“Better yet, why?”
He grinned a little. “Beats me. I guess I’m just a sucker for punishment.”
For the briefest moment he thought she might actually smile.
“We should accept his offer,” Helmut said.
Ana stared, apparently every bit as surprised as Robert. In spite of his surprise, Robert was tempted to laugh out loud, thinking that Fowler must be slipping his gears, hiring a transparent alky like Helmut.
“Also, I wish to thank you for coming to our rescue last evening,” Helmut said, a sudden tone of geniality. “That was very good of you. Now it seems we are in your debt again.”
“Helmut,” Ana said, “you know I had planned to see the Toribios this morning.”
“That can wait.” Helmut shoved his plate back. He and Ana argued briefly in German, Helmut muttering aggressively around a newly lit cigarette.
Ana studied Helmut with irritation in the after-silence of argument. She turned to Robert without spirit. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“What are Toribios?”
“Oh. Just some people I had hoped to see. Local silversmiths. It isn’t important.”
Robert glanced at his watch. “We’ve got a little time.”
“No. Really. But thank you.”
He could see she was torn, wanting to, but reluctant to impose.
“Just so we get to Acapulco before dark,” he said.
12
One for the Road
ANA LEFT HELMUT dozing in the backseat while Robert took a video camera from the garbage bag in which he had stowed his luggage in the trunk. She entered a fortlike complex constructed of concrete blocks built into the foot of a mountain on the outskirts of Taxco. Except for a heavily fortified room where the silver was kept, the floor was clean-swept earth, the furnishings spare.
The Toribios, a family of Mixtec Indians, unlocked a huge Liberty Presidential safe bricked into the wall and set forth beautifully handcrafted silver jewelry on primitive tables covered with black velvet—none of the mass-produced stuff vendors hawked back on the zócalo in Taxco. As she inspected various pieces the whole clan looked on—five adults and numerous children. Two refrigerator-sized iron boxes with mirrors stood against opposing walls; she suspected guards behind one-way glass. A boy of around ten trailed at her side, copying her selections in a spiral notebook.
When her order was complete, she carefully compared it with the boy’s notes, then left a deposit. She shook hands with everyone, including to their delight the smaller children. She promised to return for the goods in two months, then folded the order into her little leather purse and went back to the car.
Helmut was as she had left him: in the backseat, slouched against their bags, doors open for the breeze. She clenched her jaw against a wave of revulsion. Normally Helmut served as protection, accompanying her into some of the more remote areas of Mexico where she searched out indigenous arts and crafts. However, a falling-down drunk wasn’t likely to strike fear in the heart of an adversary, and she had come to feel she was watching over him more than the other way around. She felt a little guilty, admitting that his growing uselessness was beginning to outweigh any lingering emotional attachment.
Some distance beyond, Robert was looking into the video camera’s viewfinder, cheering on a young boy who was attempting to roll an iron hoop over the ground with a forked stick while a mutty little dog kept grabbing it, trying to wrestle it out of the child’s hand.
The man was a puzzle. Despite her protests, he had insisted on driving her and Helmut here to the Toribios. Thanks to Helmut’s drunken ineptitude, she was almost certain Robert had figured out that they were following him. By now it seemed he was keeping tabs on Helmut rather than the other way around.
He didn’t appear to be what he said he was, either—a boat salesman? His hands were calloused, face and forearms sunburned brown. It was obvious, too, that he had the hardened body of a man used to either long strenuous workouts or physical labor, and he didn’t strike her as the body-beautiful-workout type. Of course, just the fact that he was traveling Mexico instead of enjoying the comfort and security of his own country was suspicious, reason enough for all ex-pats in Mexico to be looked on with a touch of wariness.
His behavior kept her off balance, needling her, his grin letting her know he was doing it on purpose. Even so, he made jokes at his own expense as well, and despite her resentment, she found herself experiencing moments of secret delight in the presence of what appeared to be a healthy, self-assured sense of humor—a trait totally lacking in Helmut, and one she hadn’t realized she missed.
