"And this," she said, taking up the cotton-clothed bundle. She looked at Max. "I suppose this is also what brought you to Luperón?"
"Sister ...?"
"Because of Mr. Stonehill's passing. You said there was another reason why you have come, other than to meet Papo." She motioned to Max and when he held out his hands, she gave him the bundle. "If the circumstances here were different ... if our future in Luperón were not so uncertain ... I would ask that you allow it to remain with us. It has become a local object of veneration for the townspeople. But now I think it would be better if it were taken to safety. To Mr. Stonehill's family."
Max stared at the bundle a moment before carefully pulling the edges of the cloth back. And there lay Lloyd Stonehill's blade, broad and weighty, a magnificent Bowie knife. It had been cleaned of all traces of blood, lovingly cared for since that fateful night, when Lloyd had driven it wrist-deep into the throat of the Dominican lineage.
The ornate silverplate trim, glorious against the hilt's black leather, gleamed softly in the light of Sister Veronica's little church.
* * *
If a crossroads town like Imbert didn't have enough overnight travelers to keep an inn, Luperón was even less likely. But what Luperón did have was an abundance of abandoned buildings and homesteads. The sister recommended a few houses that had been freshly vacated and Max and David chose one that put them between Sister Veronica and Papo Salvador. One of the few fishermen left in town had two teenaged sons, and the sister sent for them to help Max and David tote their belongings. They paid the boys, as well, to return to town for larder, cooking supplies and coffee.
The house was relatively clean, having been left behind only days earlier. A pretty nice place. It even had a plank floor. It was a two room, tin-roofed, log and plaster hovel that still had its furnishings: a table with four chairs in the front room and a wooden bed with a woven rope center, not quite the size of an American double bed. Not much by some people's estimates, maybe, but a lot better than renting cots at the local cathouse. That thought brought Mezz to mind, and Max smiled to himself as he and David flipped a buffalo nickel to see who got the bed.
"Shit."
"Better luck next time," David said without a trace of regret. He turned back to the weapons trunk, crouched down and flipped it open. "When Aldo and Reubén come back, why don't you see if somebody has another bed to sell?"
"Already there in my mind," Max replied, looking over David's head. "Everything intact?"
David pulled out the layers of clothing, photo equipment and first false bottom with its silver. He popped out the second false bottom, eyed the handguns, the shotguns and did a cursory count of the cartridges and other munitions. "All good." Max handed him Lloyd Stonehill's knife, still wrapped in its cloth, and David tucked it in with the weapons. He dropped the top back down.
They took two of the chairs and went outside, where the former occupants had made a front porch of sorts: a stand-alone pavilion that was a network of wooden uprights and cross-poles supporting rusty tin panels spotty with holes.
They sat together without a word for quite a while. Having been friends and allies for so many years, their small talk days were behind them. They only thought aloud when they were ready for one another's input, or when Max felt like yanking David's chain.
Eventually they saw the two boys making their way up the rutted road with a small horse carrying the supplies. Max and David stood and sauntered out to the edge of the road to watch their approach.
David said, "It's just as well that Sister Veronica couldn't come with us today."
Max mulled that over, then nodded. With so little time left, keeping the rest of the day to themselves to plan was probably a better way to spend it. He thought, too, of what the sister had said about the people of Luperón and the night: No one here risks a venture after dark . That was going to make it a lot easier for him and David to spy on Papo Salvador. A lucky break.
And they needed all the breaks they could get. First Night was less than seventy-two hours away.
Chapter Eleven
Several Miles East of Luperón
República Dominicana
Spring, 1950
Midday. Second Quarter Moon.
Through hooded eyes, Art -as he was calling himself for this hunt- watched his traveling companion clutch the edge of the back seat.
Mezz yelled over the car radio to Art, "Doesn't anybody in this country know how to drive?"
