“Well, I was thinking about dinner in a little while.”
“Be serious.”
Very gently, I pushed her away. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She stepped back and turned toward the harbor. Watching as a sloop with a black hull ghosted past the estate, she said, “You could tell me if you did it, you know. I’d never repeat a word. I don’t care about Doña Elena. I only care about you.”
I might have laughed if she hadn’t been playing it so straight. I said, “Is that so?”
She lifted her chin. “I like you, Malcolm. I like you a lot. Don’t you like me?”
“Sure I do. You’re lovely and smart. What’s not to like? But it would be nice to know why you really came over here.”
“I came because I care!” She flung her arms around me again. “Don’t you see? I had to make sure you’re okay.”
“No.” I pushed her away again. “I mean what’s the real reason?”
Her eyes went wide. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Not completely.”
“But… but why not?”
“You’re too gorgeous, Olivia. You could have any man you want. And hanging around with Doña Elena and the congressman, you probably meet millionaire producers and corporate executives and national politicians every day. So I’ve been wondering, why would a girl like you throw herself at a chauffeur? It’s obvious you want something from me. What is it?”
“You really think I’m that shallow?”
“I think you’re too interested in the Toledo case. I think you’ve been after inside information from the moment I met you. I think you’ve got some kind of skin in the game. I just don’t know what.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You… you…”
I said, “Look. Save the outraged act, and don’t bother pretending to have hurt feelings. You have an angle. That’s okay. Everybody does. So why not save us both a lot of time and just tell me what you want?”
She swung hard at me, but I caught her wrist before the slap connected. I pulled her close and tight and said, “Were you with Castro and the other men at Doña Elena’s house?”
“Let me go!”
I said, “You say you care so much about me. Would you tell me if you were the woman Doña Elena saw that night? Would you confess that to the cops and tell them I wasn’t there to keep me out of jail?”
Her dark eyes flashed with fury. “It was not me, Malcolm. Now are you going to let go, or should I scream for help?”
I released her wrist. Without a pause she spun on her heel, marched to her car, and got in. Her back tires spewed gravel as she sped toward the front gate.
When the gates had closed behind her, I went inside the guesthouse, ate dinner, and got into bed. It seemed like hours before I went to sleep. Maybe it was because I skipped the Scotch, or maybe it was because I couldn’t make up my mind about which side Olivia was on.
35
The next morning Teru dropped me at a rental-car agency in Huntington Beach. Teru drove fast on detours through backstreets and did some doubling back to check for tails, but if the police were there when we left El Nido, he lost them along the way. It’s hard to keep up with a well-driven Porsche on surface streets in a Crown Victoria.
Using a driver’s license and Visa card in the name of Michael Cullen, I rented a white Toyota Corolla. I hadn’t wanted to tip off the police surveillance by leaving El Nido with luggage, so as soon as I had the car, I drove to a department store and used the Cullen credit card to buy a pair of blue jeans, three shirts, some underwear and socks, and a soft-sided bag to carry it all. I stopped at a pharmacy and picked up a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some other things, and then I headed south on the 5.
It was about noon when I entered Tijuana. The Mexican customs light flashed green at the San Ysidro border crossing, so I didn’t have to stop. Ten minutes later, after traveling past the traffic circles on Padre Kino and following Cuauhtemoc Norte to the airport entrance, I parked on the third level of the garage and walked into General Abelardo L. Rodríguez International Airport.
I took AeroMexico flight 177 to Mexico City on a Boeing 737. We arrived at 10:50 that night. I had a leathery steak and a cold potato at Sanborns, which is always open in the airport, and then I sacked out in a sagging chrome-and-leather seat at my departure gate. At 7:45 in the morning, the gate attendants arrived, and at 8:45 I was sitting in an economy-class aisle seat of a Brazilian-made Embraer 195 as we pushed back from the Jetway.
Two hours later I landed in Guatemala City.
At the taxi stand outside La Aurora International Airport, I took a piece of paper out of my pocket. On it I had written the address the address the consulate receptionist had given me on the phone. I got into a cab and read the address to the driver. He nodded, and soon we were in Zone 1, which is the central part of the city, where all the oldest buildings are.
I had always thought the city was a study in contrasts. Poverty was the primary theme, with block after block of rudimentary concrete and corrugated-steel structures. But here and there an office building rose to fifteen or twenty stories, and colonial architecture stood in other places like jaded members of a royal family enduring the unwashed presence of their downtrodden subjects.
There was far less Spanish influence than I was used to seeing in other Mexican or Central or South American cities. That was to be expected, since Guatemala City, or “Guate” as the locals called it, had been only a tiny village until the late 1700s, when the Spanish government arrived after earthquakes had destroyed the original capital of that part of their empire. The Spaniards had enjoyed only a few decades to leave their mark before their reign ended. Meanwhile, great cathedrals and grand government buildings had already been standing for two centuries in places like Guadalajara, Mexico, and Bogotá, Colombia.
Still, for such a small, impoverished country, Guate could be something of a surprise. There was a sense of energy about the town. People on the sidewalks all seemed to have someplace to go. Traffic was a disaster, of course. Drivers went everywhere at top speed. They obviously viewed stoplights as mere suggestions. White stripes for traffic lanes and stop signs were ignored altogether. But my driver seemed to take it all in stride, so I relaxed and enjoyed the trip across town.
We followed Avenida La Reforma for fifteen or twenty blocks, a nice broad boulevard with lots of trees. It ended at a large traffic circle around a monument to some Guatemalan hero. From there, the driver took a series of smaller streets. I saw a large stadium on the right, called Cuidad Olimpica, or Olympic City, and a few blocks farther, a railroad museum on the left. After that, the neighborhood started to get older, with more and more colonial Spanish influence.
At 9A Calle, the cabbie took a right, and two blocks farther along he pulled to the curb. I looked out to see a small restaurant between a dentist’s office and a shoe store.
“This is it?” I asked in Spanish.
He nodded, “The address you gave me is the restaurant there, yes.”
I paid him in quetzals, the Guatemalan currency named after the national bird. I got out and stood on the sidewalk, looking around. Across the street was a city block shaded by trees. A sign said Columbus Park. In the center of the block rose a limestone monument, and around it were dozens of ficus trees. Underneath the trees I saw old men sitting on benches and in folding chairs. Some of them had set up folding tables to play dominoes. It reminded me of the old men at the benevolence society in Pico-Union. It was a peaceful scene, and somewhat unexpected, since Guatemala City was the murder capital of the world.
Turning toward the address I had been given, I saw a hand-painted sign above the door to the restaurant, black letters against a red background—El Pollo Gordo. The Fat Chicken. On either side of the entrance were seven or eight small tables, surrounded by the kind of cheap white plastic chairs you can buy anywhere for four or five dollars. On the tables were logos for the local beer companies: Victoria, Brahva, and Gallo. Somehow I doubted I would find Valentín Vega inside, but as Simon might have said, one never knew.