Short Straw (12 page)

Vittorio took out his cell phone, checked for a signal and speed-dialed a number. His conversation was brief and in Spanish. He closed the phone. “An hour from now, at a little cantina south of Puerto Vallarta, not a ten-minute drive from here.”

“Now that’s what I call service,” Cupie said. “Your guy ought to be in the pizza business.”

Barbara returned, sat down, got out a compact and tended to her makeup.

“It’s nice of you to want to look pretty for us,” Cupie said.

“Force of habit,” she replied, “regardless of the company. What’s next on the program?”

“We’re going to wait here an hour, then stop at a cantina and pick up a package that Vittorio has ordered,” Cupie said.

“Package?”

“Don’t ask.”

“You’re not bringing drugs into this equation, are you?” she asked, looking alarmed.

“Nope. I assure you, the package is pertinent to the effort to get you out of the country as quickly and as safely as possible. And the hour is well spent: it’s better for you if Vittorio and I are not seen on the street for a little while.”

Barbara sighed. “I hope I hired the right guys.”

“You hired the
only
guys,” Cupie replied.

“That’s what I mean.”

T
HEY PARKED THE CAR
behind the cantina, left Barbara lying down in the backseat and walked in the back door. There was a filthy kitchen to their left and a restroom to their right that, given the state of the kitchen, Cupie didn’t want to see.

There were four men in the place, two at a table and two at the bar. Vittorio made eye contact with each of them and didn’t get so much as a lifted eyebrow.

“It appears my guy’s guy isn’t here yet,” he said.

“Dos cervezas,”
Cupie said to the bartender, holding up two fingers to prevent being misunderstood.

The bartender placed two sweaty bottles on the bar, and Cupie gave him five bucks American. He still didn’t have any pesos. They sat down.

“I don’t like this place,” Cupie said. “Where’s your guy’s guy?”

“Relax, we’re ten minutes early.”

Cupie stuck a hand under his jacket and manipulated something.

“Take it easy, Cupie, we’re not getting into any gunfights.”

Cupie leaned in close. “There are four guys in here, and every one of them looks like he
lives
for a gunfight. And I’m not too sure about the bartender, either.”

“Cupie, it’s just a cantina, okay?”

Cupie nursed his beer and continued to look worried.

At the stroke of the hour a man holding a longish cardboard box walked in. The box bore the legend
CALLAWAY GOLF.
He looked around for a moment, then his eye alighted on Vittorio, who was wearing his hat. He came over.

“Buenos días, señores,” he said. “Meester Vittorio?”

Vittorio nodded. “What’s the bill?”

“Nine hundred, señor. American.”

Vittorio handed him the money, already counted out. “Ammunition?”

“Two boxes double-ought, one of solid projectile,” the man said. “Bye-bye.” He turned and left.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cupie whispered hoarsely.

Vittorio got up and led the way, carrying the box, while Cupie walked backward behind him, watching the four men, whose expressions never changed.

Vittorio opened the trunk, set the cardboard box inside and opened it. Keeping both weapons inside the trunk, he handed Cupie a Remington riot gun and took a stockless Ithaca for himself. Both men loaded their weapons with eight rounds, pumped one into the chamber, then loaded a ninth.

“I like the extended magazine,” Cupie said. “Saves reloading when you’re about to die.”

They picked up the remaining ammunition and got into the car, placing the shotguns on the floorboards.

“Artillery?” Barbara said from the backseat. “Are we expecting war?”

“The worst thing that can happen is what you didn’t prepare for,” Cupie explained. “I feel better now; don’t you feel better?”

“I feel like getting on an airplane,” Barbara said.

“Time to make a pass at the airport,” Vittorio said, starting the car.

They drove back up the main highway to the airport turnoff, where Vittorio pulled off the road and stopped.

“Why are we stopping?” Barbara asked.

“Please be quiet,” Vittorio replied, picking up his binoculars and training them on the airport building, half a mile away. “Uh-oh,” he said, then handed the binoculars to Cupie.

Cupie trained them on the airport building. “I see two cops and—oh, shit! That fucking black Suburban! Why can’t we shake those sons of bitches?”

