by Garry Ryan
Lane nodded. “The resort manager had an argument with Fuentes about a whale calf that washed up on the beach.”
“Fuentes and Manny have been using the whales for target practice. People all around the harbour are talking about it. The guys who run the whale tours are worried but can’t say anything to Fuentes or their houses will burn down.” Alejandro looked at his reflection in the glass to make sure that no one was listening in by sitting close to the railing above.
“Fuentes was saying something about Palmilla.”
Alejandro nodded. “He can certainly afford to stay at the hotel. Celebrities and billionaires do. You moving to another hotel?”
Lane shook his head. “Don’t think so. We’ve got our role to play and this seems to be where the action is.”
Alejandro nodded. “I’m not sure where we go from here.”
“We use our eyes and ears.”
Alejandro took his phone out of his pocket. Lane saw the frown forming in the lines across Alejandro’s forehead. “Expecting a text?”
Alejandro raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the left. “I met someone down here.”
Lane saw the subtle differences in Alejandro’s facial muscles and heard a softening in his tone of voice. “Hmmm.”
“What?” Alejandro leaned away as if to get a clearer look at Lane.
“Your posture changed. Your eyes narrowed.”
Alejandro’s phone beeped. He read the text and smiled.
“It changed again.”
Alejandro looked up from his phone. “What did?”
“Your eyes. Your face. Your tone of voice.”
“We are engaged. She works here at the resort.”
“What’s her name?”
“Karen.”
“Your voice changes when you say her name.”
“This is a science for you?” Alejandro smiled.
“What’s that?”
“This reading of people’s reactions.”
“It is useful in my line of work. You can tell a great deal about a person by watching the eyes and listening for changes in the tone of voice.”
Alejandro took a breath. “You and Arthur started a family.”
“By accident. First our nephew Matt arrived on our doorstep, and then our niece Christine.”
“She has the little boy?”
“Indiana.”
“Your voice changes when you say their names.” Alejandro lifted his eyebrows.
“You are a fast learner.”
Alejandro nodded. “I want you to be very careful the next day or so, just in case you and your Arthur are the targets and this fire is — how you say?”
“A diversion?”
“Yes, that is the word. Fuentes has been able to live this long because he has the survival instincts of a coyote.”
Lane asked, “Like one of those ruthless guys who takes people across the border or like the coyotes back home that can survive anywhere?”
“I think both.”
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15
chapter 13
Lane sat in the foyer of La Luna Cortez with his laptop and a cappuccino. Men in dress shirts and ties walked back and forth. They were remarkable only because each had his black hair slicked back and wore black dress pants with a crisp white shirt. Lane watched the tourists walk by avoiding eye contact.
The man at the next table leaned in. “Timeshare salesmen. It’s like their uniform: tailored shirt and pants, hair slicked back so it hangs over the collar.” The man wore an orange Los Cabos T-shirt and a black ball cap with fluorescent pink hair sticking out at the top and sides. “How long you been here, man?” His boozy voice had a sports announcer’s volume and echoed in the foyer.
“A few days.” Lane smiled.
“Name’s Vic.” The man stretched out a beefy hand and shook Lane’s.
Lane inhaled a disconcerting blend of mint, coconut oil and second-hand rum. “Lane.” He released Vic’s grip and leaned back in the chair.
They turned as a pair of Prada stilettos announced the arrival of a woman of indeterminate age wearing a chic red sleeveless A-line dress and shoulder-length, jet-black hair. Vic said, “That’s the woman in charge of the cabana boys.”
“Cabana boys?” What the hell is he talking about?
“I call the timeshare salesmen cabana boys. They’ll do whatever you want as long as you end up buying a timeshare. She sits behind the one-way glass in the corner of the room, a queen bee watching over the workers. After the deal is consummated — so to speak — you’re a ghost.”
Lane nodded.
“Better hang onto your balls when that one’s nearby. I figure she’s got a collection in that office of hers. All those cabana boys are in the palm of her hand.” Vic lifted a mint green mojito glass with his right hand, grabbed his crotch with his left, then took a long pull on his drink.
