Generally speaking, Valerie was confused about sex. The gropings and kissings and sweaty fumblings of her early teenage years had seemed somehow off the mark, irrelevant to the hunger that certainly did exist. The idea that these nervous jackrabbit boys might have the solution to the problem, might be able to guide her into understanding and contentment, was absurd on the face of it. And when, at 16, she had finally “done it” on the floor of a living room where she was babysitting, the boy had been so nervous, so overly eager, so inexperienced and gawky, that in some ways it had been worse than learning to dance.
Her experiences since then had been infrequent, but varied. Most of the time, she hardly thought about sex, and on those occasions when it did become a part of the agenda she mostly just tried to retain some dignity. She did learn something nearly every time, but many of the lessons were depressing. She now knew there were self-confident and capable young men in the world, who could stop thinking about themselves long enough to think about the girls they were with, but there were dam few of them. On the other hand, older men could sometimes be just as jumpy and inept as any callow youth. It was impossible, doggone it, to tell what a man was going to be like in bed just by looking at him.
Or was it? Here was Innocent St. Michael, deliberately and smoothly filling her head with thoughts of sex, then actually bringing out a previous girlfriend to give him a reference; which she had done, too, even though in a backhanded way. He would not be the first dark-skinned person she’d gone to bed with—if the previously unthinkable were actually to occur—but he would probably be the oldest. And maybe the heaviest; would that matter much?
He has me considering the idea, Valerie thought, astonished at herself. And he knows it, too; look at him there, smirking and winking across the table, smacking Susie’s behind, telling the girl, “You just want to keep me for yourself, that’s all.”
“Keep you?” Susie slithered out of his grasp; moving away toward the kitchen, she said, “I caught you once, and threw you back.”
He can be kidded about sex, Valerie thought as she drank more wine, because he’s so very sure of himself.
Innocent beamed at her. “You like the conch, Valerie?”
She giggled, like one of his women.
9
THE BLACK FREIGHTER
“This stela,” Witcher said, while the skinny black man looked out the hotel room window, “could be very valuable. Depending on the condition of the rest of it.”
Directly below the window was the hotel’s swimming pool, in which no one was swimming. Just out of sight to the pool’s left were the large ocean-facing windows of the dining room. From where he stood, the skinny black man could not quite see the dining-room windows, but he knew who was there.
“There’s a bunch of them here,” Kirby said casually, while the two cassette tapes turned, steady and unromantic. “Let’s go on.” The voices stopped, to be replaced by the panting and rustling sounds of hill-climbing.
The skinny black man glanced over at the dresser top, where the linked cassette players squatly sat, each with its own red eye. Then he looked down again, vaguely regretting that he couldn’t quite see into the dining room where at this moment Kirby, Witcher, and Feldspan were having lunch and continuing their discussion. Were Witcher and Feldspan taping this meeting, too? Would he be sent back to copy another conversation?
If so, he would hear Kirby say, “The deal is, then, I’ll get the stuff out of the country, whatever we find inside the temple. You guys sell it through your contacts, and we split fifty-fifty.”
“You’ll have to trust us,” Witcher pointed out. “Though I suppose you know the general value of such things.”
“Fairly well,” Kirby said, shrugging the problem away. “Besides, we have to trust one another, don’t we? You have to trust me not to give you fakes.”
Feldspan looked surprised, but Witcher merely amused, saying, “For Heaven’s sake, why would you? There’s a whole temple of real things there, probably enough to make us all rich; why jeopardize the relationship?”
“Exactly,” Kirby said. “And you fellas have the same motive to give me a straight count.”
“Of course.”
Feldspan said, “The only problem, really, is getting the material out of the country.”
“I have my methods,” Kirby said, and stopped, because the waitress was bringing them their main courses. Silence reigned at the table until she was done, the three men looking out the window at the empty swimming pool and, beyond it, the open sea. Out there, a black freighter stood at anchor; some nosy British Coast Guard people had grabbed it a few weeks ago, north of here, finding it full of marijuana. They’d impounded it (like Manny Cruz’s step-in van), and now it was waiting to be auctioned by the Belize government.
