For the people who had enough money to travel in 1939 and who stopped for one reason or another in Veracruz, there was only one acceptable address. The Hotel Palacio. Despite the revolutionary fervor of the country, names with an imperial ring to them remained popular. Most of the streets had been renamed Avenida Republica or Independencia or Primero de Mayo, but many of the old buildings remained Royale or Imperiale or Maximiliano.
Like the Hotel Palacio. The Palacio was on Avenida Hernàn Cortés, with the upper rooms offering a fine view of Parque Zamora. The pillared entrance led into a vaulted lobby in Spanish colonial style. The floor was tile, the furniture of heavy dark wood upholstered in crimson plush.
A squad of botones in tight, brass-buttoned jackets and pillbox hats stood at attention, ready to spring forward and snatch the luggage from the hand of a weary traveler or otherwise be of service. Into this imposing lobby strode John Hooker, his boot heels ringing on the tile. The eyes of the rigid botones flickered over him without interest. They knew instinctively that this somewhat shaggy gringo dressed in khakis and in need of a shave was not a guest of the Palacio.
The desk clerk, a precise young man with a waxed mustache, eyed him coolly.
“Señor?”
“Mrs. Braithwaite’s room.”
“You are expected?”
“I am.”
“Your name, señor?
“Hooker.”
The clerk’s expression said he had his doubts that any guest of the Palacio would have business with such a questionable individual. He picked up a telephone from the counter and spoke to the hotel operator, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. He waited, keeping an eye on Hooker as though fearful the man might steal the pen from its holder next to the register. There was a metalic click from the ear piece, and the clerk’s voice became professionally servile.
“Forgive the intrusion, but there is a … gentleman at the desk who wishes to see Mrs. Braithwaite. He says he is expected. A Mr. Hooker.”
He listened for a moment, then smiled at Hooker, suddenly respectful. “Suite 601, Mr. Hooker. You may go right up.”
Hooker gave the man a mean look just for the hell of it and crossed the lobby to the elevator. The gray-haired operator took him up to the sixth floor. He walked down the carpeted hallway to a white-painted door with the numerals 601 in gold. He knocked.
The door was opened quickly by Earle Maples. The little man’s nose was slightly swollen, and there was a faint bruise on one cheekbone, but considering the rough handling he took the night before, he didn’t look bad.
“Please come in.” Maples kept his eyes focused at about the level of Hooker’s chin. “Mrs. Braithwaite will be out in a minute. Please make yourself comfortable. I have some errands to attend to.”
Hooker strolled in and looked around the huge sitting room. It was done in white and gold with black accents. He half expected Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to dance through.
Maples went out into another room, closing the door quietly behind him. Hooker wandered over to where a hotel cart stood bearing an ice bucket, glasses, and several decanters. He pulled the stopper from one of the decanters and sniffed the contents. Brandy. He replaced the stopper and put the decanter back.
Another door opened, and Connie Braithwaite swept into the room. She wore a satiny white outfit with fur at the collar and pants that were tight in the ass and flapped around her ankles. If she wore it out on the street in Mexico, she could get arrested. In there, it looked just fine.
She held out a hand. Hooker took it, surprised at the strength of her grip.
“Hello, Hooker. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
He let his eyes ride over her outfit and her carefully brushed hair. “Sure you were.”
She smiled, not at all disconcerted. “Will you have something to drink?”
“Got any tequila?”
“I’m afraid not. Cognac. And scotch.”
“I’ll pass,” Hooker said.
“Have you thought about my proposition?”
“Yeah, some.”
“And have you come to a decision?”
“I’ll take the job, if you can meet my price.”
“I told you the cost doesn’t matter.” Her eyes grew wary for a moment. “Within reasonable limits, of course.”
“I’ll want five thousand dollars for myself, plus expenses,” Hooker said. When Connie Braithwaite did not flinch, he went on. “If we have to spend more than a week in Quintana Roo, I’ll need another fifty dollars a day.”
“You don’t work cheap, do you?” she said.
“If you wanted cheap, you should have looked for somebody else.”
“All right, five thousand advance plus expenses and fifty a day for each day over a week in Quintana Roo. You’ve got it.”
“I’m not through yet. We’ll need a plane. And an experienced pilot.”
“Do you know somebody?”
“I think so. It will take a couple of days to get him and his machine lined up and to arrange for the supplies we’ll need. If we have to walk into the jungle down there, and we probably will, we’ll need a couple more men.”
“Will the airplane carry all of us?”
“It won’t have to. We’ll pick up the extra men in Yucatan or Campeche.”
“Why can’t we do that in Quintana Roo?”
“Because as far as I know, there isn’t a spot in the whole territory where we can land.”
She lit a cigarette — long and slim and cork tipped. “What’s your honest opinion, Hooker? What are our chances of finding Nolan?”
“Alive or dead?”
“Either way.”
“Alive, I’d say ten to one against. Dead, maybe four or five to one.”
Connie inhaled cigarette smoke and blew it out in a thin stream.
“Still want to go through with it?” he asked.
“Of course I do. The deal is made, Hooker.”
“Then I suppose I’d better get to work.”
He started toward the door. A light hand on his arm stopped him. He turned and looked down into Connie Braithwaite’s startling blue eyes.
“Do you have to rush off right this minute?” she said.
“I don’t have to, but I think it would be a good idea.”
Her look was clear and direct. “Why?”
“It’s been my experience that it’s not good business for the hired help to get romantically involved with the boss.”
“Did I say anything about romance?”
“Didn’t you?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Maybe. Then the thought did cross your mind.”
“Oh, hell, yes.”
She gave him a little smile. “Well, that’s something.”
Hooker softened his tone. “Mrs. Braithwaite, you’re a damned attractive woman….”
“Please, make it Connie,” she said.
“Okay. If the circumstances were different, Connie, I’d be falling all over myself trying to get you into bed. In fact, right now I’m looking at the way your body moves under that silky thing you’ve got on, and I’m getting more than a little steamed up. But like I said, it’s not good business, and this is my business.”
She gave his arm a little squeeze, then let go. “Thanks, Hooker.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel like a desirable woman again. Since Nolan disappeared, the only men around me have been lawyers and Earle Maples. The lawyers are only interested in my money, and well, you’ve seen Earle. I was beginning to have doubts about my femininity.”
“You can put away the doubts,” he told her.
“And I do respect your business ethics,” she added. “That’s one thing I learned from Nolan. But the job won’t last forever, will it.”
“A couple of weeks, tops.”
“Maybe when it’s over, we can talk again.”
“I don’t see why not,” he said, and went out.