Oh, sure, lots of fun, Hooker thought sourly. It was late Tuesday morning, and he stood in his shorts looking at his splintered front door. On the writing table lay the crumpled note delivered the night before by the zombie, or whatever the thing was.
Quintana Roo es la misma como muerte.
Hooker had made up his mind the previous night that he wanted no part of Quintana Roo, but now that somebody was pushing him so hard, he was having second thoughts.
A face appeared on the other side of the broken door. It was a nicely structured face with startling blue eyes, topped by what appeared to be naturally blonde hair. Hooker stepped closer to get a look at the body that went with the face. It was about five feet six, dressed in an expensive white outfit. The muscle tone, as near as he could tell, was excellent, the shape unmistakably female. Hooker’s eyes traveled back up to the face.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, “are you John Hooker?”
He nodded.
“I’m Connie Braithwaite.”
“I met your secretary last night.”
“Yes, he told me about it. That’s one of the reasons I’m here, to thank you for what you did for Earle. I understand you saved his life.”
“He might have overestimated the danger. There wasn’t much chance of him getting killed, though he could have got bruised up some. He wasn’t a good choice to send down to El Poche.”
“I know that now.” Connie Braithwaite looked uneasily up and down the hallway. “I wonder if I might come in?”
“Sure.” Hooker reached out to open the door. The knob and a good-sized chunk of the wood panel came off in his hand. “We had a little ruckus here last night,” he explained.
Connie stepped into the room and looked around at the shambles left from the night before. Hooker watched her closely for some sign of disapproval. He saw none and liked her for that.
“Earle doesn’t always make a good impression on people,” she said. “Not many men would have gone out of their way to help him.”
Hooker figured her to be about thirty, maybe a couple of years older, but well taken care of. Clearly, she had taken some pains about the way she looked that morning. Abruptly, he became aware that he was standing there wearing nothing but his shorts.
“Excuse me while I put something on,” he said. “Have a seat, if you can find one.”
Connie gave him a smile. She picked up one of the wooden chairs that had been knocked over in the melee and sat down. She crossed her legs with a whisper of nylon and watched him as he took a pair of pants from a hook in the wardrobe chest and stepped into them. He pulled on a blue cotton shirt and stepped into a pair of huaraches.
“So you were married to Nolan Braithwaite,” he said.
“As far as I know, I am married to Nolan Braithwaite. If you’re trying to calculate the age difference between us, it’s twenty-six years. Nolan will be fifty-seven. If he’s still alive.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And yes, I did marry him for his money. At least partly that. You would be surprised at how important money becomes when you don’t have any.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Sorry. Sometimes I get to thinking I’m the only one who’s ever been poor. Selfish attitude, isn’t it?”
Hooker said nothing.
Connie looked over at the gas stove in the tiny kitchen alcove. A blue enameled coffeepot sat on one of the burners.
“Is there any coffee in that thing?” she asked.
“It’s yesterday’s. I can heat it up.”
“That’s fine.”
Hooker struck a wooden match and held it over the gas burner. He kept his face well back out of range while he turned the handle, having learned when he moved in that the stove sometimes started with a small explosion. This time, however, the ring of blue flames came out without mishap.
He went back and picked up another of the fallen wooden chairs, placing it across the table from Connie Braithwaite. He offered her a Mexican Lucky Strike; when she declined, he lit one for himself.
“You said there was another reason for coming up here besides to thank me for saving your boy’s ass.”
The startling blue eyes did not blink. “I came to ask you to reconsider taking the job Earle told you about. He said you had some rule about not talking business with employees. Okay, now you can talk to the boss.”
“I just told him that because I didn’t like his attitude. I’ve got more important reasons for turning the job down.”
“Such as?”
“How much do you know about Quintana Roo, the territory where your husband’s plane is supposed to have gone down?”
“Not much, really. It’s on the eastern end of the Yucatan peninsula. It has no cities to speak of. Most of it is jungle. There are miles of coastline on the Caribbean but no beaches. The place is uninhabited except for some isolated Indians.”
“You’ve got the general idea,” Hooker said, “but there are a few more things you ought to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“Those isolated Indians you’re talking about are Mayas. They’re not the friendly folks you see selling serapes outside the hotels. There are tribes in the interior of Quintana Roo, where people are born, grow up, get old, and die and never see anybody from outside. And it’s probably just as well, because the old Mayas had a lot of unpleasant customs, like sacrificing young children to their gods and eating the liver out of a defeated enemy while he was still alive and watching.”
Hooker paused. Connie Braithwaite sat quietly, waiting for him to go on.
“Quintana Roo has snakes with a bite that can swell you up like a sausage and kill you in minutes. It has jaguars, which are very nasty-tempered cats, and caymans, which look like alligators but bite harder. A cayman can break a man’s back with its tail. There are more than a thousand different kinds of insects, and all of them bite. Should I tell you about the diseases, or are you getting the picture?”
“The picture I’m getting is that you don’t want to go to Quintana Roo.”
“Correct.”
“Did Earl Maples tell you about the money involved?”
“Several times. He said you would pay a bundle.”
“I will. You can name your own price, Mr. Hooker.”
“I don’t know where the story got started that Hooker will do anything for money.”
“You’re not going to go all sensitive on me, I hope,” she said. “As far as I know, there is nothing obscene about offering a man money to do a job.”
“A good point. You sound a little desperate, Mrs. Braithwaite.”
“I guess I am. It’s very important to me to find out what happened to my husband.”
