Take this fellow Kirby Galway. On the surface a plausible chap, an American, but underneath the glib exterior what was the fellow but a smooth thug? It had been a very fortunate accident that Lemuel had met him again, that second time, and they’d had their little talk, very fortunate indeed, because there was no question in Lemuel’s mind that Galway would be prepared to sell the objects from his temple to anybody, just anybody. Galway was the sort of person the Belizean government ought to concentrate on, not honest scholars like Whitman Lemuel.
But if he was to be honest about it — and Whitman Lemuel was rigidly honest — he had to admit there were Americans too who completely misunderstood the situation, as though scholars like himself were here for profit, as though they were somehow stealing something that belonged to someone else rather than preserving the past — which belongs to all mankind — to be handed on, selflessly, properly catalogued and annotated, to generations yet unborn. He remembered with particular distaste that tall young woman who had interrupted his first conversation with Galway, squawking words like “despoliation.” Such individuals, unhampered by facts, took on moral positions just for the good feeling that comes from being holier-than-thou.
Outside the window, the turning Earth approached, red roofs stood out among the colors of the town, individual trees waved to him, and in a sudden rush and jolt the plane was on the ground, hurtling past the tiny airport building, reluctantly slowing, then turning, coming back.
Lemuel was among the few passengers getting off. He always felt a little nervous when he entered a basically primitive country; who knew what ideas these people might get in their heads? Shuffling slowly through Customs & Immigration, he kept craning his neck, looking for Galway, but didn’t see him. His bow tie constricted his neck in this unaccustomed heat, but he wouldn’t remove it. All clothing is a uniform, and Lemuel’s uniform made clear his status: American, college-educated, nonviolent, intellectual. Nevertheless, he was ordered to open both his suitcases, and the black Customs inspector fingered his Brut aftershave as though he would simply confiscate it. In the end, he merely made an annoying long scrawl of white chalk on each suitcase lid, and sent Lemuel on his way.
Outside, blinking in the dusty sunshine, still not seeing Galway anywhere — he wouldn’t have reneged at the last second, would he? — Lemuel fought off the persistent taxi offerers with just as persistent head shakes, until he realized one of the men was calling him by name: “Mister Lemuel? May I take your bags, Mister Lemuel?”
Lemuel frowned at him, seeing a short and skinny Indian type, with bright black eyes and a big smile showing gaps between his teeth. “You know me?” he said.
“I am from Kirby Galway.” The man had an accent that was nearly Hispanic, but not quite. “I am Manuel Cruz.”
“I expected Mister Galway himself,” Lemuel said, prepared to be irked.
“There were little problems,” Manuel Cruz told him, more confidentially, flashing looks left and right as though afraid to be overheard. “I’ll tell you in the truck.”
“Truck?” But he permitted Cruz to carry both his suitcases and to lead the way over to an incredibly filthy, battered, rusty pickup truck. When the suitcases were thrown in back, onto all that rust and dirt, the Customs chalkmarks became irrelevant.
The interior of the pickup was at least roomy and fairly comfortable. Cruz was a bit too short for the controls, which only increased his childlike aura; also, he drove in sudden jolts and hesitations, his feet playing the floor pedals like a pianist, hands struggling the wheel back and forth, back and forth.
Out on the empty blacktop road, Cruz settled down to a less fitful driving method, and explained, “Kirby, he had to see some other men. You know about the gage?”
Lemuel didn’t. “Gauge?”
“Pot,” said Cruz. “Weed. Tea. Smoke.”
“Oh, marijuana!”
“That’s it,” Cruz said, happily nodding.
“He smuggles it into America,” Lemuel said, with some distaste. “Yes, I know about that.”
“Okay. Now, some men come down from up there,” Cruz said. “Kirby, he didn’t know they were coming, you know? But these kinda men, they come down, they say, ‘We gotta talk,’ you say, ‘Okay, sir, yes, sir.’”
“Ah,” said Lemuel, nodding at this glimpse of what was under the rock.
“So Kirby, he sent me down, pick you up, say he sorry.”
“I see,” said Lemuel.
“I take you to the hotel. Kirby, he call you later, he take you out there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Not today?” One of the reasons Lemuel had decided to come down to Belize a week early — in addition to the honest excitement and anticipation he’d cited in his message — was the fact that he didn’t entirely trust Kirby Galway. He didn’t know what sort of scheme Galway might be able to perpetrate against him, but perhaps if he were to show up a week early it might keep the man off balance and give Lemuel some advantage. But now Galway was begging off until tomorrow; was that significant? Was there anything Lemuel could do about it?
Probably not. Still, it was worth a try. “My schedule is pretty tight,” he said. “Perhaps I should talk to Galway right now.”
“Oh, no,” Cruz said, looking a bit frightened. “Kirby, he told me, ‘Don’t let Mister Lemuel come talk to me when I’m with these men. Tell Mister Lemuel to pretend he don’t even know me.’ That’s what Kirby said.”
“Why?”
“These are very bad men,” Cruz said. “They got — whatchu call it — front, some kinda legitimate life up in the States, they don’t want nobody know what their business is. They kill a man if they got to.”
Lemuel, of course, had heard of such people, as who of us has not? The drug world quite naturally drew them, and yes they would kill rather than have the seamy truth exposed to their families and neighbors. “I see,” he said.
“If you go to Kirby with those men,” Cruz went on, “if you say, ‘Hi, Kirby,’ then you and Kirby and me, we all in terrible trouble. If those men know you know Kirby, and they got to know you from the States just to look at you, then they figure you know Kirby’s in the gage business — you know, the marijuana—”
“Yes yes,” Lemuel said. “Gauge. I do remember.”
“Well,” Cruz said, as they drove down the tom streets of Belize City, “they got to protect their lives, you see? Their front.”
“So if I see Galway with any Americans,” Lemuel said, a bit amused at the cloak-and-dagger aspects of the situation, “I should just pretend I don’t know him.”
“Oh, you’ll probably see him,” Cruz said. “Kirby, he’s with those men at the hotel right now.”
“Oh, is he?” Lemuel hoped he would see Galway and his mobster friends; curiosity and a faint prickle of danger made his eyes light up, and he rode the rest of the way trying to imagine what the “very bad men” would look like.
The hotel itself was decent enough, the staff competent, the room large and cool and pleasant. Lemuel undertipped the bellboy, then removed the constricting bow tie, opened his shirt, strolled over to the window, and looked down at the swimming pool, wondering idly why no one was in it. He had brought a bathing suit; perhaps, after he’d unpacked, he would go for a dip himself.
An el of the building was to the left, with large windows on the first floor through which he could see the dining room, where he would undoubtedly be eating tonight. At one of the window tables sat three—