“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Alita wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. She looked up with moist coffee-colored eyes. “You do adore me, don’t you, Johnny?”
“Sure.”
“Mucho?”
“Even more mucho if I had some breakfast in me.”
She kissed him, slid out of his lap, and went back to the lard sizzling in the frying pan. She added the chopped chilis and stirred in the eggs. Without turning around, she said, “If the blonde lady goes to Quintana Roo, I want to go, too.”
Hooker groaned.
CHAPTER 5
The noontime clientele at El Poche was quite different from the crowd that came in at night. There were workers from the nearby warehouses and from the docks on their midday breaks. Sailors off the merchant ships in the harbor were starting off hopefully on a twelve-hour carouse. And usually there were a few of the previous night’s customers, looking bleary and hoping a little hair of the dog would set them right again.
The bar did a quiet, steady business, but this was the time of greatest activity for the kitchen. There a one-eyed chef who went by the name of Cisco prepared a selection of chilaquiles, enchiladas, chalupas, and tamales. It was not always easy to tell the difference since Cisco drenched everything in bitter chocolate mole poblano sauce. There were few complaints, since Cisco was a man of short temper, and his kitchen held the finest assortment of knives and cleavers in that part of Veracruz.
At the bar, the most popular beverage at this time of day was pulque, a mild working man’s drink distilled from the same maguey cactus that produced the powerful tequila. Paco Silvera was on duty as usual when Hooker walked in. Local legend had it that Paco never slept.
Hooker hitched up a stool at the bar next to Klaus Heinemann, who was reading a tattered old copy of Life.
“You’re up early, Hooker,” Paco said. He swabbed a towel over the bar space in front of Hooker. Without being asked, he poured a shot glass of tequila and placed it on the bar.
“Business,” Hooker said. He leaned over to peer at Heinemann’s magazine. “What’s new with the world, Kraut?”
“A poll of school children in New York shows your President Roosevelt to be the most loved man in the world.”
“Good for him.”
“It is even more impressive when you know who came in second. God.”
“Never mind that; get to the important stuff.”
Heinemann flipped through the pages. “Clark Gable and Carole Lombard are getting married.”
“About time he made an honest woman out of her.”
“A fisherman off the coast of Africa caught a coelacanth.”
“You can catch a lot of things in Africa.”
“This happens to be a fish thought to be extinct for fifty million years.”
“Must have been a little ripe.”
Heinemann turned more pages. “I see college boys are swallowing goldfish again.”
“It’s a big week for fish stories.”
“I did not think you would be interested in the world situation.”
“You were right,” Hooker said. “Are there any pictures of Carole Lombard?”
“Only where she has lots of clothes on.” Heinemann tossed the magazine aside. “I understand there was some excitement outside here last night.”
“Not much. Just a couple of punks from across town feeling their oats.”
“Just my luck to miss the fun. And on a fool’s errand at that.”
“How so?”
“I had a movie producer from Hollywood who wanted to fly to Mexico City with his girlfriend. He was going to pay all my expenses just to wait there a week for him, then fly him back.”
“Sounds great. What’s the problem?”
“He canceled out on me. It seems he learned his girlfriend is pregnant, therefore no longer desirable.”
“Never trust a woman,” Hooker observed.
“I hear you got a job offer, too.”
“News gets around.”
“There are no secrets in El Poche; you know that. Tell me about it.”
“In a nutshell, Nolan Braithwaite’s wife wants somebody to go down to Quintana Roo and find him. Or his corpse, if that’s the case, which it probably is.”
“Braithwaite? That was a year ago, wasn’t it? Didn’t he disappear on the plane your friend Kaplan was on?”
“That’s it. I don’t expect there’ll be much left of him by now.”
“Nor of the airplane itself. Not the way the jungle swallows things down there.”
“That’s what I told her.” Hooker downed half the shot of tequila Paco had placed before him. “Still, I wonder.”
Heinemann stared at him. “You’re not actually considering this insane venture?”
