Green Ice

by Gerald A. Browne

  “No fair asking the same question.”

  “All right then, tell me, is Argenti really important to you?”

  She thought a moment. “In one way yes, in another no.”

  Wiley decided he’d better not try to corner her.

  Three Mexican children watched from the bushes, curious. Two boys and a girl out to earn centavos by searching for lost golf balls. All about the same age, ten. Lillian called them over. They admired the marbles, handling them as though they were precious. Lillian showed them how to play and took pleasure in it. Her patience surprised Wiley. He decided she must have been from a poor family.

  The children left.

  Lillian lost her touch for the last few games. Wiley won big, closed the gap, ended up five ahead.

  “I’ll pay off now,” she said.

  She kissed him once on the forehead, once on the chin, once on each cheek—all brief pecks—saving the one on the mouth for last, good and long.

  “I thought the winner was supposed to do the kissing,” he said.

  “Nope. Otherwise I would have won.”

  He kissed her anyway, and they held together after the kiss for a long while.

  On their way back to the hotel he asked when he might see her again. She promised soon. Considering the circumstances, particularly Argenti, he thought it would be unfair to press her for more of a commitment. He told her he was staying in 114, in case of emergency … or anything. At her bungalow they didn’t say good-bye. She went up the stairs to the landing, turned for a last look. Both her knees were caked with dirt.

  Wiley didn’t go directly to 114. He went down to the beach, to walk just above the reach of the water, where the sand was firmer. The sun was going down. Not much day left. Wiley bet himself he was the happiest sad man in the world. It occurred to him that he was still married to Jennifer.

  After nearly an hour he returned to his bungalow. He still didn’t have a key and hadn’t wanted to leave the front door unlocked, so he’d been coming and going over the terrace wall, in and out through the bathroom window.

  First thing he did inside was check to see if his twelve thousand was still in the base of the lamp. It was. He washed up, then lay on the bed. He was sunburned, and his back was slightly stiff from the marble playing. All that bending over. In great shape, he thought. He’d forgotten to smoke all afternoon. He opened the bedside table drawer for a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  There was something else in the drawer.

  A drawstring pouch. Similar to Lillian’s, except black chamois. Immediately, he thought she had put it there while he was out walking on the beach. How had she gotten in? Over the wall? He wouldn’t put it past her. No doubt it contained marbles, perhaps her precious black German shooter and maybe even a note.

  He opened the pouch and emptied its contents onto the bed.

  They were green.

  They weren’t marbles.

  Seven stones of various sizes, averaging about three quarters of an inch by a half inch. Six-sided, rough on the ends as though they were chunks broken from natural hexagonal columns. Not perfectly green, each stone variegated from a deep to a lighter, brighter shade, with traces of a silvery-black substance that seemed to be only on the surface.

  Wiley thought he’d never seen anything like them. But then he recalled something: a school class afternoon, a sixth-grade visit to the Museum of Natural History on Central Park West. There had been glass-enclosed cases exhibiting examples of minerals and gems. He’d been most fascinated with the uncut diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

  These stones reminded him of those emeralds, had all the characteristics he vaguely remembered. Of course, they could be something else entirely, something not valuable, only semiprecious. But then, why in a pouch so finely made, soft and expensive? Anyway, emeralds or not, how had they gotten there in the drawer? He doubted Lillian had anything to do with it. Evidently it was meant that he should find them. Why him? Perhaps not him. But if not, then who?

  Prentiss came to mind. Prentiss, the man who had been assigned this suite. The mild-mannered American. Now that Wiley thought of it, Prentiss had looked more as though he was there to do business than to vacation.

  Wiley examined the stones more closely. He noticed clear patches on the end of each stone, like little windows. Not natural, but made by polishing away that much of the surface. He switched on the lamp, held one of the stones up and sighted into it. He saw in through one window and out the other.

  In between, a blazing green.

