Green Ice

by Gerald A. Browne

  “Thanks, but you didn’t just happen along.”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

  “Why?”

  “At least I don’t go peeping over garden walls.”

  “Who does?”

  “You did.”

  “Never.”

  “I don’t mind if you’re a little kinky. Maybe it even makes you more interesting.”

  “Never did that before in my life.”

  “A latency. I brought it out.”

  “It’s not and you didn’t. Anyway, how come you were right there on cue with the speedboat?”

  “I overheard something.”

  “What?”

  “Your name taken in vain.”

  “By whom?”

  “Just heard.”

  “I don’t buy that.”

  “Okay. I take a speedboat ride every morning.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Even on Sundays and holidays, right?”

  “Even when there’s no water around.”

  There was, Wiley thought, a slim possibility she’d overheard Prentiss or someone else as she’d said. There was really no absolute reason to believe she was involved any more than that. Suspect maybe, but not believe. He asked her straight, “Do you know a guy named Prentiss?”

  Her answer was an emphatically honest no.

  They had passed through Manzanillo. She turned right on Route 200, headed south. Las Hadas was north of the town. Wiley told her that.

  “I know,” she said calmly.

  “This is no time for errands, Lillian. I’m bleeding to death.”

  “You will for sure if you go back to Las Hadas.”

  “Those guys? They wouldn’t try anything there. Too crowded. That’s why they wanted me on that beach.”

  No comment from Lillian.

  “Besides, Argenti wouldn’t tolerate any trouble. Bad for the image. The last thing they’d want is to annoy such a man.”

  Lillian kept driving south.

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? All my clothes, passport, everything I own is in that suite.”

  “Poor soul.”

  He told her about the twelve thousand he had hidden in the lamp base.

  “We’ll send for everything,” she assured him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Are you really bleeding much?”

  He opened the robe to see, used a clean dry part of it to wipe most of the blood away.

  “Not so much now,” he said. It occurred to him that if that gun had been fired an eighth of an inch to the left, or if that man in white had pulled the muzzle left to that slight extent, the bullet would have hit him bull’s-eye in the navel. An eighth of an inch wasn’t much to be alive by.

  “Put some pressure on it,” she advised.

  “To hell.”

  “That’ll help stop the bleeding. Poor soul, is it spurting or oozing?”

  “More of an ooze.”

  “Then let it have air.”

  “Where’d you get to be such an expert on blood?”

  “I was a visiting nurse.” She smiled to herself as though it were true. “Wiley, do you believe omission is the same as lying?”

  “Depends.”

  “I don’t. Most times, if you leave things out that would be lies, people put them in, so, in a way, they lie to themselves. That happens to me a lot.”

  “You lie to yourself?”

  “No. I omit. It’s a sort of habit, I suppose.”

  “You haven’t done that with me.”

  She reached beneath the seat for a tape cartridge, which she shoved into the player attached below the burled walnut instrument panel. It was The Captain and Tennille:

  I’m a woman who’s seen

  How the world can be mean

  And life can abuse.

  But I’m a woman, oh, yeah,

  Who can make you

  Feel like a man…

  Lillian sang low along with it and the impression Wiley got was the one he wanted: She was singing to him. He gazed out the window, saw a sign that said Colima—3 Km, and a route marker displaying the number 110. He turned to ask again where they were going, but the breath for his words was stopped by the sight of her in profile. Her lips parting and closing. It was as though he’d never before noticed anyone sing. She kept her eyes on the road ahead. What were her thoughts? Was he in them? He wished she would turn and smile his way, say a lot with a smile. She knew he was observing her, didn’t she? Her hands on the polished wood steering wheel, handling the car with easy efficiency. He appreciated her hands, imagined them touching her, envied them. He imagined her hands were his hands.

  A swerve to barely miss a pair of overloaded burros.

  Brought Wiley out of it.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  They had passed through Colima. The smaller town of Tamazula would be next, still on Route 110.

