White Cargo

by Stuart Woods

  “All finished with the grass business, then?”

  Bluey snorted. “You betcha. This is my last trip south. I want to have someplace to go home to at night, you know?”

  Cat knew. He wasn’t sure he had that, himself, anymore.

  They drove back into Santa Marta. Bluey suggested they take up the chase tomorrow, and Cat agreed. He was tired and wanted some dinner and a good night’s sleep.

  They stopped at a traffic light. It was rush hour in Santa Marta, and the streets were teeming with an assortment of cars, motorbikes, and the garishly painted American school buses that passed for public transport in Colombia. Cat glanced to his right at a kid on a motor scooter who had pulled up next to them. The boy couldn’t be more than twelve, Cat thought; his feet barely reached the pedals, and he had to lean way forward to manage the handlebars. Cat wondered where a kid that age got a motor scooter. Not only that, he thought, looking at the boy’s arm, but an expensive wristwatch, too.

  “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, throwing open the door and leaping out. The light changed and the boy on the scooter accelerated and turned right. Cat sprinted after him shouting, “Hey, stop! I want to talk to you! Hold it!” He could hear Bluey shouting behind him, and the chorus of horns that said he was blocking an intersection.

  The boy looked back and saw Cat gaining on him. He revved the engine, and sprayed sand and gravel in Cat’s face.

  “Hold it! I just want to talk!” But the scooter was half a block ahead of him and gaining.

  Bluey pulled up in the Bronco. “What the hell are you doing, Cat?”

  “Catch that kid on the scooter up there,” Cat shouted at him. He looked down the block, but the scooter was gone. The boy must have turned into a side street. “Come on, Bluey, move it! That boy was wearing my Rolex wristwatch, we’ve got to find him!”

  Bluey got the car in gear, and they began methodically cruising every side street, passing a strange mixture of hovels and mansions.

  “Listen, Cat,” Bluey said, shifting gears, “you’re getting too excited about this. So the kid had a Rolex. He stole it, and he stole the scooter, too, probably, but half the drug runners in Colombia have Rolexes; they’re a big fad down here.”

  Cat knew what Bluey was thinking. First he had seen the wrong boat, then the wrong girl, now the wrong watch. “You don’t understand, Bluey,” he said, swiveling his neck to peer down an alley. “Most of the Rolexes you see are the old self-winding, mechanical models. Mine is a newer type, a quartz movement. They look different, and there aren’t that many of them around. I’ll bet that’s the only one in Colombia. All I want to do is look at it. There’s some engraving on the back of mine.”

  Bluey sighed and kept on driving. They turned another corner, and a block ahead of them they saw a small crowd of kids on a corner. A woman with some sort of movie camera was taking their picture. Bluey slowed so they could check out the group, but the boy on the scooter was not there.

  Cat suddenly realized that the woman with the camera was the one he had seen on the beach that morning. “Stop the car,” Cat said. He rolled down the window. “Excuse me, señorita, do you speak English?”

  “Well, yeah, a little,” she said.

  Cat winced. The woman was American.

  “We’re looking for a boy of eleven or twelve on a motor scooter. Could you ask these kids if they’ve seen him?”

  The woman looked amused. She turned to the children and spoke to them in excellent Spanish. Their faces went blank, and they shook their heads gravely in unison. “Sorry,” she said to Cat. “Nobody’s seen him.”

  Cat looked at her closely. He felt there was some sort of conspiracy between the woman and these children, some silent secret. He thanked her, and they drove on, searching vainly for a boy, a motor scooter, and a Rolex wristwatch.

  After an hour of this, when it was getting dark, Cat turned to Bluey. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve had enough of this for one day. Why don’t we start again tomorrow? The boy will still be around.”

  “Yeah, I know you must be bushed, Cat. Listen, I had a nap this afternoon when you were swimming, so I’m okay. Why don’t you take a cab back to El Rodadero and have a drink? I’ll keep at it for a bit, ask some questions around the cantinas. Maybe somebody knows the kid.”