Upstairs, the cassette on the dresser said, in Kirby’s voice, “None of us can ever say a word about this temple. Not here, and not in New York, and not anywhere.”
The waitress left at last, and Witcher said, “Americans have been caught, you know, trying to get out of Belize with carvings or whatnot. Caught and jailed.”
“That’s why,” Kirby said, “in this operation, you’re dealing with the right man.”
Feldspan said, almost timidly, “I don’t suppose you could tell us your smuggling method.”
“Why not?” Kirby grinned. “Truthfully, I’m proud of it. You see, there isn’t just one smuggling business out of Belize, there’s two. There’s Mayan antiques, that’s one, and the other one is marijuana.”
Feldspan smiled reminiscently, and Witcher said, “You’re involved in both, aren’t you?”
“I’ve combined them both,” Kirby told him. “The government comes down hard on the artifact smuggling, as you know. In fact, they’ll probably search your luggage on the way out, since your passports say you’re antique dealers.”
“Oh, dear,” said Feldspan. He and Witcher exchanged a troubled glance.
“It’s only pre-Columbian stuff they care about,” Kirby assured them. “As for the marijuana trade, the British and the Americans make a little trouble if they can, but locally nobody gives a damn. It brings in a lot of U.S. cash, it’s all on a small-time basis and a lot cleaner and less violent than Colombia or Bolivia with their cocaine industries, and it makes a good back-up crop for the sugar farmers up around Orange Walk. I’ve flown a lot of bales of pot out of this country, and nobody’s ever looked at me twice. In fact, after lunch I have to see a fellow about that side of it.”
Witcher and Feldspan both looked agog. Leaning forward, speaking much more confidentially than when they’d been discussing the smuggling of valuable Mayan artifacts, Feldspan said, “You mean a dealer?”
“A middleman,” Kirby told him. “An American, he’s coming in on the plane this afternoon.” Then, as though afraid he’d said too much, he too leaned forward and dropped his voice, saying, “Listen, this is a very bad man up north. If he thought I was talking about him, we’d all be in trouble.”
“We wouldn’t breathe a word,” Witcher breathed.
“If you see me with him,” Kirby said, “just pretend you don’t know me.”
“Absolutely,” said Witcher, nodding solemnly, a co-conspirator.
“Okay,” Kirby said. “Here’s my little stunt. I get in my plane, I fill it up with bales of pot, everybody knows what I’m doing, nobody gives a damn, off I go to Florida.” Leaning forward, winking, he said, “Now, what if there’s Mayan antiques inside the bales?”
“When we get back to Belize City,” the cassette with Kirby’s voice told the other cassette, “I will blow your head right off your shoulders.” Then it giggled with Feldspan’s voice, and its red light clicked off. The skinny black man yawned, stretched, walked away from the window, and punched the buttons to rewind both cassettes.
“Brilliant!” breathed Feldspan.
Kirby smiled, nodding, appreciating their appreciation.
“I’m stealing wheelbarrows,” Witcher said.
“Exactly,” Kirby said.
Feldspan said, “The Purloined Letter. The Trojan Horse.”
“I never said I was original,” Kirby said, getting a trifle nettled.
Witcher said, “And when you get to Florida, out they come!”
“Right,” said Kirby. “Now, that brings up another question. When I reach the other end, will it be you two meeting me, or somebody else?”
“In Florida, you mean?” They looked at one another, and Witcher said, “I think we have to do it ourselves.”
“Yes,” said Feldspan. “You just let us know where and when.”
“Okay,” Kirby said. “Then I won’t deal with anybody else. In fact, I won’t even get out of the plane unless I see one of you guys.”
“I suppose you have to be very careful,” Feldspan said. “In your business.”
“Careful is my middle name,” Kirby told him.
The skinny black man put the talking cassette player back where he’d found it, pocketed the listening cassette player, and let himself quietly out of Witcher and Feldspan’s room.