“Last night I wasn’t. Today I’m not so sure.”
“What brought about the change?”
“A couple of things happened. Have you ever heard of muerateros?”
Heinemann nodded slowly. “Walking dead men who are supposed to guard the sacred temples of the Mayas. Some such nonsense.”
“Are you so sure it’s nonsense?”
“What else could it be?”
“I had a visitor last night. Alita says it was one of them.”
“A mueratero in Veracruz? It does not seem probable.”
“Maybe not, but whatever it was, this was no ordinary man. He splintered my door like a berry box and lifted me off the floor with one hand. I hit him as hard as I’ve ever hit anybody, and he never felt it.”
“Curious,” Heinemann said. “What was his business with you?”
“He left a note warning me to stay out of Quintana Roo. I’ve been getting that advice from a lot of people lately.”
“You can add me to the list. Quintana Roo is no place for a white man. Or anybody else except those primitive Maya tribesmen who are supposed to be still living there and eating each other for dinner.”
Hooker was thoughtful. “When so many people tell me not to do something, it gets my curiosity up.”
“You said there was more than one reason you might actually undertake this madness.”
“Well, there’s the money.”
“Now you begin to make sense. The amount is considerable, I trust.”
“The lady did say she’s ready to pay a bundle.”
Heinemann took a sip of beer and studied his friend. “This Mrs. Braithwaite … Is she by any chance — what is the current word? — a knockout?”
“I suppose you could say she isn’t hard to look at,” Hooker admitted.
“Aha!”
“Aha, my ass. The fact that Connie Braithwaite is a beautiful woman has nothing to do with my decision one way or the other.”
“I see she has progressed from ‘not hard to look at’ to ‘beautiful.’”
“Semantics,” Hooker said grumpily.
“I tell you this, my friend. Marlene Dietrich could make a personal visit to my room, take off every stitch of clothing, and I would still think long and hard about entering the jungles of Quintana Roo.”
“There’s one more thing to be considered,” Hooker said. “If there is even a small chance that Nolan Braithwaite is still alive, then there is the same chance for Buzz Kaplan.”
“Ah, yes. You two were very close.”
“He was a good friend.”
“I hope you think of me as a friend, too,” Heinemann said, “and on that basis I hope you will consider the personal danger involved. I would not like to lose you.”
Hooker swallowed the rest of his tequila and grinned at the German. “Thanks, Kraut. But don’t start the eulogies yet. I’m still thinking it over.”
He dropped a coin on the bar and walked out of the cantina onto Avenida Revolución. Klaus Heinemann watched him with a troubled expression.
CHAPTER 6
Hooker swung down off the rickety bus at the end of the line in the Santa Ynez district of Veracruz. He headed up the unpaved street
to the white adobe bungalow with the red tile roof where Buzz Kaplan had lived with his wife Carmen and their two boys. In most cities of the United States, the house would have been considered barely adequate; among the working class of Veracruz, it was as close to luxury as any of them was likely to come.
As he approached the house, Hooker saw the two dark-eyed little boys kneeling in the patchy grass that served as a lawn. They were intent on moving little toy cars along a miniature road and around obstacles that existed only in their minds. First one of the boys, then the other, looked up from his play and saw Hooker. Their dark eyes grew wide, they smiled and forgot their toys.
Toby, who was four years old and roly-poly, came at a full run, or as close to it as he could manage on his chubby brown legs. Seth, who was slim, solemn, and a year older, felt his obligation as the big brother. He came toward Hooker more sedately but with the same delighted sparkle in his eyes.
“Hooker, Hooker!” Little Toby cried. “Gimme a ride, okay?”
Hooker looked down at the little boy and stroked his chin with mock gravity. “Well, now, I don’t know. You’re getting pretty big for me to lift.”
“Aw, Hooker.”
“But we’ll give it a try.” Hooker swept the squealing boy into the air and set him down on his shoulder.
