On his way out, Broadhurst paused again in the Willard’s lobby to soak up a little of its genteel ambiance before returning to the reality of the Library of Congress and murder. He glanced around for friends. Ayn Rand would have winced at Driscoll’s parting comment, he thought. Driscoll wasn’t doing this for his country. He was doing it to satisfy his own needs, which was fine, Broadhurst knew, continuing to think of Rand, the philosopher and novelist, who believed no one ever did anything that wasn’t self-serving, and that good things happened because of self-interest. Driscoll was like any big contributor to a church or synagogue, Broadhurst mused. After a while, he begins to think he owns the place—and later to confuse himself with God. Oh, yes, and he wants to get a receipt for the maximum valuation of his contributions, to smooth the
way for deductions with the IRS. I wonder when he and Michele Paul met? Probably at
one or another of our social functions. Whatever Driscoll’s motives, a wonderful thing could result, for the Library of Congress and for the American people.
And for me, he silently admitted.
22
Once the two private detectives had put Munsch in the front passenger seat of their car, he realized there was nothing he could do but go along with them, at least for the moment. His mind raced: Maybe they’d let him use a public restroom, or he could pretend to be carsick. Maybe he could talk them out of whatever it was they intended to do with him. Maybe … He was tired and confused. If that whore hadn’t taken his money; if Garraga hadn’t shot the fat security guard … Once I get to Cuba—if I get to Cuba—things will be different. I’ll start doing business in the daylight and …
“Comfortable, Warren?” the American PI asked from behind the wheel, sounding as though he didn’t care what the answer was.
“Yeah, I’m comfortable,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the Mexican sitting behind him. “Where are we going?”
“You ask one more time where we’re going, Warren, and we’re going to have to do something to shut you up.”
“Pardon me for living. I like to know where I’m going, that’s all. Make plans, you know?” The bravado in his voice wasn’t matched by the tremors in his stomach.
They slowly lurched through the sluggish traffic of Mexico City before breaking free on a short run of open road leading to the pretty, leafy suburb of Coyoacán. The driver slowed as he passed the Leon Trotsky Museum, then turned onto a road flanked by stately colonial homes. He pulled into a circular driveway in front of a two-story house whose entire front was covered with indigo and terra-cotta tiles. Munsch had valiantly tried to keep his emotions in check during the ride, his nonstop questions and wise-guy chatter his outlet. But now that they’d evidently reached their destination, the dread that consumed him came to the surface. He turned to the driver and held out his hands, palms up, eyes bulging with fear. “Look,” he said in a faltering voice, “I don’t know you guys and I don’t want to know you. All I want to do is get out ’a Mexico and get to Cuba. I don’t know what this client of yours is paying you, but I’ll do better.”
The American PI laughed. “That so, Warren? You’re a rich guy, huh?”
“No, I’m not rich, but I’ve got plans, b-i-g plans. Once I get to Cuba there’ll be plenty of scores, believe me. I’ll cut you in, give you half.”
“Just half?”
“You want more? You got it! So let’s just get out of here and go to the airport. Stake me a ticket to Cuba and believe me, you guys will see more money than—”
The driver opened his door.
“Please,” Munsch said.
Both detectives left the car and held open the front passenger door for Munsch. He stepped out unsteadily, turned and reached for his overnight bag that had been on
the floor beneath his feet. The Mexican roughly pulled him erect.
“You won’t need that,” the American said.
The detectives each grabbed an arm and led Munsch toward the front door. But before reaching it, they veered left and came around the side of the house to a rear garden enclosed by a high, fortresslike wall covered with vines bearing yellow and pink blossoms. Beyond the wall, the volcanos of the region rose majestically into a cobalt-blue sky.
Munsch’s attention shifted to a corner of the expansive brick patio where a man sat at a white wrought-iron table. He appeared to be going through a stack of mail and didn’t acknowledge the trio’s arrival until they approached within a dozen feet. He slowly looked up, smiled, and with a wave suggested Munsch join him. Munsch glanced at his two captors; the American nodded for him to do what he’d been told. Munsch sat heavily, his chin tucked into his breastbone, his eyes taking in the man at the table through the top of his head.
Munsch judged him to be in his sixties, maybe seventy. He was slender; he wore pale yellow linen slacks and a shirt-jacket to match. He was bald, his head obviously shaved. Small, tortoise-rimmed glasses perched at the tip of an aquiline nose.
“Thank you for taking the time to join me,” he said, his English bearing a trace of Spanish ancestry, the smile remaining on his lips.
“It’s not like I had a choice—with all due respect,” Munsch said.
“No, I see that you didn’t.”
He turned to the detectives, who’d remained standing a few feet away, and said in Spanish, “Why don’t you gentlemen wait in the car. We won’t be long.”
It occurred to Munsch as they left that this might be a good chance to escape. The problem was, he realized, he’d never get over the wall, and the only apparent route would take him back around the house to where the two muscles waited. Maybe I can make a deal with this guy, he thought. Seems nice enough.
“I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Munsch.”
“Yeah? Okay. I didn’t catch your name.”