Mezz . It wasn't even a real name. In this new movement slouching out of New York, the term was supposed to mean something like "genuine" or "excellence." But just like this guy, spoiled and coddled by his well-off parents, the beat movement was a sham. A bunch of white kids pretending they were disenfranchised, when they'd never suffered a day in their lives. Even their language was an identity theft; stolen from jive, the lingo of the jazz community. The only thing Art had in common with Mezz and his kind was their generation.
Mezz. You're as naive and phony as your name. If you were half as savvy as you like to think, you wouldn't be so gabby, spilling everything you know -or what you think you know- about Max and David. Yeah, I know who they are. You think you're clever, just because you don't name names? Mezz. What a piece of work you are. What a piece of luck.
Maybe to relax himself, maybe because he just couldn't hide his curiosity anymore, Mezz launched into small talk.
"So, Art, what the hell brings you to this backwater, man?"
"I've never been here before. Came to see what I could see. I heard the people and the countryside were the cat's meow." He gazed out the window and smoked, waiting. Waiting for the question he knew Mezz was dying to ask.
"Where you from? Originally, I mean."
Yeah, there it was: vulgar curiosity masked as polite interest.
Art smiled as he flicked his spent cigarette out the window and fished another one from the pack in his shirt pocket. "I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world."
Just as Art figured he would, Mezz let the question go and warmed to the bullshit. "Yeah ... yeah, I dig. Me, too. Who needs borders, right?"
"Exactly, my friend." Art pointed toward Mezz with his cigarette hand: affirming, chummy. "It's the new view. The authentic way to be. The oldsters? Too damn busy rearranging lines on their maps." He tapped the side of his head. "Still fighting wars in here, you know?"
Mezz nodded. "Too sad and too true ..."
"It's not that I don't respect what they've done. But they've forgotten why they fought in the first place. It wasn't just about a free world, it was about freedom of the mind."
"That is bible, jack. You are speakin' gospel."
"The trouble is, that respect doesn't go both ways. They still treat us like the kids they were protecting from the Nazis, you know?"
Mezz tried to do some pointing of his own for emphasis, but he couldn't leave the seat's edge unclutched long enough. "Hey, we're all grown up now. They need to dig on that."
Art nodded and, as he leaned toward the front seat, affected an agreeable nonchalance in his reply. "Nice to meet a kindred spirit." Then he yelled over the music to the driver, "When we're about a mile from the town, general, you can drop me off."
He brought his attention back to Mezz and made his first real move. "We must be getting close to Luperón by now. We're going to beat the bus by a couple of hours easy. From what you've told me, your hires are the kind of guys that would truss you up and stick you on the bus themselves."
"Neigho, nothin' like that," Mezz said. "They may be a couple of dads, but they're righteous. If it comes down to lettin' me stay or cold-cockin' me, they'll vote 'stay'."
You idiot. They'd cold-cock you, all right, if it meant keeping you safe or keeping you out of their way.
"I didn't mean that literally," Art replied. "It's just, these oldsters sound like they've been around the block a couple of times. Suppose they glad-hand you and suggest a round of beer? Maybe, after a few of those, they start on rum shots, l
ast man standing, that kind of thing?" The look of uncertainty on Mezz's face was gratifying. "Next thing you know, you more or less wake up on the bus headed out of Luperón."
Mezz recovered to a degree and shrugged off the comment, flexing his wiry arms. "Hell, I'm no youngster when it comes to guzzlin' foam, jack. I know my frame deceives, but trust me --" he slapped his thigh "-this leg right here is hollow."
Art just smiled in reply and let his silence linger beneath the blare of music. Mezz worked his lips, as if chewing on Art's last comment. The driver slowed, turned down the radio, and said, "We are here maybe one mile from town, se?or ."
"This'll do, thanks."
The lay of the land had opened up a little, so that the road was neither tightly hemmed in by deep, plant-choked ditches nor dense, mahogany hillsides. The driver pulled well to the side. He left the engine running, hooked his arm over the back of his seat and waited.
"This is my stop," Art told Mezz, who was looking around, perplexed and frowning.
"I figured you had a chick or a buddy livin' in a little nest just outside town. But, man, this is just more of nowhere, jack."