Robert saw her, smiled in casual acknowledgement, then called the boy over and let him look into the LCD, obviously replaying the video for the boy’s pleasure. She pushed her hair back and realized the yellow rose was still tucked behind her ear. Like everything connecting her to Helmut, the rose was a lie. If she were truly honest, she would grind it underfoot and leave him, go somewhere and start over. Perhaps when she got to Acapulco.
It was a liberating thought, if a bit scary.
ROBERT DROVE DOWN and around the mountain out of Taxco, Ana in the front passenger seat, Helmut in back slumped against their luggage. Robert had stowed his carry-ons and the army haversack with its projector in the trunk in plastic garbage bags against the charcoal dust. He carried the .380 in a brown paper bag stuffed down between the rocker panel and the driver’s seat on his left.
“Thanks again,” Ana said. “That meant a lot to me, getting that order in.”
“Happy to do it.”
“That little boy, he was having himself a time. That was cute.”
“Kids,” he said. “They’re the best people.”
They rode mostly in silence, the occasional polite conversation of strangers. Ana gazed out the side window where the shadows of drifting clouds slid across the foothills. Soon the countryside turned trashy. Old tires, broken glass and tatters of aqua-colored plastic littered the roadside. A prevailing odor of something burnt saturated the air.
Another smell suddenly filled the car. Booze.
Ana turned on Helmut in the backseat, flushed. “Helmut, you promised!”
“Don’t start,” he muttered.
She took tissues from her purse and touched at her eyes. She turned to Robert. “When we get to the next town, please drop us at the bus station.”
Robert glanced in the rearview mirror. Helmut sat, eyes downcast like a chastised schoolboy.
“He’s not really bothering anybody but you,” Robert said.
“This is so embarrassing. He gave his word.”
“Well, I’m not dropping you off at any bus station.”
Ana looked at him, a touch of alarm perhaps.
“Just relax. I’ll get you to Acapulco, then you can do whatever you want.”
Her gaze lingered on him another moment before she turned away in sullen silence.
Robert glanced in the rearview mirror again. Helmut, cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief, touched at a wet glint in one eye. Robert almost felt sorry for the guy, who, it seemed, was unable to go no more than a couple of hours without a drink.
Robert drove in silence.
The little villages they passed through had one thing in common: no matter how destitute, there was always a domed church with a cross on top, usually on a hilltop, overlooking small huts of mud, and sometimes concrete-block, many unfinished, piles of sand and gravel alongside. Apparently, home improvement loans were unheard of in Mexico; you built as you could afford it.
Sometime later the town of Iguala appeared on a broad plain between the mountains ahead. Robert pulled in at a Pemex station and had the tank filled. Helmut staggered off to the men’s room. In spite of Robert’s objection, Ana insisted on paying for the fuel. Afterward, he moved the car a short distance from the pumps while she went to the ladies room. He headed to the men’s room as Helmut returned.
He came back to find Helmut standing at the front of the car, cigarette jutti
ng between his teeth. Ana sat in back now, arms crossed. The yellow rose lay on the asphalt alongside the car. Obviously, they had had words. Helmut ground the cigarette underfoot, then—either accidentally or on purpose—stepped on the rose before climbing into the front passenger seat and pulling the door closed.
Ana leaned forward. “I meant it about the bus,” she said.
“I have apologized,” Helmut mumbled. “And now I apologize to you also.” He looked straight ahead through the windshield.
Robert was torn between honoring her request, and driving on. He felt more secure with Helmut underfoot than out in the world at large. On the other hand, Helmut had more or less orchestrated the ride to Acapulco, so at the moment Robert was playing Helmut’s game. Robert resolved not to underestimate him—drunk or not—or Ana either for that matter. After all, if she really wanted to take the bus, why had she just obligated him, if indirectly, by paying for a full tank of gas?
Wordless, Robert drove back onto the highway and out of town.
