I pried her jaw down and found that in spite of the plump little meaty mouth, there was room in there for a hell of a lot of Kleenex, if you packed it carefully. I knotted a nylon stocking in place, webbing it between her teeth and against the Kleenex so she couldn’t tongue it out of the way and start yelling.
Then I went in to see how Bixie was progressing. She had lost ground, because she had shed the robe and added one lacy pale-green bra. So I told her I expected her to shape up better than that, which at the moment was the wrong expression, and I started digging around trying to find what you put on a naked young girl to take her to the Embassy in the middle of the night.
I heard some kind of disturbance, but by then I had found where the skirts and blouses and sweaters were. So I took time to match them up reasonably well. Bix had gone back into the first bedroom. I heard a lovely gasping delighted giggling, and I heard some kind of muffled grunting and thrashing.
When I hurried in I saw that Bix was bending over the bed, and she had grasped Eva Vitrier firmly with thumb and first two fingers, right by the Neferati nose, thus cutting off all air except what the woman might try to suck through all that Kleenex. French lady’s face had turned very, very dark. Her eyes were bulging and blind, and she was spasming and grunting and flapping, looking very much like an oversized, dying whitefish in the bottom of a skiff. And, believe me, she did not have very far to go. Like twenty seconds more, possibly. I snatched Bix’s playful fingers off lovergirl’s nose, and Eva subsided, breath whistling as she hyperventilated through that noble beak. She opened her eyes and looked up at me, in combination loathing and appeal. Her effort had burst a blood vessel in one eye, and half the white had turned bright crimson.
I tucked her wet sheet firmly under her, patted her on the cheek, took Bixie in, and crowded her into her clothes. She passed inspection. In the elevator on the way down she said, “Wasn’t Eva funny? Wasn’t she funny, though?”
“She was a scream, kid.”
“I wish you hadn’t made me stop.”
“So do I, sort of.”
So we taxied to the Embassy, not far down Reforma, and stood on the wide sidewalk as the cab went away. She yawned.
“Is this the movies?”
“Bixie baby, things can get very, very, very rough for you. I don’t even know if you can understand how rough they have been, or will get. I would feel a lot better if I thought maybe you could cut it.”
“Oh hell yes,” she said.
“Let’s go in.”
Nineteen
MEYER WAS at the Oaxaca airport to meet me when I came back from Florida via Mexico City five days later.
He looked fit and smug and amused, and he wore a straw hat from the market and a blue shirt covered with zippers with metal rings in them.
I peeled out of the inbound line and said, “Relapse? What the hell kind of a relapse are you having?”
“It’s no worse than a bad cold.”
“Then you could have all by yourself gotten on a plane and all by yourself flown home, right?”
“But I don’t like to travel alone. Anyway, are you paying for the extra trip?”
“No. But this isn’t the happiest place in the world to come back to, for me. I guess you know that.”
“Oh, I guess I do. But I don’t have to get depressed just because you do. That wasn’t such a great phone connection. How did Harl take it?”
“How the hell did you expect him to take it? He’s bursting with joy and hope and all that, in a good effort to hide the fact that what we took back there to him might be, in his code of values, better off dead. She started coming apart. She was very, very raggedy by the time the reunion happened.”
“Nothing out of the Vitrier woman?”
“What could she do? Why should she try to do anything? And they had to buy my story. I saw the girl wandering around near Sanborne’s. I was sure I recognized her as Beatrice Bowie, who was supposed to have died. In fact, I was in Mexico at her father’s request, finding out how she died. Here you are, Embassy. Straighten things out. They would rather have had me hand them some armed infernal device. They hated it. They kept looking very Princeton and sighing and hunting for new forms to fill out. Meyer, goddamit, pack! I want to be home. I want to be on the Flush. I want to go to some island no developer has ever found yet, where no beer can has yet washed ashore.”
“Enjoy beautiful Oaxaca.”
And she hit me at a dead run, grabbing and laughing and saying if we were going to stand out here all day, she, Elena, could not wait for the surprise.
I told her she was supposed to be back at work. She told me she wanted a little more vacation, and so did Margarita, and so they took a little more.
“But can they just do that?” I asked Meyer.
“When Enelio Fuentes owns that much of the insurance company they can, buddy.”
So we had drinks and dinner at the Victoria, abundant and long and I tried to be festive, but it kept slipping on me. I kept worrying the whole thing. Picking at it. Meyer said impatiently, “Will you kindly get off that tiresome point of no return, McGee? Please? For me? And for these Guadalajara girls, and for your own sake? A grown-up man must make a lousy decision from time to time, knowing it is lousy, because the only other choice is lousy in another dimension, and no matter which way he jumps, he will not like it. So he accepts the fact that the fates dealt him two low cards, and he goes on from there. Or better, why don’t you two go on from here. I seem to have been moved into another cottage, and only this insurance friend of mine seems able to find it after dark.”
But it still kept nibbling and chewing at me. It kept me just a little apart from all the joy of Elena. And it woke me near dawn, thinking again of that look in Harlan Bowie’s eyes, and wondering if the son of a bitch would clap her away somewhere forever, for her own good, of course.
Dawn-thoughts are the bleak ones. And these took me back to T. Harlan Bowie’s arena-Garden Suite Number Five in that quietest part of Coral Gables. As a medical precaution they had put him on a tranquilizer and then told him I was on the way, bringing back his only chick, alive. I left Bix with his nurse-therapist, Mrs. Kreiger, while I tried to prepare him for her.
I tried, but I don’t think he was listening closely. “Look, Mr. Bowie, she went down there with rotten people. It was a setup. She could put her hands on twenty-five thousand, and they knew it, and they conned her out of it, every dime of it. Some people, Mr. Bowie, have too much of a taste for marijuana. It takes over. They just float and they don’t give a damn.”
“My daughter isn’t that kind of person, McGee.”
“She was fogged over, believe me. In the early part of the trip the three men were all banging her, and the other girl too-the one you buried.”
“Then they were taking her by force, and I am going to see that they are prosecuted.”
“This wasn’t kid games. Two of them are dead. She’s under suspicion of conspiring to smuggle heroin across the border. She got hooked on heroin, Mr. Bowie. She was an addict, or is an addict. A woman gave her a home cure. She cycled her down through some other opiates and got her over onto something that’s not physically addicting. It was a lot of trouble. The woman wanted her.”
“Wanted her?”
“And got her, as a girlfriend, as a female homosexual partner.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m just trying to tell you that this is a different girl. She’s an addictive personality, and she isn’t going to be able to handle any part of this without getting back onto some kind of a high. And you can’t reach her because she bombed herself so long and so big, her mind is not on our wavelength anymore. I’m trying to tell you that-”
“McGee, I think I’m a little tired of you telling me things. I want to see my daughter, please.”
Bixie was down off the charas high, and was being threatened with all the hard edges of reality, and she wanted no part of it. She was mean, edgy, suspicious, and unpredictable. She was vulgar and sullen and semi-psychotic. And she was not about to rush in and kiss dear old daddy and cry tears of joyous welcome, and express any sympathy for his being in a wheelchair.