"I'm a camper, Mezz. Cuts costs and it beats some of the fleabags I've come across while on the road." He timed his next comment, waiting a moment, then said, "Look, you're welcome to come with me for a few hours. This is beautiful country and I'm looking forward to some hiking. That way you can kill a little time, let the bus come and go before looking up your friends."
Mezz brightened a little, as if he were tempted, but then replied, "Neigho, man. Thanks, but better not. I mean, hell, no telling what kinda trouble they're already in."
Art lit another cigarette, smiled and opened his car door. "Suit yourself. But if that's your only worry, bandidos do most of their dirty work after sundown. You're more at risk of being sent back to Imbert by your hires than they are of being robbed in broad daylight. " He got out of the car, then ducked his head back in. "Mind helping me with my gear?"
"Oh! Sure, man, no sweat ..."
As Mezz hopped out of the car, the driver did the same. But Art held him back a pace. "S'okay, amigo," he said, close and genial in the man's ear, "we've got it. Once we have our things you can head back." He had already paid the driver to get him to Imbert and now slipped him a generous handful for the Luperón leg.
The driver was clearly relieved to not be going the whole way. "Thank you very much, se?or ." He walked back to unlock the trunk then returned to his seat and cranked up the radio again.
"Could've used a little help here," Mezz grumbled to Art, who shrugged.
"Yeah. Must be time for his midday rum and siesta."
Mezz laughed and, as he was setting down the small locker that held the cooking supplies, Art pulled out Mezz's rucksack, as if to make it easier to reach the rest of his own gear. He positioned himself so the driver could see him via the Hudson's side mirror. When he and Mezz had pulled out the last of the equipment, Art nodded pleasantly at the man. The driver waved and peeled out, radio at full volume.
Mezz jerked upward. "Hey! Hey!" He chased after the Hudson as it made a U-turn, but Art pushed the crate of canned goods just enough to catch Mezz's foot. He stumbled, saved himself from falling, but by then the car was uncatchable, trailing a stream of dust and fading Dominican merengue.
"Aw, Shit!"
"Damn! Man, Mezz, I'm sorry. Stupid son-of-a-bitch, he must've misunderstood!"
"Well, hell, jack, he left without gettin' paid, what cabbie leaves without gettin' paid!"
"No, Dominicans always get their money upfront. I paid him back in Puerto Plata to take me where ever I needed. It's okay, Mezz, don't worry about that. It's just ... damn, anyway, tough luck!"
Mezz paced, looking up and down the road. In the still air, Art listened to the locusts sing as he stood in the dusty grass, lit another cigarette and watched Mezz.
"Aw ... it's okay," Mezz finally said, walking back. "It's not your fault."
"It's not more than a mile or so to town. That's not such a bad hike."
"A longer hoof than it needed to be ..."
"Look. I'd feel bad about you paying me for the trip from Imbert after the screw up." When Mezz began a half-hearted protest, Art insisted. "No, I mean it. Say what you want, but it's clear I confused the guy."
"Yeah ... but ... yeah, okay, if that's the way you want it." He looked worried, gazing off toward Luperón.
Art stuffed his lighter and pack of Luckys back into his shirt pocket and came up to Mezz. "Man, those old men of yours don't know a good friend when they meet one. They dump you in Imbert like they were sending you back to kindergarten and you still won't give up on them."
He walked over to his camping equipment, squatted down and opened the supply locker as if checking things over, his palms going clammy as he stared at the hatchet inside. He twisted around to look up at Mezz.
He said, "I don't mean to keep you from your journey, but could I ask one more favor? I need to find a good camp site, and an extra pair of hands would make the set up a lot easier. When I get into town tomorrow, I'll come find you and all the grandes will be on me. Including for your hires."
Mezz gazed off toward Luperón, again. "I'd like to, man, but ..."
Art rose up, leaving the hatchet where it lay, but also leaving the locker lid open. He walked over to Mezz once more. "Okay, admittedly, I'd sure like the help setting up camp, but here's how I think it'd work out better for you, too. Think about this, Mezz. What's going on here could be a blessing in disguise. If you had breezed into town in that car, all hepped up like Superman, those friends of yours wouldn't have seen you as anything but some kid that was getting in the way of their business. Right? Am I right?"
