1974 - So What Happens to Me (11 page)

“Yet you built it.”

He grinned.

“When I get paid to do a job, I do it, but no kidding there were times when I nearly packed it in. The crew I had to work for me drove me nuts. They had an I.Q. a child of four would be ashamed of. I had around a thousand of them and they did as much work in a day as twenty good Irishmen would do. Six of the jerks during the nine months got themselves killed either by snakes or walking into blasting or a tree falling on them.”

“But you built it.”

He nodded, leaning back in big chair, a look of pride on his face.

“That’s what I did.”

“I remember in Vietnam we had to build a runway fast with coolie labour,” I lied. “The first bomber to touch down smashed it up and the kite was a write-off.”

“That’s not going to happen to my runway. I guarantee a 747 could land on it and when I guarantee something, it stays guaranteed . . .”

Then came the sixty-four thousand dollar question.

Casually, I said, “Who the hell wants a runway slap in the middle of a jungle?”

“You get these nuts.” O’Cassidy shrugged. “The one thing I’ve learned in my racket is not to ask questions. I get propositioned: I get paid. I do the job and then I move on. I’m going to Rio tomorrow to extend a runway for a Flying Club: that’ll be an easy one. How about a brandy and coffee?”

“Why not?”

He gave the order then we lit cigarettes.

After a moment of hesitation, I said, “It’s important to me Bill, to know who financed your runway.”

He stared at me, his green eyes probing.

“Important? Why?”

I flicked ash on the floor.

“I’ve got myself mixed up in something I can’t talk about,” I said. “It’s to do with your runway. I smell trouble and I need as much information as I can get.”

The coffee and two brandies arrived.

He put sugar in his coffee, stirred and I could see he was thinking. I didn’t hurry him. Suddenly, as if he had made up his mind, be shrugged his heavy shoulders.

“Okay Jack, because you’re a friend of Tim’s and you’ve met my kid brother and because I’m pulling out of here and frankly, I don’t give a damn now I’ve got my money. I’ll give you my ideas about this runway, but they’re ideas not facts . . .understand?”

I nodded.

He paused to look around as if to make certain no one was paying us any attention, then leaning forward and lowering his voice, he went on, “It’s on the cards there is going to be a revolution here. Listening to the jerks who work for me I get the idea something’s on the boil. That’s my guess. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so, that’s why I’m damned glad to be getting out tomorrow.” He sipped his brandy, then went on, “The man financing the runway is Benito Orzoco. He’s a nutter Jack. A real nutter but he is a big shot around here. He leads the left wing extremists and so I hear is a blood brother of Castro of Cuba. Orzoco considers himself a second Juan Alvarez who was the first President of the Republic way back in 1855. Orzoco is stinking rich. Anything he wants he has and I mean anything. With this runway, plus a big kite, he could fly men and arms in and keep them hidden in the jungle until the green light goes up.” He finished his coffee. “Look, Jack, I don’t know a thing for certain. I’m telling you what I think could be the reason for building the runway. Maybe it’s something else, but I don’t think so. I’m of tomorrow and couldn’t care less . . . that help you?”

“Sure does. Did you ever meet Orzoco?”

“I’ll say. He came to inspect the runway every month.”

O’Cassidy’s nose wrinkled. “I’d rather touch a black mamba than him.”

“Give me a better idea than that.”

O’Cassidy blew out his cheeks.

“He’s a nutter. I’m sure of that. He’s short, powerfully built and a dresser. He has snake’s eyes. First glance he’s like any other rich dago, but he has something plus. He’s crazy in the head. Every now and then, it shows. He is rich and has power but wants more power. He’s as deadly as generalised cancer.”

“Sounds nice,” I said soberly.

O’Cassidy sipped his brandy.

“I don’t know what your racket is Jack, and I don’t want to know, but take a tip from me . . . watch out.”

Two dolly birds descended on us and we began drinking in earnest. Later, they took us back to their pad. They gave out. Finally, we got back to our hotel around 03.40.

“Some night, huh?” O’Cassidy said as he shook hands. “So long Jack. I’m off early.”

“Some night.”

I wasn’t to see him again.

I went along to my room, fell into bed and went out like a blown flame.