From time to time a few rangy cows or a burro grazed alongside the pavement. Stringy white-line goat trails zigzagged across the brown foothills like cats-cradles. Ana refused to speak to Helmut and he dozed against the passenger window, mouth slack, drool on his chin.
The small villages they drove through reminded Robert of dusty little towns in the Mideast.
In midafternoon they drove into the town of Chilpancingo.
“We can stop if you’re hungry,” Robert said quietly, not to wake Helmut.
Ana leaned forward. “Nothing for me,” she said softly. “But if you want something, it’s my treat.”
He could have eaten but he wasn’t hungry enough to wake Helmut and then have to put up with him. “I’m set,” he said, maneuvering the Nissan through the erratic traffic.
On the outskirts of the town, he vaguely registered the fact of a white Chevy at a Pemex station—then snapped alert, not only registering the familiarity of the car, but the incongruous figures standing alongside—a large platinum blond and a thin little boy. He sensed it was the same Chevy that had followed him to Taxco the previous afternoon, the same woman, the same boy. Ana was looking out the side window, oblivious. Helmut was still asleep. In passing, Robert looked again at the twosome alongside the Chevy. The woman was barrel-bodied, awkward-looking in a bright orange blouse and a red leather miniskirt. She wore blue pumps and black net stockings. The boy wore jeans, a T-shirt and cowboy boots. They were occupied with a food vendor who had pushed a cart up alongside. Robert saw now that the boy wasn’t a boy after all, but a man—thin little arms blurred with India ink tattoos. And the woman, he realized with a jolt, was actually a man too. When he picked them up in the rearview mirror, he saw them turn, watching until he lost them in the traffic.
His first thought was that they might be kidnappers—but then they would have made a move on him the evening before on the road to Taxco when he was alone. Surely Fowler wouldn’t hire two sets of watchdogs? In any case, there was more to those two than met the eye. Mexico was beginning to feel downright crowded.
A half hour later, he was still mulling it over when up ahead he spotted a jeep and a truck parked under a stand of trees just off the road. A dozen soldiers lounged in the shade of the tarp-bedded truck. Two uniformed men stepped out onto the pavement. One carried an automatic weapon. The other, an officer, lifted his hand for Robert to stop.
As often as not, both cartels and kidnappers posed as police and military. Just as often the actual police were involved in trafficking. But right now the .380 in the paper bag was his biggest concern. He could shove it under the seat, or jam it in the back of his belt, but Helmut was waking up and would see him for sure.
“You’ll need your passport,” Ana said tersely. She took hers and Helmut’s from the purse on the strap around her neck. It struck Robert that for all he knew she and Helmut could be running drugs. That would be ironic—down here on a multimillion-dollar diamond deal, getting busted over someone else’s nickel bag of weed.
He braked to a stop, then reached across and took his passport from the glovebox. The officer stepped to Helmut’s window. The other soldier stood back, rifle butt on his hip.
“Buenas tardes,” the officer said, looking them over, each in turn.
Ana lowered her window and handed her and Helmut’s passports over. “Buenas tardes, señor. Qué pasa?”
“Turistas?”
“Sí. De Estados Unidos.
The officer looked the papers over. He squinted at the luggage in the backseat, then turned and shouted and two soldiers jumped up from the shade and came on the run. The officer spoke rapidly in Spanish. One of the soldiers opened Helmut’s door. Helmut fumbled his way out and stood back, unsteady. Ana stepped out as the second soldier hurried around and opened Robert’s door. Robert slid out over the paper bag crammed between the seat and the rocker panel.
The officer said something to Robert in Spanish.
“He wants you to open the trunk,” Ana explained.
The soldier on the other side of the car reached inside, opened and closed the ashtray.
Robert leaned back inside and pressed the trunk release. The trunk lid popped open. One of the soldiers reached in, took up the paper bag and hurried around the car with it.
“Deténgase!” the officer shouted at Robert.
The soldier with the weapon threw the safety off.