  Cat nodded. “Okay, if you’re game.”

  Bluey drove him to a taxi stand and left him. Cat got into a cab and gave the driver the name of the hotel. Suddenly he had the odd feeling that he would not see Bluey again. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the Bronco turn a corner and disappear. It was the first time they had been separated since they had arrived in Colombia. Cat had come to trust the Australian, but some tiny corner of his mind still seemed to fear abandonment. Cat chased the thought from his head.

  14

  BACK AT THE BEACH, CAT SHOWERED AND CHANGED INTO COOL cotton clothes. The evening was warm, and he didn’t bother with a jacket. He strolled down to the pool bar and ordered a piña colada. He loved the drink, and he made a point of never ordering it unless he was in some tropical place. He had taken only a sip when someone sat down on the adjacent barstool.

  “Pardon me,” she said.

  He turned and looked at her. She had changed into a strapless flowered cotton sheath, and instead of speaking, he simply enjoyed looking at her for a moment.

  “Why did you want the boy?” she asked.

  “I had the feeling this afternoon that you knew him,” Cat replied.

  “I know a lot of the gamines” she said.

  “The who?”

  “Street children. Most of them have no family. They live any way they can. I’m doing a film about them. Why did you want the boy?”

  Cat looked closely at the woman. Her dark hair was still wet from the shower, and her tan glowed against the bright yellow of the dress. There didn’t seem any reason not to tell her. Maybe she would know something. “I had a wristwatch stolen some time back. The boy was wearing a watch this afternoon that looked like mine.”

  “So you wanted to catch him and take it back?”

  “If it was mine, I was willing—”

  “Señor,” the bartender interrupted. “You are Señor Ellis?”

  “Yes.”

  The bartender set a telephone on the bar. Cat picked it up. “Hello?”

  “It’s Bluey. I’m at a bar on the beach just off the square called Rosita’s. The boy comes here every evening selling stolen goods, keeps a pretty regular schedule, the bartender says. He’s due here any minute.”

  “I’m leaving right now,” Cat said and hung up. He turned to the woman. “Please excuse me. I have to leave.”

  She caught his arm. “Is this about the boy?”

  He was about to tell her it was none of her business, but she anticipated him.

  “I know him,” she said. “His name is Rodrigo. I may be able to help.”

  “Come with me then.”

  They got a taxi at the front of the hotel. Cat’s mind was racing. Finally, a link to Denny and Pedro, something concrete.

  “My name is Meg Garcia,” the woman said.

  “Bob Ellis,” Cat replied. “Tell me about this kid.”

  She shrugged. “He’s one of the bunch I’ve been filming. They’re lost, these children. They’ve no families, no schooling. They hardly know the name of the country they live in. They’re like a pack of little animals, except that they take care of their own. It’s quite touching, really. But, like animals, they can be very mean in packs or when cornered. Has your friend found Rodrigo?”

  “He’s at a bar called Rosita’s. Apparently, the boy comes there regularly selling stuff.”

  “I know the place. Look, if we see the boy, let me talk to him. It’s important that you don’t try to take the watch from him. He won’t let you have it without a fight. He’s very proud of it.”

  “Do you think he might sell it?”

  “Maybe. I’ll talk to him about it. How will you know if it’s yours?”

 
; “There’s engraving on the back. I have to know exactly how he got it. I’m looking for the people who stole it from me.”

  The cab pulled up in front of Rosita’s, and they got out. It seemed an ordinary enough place. There were some sparsely populated tables along the sidewalk, and inside, more tables and a bar. Bluey was nowhere to be seen.

  Cat turned to the woman. “Will you ask the bartender where my friend is? He’s a big, heavy fellow, an Anglo.”

  She spoke briefly to the bartender, then turned and ran from the place. She stopped and whipped off her high heels as Cat caught up with her. “He chased Rodrigo this way.” She started running down the street.

  Cat was unprepared for how quickly she could run in the tight dress, but he managed to stay close behind her. Ahead half a block, across the street, he could see a small crowd of people gathered, looking into an alley. Suddenly they were moving back, away from the alley, and there was a woman’s scream. As Cat and Meg Garcia reached the spot, Bluey staggered out of the alley into the street, holding both hands against his chest.

