an extra squirt of money to supplement her disability pension,” the manager told them. “She was very good. The arrangement was convenient for everybody.”
“Is there any possibility that she took the job because she knew she would meet Paulo Mejia?” Lucas asked.
The manager shook his head. “Mr. Mejia never came here—only the once, to look at the parking for an appraisal he was doing. I introduced them when he needed some numbers.”
“Purely by chance.”
He nodded. “By chance.” He explained that he didn’t know Mejia was coming that day, and that she’d come in at the last minute to deal with a money problem involving a group of Americans who had asked to extend their vacation stay. “She could not have planned it.”
He also characterized her as cheerful and hardworking, and said that her hours were increasing each month. “I would have liked to employ her full-time, if she had not been a foreigner,” he said. “She worked very well.”
Mallard asked about pictures, and the manager shrugged. “How often do you take pictures of people in your office? We’re not tourists—we work here.”
ON THE WAY back to the hotel, all four of them were quiet, thinking their own thoughts, until Lucas asked Martin, “Why is it that everybody speaks English? Everybody we’ve seen….”
Martin sighed. “Gringo imperialism. Cancún business is Americans and Canadians. And English people, and now some Germans. Always Israelis. There’s a story—not a story, you would call it a line —about Cancún,” Martin said. “It’s that Cancún is just like Miami—except in Miami, they speak Spanish.”
AT THE HOTEL , Martin got out of the truck, shook hands with the three Americans, and asked Lucas to get the name of the San Francisco store where he’d bought the jacket. Lucas said he would find it and call back.
“Not much here,” Lucas said, as he watched Martin drive away. Then he, Mallard, and Malone crossed into the cool of the hotel.
“But we got a deal with old man Mejia, which is the main thing,” Mallard said. “If he decides to put a price on her head, Rinker’s gonna have a hard time getting any help from the underground. Word’ll get around.”
“You have more faith than I do,” Lucas said. “Most of the fuckin’ underground can’t read a TV Guide.”
“I’m not talking about the assholes on the corner,” Mallard said. “I’m talking about the gun dealers and the moneymen and the document people. They’ll hear. She’ll have trouble moving.”
Lucas shook his head; he disagreed. The disagreement was fundamental, and generally divided all cops everywhere: Some believed in underlying social order, in which messages got relayed and people kept an eye out, and bosses reigned and buttonmen were ready to take orders, and a network connected them. And some cops believed in social chaos, in which most events occurred through accident, coincidence, stupidity, cupidity, and luck, both good and bad. Lucas fell into the chaos camp, while Mallard and Malone believed in the underlying order.
WHEN WORKING OUT the trip to Mexico, Mallard had allowed extra time for a certain inefficiency; but Martin had been so ruthlessly efficient that they were done at two o’clock, mission more or less accomplished.
“Swim?” Malone asked.
“Too hot,” Lucas said. “I’m gonna get a beer at the bar, then a couple of papers, and lay up in my room with the air-conditioning on. Maybe swim before dinner?”
“Not bad,” Mallard said. “I’m for a beer or two.”
“I’ll join you,” Malone said. “But I gotta run up to my room for a minute.”
Lucas and Mallard stopped at the hotel gift shop and bought copies of the Times and the Wall Street Journal, carried the papers into the cool of the bar, got a booth, and ordered Dos Equis.
“You read the editorials?” Mallard asked.
“Yeah, though I know it’s wrong,” Lucas said.
“You want the Fascists or the
“Is there any possibility that she took the job because she knew she would meet Paulo Mejia?” Lucas asked.
The manager shook his head. “Mr. Mejia never came here—only the once, to look at the parking for an appraisal he was doing. I introduced them when he needed some numbers.”
“Purely by chance.”
He nodded. “By chance.” He explained that he didn’t know Mejia was coming that day, and that she’d come in at the last minute to deal with a money problem involving a group of Americans who had asked to extend their vacation stay. “She could not have planned it.”
He also characterized her as cheerful and hardworking, and said that her hours were increasing each month. “I would have liked to employ her full-time, if she had not been a foreigner,” he said. “She worked very well.”
Mallard asked about pictures, and the manager shrugged. “How often do you take pictures of people in your office? We’re not tourists—we work here.”
ON THE WAY back to the hotel, all four of them were quiet, thinking their own thoughts, until Lucas asked Martin, “Why is it that everybody speaks English? Everybody we’ve seen….”
Martin sighed. “Gringo imperialism. Cancún business is Americans and Canadians. And English people, and now some Germans. Always Israelis. There’s a story—not a story, you would call it a line —about Cancún,” Martin said. “It’s that Cancún is just like Miami—except in Miami, they speak Spanish.”
AT THE HOTEL , Martin got out of the truck, shook hands with the three Americans, and asked Lucas to get the name of the San Francisco store where he’d bought the jacket. Lucas said he would find it and call back.
“Not much here,” Lucas said, as he watched Martin drive away. Then he, Mallard, and Malone crossed into the cool of the hotel.
“But we got a deal with old man Mejia, which is the main thing,” Mallard said. “If he decides to put a price on her head, Rinker’s gonna have a hard time getting any help from the underground. Word’ll get around.”
“You have more faith than I do,” Lucas said. “Most of the fuckin’ underground can’t read a TV Guide.”
“I’m not talking about the assholes on the corner,” Mallard said. “I’m talking about the gun dealers and the moneymen and the document people. They’ll hear. She’ll have trouble moving.”
Lucas shook his head; he disagreed. The disagreement was fundamental, and generally divided all cops everywhere: Some believed in underlying social order, in which messages got relayed and people kept an eye out, and bosses reigned and buttonmen were ready to take orders, and a network connected them. And some cops believed in social chaos, in which most events occurred through accident, coincidence, stupidity, cupidity, and luck, both good and bad. Lucas fell into the chaos camp, while Mallard and Malone believed in the underlying order.
WHEN WORKING OUT the trip to Mexico, Mallard had allowed extra time for a certain inefficiency; but Martin had been so ruthlessly efficient that they were done at two o’clock, mission more or less accomplished.
“Swim?” Malone asked.
“Too hot,” Lucas said. “I’m gonna get a beer at the bar, then a couple of papers, and lay up in my room with the air-conditioning on. Maybe swim before dinner?”
“Not bad,” Mallard said. “I’m for a beer or two.”
“I’ll join you,” Malone said. “But I gotta run up to my room for a minute.”
Lucas and Mallard stopped at the hotel gift shop and bought copies of the Times and the Wall Street Journal, carried the papers into the cool of the bar, got a booth, and ordered Dos Equis.
“You read the editorials?” Mallard asked.
“Yeah, though I know it’s wrong,” Lucas said.
“You want the Fascists or the
Similar Books
