Westlake, Donald E - Novel 43 (22 page)

 
          
“It’s
the truth,” Lemuel said weakly. But the
Belize
court loomed in his mind, as foreign as
Brobdignag, as implacable as the Inquisition.

 
          
“Mister
Lemuel,” St. Michael said, “I can arrange to have you released now, send you back
to the hotel. You take a shower, calm down, check out like anybody else, get on
the plane, go back to the States. You can do that, Mister Lemuel.”

 
          
“Oh,
thank God,” Lemuel said.

 
          
“But,
do you know,” St. Michael went on, “do you know what you
cant
do, Mister Lemuel?”

 
          
“Wha—what?”

 
          
“Get
within two blocks of the American embassy,” St. Michael said. “That you can’t
do. Don’t even
think
about turning
your head in that direction.”

 
          
“Oh,
I won’t,” Lemuel said, in utter sincerity. “Believe me, Mister St. Michael,
I’ve learned my lesson. You’ll never—” His voice broke; he started again:
“You’ll never
ever
hear from me
again.”

 
          
When
the alarm went off, Kirby moaned, thrashed about in the confined space, smacked
gummy lips, and reluctantly opened gummy eyes just long enough to find the damn
wind-up alarm clock on Cynthia’s dashboard and push in the button to stop the
awful noise. His sticky eyelids immediately squeezed shut again, but too late;
he had seen the clock face, he knew it was 9:30 tomorrow morning, he knew he
was awake.

 
          
Hell
and damn. The smell of marijuana all about him was hot and dry and pungent.
Only a part of the plane was under the tree branches, and the metal fuselage
had conducted heat forward from the sun-drenched tail section. He hated to
sleep in the plane, anyway; there was never enough room for his long rangy
body, and he always awoke stiff and sore, with aches that would take hours to
fade. Still reluctant to accept consciousness, pawing in his door pocket for
his sunglasses, he looked out and around at this little comer of the world.

 
          
The
Florida
Everglades
.
East of Cape Romano, south of Fort Myers, the Everglades was a flat and soggy
confusion of land, some of it still pristine uncleared swamp, some dry scrub
covered with dwarf pines and dusty shrubs, some reclaimed into citrus groves,
some dried to grazing land, supporting horses or cattle. Kirby was parked at
the narrow end of a long paper-airplane-shaped pasture flanked by bog, hemmed
in by gnarled trees. Horses used to graze here, unfenced except at the wide
farther end, held in by the swampy footing on both sides, but the land had
changed ownership a couple of years ago and now it lay deserted.

 
          
Or
almost deserted. Three young deer, adolescent males, grazed around Cynthia’s
nose, looking up without much interest when Kirby began to move around inside
the plane, but then bounding off into the swamp when he opened his door.

 
          
A
hot day already, and quite humid. The insect repellent he’d put on three and a
half hours ago, when he’d landed here in darkness and set the alarm and tried
to get caught up on some of his lost sleep, had faded by now, and he had a few
nice fresh bites under his eyes and between his knuckles. Itchy, hungry,
irritated, weary, aching all over, he clambered awkwardly out of the plane and
down onto the faintly spongy ground, where he held one of Cynthia’s struts and
did some not-so'very-deep knee bends to limber up.

 
          
The
bog on the right side of the field was stagnant, but on the left ran a narrow
course of moving cool water, in which Kirby washed his face and hands, brushed
his teeth with his finger, soaked his hair, and gargled. With water running
down his neck and under his shirt, feeling slightly better, he walked back to
the plane and ate the food he’d brought along: an apple and a healtlvfood carob
candy bar. He was just finishing when he saw the car approach from the wide end
of the pasture.

 
          
The
right car: a white Cadillac Seville with
Dade
County
plates. Nevertheless, Kirby felt the same
tension he always did at this point. He was dealing in stolen goods, and in
things of great value; at least, that was the perception. People in such
occupations sometimes were killed by their partners or their customers. Kirby
had tried to be careful in his choice of clients, but one could never be
absolutely certain. Not absolutely certain.

 
          
There
seemed to be one person alone in the car, which was the way it was supposed to
be. The Cadillac approached, moving slowly on the soft uneven ground, and Kirby
squinted as he looked through the windshield, at last recognizing the driver.
His name was Mortmain, he was somewhere the wrong side of 70, and he was dapper
and elegant, from his full head of carefully waved white hair over a
broad-browed, deeply tanned face set off by humorous blue eyes, through the
white ascot and navy blue blazer and white slacks and white shoes which were
his habitual costume. He was “retired,” Kirby didn’t know from what, and he was
the go-between for a customer of Kirby’s in
Los Angeles
, an artist/designer/interior
decorator/antique dealer whose clients were mostly celebrities, people for whom
smuggled Mayan statuary was not the only illegal material from
Latin America
to be of more than passing interest.

 
          
Kirby
walked around to the right side of the Cadillac as it came to a stop. Glancing
first into the rear seatwell to be certain no one was hiding there—an automatic
reflex by now—he slid into the air conditioned interior. “Morning, Mister
Mortmain,” he said.

 
          
“Good
morning, Kirby.” Mortmain must have been quite a burly man in his prime, and
was still pretty big, with a deep mellow voice and large-knuckled tanned hands
on which the liver spots could almost have been youthful freckles. Reaching to
his blazer’s inside pocket, bringing out a thick white envelope, he said,
“Bobbi apologizes for the amount. He swears it was the best he could get. The
recession and all that.”

