Hitting, feeling the impact through his shoes up to his shoulders, immediately ground into the bottom sand by the incoming wave, he struggled for what he hoped was the surface. There was no telling up from down and he hadn’t timed anything like when to take a breath.
Seawater. Lungs filling up. Slamming against rock. Under again.
And then he was on the sand throwing up. The stuff dripping down his right arm felt warm and looked black in the dim moonlight. The same moon was up there. He couldn’t see the top of the cliffs from the beach. The arm was starring to throb. He’d lost his right shoe. He reached down and there was more blood. He tried to stand and another wave came, knocking him down again.
He struggled to his feet, still gagging. He pulled off the other sand-filled shoe. His arm was killing him now. He was afraid to look at it. He sat into another wave and rubbed the blood away with the salt water.
His eyes gradually adjusted enough to make out depressions in the rocky face of the cliff. Footsteps. Only about five hundred of them, he thought. He put one foot in the first depression. Another in the next. The right foot was at least sprained, but he put weight on it and it held, though the pain made him catch his breath. His teeth were starting to chatter. He tried another step.
“Okay, Rusty,” he said, “you want to play dirty.”
It was 3:15 A.M. by his watch when Hardy got to the El Sol. The office was a small room with rattan furniture and a bamboo desk with a glass top, under which were featured brochures of all Acapulco had to offer. Hardy leaned up against the bamboo and rang the bell. He was looking at a man standing next to a seven-foot sailfish. He moved the bell to reveal a platter of seafood. He rang it again.
He closed his eyes, suddenly dizzy. The cuts on his arm were more painful and bloody than deep, and they had clotted pretty well. Still, a few drops of blood had splattered to the floor. He figured his foot was beyond pain, that he would walk with a limp for the rest of his whole life.
He banged on the bell again, gave up and got around behind the back of the desk. There was an old green metal box with a red cross on it and he picked it up and limped out on his bare and bloody feet, through the bananas and bougainvillea, back to his room.
“Who was that?” Flo Glitsky sat up in bed. “What time is it?”
Abe was pulling on his pants.
“Where are you going?”
Normally Flo didn’t ask, didn’t stir in the middle of the night when Abe got up to, say, question a suspect. But they had only gotten back from Los Angeles that day, and her husband had seemed maybe interested in the job they were offering-a gang task force of some kind, community interaction, counseling. He said he felt that his live cases here had been wrapped up. So where was he going in the middle of the night?
“Hardy,” he said.
“What about Hardy? Where is he?”
“He’s in Acapulco. Rusty Ingraham just tried to kill him.”
As he threw things in a bag, he filled her in. She draped an afghan over her and sat straight up cross-legged.
“So what does he want you to do?”
“He wants me to come down there.”
“And do what?”
Abe sat on the bed, started tying a shoe. “Pick Rusty up.”
“Pick Rusty up,” Flo repeated. “In Acapulco? How are you going to do that?” Then, as though remembering something, “Is Dismas all right?”
“He seemed fine.” He turned to his wife. “You want to call the airport and see when the next plane leaves?”
He went into the bathroom to shave. Halfway through, Flo came to the doorway. “Mexican, seven-twenty.”
“Well, I’ve got some time. How about a little breakfast?”
“You still haven’t told me how you intend to pick Rusty up.”
Abe had to be careful shaving around the scar that ran through his lips. He made funny faces into the mirror, scraping away.
“That’s perceptive,” he said finally. He threw some water in his face, reaching blindly for a towel. Flo picked it from the rack and put it into his hands. “And the reason is, I don’t know. It will take some finesse, though.”
He was back in the bedroom, taking a long-sleeved purple T-shirt from a dresser drawer. “Hardy knows me pretty well,” he said. “Rusty’s my collar.”
“But you don’t have jurisdiction down there. Why don’t you just get a warrant, have him extradited?”
“On what?”
“How about murder?”
“Murder’s good,” Abe agreed, “except he’s not wanted for murder. We could say we’d like to question him about a murder, but they wouldn’t extradite for that, to say nothing of the fact that extradition takes a year on a good day. We have any chub? Cream cheese and chub on a bagel sounds good. I might even have some caffeinated tea.”
“Abe.”
He patted the bed next to him. When Flo sat down, he put an arm around her. “He’s my collar. He’s alive and tried to kill Diz-it points strongly to him killing Maxine Weir. You just said as much yourself… If he hadn’t tried to kill Diz I’d say it wasn’t definite. But since he did…” He shrugged. “At least, for my own peace of mind I’ve got to talk to him.”
“Are you going to take your gun?”
“Hardy’s already got one.”
“In Mexico? How’d he…?”
Abe patted her shoulder. “He’s a resourceful guy, our Diz. And his having one saves me the trouble of hassling with the airlines, going through the locals for permissions, all that.”
“Except that if you use it, how do you explain it?”
Abe stood up. “We’re full of good questions today.”
“Well?”
“Well, we’ll have to think of something.”
It was still dark, but Hardy heard a rooster crowing far off. He was trying to pull a sock onto his right foot and it was a tight squeeze over the bandage. The cut on the side of that foot, from ankle to little toe, was deeper, longer and uglier than anything on his arm. From the walk, the soles of both feet were raw.
He felt a little bad about his omission to Abe that he didn’t have a real idea of where Rusty might be. At dinner, Rusty had bragged about his beachfront place five miles north of the city. So Hardy thought he’d drive on up the road looking for that telltale Volkswagen. Of course, he knew it could be in a carport, a garage, off the road, whatever. Well, then he would go back to the jai alai stadium. If Rusty thought he was dead, he’d probably just go back to his habits. If…
One sock on, he stopped.
He considered calling Abe back. Never mind. I’ll go to the Mexican police and report my attempted murder. File charges. Let them look. Fuck it.
But, he realized, if he thought things had been personal before, Rusty had upped the ante by about a thousand. He wanted to take him, wanted to get him for what had started this whole thing, not just for the legalities. Abe deserved his chance, too, what with running around after Ray Weir and Johnny LaGuardia and Hector Medina and Louis Baker. Let’s get the posse together, saddle up and kick some ass. He had told Abe to come to the El Sol when he got in. If he had left Abe with the impression that he’d have Rusty here, trussed up and ready to roast, he figured his friend would forgive him.
He was wearing dry jeans, a pair of suddenly too small tennis shoes, an Armani long-sleeved shirt Jane had given him, probably ruined forever now with the blood seeping through the bandage he’d wrapped around his arm. Well, too bad. He smiled at himself in the cracked brownish mirror-the Miami Vice look. Very nice. He grabbed a light tan windbreaker on the way out.
His Samurai was where he’d left it, around the corner from the El Sol’s office, halfway up the hill. It was a long way up the silent, dark street. He felt under the driver’s side fender. Still there.
He sat in the driver’s seat, feeding the bullets he had taped under the bottom of the glove compartment into the chambers. He didn’t think he was going to shoot Rusty on sight, but… Playing it as though the man was just screwed up, a once-nice guy gone a little bad had nearly cost him his life tonight and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.