The Second Saladin - Страница 45

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“I’ll stay if you’d prefer.”

“No, sir.”

“I may be back in a little while.”

“Take your time.”

Chardy shook himself free of the wall and edged through the crowd. Lanahan sat disconsolately by himself.

“Not your crowd, Miles?”

Lanahan looked up, but did not smile. “I don’t have a crowd,” he said.

“Look, would it be a big deal if I slipped out a little early?”

“It would be a very big deal.”

“Well, I’m going to do it anyway. Why don’t you talk to somebody, have a good time? Meet some people. You look like the village priest at the great lord’s manor for the first time.”

Lanahan looked at him through narrow dark eyes in a field of skin eruptions. Flecks of dandruff littered his small shoulders.

“You shouldn’t joke about priests, Paul.”

“Miles, I’m going. All right?”

Lanahan didn’t say anything.

“Come on, Miles, cheer up.”

“Just go, Paul. You don’t have any responsibility; you can sneak off. I’ll stay. I’m expecting a call from Yost anyway.”

“Be back shortly,” said Chardy. He fought to the hall, squeezed down it to the door, where an older woman stood talking to several others in the overflow.

“Leaving so early? Did you have a coat?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“Glad you could come.”

“I had a wonderful time,” he said.

He stepped out the door, went down three steps, and followed the short walk to Hawthorne Street.

“There he is,” she said.

They watched Chardy pick his way down the steps, pause at the sidewalk for just a second, and then head down the street. They watched in silence until he disappeared.

“Just Danzig. Nobody else. Please, you swore.”

He turned and looked at her with a cold glare.

“Please,” she said. “You promised. You swore.”

“I go now.”

“I’ll come too.”

“No,” he said. “I can go alone. Many people, no guards. People come and go. America is open, they told me.”

“Please. I—”

“No.”

“I’ll be here then. To drive you away.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if I get away. Get away yourself, now. Cross that border now, Dada Johanna.”

He climbed from the car and strode across the street, a tall, forceful figure.

She watched him move. A pain began to rub inside, between her eyes. She sat back. She could not face the future, the explanations, excuses, attention. It all seemed to weigh so much. She thought of it as weight, mass, as substance, a physical thing, pressing her down. She fought for breath. She thought of facing Chardy in the morning. She thought of the pain her parents would feel. She could not imagine it.

She watched. Ulu Beg knocked on the door. She could not see his gun; he’d hidden it, probably under the tweed sport coat.

The door opened. She could see them talking. What would he say? She wanted to cry. She was so scared.

Chardy knocked on Johanna’s door.

There was no answer.

“Johanna?” he called into the wood. “Johanna?”

Now what the hell was going on?

32

Trewitt’s fever rose and rose and rose, pulling him through an absolute kaleidoscope of discomforts, each spangling and fanning into something more unbearable, and since his imagination — the basic stuff of this journey through the fever zone — was prodigious to begin with, the trip was incredible. His fantasies were built of gore and sex and they centered on the body of the woman lying in her own blood. But soon they began to lessen in intensity. Gradually, by the second night, his head began to clear somewhat. It was very cold. The air hurt to breathe. He pulled something about him, a thin blanket that offered no protection.

On the third day he awoke to find himself in a stone shack with no glass in the windows, a stove that burned only junk wood, and a dirt floor across which there scampered a flock of chickens herded by a couple of listless mutts. He felt as though he’d come to in the middle of a movie and looked about for stock figures. But no: only the titanic figure whom he now understood to be Ramirez, in his (Trewitt’s) yellow pants with his (Trewitt’s) Beretta in the waistband, reading a photo-novel whose Spanish title translated into “A Smart-Alecky Young Miss Gets Her Comeuppance,” while munching on a greasy drumstick from El Coronel (Sanders, of Kentucky; Trewitt could see the striped barrel on a shelf), his cowboy boots up on the table.

Trewitt hauled himself up, wobbling the whole way.

“You want a wing? We got a wing left,” was Ramirez’s welcome-back to the man who’d saved his life.

“I feel like shit,” said Trewitt groggily, in English.

“You look like shit,” said Ramirez, also in English.

Trewitt moaned. Somebody had looped a metal band around his forehead and was tightening it with great strength and dedication.