Arthur walked down the hallway. He wore a white shirt, khaki shorts, his Mediterranean chocolate tan and a smile as he sat down across from Lane. Lane lifted his eyebrows. What has he gotten us into this time?
“I’ve got a surprise for you.” Arthur smiled at Vic, who had set his drink down and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Shit! “Okay.”
“I met a guy downstairs who said they just had a cancellation and wondered if we’d like to take the appointment for a meeting.”
“What kind of meeting?” Lane looked over at Vic.
“Timeshare.”
Vic’s chin hit his chest. He dropped his gaze, closed one eye, then focused on Lane. “Give it half an hour and she’ll have yours in her hand.” He grabbed his crotch and pumped it up and down.
Arthur stood up. “They’ll see us in five.”
Lane shook his head and took a deep breath. “No.”
Arthur leaned forward until Lane could feel his breath on his ear. “Alejandro set this up. We’ll meet our contact in plain sight.”
Lane rolled his eyes for Vic’s benefit, drained his cappuccino, grabbed his laptop, stood, then followed Arthur to the elevator. They went up to the first floor and were greeted by a man with a receding hairline, slicked-back grey hair, thick round glasses and a hooked nose. Lane was reminded of one of the pelicans he’d seen on the beach. “Name’s Bob. You must be Lane and Arthur! Come on in guys. I’ve got a few things to show you, and then we’ll have some breakfast at the members’ restaurant.”
Turn down the volume, Bob! Lane thought before tuning out after about thirty seconds into the spiel. He watched Arthur, who seemed comfortable with the volume and volubility.
They sat down for brunch near the beach under a thatched roof. The wind rolled over the waves, then the beach; it tugged at Lane’s shirt. Arthur arrived with a bowl of yogurt and fresh fruit. Bob said, “If you become a member, you get all of the best food.”
Lane got up and went to get breakfast at the buffet. He blinked away the beginnings of a headache. There was the usual lineup for tacos so he went for the fresh fruit and vegetables instead. You know you’re getting old when the fresh fruit and vegetables begin to look better than the bacon and fried potatoes. He returned to the table.
Bob stood. “Excuse me while I get a bite to eat.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows and looked at Lane, who shrugged and popped a slice of melon in his mouth. The sprinkle of lime juice on the fruit made for a delightful combination of flavours.
Arthur used his fork to point at the beach. “The whale is gone.”
Lane looked as another wave curled, the wind carried a white mane of spray out to sea and the water crashed against the sand. He felt the shudder of the concussion through the soles of his sandals. “I could get used to a place like this.”
“I think the kids would like it here. Provided of course someone’s not setting fire to the place, murdering a mistress or killing the whales.”
Lane nodded, speared a morsel of pineapple and popped it in his mouth.
Bob set his plate down, pulled up his chair, s
et a napkin in his lap and bowed his head in prayer. He looked sideways to see whether his clients had noticed, then leaned back and asked, “How’s the food?”
He checked to make sure we noticed he’s a good, trustworthy Christian. “Food’s great.” Now my mind is on red alert.
Bob talked before and after bites, then took them up to the show suite. Next door to it was a two-thousand-square-foot suite being repaired by half a dozen tradesmen. Bob said, “Doing some renovations.”
Lane leaned to look into the suite, saw a door kicked off of its hinges and a shattered sliding glass door leading to a deck running the width of the building. “Is that where Fuentes stayed?”
Bob blushed before ducking into an adjacent door and the show suite. “This is the kind of room you’ll be staying in.”
Lane walked in, tuned Bob out and stepped onto the balcony. He looked out at the waves and the spot where the humpback calf had washed up. Five minutes later, they were sitting at a table in the timeshare sales room. Bob and another salesman named Carlos were across from them. Behind them, in the corner, were two walls of one-way glass. Lane heard Arthur say, “No, thank you.” Lane tuned completely out and thought about the events from the last couple of days — until the third sales representative threw his papers and phone on the carpet. Lane studied the man. He weighed maybe one hundred fifty pounds and wore a blue tie, a white shirt, perfectly coiffed hair and poker-player sunglasses. The hair looked like it might have come out of the second shelf of his refrigerator. Lane read Luis on the man’s nametag.
