“I think they will with you, Rusty. How’s that grab you?”
Rusty shook his head, smiling. “I think it’s unlikely. Listen, Diz. Who knows but me and you what really happened? I guarantee you Baker was there. So he shot Maxine and me. I’m hit but I get away. It still all works. I give you half the money.”
“And the white man walks?”
Rusty raised his good hand, gesturing, still smiling, conspiratorial. “It’s not black or white,” he said. “It’s who I am and who Baker is.”
Hardy emptied his coffee cup in a long swallow. “That’s right, Russ. That’s exactly what it is.”
After he’d shown up at Hardy’s room at the El Sol, Abe had gone out and bought a length of rope, a pair of cheap sandals for Rusty and some over-the-counter tetracycline. Mexico was different that way.
Hardy had said he couldn’t do anything until he’d gotten a little sleep, so Abe had moved Ingraham, over his polite objections, tying him elbows and knees to a chair while Hardy took his pills and crashed on the bed. Ingraham had spoken little, pretty beat himself. He showed no inclination to deny killing Maxine Weir. And eventually dozed off.
So Abe had spent the afternoon on the terrace, reading Loren Estleman’s Bloody Season and wondering how Wyatt Earp had ever acquired such a good reputation. Every ten minutes he checked through the double doors.
At a little after three he had finished his book and awakened Hardy. He had a fever but he was okay. He had taken some more pills. They sat across from each other on the terrace.
“Okay,” Abe said. “Now what?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Abe sat back and sucked some air through his front teeth. “You want to drive him back, all of us?”
“Three days, small car. I don’t know how I’d be,” Hardy said. “I have felt better.” He thought a minute. “Isn’t there any way they can hold him here?”
Abe shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not here officially. I can’t arrest him.”
“But they can arrest him down here, can’t they?”
Abe’s scar tightened through his lips. “There is a rumor that anybody can be arrested here for anything. A humble and cooperative California police officer, such as myself, for example, could probably speak to the locals and arrange something.” Abe stood up, yawning, and glanced back inside. “He’s tied up good, Diz. Let’s go down by the pool.”
The reason they had never taken him was they weren’t too smart.
Okay, they had the gun, but a weapon doesn’t do you any good if you can’t use it. Hardy taking that shot this morning had rattled him a little, made him forget where they were for a while. It was possible that maybe Hardy was crazy enough to shoot him and the consequences be damned.
But now, with Glitsky here, it wasn’t going to happen. Glitsky was a good cop and he was going to try to arrest him and have him held until they could get the extradition together. At least, that’s what they’d said, with the door open, thinking he was still sleeping. Not too smart.
It was surprisingly comfortable with the pillow and the blanket. Rusty reviewed his options.
When they untied him they’d probably manhandle him away into Hardy’s car and, even if it was a long trip, that would be their only choice. Well, he didn’t want to spend three or four days tied up, heading back to the border.
On the other hand, he could pretend to cooperate, be docile, let them bring him to the Mexican police, and then gently point out that Messrs Glitsky and Hardy here were the ones that had kidnapped him. And see? Look at this! They are illegally armed!
Don’t you Mexican authorities look with extreme displeasure upon civilians with guns, especially foreign civilians, most especially big-shot United States policemen coming down here doing their extralegal we-don’t-need-no-stinking-badges extradition bullshit without okaying it up front? Any good macho jefe would likely be outraged at the imperialistic arrogance of it all.
No question. They’d take it up with Hardy and Glitsky first.
It was a far better chance than the drive.
They wouldn’t hold him on Glitsky’s say-so after that. There wasn’t even a warrant for him in the States. Did they forget he knew this stuff? I’m a lawyer, fellas, this is what I do.
He smiled under the blanket.
Hardy and Glitsky were coming back into the room, Hardy saying, “It’s still risky.”
Glitsky prodded him with his shoe, pulled the blanket off him.
Rusty moaned, stirred, made a good show of it. “That was a good rest,” he said. “What time is it?”
They sat alfresco in the late afternoon, three American tourists at a table on the Esplanade, looking out at the bay, the bodies in swimsuits, the beggars. Hardy carried his gun, loaded, tucked into his belt under his windbreaker.
They were all eating shrimp cocktails and drinking draft Heineken. Rusty said he’d pay for it from his winnings the day before. He was well rested, in apparent high spirits.
Hardy excused himself to go to the bathroom.
“I appreciate the last meal,” Rusty said.
Abe nodded, noncommittal. “Your nickel.”
“I’ve heard stories about Mexican jails, you know. Where it’s just like a hotel. I mean, you buy your food, have women sent in, same as a hotel. Just depends on how much money you have.”
Abe sucked the meat from the tail of a shrimp. “That’s nice,” he said. “And you’ve got money, right?” He drank some beer. “Though I don’t think you’ll be there too long.”
“Yeah, well, you gotta make the best of the cards you’re dealt.”
Glitsky didn’t pay much attention. He ate as though he was hungry. Hardy came back up to the table.
“You got him?” Abe asked.
Hardy nodded and Abe got up. “Later,” he said.
“Personable guy,” Rusty said, looking after him. “Very personable.”
Hardy picked up his fork. “I don’t think he likes you.”
With two shrimp cocktails, two beers and a cup of coffee inside him, Rusty felt good, but Hardy wasn’t being much company. Abe had been gone about a half hour. Rusty moved his chair back into the shade of the umbrella over their table. It was still hot, but the sun was moving lower.
“What’s taking him so long?”
“Think about it? You in a hurry?”
Rusty smiled. “No, I guess not. But he could’ve just taken me straight in.”
“Not really. He had a little explaining.” He looked up the street. “Here they come.”
A couple of guardia with their green uniforms and submachine guns were following a few steps behind Glitsky. Next to him walked a very tall, skinny man in a black suit, white shirt, electric-blue tie.
“A regular party,” Rusty said.
The guardia stood on the sidewalk. Glitsky and the tall man pulled up chairs. “This is Lieutenant Mantrillo,” Abe said. He turned to Hardy. “We’ve been having a nice talk.”
Up close, Mantrillo’s face was sallow and pocked. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and threw them onto the table. Several other patrons looked over.
“Do you speak English?” Rusty asked.
Mantrillo nodded. “Pretty good.”
He smiled and pointed a finger at Hardy. “This guy’s got a gun on him. Right now. Under that jacket.”
Mantrillo’s black eyes flared in his sad face. Good, Rusty thought, it was the reaction he had hoped for. Mantrillo turned to Hardy, back to Glitsky, who shook his head wearily.
“He came with us voluntarily,” Abe said, “like I told you.”
Rusty was getting into the performance. He shook his head back and forth. “No! Check him! I came with them because I thought it was my only chance to get away from them. They’ve had a gun on me all day!” Rusty met Mantrillo’s eyes. “Lieutenant, they’ve got the gun. They’re breaking your laws, not me.”
Damn, he was thinking, I am good. Just like in court. He looked again at Hardy. “Please, check him.”