“Where are we?” he finally asked, shivering and noticing that his breath soared out from his lips in a great billowing cloud.

“Hah!” howled Ramirez in great delight. “Jesus Mary, they really give it to this girl!” He looked at the comic with warmth and enthusiasm. “She’s a real stuck-up princess. They give her a smack on the bottom with a great big paddle. You’re in the mountains, my friend. Way up high. A long way from the city.”

Trewitt twisted so he could see out the window. In the distance, glittering in the sun, stood a ragged line of peaks. The haphazard up-and-down of the composition could have been a graph of his fortunes these last several days.

“Reynoldo was born down there,” Ramirez said, “in the village, before electricity. He used to come here to hunt.” He smiled, exposing two gold teeth which Trewitt had not noticed before. Gold teeth? This was getting to be like a movie.

“Who were those men? The killers,” Trewitt asked in his Spanish.

“Who knows? It’s a big mystery. Mexico is full of mysteries. It’s a land of mysteries.” Ramirez laughed.

“Gangsters? Pimps? Dope runners?”

Ramirez finished the drumstick and threw the bare bone across the room into a corner, where a dog scuffled after it, and wiped his hand on his pants. Trewitt was beginning to feel as if he’d awakened in the cave of the Cyclops.

“They make pretty good chicken,” said Ramirez. “That Colonel. I bet he’s a rich man.”

He yawned, then looked over at Trewitt. “Mister, I’ll tell you something. A man has to piss, somebody gets wet. Do you understand?”

“Ahh—”

“Oscar Meza, he get wet. The Huerras of Mexico City, anybody. It could go back years and years.”

Shakily Trewitt stood, discovering as he unlimbered from the skimpy blanket that he was now in cheap cotton trousers, the trousers of a rural peasant. He went to the doorway. Outside he saw a goat pen, a trash heap, a dirt road falling away rapidly, and a brown surge — scabby, scaly, dusty, stony-cold, and silent — of peaks.

“Where the hell are we?”

Below he could see a flash of trees and valley, and some cultivated land. But this was wild country, raw and high and scruffy.

“Near El Plomo. In the Sierra del Carrizai. Due west of Nogales. About sixty miles.”

“Where are the others?”

“Down below. In El Plomo. This is a big adventure. The little one, he cry for mama last night. But now he’s okay.”

Trewitt nodded, hurt. Poor little guy. Why the hell hadn’t they let him go? Now he was God knows where, involved in this.

“They’ll be here soon. But, hey, mister. Who are you?” The Mexican watched him carefully.

“Just some guy who got mixed up in some stuff,” was Trewitt’s lame response. “I was looking for adventures too.”

“Crazy people want adventures. Reynoldo wants to die in a nice bed somewhere. With a bottle of beer and a nice soft fat woman who don’t give you no trouble.”

Trewitt, leaning in the rough doorway, looked down the little road for the yellow rented car. Boy, was he going to have a bill!

“At least,” he said, “we’re safe. This is a good place to lie low.”

“Yes, it’s real safe up here,” Ramirez laughed. “Yes, it’s real safe.” The grin radiated blazing humor.

“What’s going on? What’s so funny?”

“The answer is I called my good friend Oscar Meza from El Plomo. I told him all about this wonderful, safe place.”

Trewitt stared at him. At first he thought he’d discovered an unusually perverse sense of humor in a surprising locality. Only when the man’s fiery, crazed grin did not break into something softer and wittier did Trewitt acknowledge what had been laid before him, and its force struck him with a physical blow.

Finding next a sudden rush of strength, he began to shout: “You did what? you what? you what? that was really stupid, you told him?”

Trewitt looked down the road. At any second it could yield a carload of Mexican hoods. And they had a Beretta. With four rounds left.

“Hey, mister, come look at this,” Ramirez called.

The Mexican led him to a corner, pulled aside a dusty rag to reveal the lid of some kind of cabinet or chest buried in the earth. Kneeling, he unlocked and opened it. He pulled out a rifle with a telescopic sight.

“We do some hunting up here,” he said. The grin did not diminish, yet to Trewitt it had turned savage.

There was a sudden sound, and Trewitt thought he’d die.