10
OUT OF THE PAST
Whitman Lemuel obediently fastened his seatbelt, then pressed his right temple to the cool lucite window and looked down past the wing at Belize. Far away to the west were lavendar mountains, blurry and faded, blending and tumbling into greener hills, smoothing down toward a pale band of beach on which a white foam line ran and spread and vanished and ran again. Blue-green water, as clear and gleaming as new stained glass, spread out from the shore, the color deepening into blue, then breaking at a broad white irregular gash running parallel to the coast, a few hundred yards off shore; the barrier reef, second longest in the world, running for 175 miles north and south, separating the Belizean coast from the Caribbean deeps.
Ahead, where a blue scribble of river cut through the greenery to the coast, a clustered, cluttered, colorful town had grown. The harbor was full of small boats, and a black freighter stood off shore.
Lemuel’s eyes moved away from the town, back toward the jumbled greenness of the nearer mountains. Somewhere in there was Kirby Galway’s temple. He stared, unaware of the lucite’s vibration against his brow.
The stewardess distributed landing cards to be filled out, and Lemuel wrote, without hesitation, “teacher” and “vacation.” He had been a teacher in the past, and technically his current job with the museum could also be described that way. Knowing the Belizean government’s parochial attitude concerning antiquities, he saw no reason to call attention to himself by putting down his actual job title, and he certainly wouldn’t describe his true reason for being here: “to save irreplaceable Mayan artifacts.”
The Mayan sites, except for the few largest, were not being properly cared for. Much had already been lost forever, and much more would soon be gone. Even if Third-World governments like that in Belize had the will to save what had not yet been destroyed, they would never have the money or knowledge or resources for the job. Frequently, as well, in these parts of the world, there was corruption among the very officials charged with the task of preservation.
Governments like Belize’s should welcome men like Whitman Lemuel, scholars, historians, restorers, men selflessly devoted to preserving the best of the past, in carefully controlled environments with prescribed public access, allowing the people of today to experience for themselves the mystery and wonder of the long-ago. It was only ignorance and naiveté, combined with backward peoples’ inevitable jealousy of the better-educated and the better-off, that made it necessary for Whitman Lemuel, who knew himself to be a decent and honorable and law-abiding and well-educated and intelligent and reasonable man, to sneak into Belize as though he were a thief, as though he were planning to do something wrong.
Take this fellow Kirby Galway. On the surface a plausible chap, an American, but underneath the glib exterior what was the fellow but a smooth thug? It had been a very fortunate accident that Lemuel had met him again, that second time, and they’d had their little talk, very fortunate indeed, because there was no question in Lemuel’s mind that Galway would be prepared to sell the objects from his temple to anybody, just anybody. Galway was the sort of person the Belizean government ought to concentrate on, not honest scholars like Whitman Lemuel.
But if he was to be honest about it—and Whitman Lemuel was rigidly honest—he had to admit there were Americans too who completely misunderstood the situation, as though scholars like himself were here for profit, as though they were somehow stealing something that belonged to someone else rather than preserving the past—which belongs to all mankind—to be handed on, selflessly, properly catalogued and annotated, to generations yet unborn. He remembered with particular distaste that tall young woman who had interrupted his first conversation with Galway, squawking words like “despoliation.” Such individuals, unhampered by facts, took on moral positions just for the good feeling that comes from being holier-than-thou.
Outside the window, the turning Earth approached, red roofs stood out among the colors of the town, individual trees waved to him, and in a sudden rush and jolt the plane was on the ground, hurtling past the tiny airport building, reluctantly slowing, then turning, coming back.
Lemuel was among the few passengers getting off. He always felt a little nervous when he entered a basically primitive country; who knew what ideas these people might get in their heads? Shuffling slowly through Customs & Immigration, he kept craning his neck, looking for Galway, but didn’t see him. His bow tie constricted his neck in this unaccustomed heat, but he wouldn’t remove it. All clothing is a uniform, and Lemuel’s uniform made clear his status: American, college-educated, nonviolent, intellectual. Nevertheless, he was ordered to open both his suitcases, and the black Customs inspector fingered his Brut aftershave as though he would simply confiscate it. In the end, he merely made an annoying long scrawl of white chalk on each suitcase lid, and sent Lemuel on his way.