“Look, Seth,” Toby cried. “I’m bigger than you now.”
Seth, maintaining his dignity, held out a hand for a manly greeting. “Hi, Hooker.”
“Buenos días, amigo,” said Hooker. He shook the boy’s strong little hand and studied him. “Say, you certainly are getting to be a man. It’s kind of a shame, because I guess you’re too grown up for licorice now.”
“Licorice?” Seth quickly forgot his dignified pose and became all five-year-old boy. “You brought licorice, Hooker? I’m not too big. Nobody’s too big for licorice.”
“Me, too, me, too,” Toby chimed in from his perch on Hooker’s shoulder.
Hooker lowered the smaller boy to the ground. “Well, if you guys are sure you’re not too grown up — ”
“Come on, Hooker, stop teasing,” said Seth.
“All right, all right.” Hooker dipped into a pocket and brought out a red and white striped paper bag containing two licorice whips. He delivered one into the eager hand of each boy.
“Where’s your mama?” he asked.
“Out in back,” said Seth through a mouthful of licorice.
“Yeah, in back,” Toby echoed.
Hooker ruffled the hair on the two small heads. Seth’s was black and thick like his mother’s. Toby’s was sandy-colored and had a curl to it, like Buzz’s.
“You guys play for a little while. I want to talk to your mama.”
“Come and see our cars first, Hooker,” said Toby. “Mine has Mickey Mouse driving.”
“Yes, but mine’s bigger,” said Seth.
“Is not.”
“Is, too.”
“We made a road,” Toby said.
“I made most of it,” Seth explained.
“But I helped.”
When he could get a word in, Hooker said, “I’ll come back and have a look after I talk to your mama.” He walked back along the side of the little house past the bougainvillea Carmen had trained up a trellis. It was as high as the house now and lush with purple-red flowers.
In the trim little back yard, he found Carmen Kaplan bending over a steaming washtub. She was vigorously rubbing wet soapy clothes on a washboard. Hooker stood for a moment looking at her. She was short and plump and very brown, with a broad, beautiful Indian face. She wore a cotton housedress and a white bandanna now to keep the lustrous black hair from falling forward as she leaned over the wash. Hooker felt a welling up of affection for the wife of his friend.
“Hey, chiquita, want to go dancing?”
Carmen straightened with a little gasp of surprise and turned to face him. Her round brown face broke into a smile as bright as a new peso.
“Hooker, you bandido! What you want to sneak up on a person like that for? Scared me half to death.”
“I have better luck with beautiful women when they don’t know I’m coming.”
Carmen walked over and gave him a lusty hug. The top of her head came to just under his chin. She smelled not unpleasantly of laundry soap.
“Ai, look at me,” she said, stepping back. “I’m all sweat and soap suds.”
“More beautiful than ever,” Hooker said.
“Embustero!” she said, trying to look severe. “Don’ give me that bullshit.”
“I swear it’s true,” he said. “And speaking of swearing, where did you pick up that kind of language?”
“From your good amigo, my husban’, that’s where. He’s the one taught me the English.”
Hooker looked around the small yard. It had been completely strung with clothesline that was hung with bedding and clothes of all sizes and descriptions.
“Big wash,” he said.
Carmen shrugged. “Not so big.”
“Not all yours, either.”
Her eyes flickered away from his for an instant. “Okay, I make a little extra money doin’ wash for some of my frien’s. I don’ mind. It gives me somethin’ to do, and it’s only gonna be till Buzz comes home.”
She was smiling again. For the full year he had been missing, Carmen Kaplan had not allowed herself to hold the slightest doubt that her husband was alive and would soon return to her.
“Can you take a break?” Hooker said. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Sure.” Carmen smiled. “Like Buzz always said, I’m my own boss.” She gestured at the pile of laundry still unwashed. “An’ this will wait for me to come back.”
They started for the back door. “I got no tequila in the house,” Carmen said, “but there is Coca-Cola, if you can drink it with no ice.”
