said.
“Just do as I tell you,” I said. “I won’t be too long. And stay in the lounge until I come for you. You understand?”
“No, I don’t understand. But I don’t care. A drink is as good one place as it is another.”
I was not surprised to find the door to our suite unlocked. I opened it and stepped into the room.
There were two of them, and although one was in his late forties and the other perhaps twenty years younger, they looked alike enough to be brothers. They were Mexican.
The older one was slightly taller, and he had iron-gray hair, which he wore long, down past his collar. He was a very handsome man with dark, penetrating eyes, an aquiline nose and full lips. The younger one had black hair and sported a thin moustache. Both were immaculately dressed. The younger one did the talking, and the older one never once spoke a word. I believe, though, that he thoroughly understood English, as he seemed to be quite aware of what ensued between us.
“You are Mr. Johns?”
I nodded.
“We are here at the request of a certain gentleman you met in Tijuana. He has informed us that you are interested in making certain purchases, and we are prepared to accommodate you. If my understanding is correct, you are interested in buying in bulk and want only the best quality merchandise. You are prepared to pay in American dollars upon delivery in Ensenada. Am I correct in these assumptions?”
I said that he was correct.
“In that case, there are only two or three details which must be worked out, and it should be simple to do so. The amount you want, when you want it, the price you’re prepared to pay for it, and the method of delivery.”
“Did our friend in Tijuana explain to you that I am seeking a steady source of supply, and that I am not merely interested in a few kilos at a time?”
His voice was slightly sarcastic when he answered me. “We are prepared to deliver a hundred kilos or a thousand kilos, and we can do so within a week’s notice. We can do it once every three months, once every month, or once every week.”
“The first order will be in the neighborhood of two hundred to two hundred and fifty kilos, depending upon our agreeing on a price, and I would like to plan on having it within the next week to ten days. The size of the order will go up progressively as we continue to do business, and for the time being I would expect to make purchases once or twice a month.
“As to the method of delivery, because of the bulk involved, I would suggest making a rendezvous at some fairly secluded spot where I could meet your delivery people with a truck and where we would be relatively safe from interference when the load is transferred. I will, of course, want to inspect the goods before making payment.”
The older man’s face suddenly reddened, and he looked angry, but the younger one kept his cool.
“Because of the man who recommended you, we are meeting you in good faith. We know what you are looking for, and we are men of honor and principle. We only deal in the highest type of merchandise.”
He picked up a small attache case that he had sat on the floor next to the chair which he occupied. He opened it and took out a slightly bulky manila envelope. He handed me the envelope.
“This is a sample of our product,” he said. “Test it out. If it meets your standards, that is what we will be delivering you. We are businessmen, not thieves.”
The envelope contained a handful of raw leaf marijuana and two rolled cigarettes. I took one out, lighted it and carefully inhaled the smoke, holding it in my lungs for at least a full minute. There was no question about the quality of the leaf.
We talked then for another few minutes, and we came to an agreement on the price. I handed back the envelope to him, but he insisted that I keep it. I told him that I would be able to let him know within the next forty-eight hours when and where I would want delivery.
“How will I get in touch with you?” I asked.
“When you wish to reach me, let Mr. Billings know. We will get back to you within a reasonable time.”
They stood up then and making curt, formal bows, filed out of the room. There was no attempt to shake hands, and at no time during the conversation did they give either their names or any clue as to their identity.
It was only after they left that I really began to wonder about them. They certainly failed to fit the image of any narcotics dealers I had ever encountered. Both in manners and speech, as well
as dress, I would have taken them for members of the Mexican aristocracy. I could only assume that they were wealthy landowners who were dabbling in marijuana on the side.
This, of course, wouldn’t have surprised me. It is a notorious fact that the bulk of the marijuana coming across the border from Mexico to the United States is grown on those sprawling, inland, privately-owned Mexican estates.
One thing was certain. They had to have powerful political connections, and it was already obvious that they had the proper police connections. It also seemed obvious that they had little worry as far as any danger I might represent. If there was any worrying to be done, it would undoubtedly be on my part. I had been a little surprised that they had shown no curiosity as to how I planned to get the marijuana over the border and into the States.