 
          
“Mm-hm,”
Kirby said, taking the envelope. As usual it contained, in addition to his
share of the sales, in cash, Xeroxed copies of Bobbi’s customers checks to
Bobbi (their famous names and signatures discreetly blacked out), so Kirby
would know he was getting a full count. Of course, there was no reason for
Bobbi not to ask his customers to pay him in
two
checks; he could mention some vague tax reason, for instance.
But that was all right; Kirby assumed his clients would cheat a little, it was
part of the game.

 
          
While
Kirby opened the envelope, counted the cash and looked at the checks, Mortmain
carefully backed and filled, turning the Cadillac around and backing it into
Cynthia’s left armpit, where the car’s trunk would be nearest the pilot’s door.

 
          
“No,”
Kirby said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mister Mortmain, but no.” This time,
Bobbi had gone too far.

           
Mortmain looked mildly surprised,
politely concerned. “Something wrong?”

 
          
“This
is
way
too little,” Kirby said.
“There’s another man I was talking to, he says he can get me a lot better
prices.”

 
          
“People
always make promises, Kirby,” Mortmain said.

 
          
“Maybe.
Or maybe the recession didn’t hit as hard in
Chicago
.” “Is that where your friend is?”

 
          
“I
can’t give you this shipment,” Kirby said.

 
          
Now
Mortmain
was
surprised. “You’ll fly
it back with you?”

 
          
“No.
I’ll leave it’with friends in
Florida
, and call the other guy.” Mortmain sighed.
“Well,” he said, “that’s up to you, of course. I know Bobbi will be very
disappointed.”

 
          
Kirby
didn’t know the precise relationship between Mortmain and Bobbi, whether
Mortmain were merely a messenger, or somehow a partner, or possibly even the
brains of the operation. It was hard to negotiate with somebody who might not
even be present. Nevertheless, Kirby said, “Bobbi won’t be as disappointed as I
am right now. I’ll tell you what I think, I think Bobbi’s getting second checks
from people. I thought he was honest, but now I don’t know.”

 
          
Was
Mortmain amused? Kirby’s occasional displays of naivete and stupidity were
believed precisely because no one could imagine him deliberately painting
himself in such colors. Mortmain nodded in perhaps exaggerated solemnity,
considering what Kirby had said, and then said, “Kirby, I don’t think Bobbi
would do a thing like that but, to be honest, I couldn’t swear to it.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry,” Kirby said, and reached for the door handle. The air conditioning in
here was very nice.

 
          
“Wait
a minute,” Mortmain said. “I can’t let it end like this. Could you wait for me
to go phone Bobbi?”

 
          
“I
can’t,” Kirby said. “1 still have to deliver that other stuff.” “Of course.”
Mortmain considered. “I’m going out on a limb here,” he said. “I can’t really
speak for Bobbi, but I think I must. He’s done very well from your
relationship.”

 
          
“He
sure has,” Kirby said, sounding bitter.

 
          
“Well,
so have you,” Mortmain pointed out. Gesturing at the envelope in Kirby’s hand,
he said, “How much more do you think you should have had?”

           
“A thousand dollars would just
begin
to cover it.”

 
          
“Split
the difference with me,” Mortmain said. “Don’t end the relationship now. I
promise you I’ll talk with Bobbi, and I’ll tell him I guaranteed you another
five hundred dollars from the last shipment. And I’ll tell him about your
friend in
Chicago
, and say he’d
better
find some more generous customers from now on.”

 
          
Kirby
would accept this offer, of course, there being no friend in
Florida
with whom to stash the goods, and the $500
being a bonus he hadn’t expected, but he let Mortmain watch him brood about it
for a while. Mortmain could see his furrowed brow, could see him gradually
overcoming his sense of grievance and deciding to take the offer. “All right,”
he said at last.

 
          
“I’ll
talk to Bobbi this afternoon,” Mortmain promised.

 
          
“Fine.”
Kirby gave him a frank look: “I’ll tell you the truth, Mister Mortmain, I wish
it was
you
I was dealing with.”

 
          
Mortmain
gave a modest laugh, and Kirby got out of the car.

 
          
Prong
said the Cadillac’s trunk, opening
itself as Kirby came around; Mortmain had pushed the button in the glove
compartment. Kirby unloaded all the parcels, stowing them carefully in the
clean empty trunk of the Cadillac, aware of Mortmain’s eyes on him in the
rearview mirror. Finished, he slammed the lid and waved to Mortmain through the
rear window. Mortmain waved back and the Cadillac rolled slowly away.

 
          
From
here on, it got easier. Cynthia being almost out of fuel, she was much lighter
now, and lifted easily from the pasture. Nine miles and seven minutes later, he
was circling over another field, where the two slat-sided farm trucks and the
half-dozen men were waiting.

 
          
This
part of the job was all cut-and-dried, the negotiations having been completed
long ago, nobody here but low-level peons. While Cynthia was unloaded and her
fuel tank refilled from jerry cans brought out on one of the trucks, Kirby lay
in the shade of his baby’s wing, and thought about life. It was complicated, he
decided, but amusing. All in all, not bad.

 
          
A
little trouble in
Belize
right now, of course, with Lemuel getting spooked and the Greene woman
making a fuss, but that would sort itself out. Or, it wouldn’t; in which case,
he would tip his hat and go away. In any event, he wouldn’t worry about it now.

           
The truck engines started up, waking
him from a light nap. A few clouds had sailed into view, dark with cargoes of
rain. His clothing was stiff and heavy with perspiration. “Take me home,
Cynthia,” he said, as he climbed back into his seat. “I’m gonna sleep a week.”

 
          
Time
for a breather.