  He wished he had a magnifying glass or, better, the kind of glass jewelers put to an eye, a loupe, he believed they called it. Not that that would have enabled him to know more. He’d never had anything out of the ordinary to do with gems.

  The phone rang.

  This time, after he said hello twice, a voice on the other end asked, “Did you receive the samples?”

  “Yes,” Wiley said without thinking.

  “Yes what?”

  “I … I’m looking at them now.”

  “Your recommendations are impressive, Prentiss. However, because we have never met you or done business with you before, we prefer to deal on a reasonably modest basis. We offer you six thousand carats at five hundred a carat—the quality, of course, equal to that of the samples.”

  Wiley thought he’d better set things straight. But he didn’t have a chance. The caller clicked off. No matter. Whoever it was would realize the mistake soon enough. The stones were definitely emeralds. He put them in the bag and back into the drawer.

  A nap. He rolled over onto his right side and dropped off deep. He slept for nearly an hour. The last forty-five minutes were shallow while he did arithmetic. Simple multiplication but, in semiconsciousness, difficult. Five hundred times six thousand. The zeros were confusing, too many wouldn’t stay in place. The sum came to him just before he awoke.

  Three million dollars.

  His sunburn was worse now. His face felt tight enough to crack. He hoped it wouldn’t blister. There was nothing among his toilet articles to do it any good. He poured a drink, Stolichnaya on the rocks. On impulse he dabbed some vodka on his forehead and fanned himself. It was cooling. He opened the double windows of the living room front and back so there was cross ventilation. Gave himself a vodka rub, splashed it on. The breeze delivered blessed relief.

  He had dinner alone in his suite.

  He managed to resist calling Lillian until ten o’clock. He would hang up if Argenti answered.

  She answered. She didn’t sound surprised or put off.

  Could he see her?

  When?

  Tonight.

  No.

  For only a few minutes. One drink.

  Perhaps tomorrow.

  He hated perhaps.

  “You’re a hell of a shooter,” he said.

  “Know what a snooger is now?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “A near-miss.”

  “Would you care for me more if I were rich?” He realized how sophomoric that sounded.

  “Who said I cared for you at all?”

  “You don’t.”

  “I do, but I didn’t say so. Lots of things are left unsaid.”

  “Well, would you?”

  “Rich?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I should say I wouldn’t care more if you had money … but then again, honestly, neither would I care less.”

  He was just as ambivalent about how to take that.

  “Anyway,” she told him, “you’re hunching.”

  He backed off, made sure before he signed off the impression was casual, carefree. Again she didn’t say good-bye, and he said, “See you.”

  Three million dollars.

  Three million would change a lot of things.

  Could he cut himself in for even a slice of that? Possibly. From what he’d gathered, the cryptic phone calls and all, this was an underhanded deal. They, whoever they were, had mistaken him for Prentiss beca
use he’d taken Prentiss’ suite. By their own words, they had never met Prentiss. On the other hand, Wiley had. What would happen if he went on posing as Prentiss? They’d expect him to hand over three million for the six thousand carats. But it might not be out of line, perhaps even more credible, if he asked to examine all the emeralds before closing the deal. Most likely they’d permit it. All he’d need was three or four hours, time enough to locate Prentiss. Assuming the seller’s identity, he could offer the emeralds to Prentiss at, say six hundred instead of five hundred a carat. If Prentiss didn’t go for it, Wiley could merely return the emeralds to the sellers, stall on some excuse or other and disappear. But if Prentiss went for it … Wiley would pay the sellers their three-million asking price and keep the difference: six hundred thousand.

  Tempting thought.

  It could work.

  There’d be danger all the way. If he got found out, they’d probably do more than just rough him up.

  Wasn’t it worth the chance? Didn’t it suit his reckless new life-style? Lillian was only another reason in favor of it.

  An absolute must would be that the sellers and Prentiss remain apart for the time being. Everything would depend on that. Where was Prentiss now? Probably waiting for the phone call. Or perhaps Prentiss wasn’t as straight-laced as he appeared, had, by now, dived headfirst into the erotic milieu.