“My name doesn’t matter. What happened in Miami?”
“In Miami? What ’a you mean?”
“We can make this little meeting short and painless, or we can make it long and painful. Miami. The painting you stole with your colleagues. What happened to the security guard?”
Munsch exhaled and sat back. Was this some sort of cop?
“Why was he killed?” the man asked. “You weren’t supposed to kill anyone.”
“It wasn’t me. It was Garraga.”
“Garraga?”
“This hot-headed Cuban I brought on the job. Dumb bastard. Drinks too much. The guard comes up on us as we’re leaving and thinks he’s a hero. Garraga shot him. We could have taken the guy. There were three of us. He didn’t have no gun. But Garraga pulls a piece and shoots the guy. I was really mad, believe me I was. Felt like shooting Garraga myself. But I had nothing to do with it.”
The man at the table listened impassively, an occasional nod his only response.
“I brought the painting out to L.A. like I was supposed to do, handed it over to some guy who calls himself John Smith, if you like that one. Kind of a big guy with a red beard, wore a white jacket and some big floppy straw hat, like a woman wears. I give him the painting, he gives me the money, and I come to Mexico. I was supposed to go to Cuba but I got mugged, all my money gone.”
“A sad tale.”
“Tell me about it. Look, Mister Whatever Your Name Is, I had nothing to do with that guard getting whacked. Nothing! Zippo! Nada! All I want to do is get to Cuba and forget it ever happened. You seem like a reasonable gentleman. Stake me to a plane ticket and you’ll never hear from me again—except, of course, I’ll pay you back as soon as I make a score there. Pay you back in spades.”
“This man you gave the painting to, with the red beard and white jacket. Would you recognize him again if you were introduced to him?”
“Sure. How do you forget a character like that? Know him anywhere, spot him in a crowd.”
The man stood: “Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” He disappeared through a door into the house.
Munsch couldn’t believe he was now alone. Again, he considered attempting to l
eave but instinct told him to stay put. Maybe that’s what they wanted, for him to make a break for it. The older guy at the table seemed receptive to what he’d suggested. Wouldn’t even have to be a first-class ticket, although he preferred that. He’d answered his questions. He kept nodding so I must have given the right answers. Just sit tight, he told himself, glancing at the pile of mail on the table. Two envelopes visible to him were addressed to Señor Emilio Sebastian. At least I know who he is. Just wait it out. Things are looking up.
Inside the house, Emilio Sebastian sat behind an inlaid leather desk in a large study filled with Hispanic and Portuguese art and artifacts. He’d been on a call placed to the States for the past two minutes. He hung up, went to the front door, and summoned the two men from where they sat in the car. After whispering something to the Mexican, he returned to his study and placed a call to AeroMexico, wrote down what the reservations agent told him, then opened a safe, removed three thousand dollars in American currency, placed it in a number-ten envelope, and returned to the patio, where Munsch still sat at the table.
“Here,” Sebastian said, handing the envelope to Munsch.
“What’s this?” Munsch asked.
“Money for your trip to Cuba and for your time this morning.”
Munsch hurriedly counted the envelope’s contents. “Gee, I didn’t expect this much, Mr. Sebastian,” he said, now wishing there was more to replace what he’d brought with him from L.A.
“There is a flight leaving Mexico City for Havana at seven this evening. I have reserved a seat on it for you.”
“That is really nice of you, sir—Mr. Sebastian. I really appreciate it.” Munsch stood. “I won’t forget this. You can count on that.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Munsch. Have a safe and pleasant trip. The two gentlemen
who were good enough to bring you here will take you to the airport.”
“Okay.” Munsch punched the air. “All right! Thanks again.”
“Adios.”
“Yeah, adios. You watch TV here?”
“Yes. The news mostly.”
“Great. Have you picked up on anything about me being in Mexico?”
“No.”
“I mean, the local cops aren’t looking for me because that drunken idiot Garraga shot that guard?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Mr. Munsch.”
“Then my passport should be good, huh?”
“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble.”
“See ya.”
Munsch walked with a swagger to the car, where the detectives stood leaning against the Ford.
“Everything all right, Warren?” the American asked.
“Oh, yeah, better than all right. I don’t get it, you picking me up like you did, threaten to shoot me, crap like that, then bring me to this Sebastian guy—nice man—who sends me on my way to Cuba.” He did a little shuffle to indicate dancing to a Latin rhythm.
“Well,” said the American, “you might as well get in. We’ll take you to the airport.”
“That’s right, only my plane doesn’t leave until seven. I’d like some lunch.”
“We’ll drop you some place. You can take a cab after that.”
“No, I mean let’s have lunch together. My treat.”
The PIs looked at each other and smiled, then broke into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Munsch asked.
“You, Warren. You’re a funny guy. You’re okay.”
They ate Mexican food at a roadside restaurant on the highway leading to the shiny new Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez. Munsch talked incessantly during the meal about the Cuban women he would make love to, the businesses he intended to start in Havana, his intention to make friends with Fidel Castro and maybe even end up as some kind of an unofficial advisor to the dictator. His table companions listened with bemused interest, occasionally egging him on to become even more expansive with his dreams and aspirations. Multiple glasses of Mexican beer helped fuel his gregariousness.