  No matter where, the important thing, the marvelous thing—even though he’d been slightly shot in his side, was bareass, needed a shave, was hungry, thirsty—he was with her.

  With her.

  “I need a cigarette,” he said.

  “No one needs a cigarette.”

  “I do.”

  “In the glove compartment.”

  He looked, none there. He suspected she had known.

  Lightly and hopefully she told him, “We could take that to mean you’re supposed to do without.”

  “Stop somewhere.”

  “Quit right now, cold turkey.”

  “Nope.”

  “For me?”

  “I don’t know you that well.”

  She pulled over at a roadside cantina. Several hombres were practicing laziness on the veranda.

  “You wouldn’t make me go in looking like this, would you, not really?” Wiley said.

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “Do me this favor and I’ll owe you some.”

  She thought a moment, sighed her distaste and went into the cantina. She returned with two packs, tossed them to him.

  “Didn’t they have Camels?”

  “Only those.”

  Wiley had never heard of the brand: Bandidos Supremos. Literally translated: “Supreme Outlaws.” There was no cellophane wrapping. On the front of the pack was a crudely drawn man, long mustache, wearing a large sombrero with tasseled brim. The drawing was made worse because the black of the printing was off-register, so the outlaw appeared insanely evil, especially his mouth and eyes.

  Lillian got the Rolls under way.

  Wiley lighted an Outlaw. As was his habit, he inhaled the very first puff. It was like taking a deep breath over a barrel of smouldering tar. He gasped, just managed to not choke, exhaled loudly. He examined the cigarette. It was loosely rolled, dark tobacco. The smoke that rose from its end was sickly yellowish. It smelled only vaguely like a cigarette, more like a blacktop road being repaired in July. Wiley’s empty stomach warned it wouldn’t tolerate another puff.

  Lillian didn’t seem bothered by the smoke. He wished she’d complain, but she didn’t, and finally he lowered the window. He didn’t throw the Outlaw out until it had burned down to a stub. He took as few puffs as possible, with his head turned so she wouldn’t see he wasn’t inhaling. He wondered how she’d known which awful brand to get.

  “What about this car?”

  “What about it?”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “When were you born?” she asked.

  Not this time, he decided. “The car, where did you get it?”

  “Mendoza Brothers.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Dealers in Mexico City.”

  “Dope?”

  “Rolls Royces. God, you’re suspicious!”

  9

  The drive took thirteen hours, including a twenty-minute stop in Quiroga to buy Wiley a pair of pantalones, natural w
oven cotton trousers that tied at the waist like pajamas. And a matching pullover shirt. An extremely uncomfortable outfit, because for some reason, perhaps to exaggerate quality, the manufacturers had starched them heavily. Wiley felt like a stiff version of a peasant extra in the movie Viva Zapata.

  Nevertheless, the clothes did allow them to stop to eat just outside Morelia. They had to settle for less of a place because they hadn’t bought Wiley any shoes. Lillian ordered an avocado and tomato salad; Wiley, against Lillian’s advice, a steak. It came so overfried it curled upward around the edges. He ate all of it. No one took notice that he was barefoot, or even that his shirt was bloodstained. He drank two bottles of Carta Blanca beer and took another for along the way.

  The check.

  For a moment he forgot his pockets were empty. No slipping him money under the table; Lillian just paid up. Wiley asked to borrow twenty-five pesos. She gave it to him without a second thought and then was angry at herself because he bought three packs of Camels. He offered to drive from Morelia on, but she insisted she’d make better time because she knew the road, which was tricky with mountains.

  During the long drive Wiley didn’t learn much more about Lillian. The way she obviously evaded his questions was frustrating. Why was she so closed about herself? Ashamed of something? How could he convey, convince her, that anything she’d done or been before wasn’t important enough to keep secret? So what if she’d been an opportunist? From what he gathered, she lived in Mexico City. That was where they were headed, for her place. He looked forward to it, imagined it: a small, chic apartment, with expressions of her all around. One bedroom. He would probably be put on the couch. No, think positive, he told himself.

