Read Online Puerto Vallarta Squeeze by Robert James Waller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert James Waller
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The shooter was running a towel over his hair.
””feah, once… in San Bias, that is. Several years ago, when I was drifting south. Stayed at the place with the stuffed crocodile and fought off bugs all night. The screens had holes in them.”
Danny hadn’t met Luz at that time and had spent an evening in an upstairs gringo bar, a place called Tacky Chuck’s, looking out the window. Some kind of celebration had been going on, people marching around the plaza, a band playing. He’d talked with a young American woman named Stacie—50 percent of young American women seemed to have that Christian name—who came from LA. and whose conversation mostly consisted of “like… uh… you know.” She told him she didn’t believe… like, uh, you know… in institutionalized religion, that she worshiped God in her own way.
She’d asked Danny what he thought about the whole religion-God deal. He’d told her she was about as deep as sweat, philosophically, and paid his bar bill. He knew she’d eventually get hustled by some handsome Mexican waiter who’d tell her if he just had a little money, he’d be able to buy a motorboat and make a good living as a fisherman. After he got his boat, he’d beat her around until she took her fouled-up life down the road. It happened all the time.
But they kept coming down for more, the blondes and redheads and all other colors, divorced or on spring break or bought off by their parents to get the hell out of everybody’s life and smoke their dope or take their troubles elsewhere. A fair number of them came to San Bias. Something to do with pirates, Danny figured, and some strange kind of female yearning for abuse, too. He’d once sat at a beach restaurant south of Puerto Vallarta with a woman who pointed out to the little cove nearby and said, “See all those boats bobbing out there? I think I bought every god-damned one of’em.” She’d been good-looking at one time, but the effects of sustained boat buying for fishermen who formerly had been waiters were showing on her. She’d been broke, and he’d treated her to a fancy tourist drink, for which she’d eventually been more than appreciative.
The shooter was cleaned up and walking across the Las Brisas courtyard toward Danny and Luz. His jeans and a khaki shirt both were holding a decent press in spite of the evening heat and humidity. The guy knew how to pack, that much was clear.
They drank in a little restaurant bar attached to the hotel, overhead fans pushing the same warm, damp air around and over them. Since the shooter was buying, Luz drank margaritas, sitting there in her jeans and sandals, white off-the-shoulder blouse. Danny ordered a beer and nursed it, working on staying reasonably alert.
The shooter took out his Marlboros, offered the pack to both Luz and Danny. Luz said no thank you, and Danny took one, saying, “I stopped smoking two years ago, then started again and quit and started. Now I’m quitting, but bumming.” Mumbling, mumbling crap, said Danny to himself, and telling his mind to get steady.
After the shooter had lit his own cigarette, he slid the silver lighter toward Danny.
Danny lit his and handed the Zippo back to the shooter. “How long you been in Mexico?”
“Few days. Like I said last night, friend dropped me off his sailboat. Got our signals mixed, and he didn’t come back for me.”
Danny had noticed earlier the heavy bracelet on the shooter’s right wrist but could see it better now. It had a large, deep-blue stone embedded in the silver, and Danny asked if he could take a closer look. The shooter took off the bracelet and handed it to him. Danny was surprised at its weight and said as much.
The shooter put it back on his wrist and shrugged. “Lots of silver in it, I guess. Bought it in the Middle East.”
“When you came in by boat the way you did, how’d you check in with immigration?”
“I didn’t. Didn’t feel like bothering them.” The shooter tilted up his
””feah, once… in San Bias, that is. Several years ago, when I was drifting south. Stayed at the place with the stuffed crocodile and fought off bugs all night. The screens had holes in them.”
Danny hadn’t met Luz at that time and had spent an evening in an upstairs gringo bar, a place called Tacky Chuck’s, looking out the window. Some kind of celebration had been going on, people marching around the plaza, a band playing. He’d talked with a young American woman named Stacie—50 percent of young American women seemed to have that Christian name—who came from LA. and whose conversation mostly consisted of “like… uh… you know.” She told him she didn’t believe… like, uh, you know… in institutionalized religion, that she worshiped God in her own way.
She’d asked Danny what he thought about the whole religion-God deal. He’d told her she was about as deep as sweat, philosophically, and paid his bar bill. He knew she’d eventually get hustled by some handsome Mexican waiter who’d tell her if he just had a little money, he’d be able to buy a motorboat and make a good living as a fisherman. After he got his boat, he’d beat her around until she took her fouled-up life down the road. It happened all the time.
But they kept coming down for more, the blondes and redheads and all other colors, divorced or on spring break or bought off by their parents to get the hell out of everybody’s life and smoke their dope or take their troubles elsewhere. A fair number of them came to San Bias. Something to do with pirates, Danny figured, and some strange kind of female yearning for abuse, too. He’d once sat at a beach restaurant south of Puerto Vallarta with a woman who pointed out to the little cove nearby and said, “See all those boats bobbing out there? I think I bought every god-damned one of’em.” She’d been good-looking at one time, but the effects of sustained boat buying for fishermen who formerly had been waiters were showing on her. She’d been broke, and he’d treated her to a fancy tourist drink, for which she’d eventually been more than appreciative.
The shooter was cleaned up and walking across the Las Brisas courtyard toward Danny and Luz. His jeans and a khaki shirt both were holding a decent press in spite of the evening heat and humidity. The guy knew how to pack, that much was clear.
They drank in a little restaurant bar attached to the hotel, overhead fans pushing the same warm, damp air around and over them. Since the shooter was buying, Luz drank margaritas, sitting there in her jeans and sandals, white off-the-shoulder blouse. Danny ordered a beer and nursed it, working on staying reasonably alert.
The shooter took out his Marlboros, offered the pack to both Luz and Danny. Luz said no thank you, and Danny took one, saying, “I stopped smoking two years ago, then started again and quit and started. Now I’m quitting, but bumming.” Mumbling, mumbling crap, said Danny to himself, and telling his mind to get steady.
After the shooter had lit his own cigarette, he slid the silver lighter toward Danny.
Danny lit his and handed the Zippo back to the shooter. “How long you been in Mexico?”
“Few days. Like I said last night, friend dropped me off his sailboat. Got our signals mixed, and he didn’t come back for me.”
Danny had noticed earlier the heavy bracelet on the shooter’s right wrist but could see it better now. It had a large, deep-blue stone embedded in the silver, and Danny asked if he could take a closer look. The shooter took off the bracelet and handed it to him. Danny was surprised at its weight and said as much.
The shooter put it back on his wrist and shrugged. “Lots of silver in it, I guess. Bought it in the Middle East.”
“When you came in by boat the way you did, how’d you check in with immigration?”
“I didn’t. Didn’t feel like bothering them.” The shooter tilted up his
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