“I am sorry, it was a mistake.”
“You had better believe it was. I only came back—and this is your last chance—because money talks. Talk money.”
“I am sure that something can be arranged.”
“Name a figure.”
“Five hundred thousand lire.”
Tony reached inside his bundle and seized his hat, then poked the entire thing in Timberio’s direction. “I have a gun in here and I am a deadly shot, so no more tricks. Say a million.”
Timberio shied back, beginning to sweat. “Yes, a million, it can be arranged.”
“That’s better. I don’t have the painting with me.”
“Payment on delivery.”
“Of course. Give me a thousand pesos now and the balance when I hand the painting over. I need it for the man who is holding the painting for me—and also as a symbol of your good will.” A globe of fiery gas rose at this instant from the churning vat of his stomach and Tony laughed to cover the sound of the eructation. Necessarily, the laugh that emerged had a singularly artificial and echoing quality which Timberio misunderstood as the laugh of a cold killer, for he stepped back again, eyes on the bundle.
“No need for guns ...”
“There had better not be.” He removed his hand and tucked the parcel back under his arm.
“I will give you the thousand now on one condition. I and one other operative will come with you.” Tony chewed this one over but could see no way out of it.
“All right, we’ll do it that way.”
Timberio went back to the restaurant but returned fairly quickly with a solid young man who had a scar that half closed one eye and muscles that strained his thin shirt—a suspicious bulge at the waist as well, which was surely a concealed gun. Well, he had no choice. Timberio looked around carefully before passing over a green wad of bills. Tony ruflled them with his thumb, it seemed ample enough, before putting them away.
“Here we go,” he said and started down the hill with his watchdogs close behind. “Wait here,” he said in front of the Long Porker. “If anyone is with me the message will not be passed to release the painting, that has been arranged. You can see there is no other exit.”
Timberio nodded reluctant agreement then stood back against the opposite wall to watch, while his operative joined the line at the tortilleria where he had a clear view through the door. Strong in his gringo personality, Tony entered the establishment. Redhead and baby sat talking to a prospective customer; she looked up and nodded.
“Come back for another lesson?”
“I just might, But I want to look in the back room, think I left a towel there.”
She waved a languid agreeing hand and he passed by. The workroom was empty, the bathroom door locked and emitting the sound of rushing water. Someone there, he must do this quickly. The box was still in its place beneath the others. He stood on tiptoe, pulled it out, clutched the tottering pile in fear as it all threatened to fall on him, restored its balance and had just pushed the boxed painting inside his parcel as the door opened and the man who had first drawn him to the establishment emerged. He looked suspicious.
“You want something?”
“Just to check in there, think I left a towel yesterday. Nope, doesn’t look like it, be seeing you.”
Followed by a rapid exit to be joined quickly by his bodyguard.
“Did you see me pass the message? Everything is arranged. I will be met at the rendezvous in ten minutes by a messenger with the package.”
“What rendezvous?”
“There,” Tony said, pointing at the familiar whitewashed blockhouse around which so much of his activity seemed to rotate. “He will meet me there.”
Neither representative of the Agenzia Terza seemed surprised at the choice of location, perhaps it was a common locale for agenting gambits, but followed quietly instead.
“Stay here,” Tony ordered, stopping outside the door. “The contact will be a man in a black suit carrying a tightly rolled umbrella.” Where on earth had that idea come from? The hang-over must still be operating. “Allow him to come in. Then I will bring out the painting.”
“I will check inside,” Timberio said, starting through the door. “He may be there already.”
“No,” Tony said loudly, his voice cracking. One look inside and his whole plan was destroyed. “That will ruin everything.” As indeed it would.
Timberio withdrew reluctantly and took up station a few feet away as did his aide. Tony entered slowly and, as soon as he had passed from sight, burst into frenzied activity. He had to effect the change quickly or not at all. A button popped as he tore the shirt from his back, then stripped off the trunks. There was a startled grunt from an old man who was emerging from the last cubicle, the only other occupant.
“It’s a fine morning,” Tony said as he hopped about on one foot pulling on the white trousers. The old man watched in wide-eyed astonishment as Tony completed the rest of his metamorphosis, clapped the hat on his head, wrapping painting and clothes hurriedly in the crumpled paper and stuffed them into the morral which he hung over his shoulder, handle of the machete projecting upward as he started for the door.
He emerged with a slow shuffle, head down, the wide brim of the sombrero shading his face, shoulders bent to make him appear shorter. At the last moment he even managed a slight limp to aid in the transformation. He held his breath as he walked past Timberio, visible only as trouser legs and a pair of highly polished and pointed shoes. Then past the other agent—and still no cry of alarm. They were both looking outward for the dark-clad, umbrella-bearing messenger and paid no heed at all to the simple peasant who passed. Ten feet, then twenty, thirty, almost to the corner—when an anguished cry sounded. Tony took one look back to see the old man talking to the Italian agents, then he began to run. Around the corner and down the street, ignoring the hammers inside his head.
Faster still to escape the sound of pursuing feet.
Nine
Tony vanished in the crowd, another drop of water in the ocean of Mexican citizens, his clothes neutral, his wide-brimmed hat like all the others. A turn into a side street, a small market with stands along the sidewalk and in the road. When he stopped running, and even walking, slowed to a reluctant halt by the savage blows of his waning hang-over, his pursuers had vanished. A nearby stall dispensed the cooling drink of pineapple juice, papaya juice, coconut milk—no rum this time!—and orange juice all whipped to a froth in a blender. He ordered a large one of these and while drinking it thought he saw one of the distraught Italians run by, but it was only a glimpse and he couldn’t be sure.
Refreshed, his throat cooled, the hang-over under control, he penetrated deep into the market that he had visited the day before and followed his nose to the food stalls where a booming morning trade was in progress, sliding onto a stool as its previous owner vacated it. There was the quick gush of saliva in his mouth at the richness of the odors, accompanied by a stabbing pang of hunger. A brace of goat enchiladas smothered in rich red gravy and flanked by a healthy portion of fried beans did a good deal toward alleviating this sensation.
“The sauce if you please,” his companion at the narrow board said. They sat shoulder rubbing shoulder, leaning forward so that the parcels of the people pushing by behind did not jar into them. Tony slid over the requested dish swimming with fresh chopped chilies, tomato, garlic and onion, then helped himself as well as soon as the other had done.
“I am looking for the little town where my cousin lives,” he told his eating companion who was diligently pursuing the last drops of goodness around his metal plate with a half tortilla. He was a gaunt old man, somewhere between fifty and ninety years of age, with a few white wisps of beard. He nodded at the interesting information so freely given, but felt no real need to comment. “He said it is on the road to Chilpancingo just outside of Acapulco.”