“You realize the chances of finding him alive are close to zero.”
“Yes, I know that. But if Nolan is dead, I want proof.”
“So you can untie his money, I understand.”
“That’s right. I’m not going to give you any song and dance, Hooker. I don’t think I could fool you, anyway. If by some chance we do find Nolan alive, I’ll be glad. But if he’s dead, I don’t want to have to wait seven years to get what’s coming to me. Do I sound greedy?”
“Yeah, but aren’t we all.”
“Does that mean you’ll take the job?”
“It means I’m thinking it over.”
The coffee on the stove began to boil, making the lid dance on top of the pot. Hooker got up and poured the thick black brew into two heavy cups.
“Like anything in your coffee?”
“Sugar, please. Two spoons.”
Hooker took a sack of sugar from a shelf over the stove and measured two teaspoons into one of the cups. To his own he added a shot of tequila. He brought the cups back to the table.
Connie Braithwaite blew on her coffee to cool it, keeping her eyes on Hooker.
“I’ve been without my husband for a year,” she said. “What with all the legal details, I haven’t had much time for … recreation.”
“That’s too bad,” Hooker said.
“What I mean is, this trip wouldn’t have to be all business.”
“Excuse me, but does that mean you would plan on going along?”
“Of course. I’m not afraid of snakes and bugs. And I’m in good physical shape.”
“Oh, I can see that.”
“Well, thank goodness. I was beginning to think I’d gotten myself all pretty for nothing.”
“Mrs. Braithwaite, are we still talking about the price you’re willing to pay somebody to go looking for your husband?”
“No,” she said quickly. “The price is whatever we agree upon in dollars. Nothing else is promised. I’m just suggesting that things can happen sometimes that make a business deal more pleasurable.”
“I think I get the picture,” Hooker said.
The bead curtain closing off the bedroom rattled suddenly. Alita stepped out into the room, then stopped suddenly, doing a bad pantomime of being surprised. She was wearing a silk wrap-around thing that barely covered the essentials.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?”
Connie looked up with a polite smile. Alita answered with one of her own. Behind the bright feminine smiles, a challenge was given and accepted.
Hooker shoved his chair back and got to his feet. “Alita, this is Connie Braithwaite.”
“Ah,” said Alita, “the lady whose husband was in the airplane crash.”
“That’s right.” Hooker turned to Connie. “This is my friend, Alita Ruiz.”
“She’s lovely,” Connie said.
“Buenos días,” Alita said, batting her eyes unnecessarily.
“How very nice to meet you.”
“Me, too.”
The seconds ticked by in awkward silence.
“Do you want some coffee?” Hooker asked Alita.
“I’ll get it. You two go right on with your … business talk.”
“I was just leaving,” Connie said. “What about it, Hooker? Have you made up your mind?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast, will you? I want to get started as soon as possible.”
“I’ll let you know by the end of the day. Where are you staying?”
“Hotel Palacio.”
“I’ll get word to you.”
“I appreciate it.”
Connie stood up and gave her hand to Hooker. She held the pressure for a second or two longer than was necessary. Then she turned to Alita.
“It’s been a pleasure … Alita, wasn’t it?”
“Sure. A pleasure,” Alita said.
Hooker walked Connie Braithwaite out through the broken door, then came back and sat down at the table.
“What did you mean you’ll think about it?” Alita said.
“I meant I would think about it.”
“Last night you didn’t want no part of Quintana Roo.”
“So now it’s morning, and I’m reconsidering. How about scrambling some eggs?”
Alita strolled unhurriedly across to the kitchen alcove. From the ice box she took a bowl filled with eggs and a handful of wrinkled green chilis. She spoke without turning around.
“When did you start changing your mind? When the blonde lady said she was going along on the trip?”
“No. I think that’s a bum idea.”
“I bet you do.” Alita took a chopping knife from a drawer and began dicing up the hot chilis with an excess of vigor.
Hooker sat for a while watching her, then sighed. “All right, let’s hear it.”
She dropped a spoonful of lard into an iron frying pan and lit the gas burner beneath it. As the lard began to sizzle, she turned around with wide, innocent eyes.
“Let’s hear what, Johnny?”
“Whatever is eating you. I can’t enjoy my breakfast with you stomping around here crashing pots and pans together.”
“I didn’t crash no pans.”
“No, but you were about to start. I know the symptoms.”
Abruptly, she ran over and dropped onto his lap. She nuzzled the base of his neck. “Do you like her better than me, Johnny?”
“Don’t be silly. I don’t even know the woman.” He lifted her head and looked at her seriously. “As a matter of fact, I’m beginning to wonder how well I know you.”
“Now you’re funning me. You know all about me.”
“No man can know a woman that well.”
“But the other one is blonde and rich and everything I’m not. She looks like one of those ladies in the American movies.”
Hooker massaged her back. The warmth of her skin came through the thin silk wrapper. “Those women in the movies aren’t real. They’re only shadows.”
“This Connie what’s-her-name is real enough.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re going to see her today.”
“That’s strictly business.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Alita wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. She looked up with moist coffee-colored eyes. “You do adore me, don’t you, Johnny?”
“Sure.”
“Mucho?”
“Even more mucho if I had some breakfast in me.”
She kissed him, slid out of his lap, and went back to the lard sizzling in the frying pan. She added the chopped chilis and stirred in the eggs. Without turning around, she said, “If the blonde lady goes to Quintana Roo, I want to go, too.”
Hooker groaned.