"Hey, once I can get in their ear --"
"Laying low until the bus leaves would mean you have the rest of the afternoon and the whole night to get in their ear. You head in there now, you've got an hour, an hour and a half at best to make your case." Art backed off a step or two, his hands up as if done with the whole subject. "But, hey, you do what you're gonna do. I'm just saying that if you want to impress those dads, maybe you should show them a little patience and savvy."
He backed toward the locker again, watching Mezz think. He let his fingers graze the open lid. Mezz turned, a look of mock accusation on his face.
"You're just lookin' for a strong back, jack."
Art smiled and shrugged. "Just what I said. But I like you, man. I mean, you're a world citizen, like me. I think you got something to show those old farts."
Mezz smiled. "Okay. But I'm warnin' you, I will cash in on those grandes tomorrow. I told you before, I gotta hollow leg."
* * *
For effect, Art suggested they carry what they could, but his only real interest was carrying the hatchet in his backpack, saying it'd come in handy if they needed to do a little clearing. He didn't know if Mezz had any weapons in his ruck sack, so he suggested that Mezz leave it for last. Better to take the tent first, so they can get it staked down and ready for the rest of the equipment. Art handed him the tent bag and Mezz slung it over his arm. They hauled the rest of the equipment and supplies from the roadside and stashed them behind some scrub.
It was tricky; finding the right place to do what had to be done. Mezz balked at the idea of marching headlong into the forest, where the palms and mahogany looked impenetrable. "Hell, man, we're gonna need more than your hand ax to cut our way into that."
And Mezz insisted they may as well walk toward Luperón in their search for a camp site. Art didn't dare make a move out in the open, not knowing when a vehicle, a pedestrian or someone on horseback might appear any moment. So he walked on, biding his time.
In a short while they came upon Luperón's cockfighting ring and, not long after that, its shabby little whorehouse. They hadn't run into another living soul the whole time. Now it looked as though even this two-cot brothel had been abandoned.
Mezz dropped the tent bag and stretched his back. "Man, this place is a
ghost town. The storekeep back in Imbert got all evil on us with dire warnings, but, jack, I did not surmise the place would be such a drag."
Neither did I , Art thought. He wondered if there was enough prey left to keep the Luperón incarnation interested. Or was the Beast already on the move? The complications were increasing. Max and David had very nearly beaten him to the Dominican Republic. Now it looked as if the Beast may have already used up its feeding grounds. And there was Mezz to deal with, if Art was to have any hope of grounding Max and David. He felt a little sick and the Beast within him was stirred by his agitation.
Get over it , he told himself. You were bound to cross paths with them sooner or later. And you are every bit the hunter those two are. Every bit as good at thinking on your feet.
Mezz swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty upper lip. "Jack, I can definitely use a beer now. Let's get this trek done and over with."
Art lit another Lucky and wandered beneath the brothel's verandah to the wooden counter that served as the bar. Behind it was an old, warped locker chained to a knot hole in one of the bar's planks.
He called out, "Hello," to make sure he and Mezz were the only ones there.
When he walked inside, then around the back of the whorehouse, Mezz wandered with him. Behind the brothel were the signs of permanence: a little vegetable garden, a water well, a couple of mango trees, a small brick and beam root cellar. But no occupants. They returned to the bar beneath the verandah.
Not a soul. This was a good a place as any.
"Well, if everybody's gone ..." Art said, pulling out his pocket knife. He chose the sturdiest blade and worked it until it was well behind the facing of the locker's hasp. With a couple of yanks and a grunt, the hasp tore free, dangling useless along with the padlock. He pulled out a rum bottle. "... They won't mind if we help ourselves." Smiling, he held it up for Mezz to see.
Mezz looked amazed, amused and nervous. "Damn, jack! You got skills. But ... I mean ... ain't we takin' a cat's rightful gravy ...?"
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