Green Ice (11 page)

A third man in white was farther down the beach at the water’s edge. Wiley was cut off. He stopped. They were coming, converging on him. He had only one way to go. Into the sea. A struggling run with the bottom sand, soft and giving, the water of varying depth, handicapping his legs as it flowed in and out. He stumbled in the trench just offshore where the sea fought itself. He fell face down.

Shots, bullets spliffed the water around him.

Not yet deep enough for him to swim. Hands and knees on the bottom, he tried to crawl but got nowhere because of the undertow, had to stand and expose himself to their fire. The water was alternately his enemy and ally, fought him, helped him. Wading was as fast as he could go. Surely a bullet would stop him. Keep going, keep going. Enough depth now. He dove forward, churned his arms and kicked, swam till he was certain he was more than far enough from shore.

Treading water, he looked back.

They were standing in a group on the beach, well above the surf line, as though to avoid getting their shoes wet. The four of them were looking out at him. Prentiss, in his dark suit, stood out. So did the chunky Indian because of his build. They had put their guns away, evidently satisfied to leave him to the sea. No doubt they still intended to keep an eye on him. If he swam up or down the coast, they would be waiting wherever he tried to come ashore.

Unless they lost sight of him. Perhaps, he thought, he could swim far out, a half mile or so. At that distance, with only his head above water, he wouldn’t be visible from shore. Then he’d swim up the coast a ways and in to land.

He removed his shoes and all his clothes. That helped.

Now that the anesthesia of fright was wearing off, his side began to hurt. The salt water was getting to the wound. He floated on his back to get a look, saw it wasn’t serious, little more than a graze. There was a lot of blood, though.

Sweet Jesus! That was why they were standing so complacently onshore. They knew he was bleeding. They’d let the sharks finish him. Of all the ways he didn’t want to go.…

He kept his arms and legs moving.

He thought he felt something woosh by beneath him. And again. Another. He believed he felt the scaley skin of a shark brush him as it went by. He thrashed the water, wasted energy. Don’t panic, he told himself. But he had plenty of reason to panic, out of his element, in the element of those shadowy lethal swimmers he’d observed from the breakwater yesterday. And he was no mealy apple.

Something broke the surface no more than twenty feet away. A huge black slippery thing, a dripping black monster, came straight up out of the sea. A manta ray. With a wingspan of ten to twelve feet. At the peak of its leap, it spat out one of Wiley’s shoes, then flopped back into the water with a smack.

Done for now, Wiley thought. He was already exhausted, yet couldn’t float to rest, had to keep in motion. He’d rather face those bastards on the beach. He would come out of the water bare-ass, hands up, so they might not kill him right off. Maybe he’d get the chance to explain, to persuade them to let him live. He started swimming to shore.

He didn’t hear the Riva speedboat until it was practically on him. It seemed that it meant to run him down. At the last second it swerved, abruptly reversed its engine, so he swam right into the varnished side of it.

The boat rolled in the swells, loomed and dipped.

Wiley reached for it.

A hand grabbed his wrist. A strong sailor hauled him out of the water as though he were a mere catch. Threw him roughly onto the rear passenger seat.

Next to Lillian, who tossed a towel.

8

She had a car waiting on one of the old docks of Manzanillo.

A blue Rolls Royce Corniche convertible with top down. The same seventy-thousand-dollar beauty Wiley had used the day before for an impressive arrival at Las Hadas.

“Argenti’s?” Wiley asked.

“No.” She got into the driver’s seat.

“Who let you borrow it?”

“No one.”

“You stole it?”

“Cover yourself.”

Dockworkers were snickering and shouting appropriate obscenities, because Wiley had on only a white terry-cloth robe, a full-length lady’s robe with the words
Sea Cloud
stitched on one of its pockets. It didn’t have a belt, so holding it closed made him appear mincy.

Wiley didn’t care. He was suffering an adrenergic hangover from having been so high on danger and then so suddenly safe. Emotional bends.

