Capt. Luis Delgado of the Campeche Policía was a self-important man with a belly that threatened to explode the buttons off his brown uniform shirt. He sat on the cushioned swivel chair in his office and sternly regarded the three gringos seated across from him. Hooker, Heinemann, and Connie Braithwaite perched on their hard wooden chairs and waited.
Gradually, Delgado allowed his heavy features to relax into a smile of creamy benevolence.
“I am pleased to say there will be no charges filed in the unfortunate incident last night regarding the late José Chacón.”
“That is good news, captain,” Heinemann said.
Hooker glanced up at the flyspecked face of the clock on the office wall. It was three in the afternoon. The message must have finally come through from the Banco de Mexico that Mrs. Nolan Braithwaite’s draft was valid. It was remarkable how swiftly criminal charges could vanish there if the mordida were generous enough.
“The Chacón person had a long history as a lawbreaker,” Delgado continued. “Even now he is being sought by the Federales to answer a charge of murder. A thoroughly bad man. Mexican.”
Delgado, like his fellow Yucatecans, considered themselves separate from the rest of the country. There were, in fact, considerable differences. Where Mexico, at least in the larger cities, was striving to be modern, Yucatan clung to nineteenth-century ways. The revolutionary fervor that burned throughout Mexico was not evident on the peninsula. There life was slow and relaxed. The people felt a closer bond to Old World Europe than they did to modern Mexico City.
“Can we go?” Hooker said. He was anxious to get out of the stuffy office and away from the oily police captain.
Delgado’s eyes narrowed, but his smile stayed in place. “Of course. There is no reason for me to hold you now…. Is there?”
• • •
He allowed the question to hang for a moment, then shifted his gaze across Heinemann to Connie Braithwaite. “Allow me to wish you a pleasant stay in our city.” After a moment, he added, “May I ask how long that stay will be?”
“Not long,” Connie said. “We have other business.”
The captain’s smile faded. “Ah, yes, your planned expedition into Quintana Roo. For your sake, I hope you stay in your airplane. The jungle from above has a certain beauty, but below, Quintana Roo is a savage land, untouched by our civilization.”
“The maps show cities there,” Connie said. “And roads.”
“The maps lie,” Delgado said. “Most of those roads and cities do not exist except in the mind of the appointed governor. He has to show some form of progress to justify the federal money he spends while never leaving his mansion in Puerto Morelos.”
“There must be trails,” Hooker said, “leading in from the state of Campeche.”
“Yes, there are trails used by the Mayas. But be warned that the Mayas of Quintana Roo are not the same peaceful Indians you see here in Campeche. We call them Indios sublevados. They are rebellious. Untamed. You will meet dangers there you cannot imagine.”
“Not the muerateros again,” Hooker said.
Delgado looked at him. “Superstition, you would say. Maybe. Me, I would not take the chance.”
“We appreciate your concern,” Connie said, “but our plans are made.”
“I cannot discourage you?”
“Not after we’ve come this far.”
“Then may God go with you. You will have need of Him.”
When they were standing on the street outside the Spanish colonial city hall, Hooker glowered up at the darkening sky. “At least it isn’t raining yet,” he said, “but we’ve lost the whole day.”
“We might have lost much more for killing a Mexican citizen,” Heinemann reminded him.
“If you carry enough bribe money, you can kill anybody you want to in Mexico.”
“Nevertheless, I am grateful to be here on the street rather than in the local calabozo. And I can use the time to make doubly sure the airplane is ready for our flight. Why don’t you two see some of the local sights?”
“That sounds like fun,” Connie said. “How about it, Hooker?”
It sounded like a pain in the ass to Hooker, but the woman was paying for it, so he said, “Sure, why not.”
They hailed a calecha, one of the horse-drawn carriages that took the place of taxis in the cities of Yucatan. They were tall, narrow boxes with the driver perched above. As transportation, the calechas were slow, uncomfortable, and to Hooker’s mind, completely without charm. Connie was delighted with them.