  Six hundred thousand …

  7

  Six o’clock the next morning.

  Another phone call. Same voice.

  “Are you ready for the goods?”

  “Yes.” A part of Wiley warned him to stay out of it. He suppressed it.

  “We will meet in two hours.”

  “Where?”

  A long pause. Wiley thought the man had rung off.

  “Playa de Soledad.”

  Solitude Beach.

  Wiley asked a porter for directions, was told it was about seventeen kilometers to the north, he should watch for a dirt road on the left. Maybe there would be a sign, sometimes there was. Perhaps the Señor should take a taxi.

  His better judgment told him to go alone. He drove the Volks. Along the way there were numerous dirt roads off to the left, one or two nearly every kilometer. But then, none at all at seventeen kilometers, or eighteen. Either the porter had been wrong, or Wiley had missed it. Fortunately he’d allowed himself some time. He turned around, drove back slowly, and there was a road, easily visible from that direction. That could be it.

  It was only a quarter mile to the beach. He was ten minutes early. If this wasn’t Solitude Beach, it looked it. Not a sign of anyone, or of anyone’s ever having been there. Both ways, up and down the beach about two hundred yards, were rock formations, like craggy ramparts. Pelicans on them.

  Wiley lighted a cigarette as he walked to the water’s edge. The tide was ebbing. He took a deep drag and, before exhaling half of it, took another. Five minutes went by. Ten. He would wait until eight-fifteen, no later. If he was on the wrong beach, perhaps that was how it was meant to be.

  He was still there at eight-twenty.

  A man came out of the foliage and stood just beyond the growth line, about fifty feet away. He observed Wiley for a long moment before starting toward him. A chunkily built man, overweight but powerful. He wasn’t dressed for there, had on a fresh white flannel suit, collarless white shirt. Pointy-toed white shoes. As he came nearer, Wiley realized from his features and the bluish-brown cast of his skin that he was an East Indian. What hair he had was black and dry, tufted left and right and around, making a bushy horseshoe shape on his skull. He carried a white Panama-type straw hat in his right hand.

  “Mr. Prentiss?”

  Tell him who you really are, smartass, Wiley thought, but responded with an indefinite nod.

  “We wondered where you were.”

  The same voice, same man as on the phone. He had a small gold bead, like a drop of dew, on the flare of his left nostril. Wiley told him, “I’ve been waiting.”

  “In the wrong place.”

  “These beaches all look alike.”

  “No matter.” He smiled, but not with his eyes. “This is equally suitable.”

  Another man appeared on the shoulder of the beach. It was Prentiss.

  At that same moment the Indian revealed the gun he’d been holding hidden under his hat—a thirty-two automatic.

  This was the first time Wiley had ever been up against a gun. He feinted a move left, stepped in and let go a right with all he had. It caught the Indian just in front of his left ear. Heavyweight that he was, he didn’t go down, but it did knock him off balance enough to give Wiley a chance to run.

  A run for his life down the beach, darting from side to side to make himself a more difficult target. Two shots. Missed, but so close he heard them sing by. He kept running full out until no more shots. He glanced back. The Indian hadn’t pursued, was standing there with his gun lowered because Wiley was now out of range.

  Wiley would go for cover.

  But another man in white stepped out of the foliage at that point of the beach, raised his gun and fired. The bullet tore into Wiley’s right side a couple of inches above the hipbone. It was like someone with red-hot teeth had taken a bite of his flesh. He didn’t know how badly he was wounded. He’d run until he dropped.

  A third man in white was farther down the beach at the water’s edge. Wiley was cut off. He stopped. They were coming, converging on him. He had only one way to go. Into the sea. A struggling run with the bottom sand, soft and giving, the water of varying depth, handicapping his legs as it flowed in and out. He stumbled in the trench just offshore where the sea fought itself. He fell face down.

  Shots, bullets spliffed the water around him.

