Then his voice: “Gerry wants to know,” Witcher said, with worlds of meaning, “if your friend is anywhere down there.”
Kirby grinned. Got them both, by God! “No,” he said. “He’s gone away up-country. There’s a fella up there he says is cheating him. He took a couple local boys and left first thing this morning.”
“Oh.” Witcher didn’t seem to know what to do with all that information. “Just so he’s not in the lobby.”
“You’re safe,” Kirby assured him.
“I’ll tell Gerry,” Witcher said, putting the charge of cowardice back where it belonged.
Hanging up, Kirby went over to the broad front doorway and looked out at the peach-colored Land Rover, which was just leaving via the ENTRANCE. The girl, in front beside the driver, was slipping sunglasses on. The floppy-brimmed hat, a very sensible defense against the tropic sun, kept him from seeing much of her face. Her jaw was perhaps a little too strong. Then the Land Rover was gone, and a stir in the lobby recalled him to business.
Kirby helped the bellboy load luggage into the back of the pickup while Witcher and Feldspan checked out, and then they came outside, both behind large-lensed dark glasses. Witcher looked irritable, Feldspan hung over. Good mornings and handshakes were exchanged, and Feldspan said, “We’ll make the plane, won’t we?” His voice was shaky; behind the dark glasses, his eyes asked for pity.
“Plenty of time,” Kirby assured him.
“Of course there is,” said Witcher. “Get hold of yourself, Gerry.”
Gerry didn’t; nevertheless, they all got into the pickup, jounced away from the hotel, and made their way back through the sunny town. Once on the road out to the airport, Kirby took a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket, handed it across Feldspan to Witcher, and said, “This is the place we’ll meet.”
Opening the paper, Witcher read aloud: “Trump Glade, Florida. Route 216 south eight point four miles from movie house. Left at sign reading Potchaw 12. Dirt road. Fifteen point two miles to red ribbon on barbed wire fence.” Witcher nodded. “And that’s where you’ll be, I take it.”
“Rent a car,” Kirby told him. “Don’t take a cab.”
“Certainly not.”
“And it’s just you two there,” Kirby said, “or I don’t get out of the plane.”
“We understand,” Witcher said. Between them, in the middle of the seat, Feldspan lowered his head, raised a quaking hand to his brow, and faintly moaned.
“When I’ve got something to deliver,” Kirby said, “I’ll cable you in New York and give you a day and a time.”
Witcher said, “What if you have something too large to bring out that way? The jaguar stela, for instance. That could be eight or ten feet tall, and it would weigh a ton.”
“We’d have to do that by ship,” Kirby told him. “There’s places up the coast where we can bring in a small boat at night. It’s expensive, and a lot trickier, but if we’re careful it’ll be okay. I tell you what; if I have anything too big to fly out, I’ll take Polaroids of it, give them to you guys, and once you have a buyer we’ll arrange to get it out by boat.”
“Fine,” Witcher said.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Feldspan said.
“Gerry,” Witcher said, through clenched teeth.
Kirby angled across the empty road and parked on the left verge, beside the easygoing Belize River. “Better here than in the plane,” he said.
So Witcher, disapproval etched in every line of his being, got out of the pickup, and helped Feldspan out and walked with him down to the river bank. Kirby whistled quietly to himself and looked out at the pleasant day. If he were a man who fished, he’d want to fish right now.
A horn honked. Kirby looked over as Innocent St. Michael went by in his dark green Ford LTD, heading toward the airport, waving at Kirby from his air-conditioned luxury. Kirby grinned and waved back. Innocent sure did like to visit the airport.
When Feldspan returned, he was paler but somehow better. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Happens to us all,” Kirby assured him. The line of Witcher’s mouth said it didn’t happen to him.
There were no more events till they reached the airport, where Witcher insisted on unzipping his bag atop the pickup’s tailgate, so he could remove two Sony Walkmans from it, one of which he extended toward Feldspan, saying, “You know this will make you feel better, Gerry.”
Feldspan looked with repugnance at the Walkman before him, then seemed to remember something. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes.” He flashed Kirby a guilty glance through his dark glasses as he accepted the Walkman, hooked it onto his belt, and put the earphones in place on his head. Now he looked like something from “The Wizard Of Oz.”
Kirby grinned at him, amused. So these boys were smuggling something out of Belize in their Walkmans, were they? And they didn’t want their pal Kirby to know about it. Idly, he wondered what they’d found, idly decided it was probably marijuana.
Extending a hand, Witcher said, “We’ll hope to hear from you.” His earphones were draped around his neck.
“Two or three weeks,” Kirby promised, shaking his hand. Then he shook Feldspan’s. “Have a nice flight,” he said. Feldspan smiled gamely.
“Come along, Gerry,” Witcher said, hefting his bag. His earphones were now in place on his ears.
Kirby stood by the pickup and watched them walk to the small terminal building. Witcher was swaying and snapping his fingers and just slightly boogaloosing to the sounds coming into his ears. After several steps Feldspan started to do the same, in pale and shaky imitation.
In a shaded spot at the comer of the building, working on his molars with his slender gold toothpick, stood Innocent St. Michael, also watching Witcher and Feldspan. His eyes looked very interested. It was hard to be sure with his hand up in front of his mouth that way, but he might have been very faintly smiling.
Hmmmmmm, thought Kirby.
19
Satisfaction
Gerry plodded manfully along, carrying his heavy bag, snapping the fingers of his free hand in some sort of rhythm, nodding his head metronomically to the sound of Kirby Galway, in his earphones, saying, “A lot of Americans are coming down here, because there’s just so much available land.”
The worst part of travel is travel. To get out of Belize, there was so much red tape to overcome: forms to fill out, lines to stand in with other passengers, documents to display, questions to answer. And all taking place without benefit of air conditioning, among bodies that could only have been improved by a flash flood. Gerry just suffered through it all, remembering to nod his head and tap his toes, following Alan’s lead as he listened to his own voice say in his ears, “I had an aunt in New Jersey once, but she went to Florida and died.” We’re going to Florida now, he thought. What does it all mean?
As Kirby Galway had suggested might happen, their luggage was given a quite extensive search by a large and menacing Customs person, who made them put their Walkmans on the counter with their suitcases and then took a positively unhealthy interest in the contents of their luggage. Some of the more stylish garments produced from this individual various grunts and snarls absolutely out of a zoo. “What you call dis?” the fellow demanded at one point, holding up an object from Gerry’s bag between thumb and finger.
The indignity of it. “It’s called sachet,” Gerry said, enunciating carefully, reminding himself it’s best to be gentle with the lower orders. “It’s to keep the bag sweet-smelling, you know.”
The Customs man held the small sealed packet to his nose and noisily sniffed. “Could be dope,” he said.