Lillian started the Rolls and drove slowly down the dock. She activated the electric top, snapped it in place. Evidently she was familiar with the car. Wiley sat favoring his right side, not to bloody the fine leather upholstery. His wound had soaked a large splotch through the robe. There would be a doctor at the hotel.

“Perfect timing,” he said.

“When?”

“Out there off the beach. Too perfect.”

“You might say thanks.”

“Thanks, but you didn’t just happen along.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“Why?”

“At least I don’t go peeping over garden walls.”

“Who does?”

“You did.”

“Never.”

“I don’t mind if you’re a little kinky. Maybe it even makes you more interesting.”

“Never did that before in my life.”

“A latency. I brought it out.”

“It’s not and you didn’t. Anyway, how come you were right there on cue with the speedboat?”

“I overheard something.”

“What?”

“Your name taken in vain.”

“By whom?”

“Just heard.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“Okay. I take a speedboat ride every morning.”

“Sure you do.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Even on Sundays and holidays, right?”

“Even when there’s no water around.”

There was, Wiley thought, a slim possibility she’d overheard Prentiss or someone else as she’d said. There was really no absolute reason to believe she was involved any more than that.
Suspect
maybe, but not believe. He asked her straight, “Do you know a guy named Prentiss?”

Her answer was an emphatically honest no.

They had passed through Manzanillo. She turned right on Route 200, headed south. Las Hadas was north of the town. Wiley told her that.

“I know,” she said calmly.

“This is no time for errands, Lillian. I’m bleeding to death.”

“You will for sure if you go back to Las Hadas.”

“Those guys? They wouldn’t try anything there. Too crowded. That’s why they wanted me on that beach.”

No comment from Lillian.

“Besides, Argenti wouldn’t tolerate any trouble. Bad for the image. The last thing they’d want is to annoy such a man.”

Lillian kept driving south.

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? All my clothes, passport, everything I own is in that suite.”

“Poor soul.”

He told her about the twelve thousand he had hidden in the lamp base.

“We’ll send for everything,” she assured him.

“Where are we going?”

“Are you really bleeding much?”

He opened the robe to see, used a clean dry part of it to wipe most of the blood away.

“Not so much now,” he said. It occurred to him that if that gun had been fired an eighth of an inch to the left, or if that man in white had pulled the muzzle left to that slight extent, the bullet would have hit him bull’s-eye in the navel. An eighth of an inch wasn’t much to be alive by.

“Put some pressure on it,” she advised.

“To hell.”

“That’ll help stop the bleeding. Poor soul, is it spurting or oozing?”

“More of an ooze.”

“Then let it have air.”

“Where’d you get to be such an expert on blood?”

“I was a visiting nurse.” She smiled to herself as though it were true. “Wiley, do you believe omission is the same as lying?”

“Depends.”

“I don’t. Most times, if you leave things out that would be lies, people put them in, so, in a way, they lie to themselves. That happens to me a lot.”

“You lie to yourself?”

“No. I omit. It’s a sort of habit, I suppose.”

“You haven’t done that with me.”

She reached beneath the seat for a tape cartridge, which she shoved into the player attached below the burled walnut instrument panel. It was The Captain and Tennille:

I’m a woman who’s seen

How the world can be mean

And life can abuse
.

But I’m a woman, oh, yeah
,

Who can make you

Feel like a man
…

Lillian sang low along with it and the impression Wiley got was the one he wanted: She was singing to him. He gazed out the window, saw a sign that said Colima—3 Km, and a route marker displaying the number 110. He turned to ask again where they were going, but the breath for his words was stopped by the sight of her in profile. Her lips parting and closing. It was as though he’d never before noticed anyone sing. She kept her eyes on the road ahead. What were her thoughts? Was he in them? He wished she would turn and smile his way, say a lot with a smile. She knew he was observing her, didn’t she? Her hands on the polished wood steering wheel, handling the car with easy efficiency. He appreciated her hands, imagined them touching her, envied them. He imagined her hands were his hands.

A swerve to barely miss a pair of overloaded burros.

Brought Wiley out of it.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“You’ll see.”

They had passed through Colima. The smaller town of Tamazula would be next, still on Route 110.

