1974 - So What Happens to Me (10 page)

“Yes. Well, go to the Continental hotel at Merida. I have arranged for you to be picked up around 12.30 on the morning of the 4th. That will give you three days to get organised. Will that suit you?”

“Fine.”

“Bye now, cheri,” and he hung up.

I showered and shaved, then taking the Alfa, I drove into Paradise City. I spent the whole day there, taking in the sights, the sun and thinking about this operation. I had three good opportunities to pick up a dolly, but I resisted that. There was too much to think about without getting into complications with one of these little pushovers.

I returned to the airport just after 19.00 and went to cabin 15. With a cordless shaver in his band. Erskine opened the door.

“Hi!” He grinned at me. “You’re a goddamn miracle worker!”

He stood aside so I could move in and then shut the door. “Did you swing something! Bernie’s a different man!”

I felt suddenly relaxed.

“You think it worked?”

“It’s worked. Look, Jack, I have a heavy date and I’m late already. Go, talk to Bernie. He’s in his cabin: No. 19. See for yourself.”

“I’ll do that,” and leaving him I went along to No. 19.

Erskine was right. As soon as Bernie opened the door, I could see the change in him. It was as if the cloud that had been obscuring him had lifted. He stood upright and there was that grin again.

“Hi! Jack! Come on in. Have a drink?”

As I started into the cabin. I paused, seeing Pam sitting there.

“I don’t want to barge in.”

I looked at her and she looked at me, then she smiled.

“Come on in: you don’t have to be shy.” She leaned back.

“We have got it all straightened out . . . haven’t we, Bernie?”

“Yes.” Bernie started to mix drinks. “Pam told me about last night. You were right Jack. She needed to be told.”

“Okay. . . so let’s forget it. Let’s talk business.”

“Just a moment.” Bernie gave me a whisky on the rocks.

“I want to say thank you and so does Pam.”

I couldn’t believe any of this, but again looking at Pam, I saw she was smiling and completely relaxed.

“Let’s skip it. It’s all water under a bridge. Man! What dialogue” I waved my drink at her. “Here’s to you and I mean it.”

We all drank. There was a pause, then she said. “You came at the right time Jack.”

I sat down.

“As I said, let’s skip it.” I turned to Bernie. “Kendrick has given me the green light to inspect the runway. I leave on the third.”

“You’re certainly handling this,” he said. “You know I would never have thought of checking the runway.”

“I’m sure it’s okay, but it just might give me the chance of finding out who Kendrick’s client is.”

“Is that so important?” ‘

“Could be. I don’t like Kendrick. He could gyp us. If we know who his client is, we would be in the position to gyp him.”

“Kendrick won’t gyp us.”

“Let’s hope not, but I’ll be happier if I know who his client is.”

“Well, all right. How are you for money Jack?”

“I could do with three hundred dollars. I won’t be away more than a couple of days, and there’s the flight fare to Merida to take care of.”

He went to a drawer and gave me five hundred dollars.

As I put the money in my pocket, I said, “There’s another thing: have you a gun, Bernie?”

He looked startled.

“You don’t need a gun Jack. What do you mean?”

“We’re playing with dynamite. Kendrick now hates me like smallpox. I could just run into an accident when inspecting the runway. With me out of the way, his life would become a lot easier.”

“You’re not serious?”

“If you have a gun, I want it.”

He hesitated, then went into his bedroom and returned with a .38 automatic and a box of shells. Silently, he handed them to me.

“Thanks,” I said.

There was an awkward pause, then he said, “Tomorrow I’m flying Essex to L.A. Harry and I won’t be back until Saturday night.”

My eyes shifted to Pam and then away from her.

“So suppose we four meet at the cafe-bar on Sunday at 18.00?” I said. “I’ll be back from Merida and could have some information.”

He nodded.

“I’ll tell Harry.”

“We’ll leave Kendrick out this time.”

Again he nodded.

“One more thing Bernie. If I don’t show up on Sunday, forget this operation. Don’t go through with it: it won’t be safe.”

While he was staring uneasily at me, I left the cabin.

After a shower and a shave, I found the time was only 20.22. I could hear the sound of T.V. coming from Tim’s cabin.

I knocked on his door.

“Want to spend some of Mr. Essex’s money tonight, Tim?”