Arthur stood up.
Luis nodded at the glass walls behind them. “You are embarrassing me in front of my boss.” His voice was low and thick with a combination of anger and ersatz pleading.
Lane studied the man’s eyes. They were green, and his face was shaved so close it shone.
Arthur said, “We’re not buying today. Some disconcerting things happen at your resort.”
“Buying a timeshare saved my parents’ marriage.” Luis leaned in closer, his eyes staring. Lane recognized the look of calculated intent he’d seen many times before in an interrogation room or at church. “My father was always working. My mother made him buy a timeshare and insisted we spend a month together as a family.”
“We’re not buying today,” Arthur repeated.
Luis turned to Arthur. “I’ve heard that before from people who ended up buying.”
Lane shook his head. Arthur sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.
A smiling man of sixty-five or seventy, with a bit more hair than Arthur, wore a white shirt and no tie. He approached the table and stood next to Lane. “Hello. My name is Marco. We just need to do a quality control survey before you go.” He shook hands with both of them.
Lane rolled his eyes. Arthur stood up. “Fine.”
Marco smiled. They followed him out of the sales room and down the hallway into a larger room with three empty tables and a reception desk in one of the corners. The room was the colour of coconut shells and the light was subdued. Marco opened his right hand and indicated they should sit down. Lane hesitated. Marco said, “Please.”
Lane looked at Arthur, who shrugged then sat down. Lane remained standing and looked at the door. “I’d like to get a cappuccino.”
Marco waved at the receptionist’s assistant. “Dos cappuccinos, por favor.” A tall young man in a white shirt stood up and walked from the room. They’re not going to let us leave the room until we buy something.
Arthur turned to Lane and winked. He sat down.
Marco said, “We like you to come back. The Mexican government likes you to come back. We have a special offer for sixty-one nights.” He flipped over a page on a notepad to reveal some of the details. Arthur leaned forward to read.
Five minutes later Arthur had signed a contract and paid for the timeshare with his gold card. Lane was sipping a cappuccino.
Arthur turned to him. Motion caught Lane’s eye. A man in a green shirt and black ball cap followed Luis across the room. The man with the ball cap glanced their way. His hair was black, his shoulders were broad and he walked with arrogant self-assurance even in sandals and shorts. Then he and Luis strode through a door to the left of the receptionist’s desk.
“What?” Arthur asked.
Lane leaned close to Arthur. “That was Sean Pike.”
Arthur’s eyebrows lifted, and lines crossed his forehead. “I thought you said he was dead.”
Lane shook his head. “I think we just found Keystone.”
At supper, they sat across from each other in a Mexican-style restaurant where the fish was delicate and the margaritas were deadly. After supper they walked back to their room along the lit pathways. The half moon cast soft shadows over the pool. Alejandro was sitting in one of the deck chairs just outside of their room. He waited for them to come closer. Lane saw the sliding glass door to their room was open. “How did you get in?”
Alejandro wore black. He held up a plastic key card. “You’re packed.”
Lane pushed the sliding patio door open wider and walked into the room. Both his and Arthur’s luggage sat near the door. Alejandro closed the door and used a flashlight to illuminate the room. “What’s going on?” Arthur asked.
“My Karen heard Luis — one of the timeshare salesmen — talking with a man he called Pike. Pike said he wants you eliminated tonight.” Alejandro pointed at the beach. “Some men are watching the front entrance. I have transportation waiting.” He leaned his head to the left.
“Point the light over here, please.” Lane went to the safe, took out the laptop and cell phone and put them in his carry-on bag, then stuffed their cash, credit cards and passports in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
“Just like that?” Arthur asked.