  Not yet deep enough for him to swim. Hands and knees on the bottom, he tried to crawl but got nowhere because of the undertow, had to stand and expose himself to their fire. The water was alternately his enemy and ally, fought him, helped him. Wading was as fast as he could go. Surely a bullet would stop him. Keep going, keep going. Enough depth now. He dove forward, churned his arms and kicked, swam till he was certain he was more than far enough from shore.

  Treading water, he looked back.

  They were standing in a group on the beach, well above the surf line, as though to avoid getting their shoes wet. The four of them were looking out at him. Prentiss, in his dark suit, stood out. So did the chunky Indian because of his build. They had put their guns away, evidently satisfied to leave him to the sea. No doubt they still intended to keep an eye on him. If he swam up or down the coast, they would be waiting wherever he tried to come ashore.

  Unless they lost sight of him. Perhaps, he thought, he could swim far out, a half mile or so. At that distance, with only his head above water, he wouldn’t be visible from shore. Then he’d swim up the coast a ways and in to land.

  He removed his shoes and all his clothes. That helped.

  Now that the anesthesia of fright was wearing off, his side began to hurt. The salt water was getting to the wound. He floated on his back to get a look, saw it wasn’t serious, little more than a graze. There was a lot of blood, though.

  Sweet Jesus! That was why they were standing so complacently onshore. They knew he was bleeding. They’d let the sharks finish him. Of all the ways he didn’t want to go.…

  He kept his arms and legs moving.

  He thought he felt something woosh by beneath him. And again. Another. He believed he felt the scaley skin of a shark brush him as it went by. He thrashed the water, wasted energy. Don’t panic, he told himself. But he had plenty of reason to panic, out of his element, in the element of those shadowy lethal swimmers he’d observed from the breakwater yesterday. And he was no mealy apple.

  Something broke the surface no more than twenty feet away. A huge black slippery thing, a dripping black monster, came straight up out of the sea. A manta ray. With a wingspan of ten to twelve feet. At the peak of its leap, it spat out one of Wiley’s shoes, then flopped back into the
water with a smack.

  Done for now, Wiley thought. He was already exhausted, yet couldn’t float to rest, had to keep in motion. He’d rather face those bastards on the beach. He would come out of the water bare-ass, hands up, so they might not kill him right off. Maybe he’d get the chance to explain, to persuade them to let him live. He started swimming to shore.

  He didn’t hear the Riva speedboat until it was practically on him. It seemed that it meant to run him down. At the last second it swerved, abruptly reversed its engine, so he swam right into the varnished side of it.

  The boat rolled in the swells, loomed and dipped.

  Wiley reached for it.

  A hand grabbed his wrist. A strong sailor hauled him out of the water as though he were a mere catch. Threw him roughly onto the rear passenger seat.

  Next to Lillian, who tossed a towel.

  8

  She had a car waiting on one of the old docks of Manzanillo.

  A blue Rolls Royce Corniche convertible with top down. The same seventy-thousand-dollar beauty Wiley had used the day before for an impressive arrival at Las Hadas.

  “Argenti’s?” Wiley asked.

  “No.” She got into the driver’s seat.

  “Who let you borrow it?”

  “No one.”

  “You stole it?”

  “Cover yourself.”

  Dockworkers were snickering and shouting appropriate obscenities, because Wiley had on only a white terry-cloth robe, a full-length lady’s robe with the words Sea Cloud stitched on one of its pockets. It didn’t have a belt, so holding it closed made him appear mincy.

  Wiley didn’t care. He was suffering an adrenergic hangover from having been so high on danger and then so suddenly safe. Emotional bends.

  Lillian started the Rolls and drove slowly down the dock. She activated the electric top, snapped it in place. Evidently she was familiar with the car. Wiley sat favoring his right side, not to bloody the fine leather upholstery. His wound had soaked a large splotch through the robe. There would be a doctor at the hotel.

  “Perfect timing,” he said.

  “When?”

  “Out there off the beach. Too perfect.”

  “You might say thanks.”