I asked when he opened the door.

“Sure. Where do we go?”

“On the town.”

It was while I was driving the Alfa towards Paradise City that I said casually, “How’s the runway shaping?”

“Fine,” O’Brien said. “No problem. It’ll be ready in three weeks: going like a bomb.”

“I hear there’s a similar runway being built outside Merida. You wouldn’t know about that?”

“Merida? Sure.” O’Brien chuckled. “Now that was a real sonofabitch to build, but it’s finished now. My sidekick Bill O’Cassidy is putting the finishing touches to it. I was talking to him on the phone only last night. I wanted his advice about a rock problem I’ve run into. Bill is about the best man in this game. He told me he can’t wait to get out of Yucatan. He’s had a bellyful.”

“But the runway is finished?”

“Oh, sure.”

“O’Cassidy? I knew a Frank O’Cassidy. Would that be a relation?”

“Could be. I know Bill had a brother serving in Vietnam His name was Sean. He was killed out there in the 6th battalion, parachute. He won the Silver Star.”

“Not the same man.”

I pulled up outside the Casino.

“Let’s eat.”

Later, after a top class meal, I said casually, “Your pal O’Cassidy. Would he be staying at the Continental hotel?”

O’Brien had had a lot to drink and thought I was just making conversation.

“He’s at the Chalco.”

Just then two dolly birds moved up to us and asked if we would like some fun.

I said some other time and they smiled and went away, waving their hips at us. I signalled to the waiter, signed for the meal and pushed back my chair.

“How about bed. Tim? You have a hard day’s work tomorrow.”

“Damn fine meal.” Tim got to his feet. “Man! Did you strike it good!”

My mind was pretty active on the way back to the airport.

I decided I would leave for Merida the following morning. After I had left Tim at his cabin, I called the Florida Airlines and booked a flight to Merida, leaving Paradise City at 10.27.

I would be a day’s jump ahead of Kendrick and I had a feeling any jump ahead of that fat queer was a move in my favour.

FIVE

A
battered, rusty Chevy rushed me from the Merida airport to the Chalco hotel. The driver looked as if he should still be at school: his blue-black hair reached to the collar of his dirty white shirt and he continually leaned out of the car window to curse other drivers.

The heat was something and it was raining fit to drown a duck. I sat back on broken springs and sweated, and every now and then, shut my eyes as a crash seemed certain, but the boy finally got me to the hotel in one piece.

I paid him of in Mexican money I had collected at the airport and dashed through the rain into the hotel.

It was down a narrow side street, painted white and the lobby was clean with cactus plants, bamboo chairs and a tiny fountain that made a soft sound which encouraged a coolness that didn’t exist.

I went up to the reception desk where an old fat Mexican sat picking his teeth with a splinter of wood “A room for the night with a shower.” I said.

He shoved a tattered register towards me and a police card.

I went through the motions, then a tiny, dirty boy appeared to take my bag.

“Mr. O’Cassidy in?” I asked.

The old man showed slight interest. He said something in Spanish.

“Mr. O’Cassidy,” I repeated in a slightly louder voice.

The little boy said, “He in bar.” And he pointed. I followed the direction of his dirty finger and saw a door. I gave the kid the equivalent of a half dollar and told him to take my bag up to my room. The kid’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. The old man leaned forward and stared first at the money in the kid’s dirty hand and then at the kid. I doubted if the kid would stick with the money. I left them and entered the tiny bar where a radio played soft music, where a fat girl with long black plaits supported herself on the bar and where, at the far end of the bar, was a man, hidden by the Herald Tribune.

“Scotch on the rocks,” I said, moving down to the middle of the bar.

At the sound of my voice, the man lowered the newspaper and regarded me. I waited until the girl had given me the drink, then looked at him.

He was a man of around forty-five, big with reddish, close-cropped hair, a blunt, heavily tanned face and steady green eyes.

He was the same ilk as Tim O’Brien: a man you couldn’t help but like.

I raised my glass and said, “Hi!”

His wide Irish smile was warming.

“Hi, yourself. You just moved in?”

I wandered down the bar close to him.

“Jack Crane. May I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks.” He nodded to the girl who busied herself with a Scotch and soda. “Bill O’Cassidy.”