“Let’s go to Tijuana,” Vittorio said. “We’ll find a place for the night and get there tomorrow.”

Twenty-six

E
AGLE WALKED INTO THE INN OF THE ANASAZI TO FIND
Susannah Wilde waiting for him, standing in front of a roaring fireplace in the lobby. She was wearing a cream-colored linen dress that set off her tan, a string of pearls, a cashmere sweater over her shoulders and a big smile. She offered her hand.

Eagle took it. “The car is right outside,” he said, “not that we need it. The restaurant is just up the street.” He put her into the passenger seat, tipped the carhop and drove the two blocks to Santa Café.

“I’ve heard of this place,” she said as they were seated.

“I’m glad to be the first to bring you here. We’re blessed with good restaurants in Santa Fe, but this is my favorite.”

A waiter appeared.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll have a Knob Creek on the rocks, please,” Susannah said.

“A woman after my own heart. Make that two. And where did an L.A. girl learn to drink hundred-proof bourbon?”

“Oh, I’m not an L.A. girl at all; I’m a Georgia girl, small town called Delano.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Neither has anybody else, but it got me my first movie role.”

“How?”

“A couple of weeks after I first arrived in L.A., I was waiting outside Neiman Marcus for my car to be brought around, and I got into a conversation with an elderly man named Richard Barron.”

“I’ve heard of Rick Barron,” he said. “He’s the chairman of Centurion Studios.”

“I didn’t know that, at the time. We had a five-minute wait, and he asked me where I was from. I told him, and, to my astonishment, he told me he had been born in Delano, Georgia, though he left there when he was quite young. You can imagine his surprise when I told him I was from Delano, too. Our cars arrived, he gave me his card and asked me to call him. I did, and he arranged for me to meet the head of production at Centurion, who introduced me to several producers at lunch, and a week later, I had an agent and was working in my first movie.”

“Are you always so lucky?”

“Not always. I married one of the producers, and I wouldn’t call that lucky.”

“Kids?”

“Nope.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“A little over a year. How about you?”

Eagle looked at his watch. “By five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, if I’m lucky.”

“How long separated?”

“Less than a week.”

“How do you get a divorce so quickly?”

“One: you have a signed financial settlement; two: you have a very good reason; and three: you have a good buddy who’s a judge. I have all three.”

Their drinks came, and she raised her glass. “Here’s to all three,” she said.

Eagle raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“I take it you’re not in a frame of mind to reconsider your marriage.”

“You are a perceptive woman.”

“It’s not hard to see the anger underneath your otherwise charming demeanor.”

“That’s not anger,” he said. “It’s relief. The anger came when I found out she’d stolen over a million dollars from me and gone to Mexico.”

“Compared to my settlement divorce, that’s a cheap divorce,” Susannah said.

“That’s not counting the other four million she tried to steal but that I was able to hang onto. And it’s not costing me very much. I managed to get a lot of it back.”

“How did you do that?”

“I hire good people. What about you? Are you still angry at your former husband?”

“The anger pretty much went away when he made good on the settlement.”

“Good for you. Anger is self-destructive. It’s why I don’t do divorce work anymore; I couldn’t take the anger my clients were radiating. Let’s change the subject. I loved your work in
Big Deal
and
Dare Me.
”

“Thanks. You Googled me, didn’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I Googled you, too.”

He laughed. “Got me, but I did see both pictures and a couple of others, too.”

“Supporting work is sometimes the best,” she said, “although, from your résumé, I take it you prefer to star.”

Eagle laughed. “Nobody ever put it exactly that way before, but yes, I do. I prefer associates to partners. Do you intend to keep on working after your move to Santa Fe?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to look very hard for it. I’ll let my agent do that, and I’ll only take the good roles. If I don’t get those, then I’ll produce something myself and shoot it in Santa Fe.”

“You’re a smart girl,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind being called that.”

“Smart or girl?”

“Girl.”

“I’m old enough to take it as a compliment.”

They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine.

“What tribe are you?” she asked.

“An eastern tribe.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe I’m the last of the Mohicans?”