He suppressed a shudder. “Never fear; Hooker plans ahead.” From a rear pocket he pulled a bottle of Sauza tequila. “Maybe I can talk you into having one with me.”
“Well, maybe. Poquito.”
• • •
The kitchen of the Kaplan house was small and cool, insulated from the stifling Veracruz summer by thick adobe walls and the tile roof. Carmen took two clean glasses from a cupboard and set them on the table Buzz had bought from a secondhand store and refinished himself. It was painted in a cool green enamel, decorated with a dainty scrollwork of yellow leaves added by Carmen.
Hooker twisted the top off the tequila bottle and poured a generous shot into each of the glasses. He lifted his in a toast.
“Salud!”
“Salud!” she answered.
They drank. Carmen nodded in appreciation of the tequila and looked at Hooker, waiting for him to speak.
Hooker was in no hurry. He took a second mouthful of the liquor and rolled it around, savoring the taste. He thought about his friend Buzz Kaplan.
• • •
It had been Solomon Kaplan when he was born almost fifty years before, son of the only identifiable Jew in Bedford, Indiana. The Indiana tolerance level was not high. During his boyhood, Buzz had thought that “dirtyJew” was one word. He was taunted, chased, and beaten up so often that he was starting to believe that was the only way life could be. His father was ineffectual at persuading him any different. And as for his mother, when Buzz thought of her later, he could hardly ever remember her leaving the family kitchen.
Then, with a suddenness that astonished him, life changed for young Solomon Kaplan. He began to grow. Seemingly overnight, he blossomed from a skinny, knock-kneed kid with a bad complexion into a two-hundred-pound, good-looking high school sophomore with clear skin and curly hair and lots of muscles. Girls began to look at him in a new way, and nobody called him Jewboy Solly anymore. He was Buzz now, star fullback on the football team, invited to all the parties, and more than ready to break the face of anybody who looked at him crosswise.
Once out of high school, Buzz said a fast good-by to Bedford. He was still carrying a big load of ang
er when he arrived in Chicago. It seemed the best place to put it to use there was on the police force.
He had a growing reputation as a tough, honest cop when the war came. Buzz enlisted in 1917 at the height of the patriotic beat-the-pants-off-the-kaiser fever. He breezed through basic training, spent a couple of bloody months in the Argonne Forest, and came home after the Armistice fed up with war and causes and patriotism.
Buzz was one of the lucky returning veterans; he got his old job back with the Chicago police force. He soon discovered, however, that it was a different police force from the one he had left. There was a new attitude in the land brought about by a new law — Prohibition. Nobody, it seemed, believed in the law. Nobody wanted to obey it. And the cops were not eager to enforce it. Why should they now arrest people for doing what had been perfectly legal a year before?
Moreover, there was good money to be made simply by looking the other way at the right time. Many policemen were more than willing to leave the bootleggers and the speakeasies alone, and there were people more than willing to show their gratitude.
Buzz Kaplan never caught on to the new way of doing things. In his mind, a law was a law, and his job was to enforce it. He arrested a couple of men he was supposed to leave alone and abruptly found himself suspended from the force and, ironically, accused of taking bribes.
The experience wiped out what little remained of Buzz Kaplan’s idealism. He left Chicago before his case came before the inquiry board, having no doubt what the outcome would be. He bummed around the country for a few years, taking such jobs as were available to an ex-cop with a bribery rap hanging over him. When the Great Depression hit, he headed south across the border.
In Mexico, Buzz found the kind of life he had been searching for. The climate, the pace of living, and the temperament of the people suited him perfectly.
He arrived in 1932, about the same time as John Hooker, but Kaplan followed a different path. He found pretty little Carmen Zamora working in a Veracruz restaurant and fell in love for the first time. He became a Mexican citizen and established himself as a superior bodyguard for the wealthy Europeans who came in through the port of Veracruz. These people often carried large sums of money with them for dealings in parts of the country where it was unwise to go unguarded.
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