No matter where, the important thing, the marvelous thing—even though he’d been slightly shot in his side, was bareass, needed a shave, was hungry, thirsty—he was with her.

With
her.

“I need a cigarette,” he said.

“No one
needs
a cigarette.”

“I do.”

“In the glove compartment.”

He looked, none there. He suspected she had known.

Lightly and hopefully she told him, “We could take that to mean you’re supposed to do without.”

“Stop somewhere.”

“Quit right now, cold turkey.”

“Nope.”

“For me?”

“I don’t know you that well.”

She pulled over at a roadside cantina. Several
hombres
were practicing laziness on the veranda.

“You wouldn’t make me go in looking like this, would you, not really?” Wiley said.

“It’s your funeral.”

“Do me this favor and I’ll owe you some.”

She thought a moment, sighed her distaste and went into the cantina. She returned with two packs, tossed them to him.

“Didn’t they have Camels?”

“Only those.”

Wiley had never heard of the brand: Bandidos Supremos. Literally translated: “Supreme Outlaws.” There was no cellophane wrapping. On the front of the pack was a crudely drawn man, long mustache, wearing a large sombrero with tasseled brim. The drawing was made worse because the black of the printing was off-register, so the outlaw appeared insanely evil, especially his mouth and eyes.

Lillian got the Rolls under way.

Wiley lighted an Outlaw. As was his habit, he inhaled the very first puff. It was like taking a deep breath over a barrel of smouldering tar. He gasped, just managed to not choke, exhaled loudly. He examined the cigarette. It was loosely rolled, dark tobacco. The smoke that rose from its end was sickly yellowish. It smelled only vaguely like a cigarette, more like a blacktop road being repaired in July. Wiley’s empty stomach warned it wouldn’t tolerate another puff.

Lillian didn’t seem bothered by the smoke. He wished she’d complain, but she didn’t, and finally he lowered the window. He didn’t throw the Outlaw out until it had burned down to a stub. He took as few puffs as possible, with his head turned so she wouldn’t see he wasn’t inhaling. He wondered how she’d known which awful brand to get.

“What about this car?”

“What about it?”

“Who does it belong to?”

“When were you born?” she asked.

Not this time, he decided. “The car, where did you get it?”

“Mendoza Brothers.”

“Who are they?”

“Dealers in Mexico City.”

“Dope?”

“Rolls Royces. God, you’re suspicious!”

9

The drive took thirteen hours, including a twenty-minute stop in Quiroga to buy Wiley a pair of
pantalones
, natural woven cotton trousers that tied at the waist like pajamas. And a matching pullover shirt. An extremely uncomfortable outfit, because for some reason, perhaps to exaggerate quality, the manufacturers had starched them heavily. Wiley felt like a stiff version of a peasant extra in the movie
Viva Zapata
.

Nevertheless, the clothes did allow them to stop to eat just outside Morelia. They had to settle for less of a place because they hadn’t bought Wiley any shoes. Lillian ordered an avocado and tomato salad; Wiley, against Lillian’s advice, a steak. It came so overfried it curled upward around the edges. He ate all of it. No one took notice that he was barefoot, or even that his shirt was bloodstained. He drank two bottles of Carta Blanca beer and took another for along the way.

The check.

For a moment he forgot his pockets were empty. No slipping him money under the table; Lillian just paid up. Wiley asked to borrow twenty-five pesos. She gave it to him without a second thought and then was angry at herself because he bought three packs of Camels. He offered to drive from Morelia on, but she insisted she’d make better time because she knew the road, which was tricky with mountains.

During the long drive Wiley didn’t learn much more about Lillian. The way she obviously evaded his questions was frustrating. Why was she so closed about herself? Ashamed of something? How could he convey, convince her, that anything she’d done or been before wasn’t important enough to keep secret? So what if she’d been an opportunist? From what he gathered, she lived in Mexico City. That was where they were headed, for her place. He looked forward to it, imagined it: a small, chic apartment, with expressions of her all around. One bedroom. He would probably be put on the couch. No, think positive, he told himself.