Outside, blinking in the dusty sunshine, still not seeing Galway anywhere—he wouldn’t have reneged at the last second, would he?—Lemuel fought off the persistent taxi offerers with just as persistent head shakes, until he realized one of the men was calling him by name: “Mister Lemuel? May I take your bags, Mister Lemuel?”
Lemuel frowned at him, seeing a short and skinny Indian type, with bright black eyes and a big smile showing gaps between his teeth. “You know me?” he said.
“I am from Kirby Galway.” The man had an accent that was nearly Hispanic, but not quite. “I am Manuel Cruz.”
“I expected Mister Galway himself,” Lemuel said, prepared to be irked.
“There were little problems,” Manuel Cruz told him, more confidentially, flashing looks left and right as though afraid to be overheard. “I’ll tell you in the truck.”
“Truck?” But he permitted Cruz to carry both his suitcases and to lead the way over to an incredibly filthy, battered, rusty pickup truck. When the suitcases were thrown in back, onto all that rust and dirt, the Customs chalkmarks became irrelevant.
The interior of the pickup was at least roomy and fairly comfortable. Cruz was a bit too short for the controls, which only increased his childlike aura; also, he drove in sudden jolts and hesitations, his feet playing the floor pedals like a pianist, hands struggling the wheel back and forth, back and forth.
Out on the empty blacktop road, Cruz settled down to a less fitful driving method, and explained, “Kirby, he had to see some other men. You know about the gage?”
Lemuel didn’t. “Gauge?”
“Pot,” said Cruz. “Weed. Tea. Smoke.”
“Oh, marijuana!”
“That’s it,” Cruz said, happily nodding.
“He smuggles it into America,” Lemuel said, with some distaste. “Yes, I know about that.”
“Okay. Now, some men come down from up there,” Cruz said. “Kirby, he didn’t know they were coming, you know? But these kinda men, they come down, they say, ‘We gotta talk,’ you say, ‘Okay, sir, yes, sir.’”<
br />
“Ah,” said Lemuel, nodding at this glimpse of what was under the rock.
“So Kirby, he sent me down, pick you up, say he sorry.”
“I see,” said Lemuel.
“I take you to the hotel. Kirby, he call you later, he take you out there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Not today?” One of the reasons Lemuel had decided to come down to Belize a week early—in addition to the honest excitement and anticipation he’d cited in his message—was the fact that he didn’t entirely trust Kirby Galway. He didn’t know what sort of scheme Galway might be able to perpetrate against him, but perhaps if he were to show up a week early it might keep the man off balance and give Lemuel some advantage. But now Galway was begging off until tomorrow; was that significant? Was there anything Lemuel could do about it?
Probably not. Still, it was worth a try. “My schedule is pretty tight,” he said. “Perhaps I should talk to Galway right now.”
“Oh, no,” Cruz said, looking a bit frightened. “Kirby, he told me, ‘Don’t let Mister Lemuel come talk to me when I’m with these men. Tell Mister Lemuel to pretend he don’t even know me.’ That’s what Kirby said.”
“Why?”
“These are very bad men,” Cruz said. “They got—whatchu call it—front, some kinda legitimate life up in the States, they don’t want nobody know what their business is. They kill a man if they got to.”
Lemuel, of course, had heard of such people, as who of us has not? The drug world quite naturally drew them, and yes they would kill rather than have the seamy truth exposed to their families and neighbors. “I see,” he said.
“If you go to Kirby with those men,” Cruz went on, “if you say, ‘Hi, Kirby,’ then you and Kirby and me, we all in terrible trouble. If those men know you know Kirby, and they got to know you from the States just to look at you, then they figure you know Kirby’s in the gage business—you know, the marijuana—”
High Adventure Page 7