  It was night, going on eleven o’clock, when they reached Mexico City. They didn’t enter the city proper, turned off before that, went down a few outlying commercial streets and then into a district that became purely residential. The Pedregal area. Wide, nicely kept streets, houses set well back. Passing through, Wiley thought.

  Lillian turned a sharp right. The headlights of the Rolls raked across a high wall and hit upon a wood-and-iron gate that opened as though it had expected them and closed behind like a trap. A winding drive, single lane. Tall hedges on both sides.

  Then, there was the house. Antique brick, pleasantly vined, three stories, twenty rooms. A series of archways along the front making a long covered walk.

  A man came out, smiling, nodding, saying, “Buenas noches, señorita.” A servant. Lillian told him there was no luggage, that he could put the car away.

  They went in, to an elegant reception area, two stories high, hung with a crystal chandelier so huge Wiley felt uncomfortable walking beneath it.

  Lillian seemed edgy, somewhat embarrassed. She pulled off her driving gloves, tossed them toward a hall table and missed. Wiley picked them up.

  “Mi casa es su casa,” she said with a smile that almost asked for consolation.

  Her house? Surely she couldn’t be serious. More likely belonged to one of her affluent “friends.” After all, Wiley reasoned, she had been hitchhiking.…

  Two, three more servants appeared. They greeted her in a respectful manner, genuinely pleased to see her. She introduced Wiley, told the servants he would be staying on. They should do everything to make him comfortable. “Sí, señorita,” they chorused.

  She certainly sounded like the lady of the house.

  “Hungry?” she asked Wiley.

  “No.” He was stunned.

  “Well, I’m going to try to sauna away all that driving.” She seemed eager to leave him, said “Good night” and went quickly up the wide stairs and out of sight.

  Did Señor Wiley wish to be shown to his room?

  He would also like a bottle of beer.

  Wiley followed a servant up to a bannistered landing and a wide corridor. Along the way he saw what a spacious and beautiful house this was. Native tile glazed in subtle shades felt cool and clean beneath his feet. To some extent the decor was in keeping with the Spanish architecture. More prevalent, however, were the tasteful contradictions of authentic period French, English and Italian furnishings. A Louis Quinze commode was flanked by a pair of bergères that had somehow survived the ravages of revolution. And wasn’t that a Cézanne on the hallway wall? Wiley slowed his stride to make sure.

  His room was at the extreme end of the corridor. It was L-shaped, a section of it furnished as a sitting room. Everywhere Wiley looked was something that only a lot of money could buy. He didn’t belong there. And, damn it, neither did she. He went to the window, looked down on the ideal blue rectangle of the lighted swimming pool. He would have preferred the one-bedroom apartment, he thought.

  The beer was brought. Not just one bottle but four, and not just cold but buried neck down in a bucket of shaved ice. Four crystal goblets. Also on the tray were several sterile gauze compresses, some adhesive tape and a bottle of peroxide. The servant hadn’t thought of those. She had, and it made him feel slightly better about everything. He took a shower, dressed his wound and drank a beer from the bottle.

  The bed was turned down, open like a fresh envelope. He inserted himself between sheets that felt finer than any ever. Three oversize pillows. His head was flashing on all sorts of thoughts. Clicking off the light didn’t diminish them.

  Some day it had been. The end, as confusing as the start, had been alarming. He refused to accept that this was her house. If all this belonged to her, he had been deceived. He tried to recall her exact words, to pinpoint her lies, and realized now what she’d meant about omission being one of her habits. At the least, he’d been misled. But, then, he was equally guilty, posing as a fortune chaser. How could it all have gotten so complicated in such a short while?

  Sleep now.

  He dozed off and, after only three hours, came awake. Wide, sharp awake, with Lillian on the front of his mind. The need to see her. At nearly four in the morning? Ridiculous. Go back to sleep. He tried, but he had to see Lillian, just see her.

