Read Online Puerto Vallarta Squeeze by Robert James Waller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert James Waller
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Pacifico, Adam’s apple working as the beer went down.
““You don’t have a tourist card, then?” Danny already knew why. No tracks, no evidence he’d been in Mexico. Still, why risk being picked up for something like that, when he could have cooked up false papers? Unless he’d had to come in fast and didn’t have time for paper shuffling.
The shooter smiled. “No tourist card; only figured on being there a day or two.”
Luz was staring at the shooter in wonderment and wide in the eyes, looking over at Danny between stares. Danny wasn’t surprised she was surprised. Here was a guy who didn’t like airplanes or traveler’s checks or credit cards or, for God’s sake, tourist documents handed out routinely and generally without question. On the other hand, the odds of having your papers checked in a tourist town were just about zero unless you did something really stupid. If Luz had known what Danny knew, it would all make sense, but she didn’t.
Danny pushed it, wanted to see what his plans were. “How the hell are you going to get across the border?
That’s the first thing they want to see, especially at an out-of-the-way place like Sonoyta or whatever it’s called.”
“I’ll work it out. Turn myself into a stone, have you catapult me over, something like that.”
Danny thought, Now he’s getting occult on me, runelike. The shooter was grinning, in kind of a viperish way, it seemed to Danny, while he ordered another Pacifico. Luz was still looking, first at the shooter, then at Danny, wondering about the ways of gringo men she’d known and marveling for about the zillionth time at their total concentration on being self-destructive.
The shooter added a postscript. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll figure something out. It’s not your problem. Just get me within walking distance of the border and we’ll consider it done. I understand mordida” —the bite— “works pretty well, a few bucks in a border official’s hand, that sort of thing. If that fails, you can take me to one of the major crossing points and I’ll slide through at rush hour.”
He was right. That’d probably work, unless the border cops were looking for someone in particular, someone trying to get back to the United States fast.
Danny and the shooter ordered the fish special for dinner. Luz went for broiled shrimp in garlic butter. The sound system was playing American Dixieland jazz, out of keeping with the surroundings and some frail and failed attempt at pleasing gringos, making them feel like they weren’t really too far from home. Danny listened to a nice trumpet solo on “Summertime” and ate his fish and brown rice, glancing up now and then at the shooter, who was asking Luz about her life. She was pleased he’d asked; that much was clear.
She told him what Danny already knew, leaving out certain and significant parts, of course, and finished up by saying, “Danny came in the restaurant where I was working, one night. I liked him right away; he was more polite than most of the men. I remember he was going to order enchiladas, but I told him the chiles rellenos were better, that we had big chiles and big chiles are very good.” She smiled at Danny, but the shooter didn’t seem to be picking up on it, that chiles play a central role in Mexican sexual humor. To be a man and have a big chili is considered a good thing. Danny rolled his eyes and looked out the window.
The Dixieland band moved into “Muskrat Ramble.” From the small aviary in the hotel courtyard, parrots took up where the trombone left off: shufflin’… shufflin… arrrk!
Mosquitoes whined on the other side of the screen next to Danny, looking in at his face and neck: “Psst! Hey, you… gringo guy… come outside for just a little while, gringo.” One of the cooks was laughing somewhere back in the kitchen, and the overhead fan turned slowly, reminding Danny of a boozy old song they used to sing about one of the early hangouts in
““You don’t have a tourist card, then?” Danny already knew why. No tracks, no evidence he’d been in Mexico. Still, why risk being picked up for something like that, when he could have cooked up false papers? Unless he’d had to come in fast and didn’t have time for paper shuffling.
The shooter smiled. “No tourist card; only figured on being there a day or two.”
Luz was staring at the shooter in wonderment and wide in the eyes, looking over at Danny between stares. Danny wasn’t surprised she was surprised. Here was a guy who didn’t like airplanes or traveler’s checks or credit cards or, for God’s sake, tourist documents handed out routinely and generally without question. On the other hand, the odds of having your papers checked in a tourist town were just about zero unless you did something really stupid. If Luz had known what Danny knew, it would all make sense, but she didn’t.
Danny pushed it, wanted to see what his plans were. “How the hell are you going to get across the border?
That’s the first thing they want to see, especially at an out-of-the-way place like Sonoyta or whatever it’s called.”
“I’ll work it out. Turn myself into a stone, have you catapult me over, something like that.”
Danny thought, Now he’s getting occult on me, runelike. The shooter was grinning, in kind of a viperish way, it seemed to Danny, while he ordered another Pacifico. Luz was still looking, first at the shooter, then at Danny, wondering about the ways of gringo men she’d known and marveling for about the zillionth time at their total concentration on being self-destructive.
The shooter added a postscript. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll figure something out. It’s not your problem. Just get me within walking distance of the border and we’ll consider it done. I understand mordida” —the bite— “works pretty well, a few bucks in a border official’s hand, that sort of thing. If that fails, you can take me to one of the major crossing points and I’ll slide through at rush hour.”
He was right. That’d probably work, unless the border cops were looking for someone in particular, someone trying to get back to the United States fast.
Danny and the shooter ordered the fish special for dinner. Luz went for broiled shrimp in garlic butter. The sound system was playing American Dixieland jazz, out of keeping with the surroundings and some frail and failed attempt at pleasing gringos, making them feel like they weren’t really too far from home. Danny listened to a nice trumpet solo on “Summertime” and ate his fish and brown rice, glancing up now and then at the shooter, who was asking Luz about her life. She was pleased he’d asked; that much was clear.
She told him what Danny already knew, leaving out certain and significant parts, of course, and finished up by saying, “Danny came in the restaurant where I was working, one night. I liked him right away; he was more polite than most of the men. I remember he was going to order enchiladas, but I told him the chiles rellenos were better, that we had big chiles and big chiles are very good.” She smiled at Danny, but the shooter didn’t seem to be picking up on it, that chiles play a central role in Mexican sexual humor. To be a man and have a big chili is considered a good thing. Danny rolled his eyes and looked out the window.
The Dixieland band moved into “Muskrat Ramble.” From the small aviary in the hotel courtyard, parrots took up where the trombone left off: shufflin’… shufflin… arrrk!
Mosquitoes whined on the other side of the screen next to Danny, looking in at his face and neck: “Psst! Hey, you… gringo guy… come outside for just a little while, gringo.” One of the cooks was laughing somewhere back in the kitchen, and the overhead fan turned slowly, reminding Danny of a boozy old song they used to sing about one of the early hangouts in
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