Around midday I checked out of the Chalco and took a taxi in the pouring rain across to the Continental hotel. This was one of the top hotels in Merida and the lobby was crammed with American tourists, wrapped in plastic macs and making a noise like a disturbed parrot house.

I edged my way to the reception desk and waited while an elderly American quarrelled with a bored-faced clerk about his check. Finally, the argument was settled and the clerk turned to me.

“Checking in. Jack Crane.” I said.

He stiffened to attention.

“Happy to have you with us Mr. Crane. Yes . . . room 500. Top floor with a view. If there’s anything you need, please ask. We are at your service, Mr. Crane.”

A boy in buttons appeared and took my bag and the key the clerk gave him. He led me around the tourists to the elevator and up to the fifth floor.

Unlocking a door opposite the elevator, he bowed me into a big sitting room, led me into a big bedroom with a king’s size bed, then placing my bag, he showed me the ornate bathroom, bowed, accepted the tip I gave him, bowed again and removed himself.

I looked around, wondering how much this setup was going to cost. ‘Then I moved into the sitting room and through the open French windows onto the covered terrace. The humid heat was making me sweat again.

A man leaned on the terrace rail, looking down at the slow moving traffic. He turned as I came out onto the terrace.

He was tall, thin, with thick longish jet black hair, around forty years of age, his eyes hidden behind black sun goggles: a long thin nose, an almost lipless mouth, a cleft chin. He was wearing a white suit that looked as if it had just come back from the cleaners, a yellow shirt and a blood red tie.

“Mr. Crane?” He advanced towards me, smiling.

“That’s right.” I took his offered hand, dry and hard, and shook it.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Juan Aulestria, but call me Juan . . . it is easier.”

I got my hand back from his grip and waited.

“Welcome to Yucatan, Mr. Crane,” he went on. “I hope you will be comfortable here. I’m sure you would like a drink.”

I wasn’t going to let this smoothie be sure of anything as far as I was concerned.

“No, thanks: I’m easy. Just who are you?”

This fazed him for a brief second. The smile slipped, but it came quickly again into position.

“Ah . . . yes.” He turned and stared at the rain swollen clouds. “Such a pity. Sad for the tourists. If you had come two days ago you would have seen this city as it should be seen. Suppose we sit down?” He moved to a lounging chair and sank into it. “You ask who I am, Mr. Crane.” He flicked a speck of dust from his immaculate white sleeve. “I have to do with the runway that has just been built. I am told you want to inspect it.”

I stood over him

“That’s what I want to do.”

He nodded, looking up at me.

“But do sit down: are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”

“I like standing and I don’t want a drink.” I paused to light a cigarette. “I represent the people who are bringing you the plane. This plane costs ten million dollars. My people want to deliver it in one piece and unless I’m sure the runway is right, we don’t deliver.”

He hated sitting there looking up at me so he got casually to his feet.

“Our contact explained this to me. This shows efficiency, Mr. Crane, but I assure you the runway is perfect. However. . .” He waved his thin hands, “You are the expert. You shall see it and decide for yourself.”

I was liking him as you would a big spider in your bath.

“When do we go?”

“Would this afternoon suit you?”

“Fine.”

“Then at three I will have a car here for you. We will go by helicopter. We can survey the ground, then we will land and you can inspect it. I’m afraid you will get rather wet but I have ordered plastics for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I have also arranged for you to lunch up here. Would that please you?”

“Thank you.”

He started towards the living room.

“So glad. Since you have already tasted our great national dish of Mole de Guapalote, may I suggest you try our Chile Jalapeno: quite excellent.” He turned and smiled at me.

Keeping my face wooden, I said. “I’ll settle for a steak.”

“Anything: then at 15.00. Mr. Crane.”

We shook hands and he let himself out of the room as silently and as smoothly as a snake.

I closed the French windows and turned on the air conditioner. Then I went to the refrigerator and poured myself a stiff whisky and soda.

So he knew I had met O’Cassidy. Obviously he wasn’t making any secret about it by telling me what I had eaten last night. I sat down and did some thinking.

After a while a tap came on the door and a little Mexican in white pushed a trolley towards me. Another little Mexican came behind him with a suitcase in his hand. He set it down as his companion took of the covers of my meal. They bowed themselves out.