Lane nodded. He listened at the door. Footsteps made a gentle echo in the hallway. Lane pointed at the patio and picked up two bags. He followed Arthur and Alejandro out onto the patio. He saw the black silhouette of a handgun in Alejandro’s right hand as he took one of the bags from Lane with his left. Arthur shouldered both carry-on bags and led the way to the beach. They stopped on the ocean side of the rock wall and watched their room. In the foreground, a man and woman stepped out onto the sidewalk. An outside light set half a metre off the ground lit their faces. Her sandals slapped against the sidewalk. No other signs of life were visible.
Alejandro, Lane and Arthur turned and walked through the soft sand toward the white effervescence of the waves and the glow of the half moon on the black water. There was a nicker off to the left, followed by the gentle slapping of metal on leather. Lane spotted the silhouette of one horse then counted five. You’ve got to be joking.
A man in a cowboy hat leaned over the saddle of the lead horse. “Alejandro?”
“Si.” Alejandro tied one suitcase to the side of the packhorse, then took a second bag from Lane and tied it on the other side. Arthur hung the carry-on bags on the saddle horn, stuck his foot in a stirrup and bounced up into the saddle. A wave crashed against the beach.
Alejandro put his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “Get on.”
Lane shook his head. “This is a bad idea.”
Alejandro pulled him closer to one of the horses. “You are from Calgary. It has the Stampede. You must know how to ride.”
Lane put his hand on the horse’s shoulder and inhaled its scent. He put his left foot in the stirrup. I’ve only ever learned how to fall off a horse. After fumbling around, he finally managed to get his toe in the stirrup, then grabbed the saddle horn and tried to pull himself up. The horse moved sideways, and Lane had to hop on his free leg. Alejandro grabbed the horse’s bridle with his left hand, held it still and waited for Lane to heave himself into the saddle. Alejandro handed the reins to Lane, then climbed on the remaining horse.
Lane bobbed atop the horse. Arthur said, “Hold on with your knees.”
What the hell does that mean? Lane gripped the saddle horn with both hands.
The now familiar growl of
Fuentes’s cigarette boat ripped the serenity created by the waves and moonlight.
The man in the cowboy hat said, “Vámonos!”
Alejandro and Arthur used their heels to get their horses moving. Lane looked left at the brightly illuminated neighbouring resort. Those lights will make us easy targets. His horse began to trot along the hard-packed sand at the edge of the ocean as Lane bounced atop the saddle. The cinch began to slip, and he found himself with his right leg over the horse’s back, both arms around its neck and his left cheek against the mane. Hold on! The noise of the cigarette boat’s engine crackled as it throttled back.
Lane’s horse stopped. “Stand up,” Alejandro said. Lane touched the sand with his left toe, then allowed his right leg to slide off the horse’s back. He looked inland, noticing they were protected by the shadow of a two-storey dune. He looked out to sea and spotted the running lights of the idling cigarette boat. To his left, Arthur, Alejandro and the man in the cowboy hat held the bridles of their mounts. Lane could hear them making soothing sounds to the horses. Out on the water, the moon cast its silver. Further to the right, the lights of Palmilla dotted the hill jutting into the ocean. Alejandro worked on adjusting Lane’s saddle.
Lane concentrated on his breathing as they waited in deep shadow hoping no light would find and illuminate them. His horse nudged him with its nose. He spotted motion in the silver water illuminated by the moon. A spray of water. The back of a whale. The flash of gunfire from the cigar boat. The sound reached them seconds later. The moonlit triangle on the ocean was still again. There was a roar as the cigarette boat accelerated, then turned and pounded over a swell, though the moonlight and off in the direction of Cabo San Lucas.
Lane waited. The sound of Fuentes’s boat receded. He heard one of the horses swish its tail, followed by the sound of creaking leather, signalling one of the riders was climbing into his saddle. Lane took a long, slow breath, grabbed the reins and the saddle, then stuck his left foot in the stirrup. He hopped alongside his mount as it decided it was time to leave with or without him. Lane managed to yank his foot back out of the stirrup, took the reins and walked alongside, trusting the horse to know where they were heading.