“I know the story too well to buy that.”

“Ashkenazie.”

“That’s more like one of the tribes of Israel, isn’t it?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Funny, the Internet thinks you’re an Indian.”

“I never said so to anybody,” Eagle said, “but I never contradicted anybody who thought so.”

“You’re an interesting man, Ed Eagle.”

“And you’re an interesting woman, Susannah Wilde.”

Twenty-seven

A
FEW MILES NORTH OF PUERTO VALLARTA, VITTORIO
spoke up. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

“What?” Cupie responded. “What’s wrong?”

Vittorio pulled over to the shoulder of the road and got out. He looked at the left front wheel, kicked it and screamed, “Goddammit!!!”

Cupie got out. “Flat?”

“Flat.” Vittorio opened the trunk.

“Spare?”

“It’s here,” Vittorio said, freeing the tire and rolling it to the front of the car. “Get the tools, will you?”

Cupie went back to the trunk and returned with a jack and a lug wrench. He knelt down, placed the jack and pumped away, until the tire was nearly free of the road, then he handed the lug wrench to Vittorio. “The rest is yours,” he said. He leaned against the car and mopped his brow, then he glanced down the highway. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Black Suburban coming.”

Vittorio yanked the flat off the car and stood up. “Not again,” he moaned. “Get in the car and get her down,” he said.

Cupie got back in the car. “Barbara,” he said.

She was sitting in the backseat, looking bored.

“I want you to get all the way down on the floor, and right now.”

“Shit,” she said, but she did it.

Cupie picked up his shotgun, flipped off the safety, then opened the road map and used it to cover the weapon. “All set in here,” he said, then pretended to study the map.

Vittorio got the spare on the car and had the lugs finger-tight before the Suburban arrived.

The big, black vehicle slowed, then stopped, and the front passenger window slid down. Same bandito as before. “Buenos días, señores,” he said. “Do you have trouble?”

“Not any more,” Vittorio said, tightening the lugs. He stood up and rolled the flat tire to the trunk and tossed it in, then went back for the tools.

“Are you certain you do not require any help?”

Vittorio closed the trunk then went and stood next to the rear door of the car, blocking any view of the backseat. “All done,” he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

The rear window of the Suburban slid down a few inches, and this time Vittorio could see the figure in the rear seat. The window slid up again.

“Vaya con Dios, señores,” the front passenger said, and the Suburban moved away.

Vittorio got into the car. “The guy in the rear seat was wearing a police uniform,” he said. “I have the very strong feeling that we’re going to encounter a roadblock before we go too many more miles.”

“Make a U-turn,” Cupie said. “I saw an interesting sign back there.”

Vittorio turned the car around and started back. A mile or so down the road the sign appeared.

EL RANCHO ENCANTADA
Parador

“Let’s take a look,” Cupie said, and Vittorio turned right. They drove down a single-track dirt road for a couple of miles, encouraged by further signs. As they crested a rise, the Pacific Ocean appeared, perhaps a mile ahead, and they could see a group of low buildings along the beach.

“Looks nice,” Cupie said.

Barbara peered over the backseat. “What looks nice?”

Cupie pointed. “There. Now you get back down on the floor. We don’t want anybody to see you.”

She did as she was told.

Vittorio drove down the hill and pulled into the parking lot of the main building.

“Let me do this,” Cupie said. “And, Barbara, you stay down.”

Cupie got out and walked into the building. An attractive woman sat at a large leather-topped desk.

“Buenos días,” she said.

“And to you,” Cupie replied. “I wonder if you might have a cottage available?”

“For how many people, señor?”

“Two gentlemen, but we’d prefer separate bedrooms.

“And for how long?”

“One night, possibly two.”

She consulted a ledger. “Yes, señor, we have such a cottage available.” She quoted a price. “Will you need help with your luggage?”

“No, thank you; we’re traveling light.” He gave her a credit card and filled out the registration form. “How long a drive to Tijuana?”

“Four to six hours,” she replied, “depending.”

Depending on kidnappers, crooked cops and bandits, no doubt, Cupie thought.