  He put on his pantalones and went out. A stillness to the place now, as though the structure itself and every object in it were also sleeping. He went down the hallway to the opposite wing.

  Numerous doors. He only guessed the one on the end would be hers.

  Slowly, noiselessly, he turned the knob, opened the door just enough to look in. Lamps were on, bright. The bed hadn’t been slept in, still had its spread on it. He went in. No one there. Perhaps it wasn’t hers. But the blouse and slacks she’d worn that night were thrown over the back of a chair. Her shoes were on the floor, her handbag open, its contents spilling on the bed.

  No doubt this was her room. He found some of her engraved personal stationery on the desk and, on the mantel, several photographs propped up in enamel and silver frames. Snapshots. Her, arms around an older man slightly shorter than she. A young girl who greatly resembled Lillian, Lillian about age ten. And Lillian again, alone, wearing a visored sailing cap and a double-breasted blazer, smiling over the rail of a ship. Examining that one closely, Wiley saw the ship’s name across its stern: Sea Cloud. One of the big ones he’d admired at Las Hadas. Handprinted across the top of the photo: CAPTAIN HOLBROOK, 1974. Was it possible?

  His need to see her was increased now. Where was she? Spending the night with someone else in the house or somewhere nearby? Inconsiderate, the way she’d just left him standing there in the foyer. Seemed she could hardly wait to get away from him. That anxious to be with someone else?

  A door off to the right, Wiley noticed. Probably a storage closet. He took a look.

  It was another room, much smaller. Lighted by a fat candle stuck in its own melt on top of a wooden crate. There was the odor of marijuana. A peace symbol was painted large in red on one wall. Two planks supported by bricks served as a low shelf, on which there was a record changer and some LPs. A pair of speakers and paperback books. No other furniture in the room. The floor was bare. Except for an ordinary twin-size mattress.

  Lillian was
asleep on it.

  She lay on her side with her legs drawn up and her hands pressed between her knees. She had kicked away the madras coverlet. All she had on was a faded green tank shirt.

  10

  Back in 1966, on Friday, April 8, Lillian Mayo Holbrook was reported missing.

  At 3 P.M. that day she boarded Swissair flight 110 at Cointrin Airport, Geneva. For the early part of the flight she was in First Class, along with five other girls from the school in Gstaad. There had been nothing unusual about her behavior. She drank some wine. The girls had brought their own, knowing they’d be refused service because they were underage, but there was no reason for the flight attendant not to supply them with a cork-screw and glasses so the girls could serve themselves. They quickly finished off three bottles of red, one of white.

  They held it well for sixteen-year-olds, were used to it. Nearly every afternoon in Gstaad they would wait outside a wine shop until they could persuade or pay some local to buy a few bottles for them. They hid the wine in the snow, then stole out after dark to get it. Came spring, when the snow melted, the area around the dormitory was littered with empties and, here and there, a misplaced full.

  Spring vacation. Well in advance the school had sent each girl’s parents a reminder, rather like a warning, that the vacation was scheduled. As an alternative to going home, and all the inconvenience that might require, the school offered chaperoned excursions to either Cairo or Rome. At additional cost, of course.

  It was up to the parent(s).

  Last holiday, Christmas, one of the alternates offered had been Paris. Lillian was among eight girls who stayed at a hotel on the Rue Poincaré that was not much different from the school dormitory. Except that the tip of the Eiffel Tower could be seen from Lillian’s window, and wine was easier to buy but more difficult to hide.

  If Lillian was homesick, she didn’t let it show. However, she’d been counting the days to this spring vacation, going home.

  Two hours out of Geneva, Lillian left First Class and walked back through Tourist. An exceptionally pretty, long-haired girl wearing a white blouse and a loden-green school blazer. Well noticed, particularly by most of the male passengers. She went up and down the aisle twice, casually, as though taking stock. There were a number of vacant seats. One was next to a man of fifty trying not to look it. Hair dyed, eyes worked on, young-cut suit.