The Dogs of Mexico (10 page)

She surprised Robert by joining him on the terrace, ignoring Helmut. But then she ignored him too. Wearing a green cotton shirt and faded jeans cuffed above tanned ankles, she stood at the parapet, her back to him. She had brushed her hair and wore it pulled back and clasped at the base of her neck with a silver clip. She wore several finger rings now, including one on her left thumb, which struck him as erotic. Even the little spots of peeling nail polish on her sandaled toes touched off a small shiver he felt all the way to his scrotum. He smiled to himself, wondering if he were developing a foot fetish.

“You were up early,” she said without turning.
 

“Yes, ma’am. You sleep okay?”

Now he was torn, not between watching the sunrise and Helmut, but between Helmut and Ana’s butt, perfectly compact in her jeans.
 

Helmut looked about, probably wondering how he had gotten here. He found his bag and took a laptop from it. Then he sat back on the bed and opened it on his knees—an odd thing to do
on first waking, much less with the kind of hangover he must be wearing
.

“My apologies for last night,” Ana said. “If I was rude.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well pull your hair. Not at our age.”

She half turned.

He grinned. “Little boys, when they like a little girl they pull her hair.”

She continued to watch him, coolly aloof.
 

“Then the boy runs and the girl chases him and throws him down so they can wrestle.”

Her gaze lingered on him a moment, solemn. Then she turned her back again.

Helmut, looking remarkably alert, closed the laptop and plugged it into a wall socket, recharging. He assembled a clean change of clothes, took another look at Robert through the doorway, then flat-footed his way to the bathroom. Just as if he were at home.

“I’ll wash up when he’s done,” Robert said. “Then we’ll go to breakfast.”

“I won’t argue that.”
 

“I owe you an apology.”
 

She turned again, meeting his gaze.
 

“I left them out,” he said, nodding at the pitted apple, at the cracker crumbs in the tattered packaging on the patio’s slate floor. “I spooked you so bad you didn’t eat. When I got up earlier, the grackles were at them.”

THE RESTAURANT’S CASEMENT
windows were cranked open. The perfume smell of flowers drifted in on the sun-drenched air mixing with the smell of coffee, refried beans, bacon and eggs.

Helmut lifted a yellow rose from the tiny glass vase on the table and presented it to Ana as they seated themselves. “Fur mein Liebst,” he said with a curt bow.

Ana accepted the rose with a surprised half-hearted smile.

“Romantic,” Robert said, working up a wry grin.
 

Ana’s eyes flickered hotly. She opened her mouth to speak, but Helmut took her hand and pecked it with a kiss. She hesitated, her expression registering further surprise.
 

Helmut ignored Robert and spoke to Ana in German around the cigarette jutting between his teeth.

“Please,” Ana said. “Don’t be rude. Speak English.”

The waiter set their plates on the table. Eggs and bacon with tortillas and sliced melon.

Helmut stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and began to eat, keeping up a steady monologue in his guttural spitting German.

“Gets over a drunk pretty good, doesn’t he,” Robert said.
 

Ana went greedily at her breakfast and ignored them both. When finally she mopped up the last of her eggs and salsa with a last scrap of tortilla, she called the waiter over.
 

“No, I’ll get the check,” Robert said.

“The check? Oh, no. That’s the least we can do in return for the accommodations. But I only asked for two oranges and two bananas.”

“Oh. Well. That and all the breakfast you just put away, that should hold you till lunch.”
 

“The fruit is for the bus.”

“The bus. You’re going on then? To Acapulco?”

“Of course.”

He thought that over. “You
do
know I’m going to Acapulco myself?”

“Congratulations then,” she said distantly. “I assume your client came through.”

Helmut looked from one to the other, attentive now.

“What I mean is,” Robert said, faking an indifferent shrug, “I’m driving to Acapulco if you two want to come along.”

Ana gauged him coolly across the table. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

“No? Why not?”

“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

A
NA 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 jutting 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.