He offered his hand and I shook it.

“That’s luck. Tim O’Brien told me to look out for you.’

He lifted his eyebrows.

“You know Tim?”

“Know him? We were out on the town last night.”

“O’Cassidy glanced at the fat girl as she brought him his drink then picking it up. he jerked his head to a table away from the bar and we went over there.

“That babe never stops listening,” he said as we sat down “How’s Tim?”

“Fine. He’s working like hell on this runway. You know about that, don’t you?”

“Yeah. He’s in trouble with rocks.” O’Cassidy grinned. “He doesn’t know when he is well off; I’ve had swamps to cope with.”

“Tim was telling me.”

“Well, that’s all behind me now. I’m leaving tomorrow. Phew! I can’t wait to get out of this god-forsaken country!”

“Certainly hot and this rain!”

“This is the beginning of the wet season. The sonofabitch will rain non-stop now for a couple of months. Just got the job finished in time.”

“O’Cassidy?” I said idly. “No relation to Sean O’Cassidy who won the Silver Star?”

He sat upright.

“My kid brother! You knew him?”

“I was out there. I was with the bombers. I met him once. 6th Parachute . . . right?”

“For Pete’s sake!” He leaned forward, grabbed my hand and shook it. “Hell of a small world! You met Sean?”

“That’s it. We had a drink together. I had no idea he would win the Silver Star. We just got drunk together.”

He sat back and beamed at me.

“A great little guy.”

“He certainly was.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Jack Crane.”

“Okay, Jack, you and me are going out on the town. It’s my last night here. We eat, we get goddamn drunk, but not too drunk and we get us a couple of girls . . . how’s about it?”

I grinned at him

“Fine with me.”

“Nothing gets moving in this city until around 22.00.” He looked at his strap watch. “It’s now only 20.18. I’ll take a shower and suppose we meet here at 21.45. . . okay?”

“Sure.”

We collected our keys at the desk. The old Mexican regarded us without interest. My room was five doors along the corridor from O’Cassidy’s room. We parted. I found my bag on the bed. In spite of the window being open, the room was stiflingly hot. I stared down into the street, watching the rain making puddles, then I unpacked, dug out another shirt and another pair of slacks and lay on the bed.

The noise of the roaring traffic and the clanging of the church bells made a nap impossible so I did some thinking.

Later I stripped of and took a shower, changed, but it didn’t help much. Life in Merida was like living in a sauna.

I went down to the bar and asked the girl with the plaits for a whisky on the rocks. At least there was a fan in the bar. I read through the Herald Tribune and then O’Cassidy joined me.

“That’s the last drink you buy yourself tonight,” he said.

“Come on . . . let’s go. I’ve got a car outside.”

We ran through the rain to a Buick. By the time we had scrambled in we were both pretty wet, but the heat dried us before O’Cassidy parked outside a restaurant. We ran from the car and ducked out of the rain into the entrance lobby.

A fat, grinning Mexican in a white coat shook hands with O’Cassidy and then led us into a dimly-lit room, but air-conditioned, to a table in the fat corner. There were about thirty tables dotted around, occupied by sleek looking Mexicans and sleeker looking girls.

“I’ve been in this city now for nine months and I always eat here nights,” O’Cassidy said as he sat down. “The food’s fine.”

He waved to a dark, sulky looking beauty who was at the bar and who lifted a tired hand and weary eyebrows. He shook his head, then turning to me: “The dolls here are very willing, but let’s eat first. You like Mexican food?”

“So long as it’s not too hot.”

We had tamales which were hot but very good, followed by Mole de Guajolote: a fricassee of turkey seasoned with tomatoes, sesame seeds and covered with a thick chocolate sauce.

The sauce startled me until I tried the dish to find it excellent.

After we had got through the Mole and had talked of Vietnam and O’Cassidy’s brother, I felt O’Cassidy was relaxed enough for me to get to business.

“Can I ask you about this runway you’ve built Bill?” I asked cautiously.

“Why, sure. You interested in runways?”

“I’m an aero-engineer and anything to do with flying interests me.”

“Is that right? Well, this goddamn runway was the worst I’ve ever had to build so far: Right in the middle of the jungle: trees, rocks, swamps, snakes . . . you name it, it was there.”