They left the cantina at two-thirty, got in the car, and headed for the airport.
“I still got time to kill,” Munsch said as they approached the long access road.
“There’s plenty of bars and restaurants inside,” the Mexican said.
“Too public,” Munsch said. “What ’a you say we hit another joint along the road here, have a few more pops?”
“Sorry, Warren, but we’re running late for an appointment.”
“Whatever you say.”
The American suddenly pulled off the road onto a dirt shoulder. “Here’s where
you get out,” he said.
“What ’a you mean?”
“We’ve got orders not to go into the airport with you.”
“Orders? What kind ’a orders?”
“Just get out, Warren. It’s not a long walk, take you, what, maybe ten minutes. Walk off that big lunch.”
“This is nuts,” Munsch said, feeling light-headed from the beer. “I don’t feel like a walk.”
The American looked Munsch in the eye and said, “Warren, you are one lucky son of a bitch. Don’t mess it up for yourself. Just get out here and walk up the road. Enjoy a few more beers, get on your plane, and head for Cuba and all those wild women you’re planning to screw. Out! It’s been a real pleasure meeting you.”
Grumbling, Munsch exited the Ford and was handed his overnight bag.
“You take care, Warren,” the American said, slipping the car into gear and roaring away, leaving Munsch coughing in a cloud of yellow dust.
He looked down the road toward the airport, glimmering a half mile away like a desert mirage. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped perspiration from his face and neck. Swearing at the detectives who’d refused to drive him to the terminal, he started walking in the direction of the mirage. As he did, two marked patrol cars carrying uniformed Mexican federales that had been parked out of sight behind a building across the highway came to where the airport access road bisected the highway and stopped. As the cars’ occupants argued about something, a taxi, a vacant green Volkswagen bug, turned off the highway and headed for the airport. Munsch heard it approaching, stopped, and waved at the driver, who came to an erratic stop.
“The airport,” Munsch said, opening the passenger door and wedging his bulk into the seat, which was covered with newspapers and a greasy brown bag. The driver complained in Spanish about the short duration of the fare as he shifted into first gear and started moving. The police also went into action, their vehicles’ drivers flooring their accelerators in pursuit of the cab. The taxi driver saw them in his rearview mirror, excitedly said something, and pulled to a stop at the side of the road. The patrol cars slid to a stop, one blocking the road in front of the taxi, the other behind it. The cab driver opened his door and jumped out, hands held high. The police ignored him and slowly approached the Volks, handguns drawn and trained on it.
Munsch didn’t know what to do.
“Out! Out!” an officer commanded.
“Okay, okay,” Munsch said, opening his door and coming out of the Volks. He raised his hands, skirted the front of the taxi, and forced his widest smile. “What’s the problem, amigos?” he asked. “Take it easy. I’m a friend, an amigo, sí?” He wished he spoke Spanish.
Two officers approached, their handguns aimed at Munsch’s head. One pushed him so that he faced the taxi, then gave him another shove so that his hands rested on its sloping hood. They patted him down.
Munsch slowly straightened and turned to face them. “Okay, amigos, I get it. I understand the drill.” He started to reach for his wallet but the motion caused the
officers to snap commands and wave their weapons.
“Money,” Munsch said. “What ’a you call it? Dinero! Mucho dinero!” He carefully removed his wallet from his rear pants pocket and held it out for them to see. His mind raced. He’d give them a thousand and keep two. A thousand dollars would buy anybody in Mexico, he reasoned. Just don’t take it
all, he silently prayed. Leave me enough for the plane ticket.
He pulled out what felt like a third of the bills and waved them in the air, grinning as he did. He shoved them at the officer standing closest to him. “For you, amigo. Take it, share it with your friends.”
Another officer came up behind and grabbed the wallet from Munsch’s hand.
“Hey, come on, let’s not be greedy, huh?” Munsch said.
The rest of the bills were removed from the wallet and placed in the cop’s shirt pocket.
Munsch was bombarded with conflicting thoughts. He didn’t want to lose all his money. At the same time, he was relieved that he was simply being held up, Mexican style, and not being arrested for the Miami heist and murder.
He picked the cop who looked as though he might be most amenable to a plea and tried to get across that he needed money for an airline ticket, that he would take the cop’s name and address and send him more money from Cuba, that he understood they didn’t make much money and needed to rip off gringos—dumb tourists—and that he wouldn’t report it to anybody.
“Just give me back five hundred bucks, huh? That’s all, just five hundred. How many pesos is that? I’ll—”
The officers started laughing as they backed away and stood by their cars. One told the taxi driver to turn around and leave, while another motioned for Munsch to start walking toward the airport. Sadly realizing he wasn’t about to receive a refund, Munsch told himself to get away from them as quickly as possible. At least he wasn’t being arrested. Get to the airport and maybe find somebody to scam. He thought about his overnight bag but saw it disappearing with the taxi as it sped to the main highway.
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 15