I wanted to be alone for a while to think things over, and so instead of going down to the bar and getting Sharon, I poured myself a drink of straight bourbon and sat by the open window and sipped it. I wanted to plan my moves for the next few days, and they were going to be busy days. But somehow or other my mind kept going back to the girl who was waiting in the cocktail lounge downstairs.
I had not questioned Sharon, but I was certain in my own mind that during that two-day period I had been held captive she had seen a great deal of our friend Captain Hernando Morales. I was equally sure that she had gone to bed with him.
It wasn’t jealousy, but the idea somehow disturbed me. God knows the girl meant nothing to me. I didn’t even want her around, hadn’t wanted her from the first. Certainly I couldn’t be jealous of her. On the other hand, the idea of her and Morales together bothered me.
Sharon was anything but an innocent and naive child. Her bedroom techniques were enough to establish that she had had plenty of experience and knew her way around. I couldn’t even say that she was a stupid girl. But Captain Morales was a dangerous man and, I suspected, a very vicious man.
I tried to figure it out. If he had really wanted Sharon, he had every opportunity to take her while I was being held. It would have been very easy for him to have told me when I came back to Tijuana that she had merely returned to the States. On the other hand, he had all but insisted I keep the girl with me. I wondered why. One thing I was sure of: a man like Captain Morales always had a motive for everything he did.
I took another drink and suddenly realized I was very tired. I was still sore and bruised from the beating I had taken, and I needed some rest. It had been a long, tiring day. A tense day. There was one sure way to relieve the tension.
I left the room to go down to the lounge and pick up Sharon.
The moment I stepped into the all-but-deserted cocktail lounge I realized that whatever plans I may have had for relaxing and relieving my nervous tension that night would have to be postponed.
Sharon sat slumped in a bar stool, her head dropped down on her folded arms. She was out like a light.
Homer Billings was behind the bar, and he looked up at me as I entered. He raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders and looked over at the girl.
“The little lady was overtired from your trip, I’m afraid,” he said.
“No need to be afraid,” I smiled back at him, without humor. “I’ll take her to the room now.”
“Can I help you?”
“I can handle her alone all right,” I said.
I didn’t bother trying to awaken her, but merely slung her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and trudged back to the yellow suite.
I didn’t take her clothes off, but I did remove her shoes. And then I stripped to my shorts and lay down on the bed beside her. The bourbon, on top of the tequila I had had with Angel Cortillo, was enough to do the trick. I was out like a light within ten minutes and didn’t awake until the sun was high in the sky the following morning.
***
During the next three days, I was too busy with the things I had to do to give more than a passing thought to the girl who was sharing the suite with me at La Casa Pacifica. I merely saw to it that she had enough money to wander around the tourist shops, which she loved, and buy herself a few trinkets. I was satisfied to know that she was apparently staying out of trouble and amusing herself in any way she could.
She had found a small private beach below the cliff, which she reached by way of a long flight of steps, and she seemed content to spend hours by herself lying on the sand in the sun in a bikini and listening to Mexican music over the transistor radio which she had purchased. Reading didn’t interest her, but she had managed to find a few ancient comic books in English in the lobby of the lodge.
Angel Cortillo’s help in what I had to do was almost beyond value, but we had to be very careful, as we did not want to be seen together, so we only met after dark. The truck itself was no problem. Angel had a cousin who owned an ancient Chevrolet pickup which would serve our purpose adequately and which he was willing to rent to us for a very nominal fee. The big problem was finding the right place along the coast.
We spent most of one late evening aboard the Rosita Maria, studying maps and charts of the coastline both north and south of Ensenada. Cortillo, of course, was familiar with the various bays and inlets and coves, but we had to find exactly the right place. There had to be a certain amount of privacy, and there also had to be enough water so that he could get in relatively close to shore. It had to be completely secluded, located where there were no houses within sight. At the same time, it must be so situated that a road would lead down to a beach where a dinghy could make a landfall.