“Just take us around the town,” Hooker told the driver. “Show us whatever passes for the sights.”
Encouraged by the prospect of a huge tip from the rich gringos, the driver spurred his ancient horse into a sort of shambling trot. He volunteered descriptions in a bad mix of Spanish and English while Connie asked questions and Hooker looked bored.
As in all Mexican cities and villages, the centerpiece of Campeche was the church. Here it was a brooding monster of Spanish Renaissance stone that towered over the plaza. The rest of the commercial city was low buildings of no particular distinction. The driver took them out along the coast, where at least there was a breeze. The Gulf was only occasionally visible between the slapped-together shacks of the fishermen. They turned back inland and followed the fringe of the city where there were clusters of the tall oval huts of the Mayas. The staked walls and palm-thatched roofs gave the huts an African look.
Little as he cared about local color, Hooker found himself enjoying Connie’s enthusiasm. When she asked the driver to stop and follow while they walked through an Indian neighborhood, he did not protest.
The Mayas were a small people with skin the color of a good European sun tan. Their bright black eyes followed the two strangers along the hard-packed dirt road. Unlike the cities of central Mexico where the children swarmed all over tourists begging for money, the Mayan children watched shyly from behind the skirts of their mothers. The Mayan men, dressed uniformly in white pants cut above the ankle, were wary and aloof.
Connie was charmed by the whole experience, and even Hooker couldn’t help grinning back at a little girl who escaped her mother long enough to wave at him.
By the time they got back to the hotel, he was in good spirits in spite of himself.
Heinemann had not returned from the airfield, so Hooker and Connie went into the hotel bar for dinner. From a kitchen somewhere, the bartender brought them steaming bowls of zarzuela, a mixture of sea food from the day’s catch prepared in a spicy sauce. They ate it with hot tortillas and washed it down with glasses of dark Yucatan beer.
After dinner, they sat up at the bar. Connie had some Portuguese brandy, Hooker his usual tequila. The bartender cranked up an old phonograph and played the only two American records he had: Bing Crosby singing “Please” and Bunny Berigan’s “Can’t Get Started.” After that he put on some maudlin Mexican ballads that Hooker was amazed to find sounded romantic as hell. He knew then that he was getting a little drunk.
“Why are Mexican songs always so sad?” Connie asked.
“The people have a sad history,” Hooker said. “First they were exploited by the Spanish, then the French, now by their own politicians.”
“You care about the people, don’t you, Hooker?”
“Some of them.”
“Like the girl in your apartment?”
“Like her.”
They were silent for a moment. The bartender cranked up his machine and put Bing Crosby on again.
“You know something, Hooker,” Connie said, “I was jealous as hell of that girl.”
Hooker started a flip reply, but he saw the beginning of tears in Connie’s eyes and bit it off. “Connie, you’re a beautiful woman. You’re young and healthy, and you’ve got all the money you’ll ever need. You don’t have to be jealous of anybody.”
“You’re right,” she said quickly. “It must be the brandy and that schmaltzy music. I’d better go up to my room before I fall into a crying jag.”
“I’ll walk up with you,” Hooker said.
They went upstairs together, and Hooker inspected the new heavy lock they’d had installed on Connie’s door. When he was satisfied the room was secure, he turned to tell Connie good night. She walked into his arms. He held her and kissed her. Her mouth was hungry.
“I don’t want you to leave me tonight,” she said. “Stay with me.”
“It wouldn’t be smart.”
She took a step back. Her hand traveled down over his chest to his belt and below. “I’m tired of being smart. And I’m tired of following your rules. Don’t you ever break one of them?”
“Sometimes.”
“Like now?” Her fingers worked persuasively.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, “like now.”
• • •
Much later, as Connie Braithwaite slept naked by his side, Hooker eased out of bed, pulled on his clothes in the dark, and went downstairs. He hoped the bar was still open.