  Horrified, Cat watched as, with a great effort, Bluey pulled his hands away. In his right hand was a knife, and the front of his shirt was red and shiny. As Cat reached him the Australian sank into a sitting position, one leg collapsed under him. Cat grabbed his shoulder and took Bluey’s weight against him. With his other hand he ripped open the sodden shirt to find a spurting wound.

  “Quick,” he said to the Garcia woman, “get an ambulance.” At that moment, a police car pulled up, and she began talking rapidly to the policeman, who said something into a radio. Cat got a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

  Bluey wore a look of astonishment. “Cat,” he managed to say, “I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  “Shhh, Bluey, it’s going to be all right. An ambulance is on the way. We’ll get you patched up in a hurry.” Cat knew it was a lie, even as he said it. The wound was near the center of the chest and was spurting. It had to be the aorta.

  “Cat,” Bluey was saying, but more weakly, “Cat, Marisa—it goes to Marisa, she’s the only . . .” He stopped in mid-sentence, coughed up some blood, and stopped. There was a streetlamp above them, and as Cat looked into Bluey’s eyes, he clearly saw the pupils dilate. He removed the handkerchief from the wound; it had stopped spurting. He felt at the neck for a pulse; there was none. Cat closed Bluey’s eyes and stayed there, holding him until the ambulance came.

  • • •

  Cat was at the police station until midnight, numbly answering questions translated by Meg Garcia. Bluey’s body was placed on a bench in a back room until an undertaker came and took it away.

  “I must send the passport with a report to the American Consul in Barranquilla,” the policeman was saying. “Is there a next of kin?”

  Cat nodded. “He has a daughter in Miami, Florida.”

  “Will you act for her?”

  “Yes, I’ll see that she receives his personal effects.”

  The policeman handed him a brown paper bag. “Do you have the address?” he asked.

  “No,” Cat replied.

  “Do you think it might be with his effects?” Meg Garcia asked.

  Cat emptied the bag onto the desk. There were a fat wallet, the keys to the car and the airplane, some coins, and a small notebook. Cat leafed through the notebook. He wanted to leave this place.

  “Here it is,” he said. “Marisa Holland, in care of Mrs. Imelda Thomas.” He read out the address in Miami.

  The policeman duly noted it in his report. He handed Cat a sheet of paper. “Here is the name of the undertaker, and the telephone number of the American Consul. You must make arrangements tomorrow.”

  Cat nodded. “Yes, of course. May we go now?”

  “There is nothing more to do.”

  “Will you catch the boy who did this?”

  The policeman shrugged. “No one actually saw the stabbing occur, no one who will say so, anyway. It will be very difficult.”

  They didn’t talk much on the way back to the hotel. When they parted she said, “You look exhausted. Try and get some sleep and I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning and help you make the arrangements,” she said.

  “Thank you, I appreciate that,” he replied. “Do you think you might still be able to get the watch?” It was his last shred of hope. He had to have it.

  “I’ll try. It may not be possible now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  Cat’s body and mind cried out for rest. He managed to get to sleep without thinking.

  15

  CAT MOVED, TRANCE-LIKE, THROUGH THE HORRORS OF DEALING with the undertaker and the American Consul. The undertaker was professionally sorrowful, the Consul, on the telephone, was brisk. It was not the first American corpse he had dealt with.

  “Do you have any reason to suppose there is anyone in the United States who would want Mr. Holland’s body returned there?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  “Well, then, my advice is to have the undertaker bury him in Santa Marta. This is a hot climate, and even with embalming, well . . .”

  “I see your point. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “Was there anything of value among his effects?”

  “There was some money.”

  “Do you want me to send it to the daughter, or will you?”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  “Good.” The man sounded relieved.

  The undertaker found a priest, and there was a brief, graveside service attended by Cat, Meg Garcia, the undertaker, and two gravediggers. When it was over she said, “That’s it, there’s nothing more to do.”