Even under normal weather conditions the Pacific Ocean off Baja California is rough. There is almost always a heavy surf. The few truly well-protected coves are ringed by houses or small resorts. Those which are not are almost invariably unavailable from the land side, because of high, craggy cliffs which make ascent to their beaches all but impossible.
However, by diligently studying both sea-charts and topographical land-maps, we finally came across a spot that seemed possible. It was a little further away than Angel liked, but it seemed about the only place available. It lay some seventy kilometers south of Ensenada, and from all we could learn, it was completely isolated.
It was a small, half-protected cove, formed by a semicircle of shoreline, and although there appeared to be a wide sand-bar blocking most of the entrance, Angel believed that if he came in on high tide, he would be able to get across it. He would have to wait, of course, for a second tide in order to get out and take a chance that the weather didn’t turn bad before he had an opportunity to leave. A secondary road seemed, from what I could tell by the map that I was studying, to go to a small settlement some half mile or so inland. I decided that on the following day I would drive down and see how close I could drive a truck to the beach itself. If it seemed possible to do so, then Angel would ostensively take off on a short fishing expedition and go down by water and check out the possibilities of making a landfall. If he found that he could get in past the sand-bar he would then drop anchor and determine if it were possible to beach the twelve-foot dinghy powered by a small outboard which he carried in davits at the stern of the Rosita Maria.
On Saturday morning I told Sharon that we were going on a picnic for the day, and I packed her into the Jaguar along with a portable barbecue and a hamper of food. We headed south on Route 2. I was prepared to encounter some rather difficult terrain, and so I brought along an extra jack and a short-handled spade. It was well that I did.
As long as I stayed on the main road going south, there was no difficulty. It wasn’t a great road, but for Mexico it wasn’t bad. After passing San Vincente, I found what I thought was the right turn off to the west, and I took it only to find it ended at a deserted ranchhouse, some two miles inland.
I returned to the main road and continued on for another three miles until I found a second dirt road. This time I hit pay dirt. After going some four miles I came to a small settlement. There was no one in sight which didn’t surprise me because it was already midday, an
d the heat was intense. There were half-a-dozen houses and what appeared to be a combination grocery store and barroom. The main street led on through the settlement toward the southwest, and I continued along it. I passed several shanties which seemed to be inhabited, although I saw no one. Gradually, the road dwindled out until it was barely more than two tracks with grass growing between them.
I was beginning to get discouraged and was considering turning back when I spotted in the distance ahead what appeared to be an abandoned, fallen-down, adobe building.
Sharon, who had been sleeping during most of the journey, had awakened and was beginning to ask questions. She was also getting hungry and couldn’t understand why we didn’t stop and have our picnic. I told her I was looking for a shady spot.
I started to circle the building and the walls of what once must have been a courtyard. On the far side, the terrain changed from baked and cracked red mud to sandy soil dotted by cactus plants. I pulled alongside a wall, where the car would be out of the sun, and cutting the engine, I thought I heard in the distance what sounded like breaking surf. I retrieved the food hamper from the car and got out the Styrofoam box in which I had packed cracked ice and drinks. I made us two long, cold drinks and then told Sharon to get out the food. I wanted to take a walk around the place.
She was perfectly happy not to accompany me. I started west, climbing a steep grade toward the direction in which I believed I had heard the sound of the ocean. Ten minutes later, coming over the rise, I looked down, and there indeed was the Pacific breaking on a narrow sandy beach some hundred yards below me.
Two things struck me at once. It would be impossible to reach the beach by vehicle, and even to reach the tall cliff on which I stood looking down at the sea, it would take at least a four-wheel-drive jeep or truck to negotiate the last three-quarters of a mile I had walked.
I took the binoculars from the case which I’d slung over my shoulder, and first looked out to sea and then looked north and south. I was in the center of a small, semi-protected cove and from the white caps breaking some quarter mile off shore I was sure that they were breaking over the sand-bar of that same cove Angel Cortillo had spotted on the sea chart.