“Subir las manos!”
Robert froze, his gaze fixed on the paper bag.
“Put your hands up!” Ana cried.
She had lifted her own hands above her head, explaining to the officer, “Es Americano, no habla español.” Robert slowly raised his hands.
The officer plunged his hand into the bag and withdrew a banana, reached in again, took out an orange.
Robert stared.
One of the soldiers laughed, but quickly composed himself when the officer tossed the fruit into the front seat and smashed the bag between his palms. The officer shouted at the soldiers. They hurried behind the car and dragged Robert’s carry-ons in their plastic bags from the trunk. The officer shouted again and the soldiers hauled Ana and Helmut’s luggage out of the backseat onto the roadside. The few passing trucks were waved around them.
Robert stole a look at Ana. She was expressionless. Helmut lumbered about, mumbling in an incoherent mix of Spanish, English, and German.
The officer laughed. “This one, he is have a little drink I think.” The officer opened Helmut’s luggage and lifted out an almost empty bottle of tequila. Laughing again, he held it up for the other soldiers to see. He picked through Helmut’s folded clothes and opened his shaving kit. He took a quick look at Helmut’s laptop and put it back along with the tequila. Then he rifled through Ana’s suitcase, inspecting the few cosmetics in a plastic zip-bag, grinning as he held up a box of tampons for the other soldiers’ entertainment. Ana maintained her composure, grim, expressionless.
The officer stepped behind the car and took Robert’s camera out of the carry-on, the projector from it’s case.
“Una filmadora,” Ana said.
The officer opened Robert’s second carry-on, brightening as he removed an unopened bottle of brandy. Somewhat amiable now, as if the bottle was what he had been looking for all along, he shouted orders. The soldiers hurriedly repacked the bags and stowed them in the car. The officer, still holding Robert’s brandy, spoke to Ana in Spanish.
“He says we have provided a pleasant distraction. We are free to go.”
Robert opened the front passenger door for Ana. Helmut was already fumbling his way into the backseat.
The officer made a sweeping bow as Robert started the car and pulled out onto the highway.
“Boy Scouts,” Helmut mumbled. He put his glasses in his shirt pocket and rested his head against the luggage. Soon his face went slack.
Ana sneaked a look back at Helmut, then fixed her gaze on Robert. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I was about to ask you.”<
br />
“What’s with that in the bag?”
He glanced in the mirror at Helmut, gave her a quick look. “You took it?”
“When I got in the backseat at the service station, it had slid out on the floor at my feet. I went to put it back and saw what it was. Yes, I was afraid.”
“Why did you replace it with the fruit?”
“You would have noticed it was missing.”
Robert grinned a little. “Boy. That was a kicker. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“It isn’t funny.”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s kinda funny, now.”
She studied him. “Why do you have it?”
“This is Mexico. Right over the hill there they’ll kill you just because you have green eyes and can afford to eat three squares a day.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about Mexico?”
“I saw the movie.”
“Cute,” she said dryly. “What’re you doing here, really?”
“I told you. I sell boats.”
“Sure you do.” She took another look at Helmut, then lifted her shirttail, withdrew the holstered .380 from inside the waistband of her jeans and handed it over. There was something about the shared taboo of the gun, something in the gesture of her submitting it to him that charged the moment with a kind of erotic electricity.
Her eyes lingered on him in the electrified air. “I hate guns,” she said coolly, erasing any hint of intimacy. “No good has ever come from guns.”
“You might change your mind under the right circumstances.”
“I doubt it.”
“The great equalizer. Helps puny little girls take down big fierce men.”
She gave him a sharp look. “You think I’m puny?”
“No ma’am. You ain’t no little girl, either.”
Her expression lightened before she turned away, as if on the verge of a smile.
“Where are you from in the States?” he asked.
“Denver.”
“Mind if I ask how you ended up down here?”
“How about you?” she countered. “I asked last night if you had family. You never answered me.”
The Dogs of Mexico Page 8