  “There’s the watch,” Cat said. “Will you try?”

  “Do you have a thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give it to me. I’ll try to find him. Wait for me at the hotel.”

  • • •

  Lying on his bed with the air-conditioning turned up high, Cat tried to think. Everything depended on the wristwatch; he couldn’t leave Santa Marta without knowing about that. If the Garcia woman could find out where the boy had gotten it, there might be a thread to follow, although he was ill-equipped to follow it.

  He kept expecting to hear Bluey’s voice from the next room—gruff, cheerful, practical, knowledgeable—always with an idea of what to do next. Cat didn’t know what to do next. He got up and went into Bluey’s room. The clothes he had bought in Atlanta were neatly hung in the closet and tucked into drawers. He collected them and packed them into the single canvas bag Bluey had brought with him. There was about seven thousand dollars in the jacket, the remainder of the ten thousand Cat had paid Bluey in Atlanta.

  In Bluey’s wallet he found a school photograph of a small, dark little girl, very pretty. Except for a few hundred dollars, the new wallet was strangely empty—no credit cards, no driver’s license, just a few scraps of paper with unfamiliar phone numbers and incomprehensible jottings. He tossed all of it, except the photograph, the money, and Bluey’s .357 magnum, into the bag and zipped it shut. There was nothing worth sending back to the States; he’d give it all to the porter. He staggered back to his bed and slept.

  • • •

  There was a soft knock on the door. Cat struggled up, glancing at his bedside clock. Early evening. He had slept the whole afternoon away. He went to the door.

  “May I come in?” the Garcia woman asked.

  “Sure, have a seat. Did you have any luck?”

  She sat down on the living-room sofa, opened her handbag, and handed him a Rolex wristwatch. “He took your thousand dollars,” she said.

  Cat turned over the watch, holding his breath, and read the inscription on the back. “For Cat and Catbird, with love, Katie & Jinx.” He swallowed hard. “Did you find out where he got it?”

  “Yes. He stole it from a man, a man with an eye patch. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, yes, it does,” Cat
said, growing excited. “Does he have any idea where the man is now?”

  “He’s dead. The gamines killed him for the watch. A dozen of them trapped him in an alley, and . . . well, he wasn’t the first, and your friend, Holland, won’t be the last.”

  “Did the boy know anything about the man? Anything at all?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing at all. He was drinking at one of the cantinas, sitting near the sidewalk. They saw the wristwatch. When he left, drunk, they followed him. That was it.”

  Cat sank into a chair. This was the end of it all. If Pedro the Pirate was dead, he had nowhere else to go in this thing, not without Bluey Holland. He felt stripped of his power to do anything about anything. In his mind, he listened once again to the voice on the telephone and the one word it spoke, and he was no longer sure. He had mounted this expedition on a wisp of a hope that his mind had conjured up, just as it had conjured up Jinx’s face on the girl in Riohacha. He had gotten a good man killed for a mindless compulsion and a wristwatch. He tried not to weep.

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “I’m going home,” he said wearily. “I’ve got all there is to get, I’m afraid.” He looked up at her. “You’ve been very kind to me. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes, you can buy me dinner tonight and tell me the whole story.” She paused. “I know who you are, Mr. Catledge. The inscription on the watch told me. I read all about it at the time. You’ve changed a lot from the pictures I saw.”

  Cat nodded. “Of course I’ll buy you dinner. I owe you a great deal more than that.”

  “An hour then? At the pool bar?”

  “Yes, fine. I could use a shower, and I want to make some travel arrangements and call home.”

  She left, and Cat called the front desk and asked about flights to Miami.

  “There is a flight from Cartagena the day after tomorrow, señor, or there is the daily Eastern flight from Bogotá. There is a connecting flight from Santa Marta tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  “Will you try and get me on the flight from Santa Marta, please? And will you ask Eastern to get me on a connecting flight from Miami to Atlanta, Georgia?” He’d leave the Cessna; maybe there would be some way to get it back later.