The steak was fair. I ate it, left the carafe of red wine, decided against the mangoes, lit a cigarette and inspected the suitcase. It contained a short plastic coat, plastic trousers, rubber boots and a plastic hood.

I lay on the bed, smoking until 14.50, then I got up, took Bernie’s .38 from my suitcase. I checked it, loaded it and stuck it in my hip pocket.

As the nearby church clock struck three, I went down to the lobby.

The reception clerk came around his desk, smiling. “There’s a car waiting for you, Mr. Crane.” He led the way and handed me over to the doorman who had an open umbrella. The doorman conducted me to a sleek Cadillac, driven by a blank-faced Mexican in a smart blue uniform.

As soon as I was seated in the rear of the car, the chauffeur took of; He was a skillful, fast driver and in spite of the thick traffic, he got me to the airport in ten minutes. He by-passed the reception and departure building, drove around the back and pulled up beside a helicopter. He was out of the car with a big umbrella before I could move. I got out of the car. carrying the plastic gear and got into the helicopter without getting more than a sprinkle from the pouring rain.

Aulestria occupied one of the seats just behind the pilot.

He smiled his snake’s smile as I settled “Did you have a good lunch, Mr. Crane?”

‘Fine, thank you.”

The blades started to swing and in a few moments we flew away over the city.

Aulestria made small talk, pointing out the Palace of the State Government, the Cathedral and the National University.

Leaving the city and heading south, I looked down at the haciendas and the many sisal factories. The rocky countryside slowly changed to dense forest land and finally to jungle.

After an hour of flying, Aulestria said, “We are now approaching the runway. Mr. Crane.”

I looked ahead but could see nothing but tree tops and jungle.

“It’s well hidden.”

“Yes: very well hidden.” His voice was smug.

Then I saw it: an engineering feat de luxe: A solid ribbon of tarmac that stretched for at least two miles, bordered by the jungle on either side, painted a dullish green and unless you were hunting for it, you would never spot it.

“Some job!” I said, leaning forward as the chopper flew the length of it, circled and came back again.

“We think it is satisfactory,” Aulestria said. “It is good that you approve.”

“Tell him to fly back a mile, then come in. I want to see the approach.”

Aulestria spoke to the pilot.

Now I was ready and as we came in again, I judged how Bernie would come in I decided it presented no problem to a pilot of Bernie’s experience.

“Fine. Now let’s look at the control tower.”

We landed by the side of the tower and I put on my plastic coat. It was still pouring with rain.

Aulestria led me from the chopper, up steps and into the tower. I spent over an hour checking the instruments, the radar and all the gimmicks needed to bring in a kite. I couldn’t fault anything.

What bothered me was the personnel in charge of the control tower. They all looked like bandits right out of a Western movie: real thugs who watched me with snake’s eyes and who wore .45 revolvers on their hips.

“Do you want to walk the runway, Mr. Crane or did Mr. O’Cassidy convince you that he has built something to last?”

Aulestria asked.

“I won’t walk it.”

“Then I may take you back to your hotel?”

“That’s it.”

He led the way into a small air-conditioned office.

“Shall we talk?” He sat down behind the desk and waved me to a chair. “You are satisfied?”

“Yes. We can bring the kite in.”

“Good.” He stared at me, his eyes hidden behind the goggles. “Now, Mr. Crane, let us be practicable. This plane is highly sophisticated. We have three pilots. Naturally, they will have to be trained to handle the plane. I take it that your pilots will train them?”

“That’s for them to decide.”

“It would be no use for us to accept the plane unless our people could fly it. I was under the impression our contact had arranged for this?”

“He said nothing to us about it.”

“Would you check, then, Mr. Crane? My men must be trained by your people or the deal’s off.”

“I’ll check. How good are your pilots?”

“Excellent. One of them has been flying a 747.”

“Then I see no problem.”

“Good.” He got to his feet. “There’s a flight back to Paradise City in three hours. The sooner we get this arranged the better. When will the plane be delivered?”

“In two months: could be less.”

“Send me a cable: just the date and time of expected arrival. That’s all that will be necessary.”