Quintana Roo (5 page)

Carmen came up in front of Hooker and pulled his head down for a kiss. “You know, you ought to get yourself married. That Alita, she’s a nice girl, and she likes you a lot. Make you a real good wife.”

“Why is it a woman can’t stand to see a man single and happy?”

“Phooey, there ain’t no such thing.”

He gave her an affectionate pat on the rump. “So long,
chiquita
.”

“Hasta la vista.”
She watched the tall American walk through the small house and out the front door. From the street she heard the happy cries of Toby and Seth as he stopped to talk to them. Carmen held the 500 pesos tight against her bosom. Finally, she let herself cry.

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.

Hooker caught a ride to the eastern edge of the city with Fernando Garcia, who operated the grocery store below his apartment. There a patch of ground had been paved with tarmac to provide the small airfield that served Veracruz, mistitled Aeropuerto Grande.

Klaus Heinemann’s plane was easy to spot. The sturdy Stinson Detroiter was almost ten years old but had been lovingly maintained. The deep-red paint job with white trim was fresh. Even the rubber tires were newly blacked. The Stinson stood nine feet tall at the forward cabin and looked like a flagship among the motley collection of biplanes and relics of the war that shared the field.

Heinemann was standing on a stepladder with his sleeves rolled up. The cowling was open, and the German was leaning over the Wright J-6 engine holding a long screwdriver with the delicacy of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. Hooker walked up behind him.

“Lose something in there?”

Heinemann straightened and looked down from his perch on the ladder. “Just going over a few checkpoints. Sometimes the Mexicans are, well, not the world’s best mechanics.”

“They make the best enchiladas, though,” Hooker said.

“Undeniably.” Heinemann used a clean towel to wipe a few smudges of grease from his hands. He closed and latched the Stinson’s engine cowling and climbed down. “What brings you out here, my friend? No clients today?”

“One. Have you found anybody to replace the man who backed out of the trip to Mexico City?”

“Unfortunately, I have not. I am left with a flight-ready airplane and no place to fly.”

“Maybe I can help you out.”

“Oh?” Heinemann cocked an eyebrow.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Heinemann’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Not Quintana Roo?”

Hooker nodded.

“You actually accepted the job?”

“Yep. It depends, of course, on whether I can get a pilot to fly us down. So naturally, I thought of you, old pal.”

“Excuse me, did you say fly
us?
”

“Mrs. Braithwaite is going along. She insists.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe, but the lady is paying in U.S. dollars, and she seems to have an unlimited supply.”

“Sorry, Hooker. Even if I wanted to go along on this insane venture, which I do not, it is impossible. Surely you must know there is no usable airfield in the entire territory of Quintana Roo.”

“Yes, I know that,” Hooker said patiently. “I wouldn’t expect you to try to land there. They have a field at Campeche and at Mérida in Yucatan. You can refuel there; then we fly over the territory and look for the wreckage of Braithwaite’s plane.”

“You do understand the difficulty of sighting wreckage from the air? Especially wreckage a year old. More especially in the jungle.”

“Hey, I never said it was going to be easy. And we get paid whether we deliver or not.”

Heinemann looked at him, shaking his head.

“We know Braithwaite took off from Panama headed for Campeche, so we’ll have a general idea of his course. I figure we can cover it in two or three days.”

“In the unlikely event that we do sight the wreckage, then what?”

“Then we go back to the nearest airfield to set your machine down, and we walk in to look for whatever is left of Nolan Braithwaite.”

“You said walk?”

“Naturally, we’ll go as far as we can by truck, or whatever transportation we can dredge up, but unless we’re awfully lucky, we’re finally going to have to do some walking.”

Heinemann laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hooker, my friend, there is apparently no way I can talk you out of this fool’s errand, but before Klaus Heinemann leaves this airplane in the care of some ignorant Indians and walks into the jungles of Quintana Roo, the sun will rise in the west.”

“Okay,” Hooker conceded, “you don’t have to walk in with us. But I need a pilot to get me close enough to start, and you’re the best one available this side of Mexico City.”

“Who is a better pilot in Mexico City?” Heinemann demanded.

Hooker grinned at him.

“Aha, you think you can trap me by appealing to my pride in my flying.”

“And your greed,” Hooker added. “Remember, Mrs. Braithwaite pays very well.”

“You
are
crazy, Hooker. But I am not much better. If this were not so, why would the two of us be sweating our lives away here in Veracruz, eh? Let us go and discuss arrangements with your Mrs. Braithwaite.”

Two hours later, Hooker and Heinemann were in Connie Braithwaite’s suite in the Hotel Palacio. Hooker noted a couple of changes since he had been there earlier in the day. Connie had changed into a modest, businesslike suit, and tequila had been added to the liquor supply. He lounged in one of the white overstuffed chairs and drank while Heinemann and Connie sat formally on opposite ends of the white and gold sofa.

“I’m glad you’re going to be with us, Mr. Heinemann,” Connie said.

“Only in the air,” he reminded her.

“Understood. I don’t blame you for wanting to stay with your airplane.”

“That is only part of it. I have a strong dislike for jungles where there are living things that might eat me.”

“Mr. Hooker has already given me a full rundown of the dangers.”

“I would hope so.”

“He was trying to talk me out of going.”

“Unsuccessfully, it appears.”

“Yes. I can be a very stubborn woman.”

“That can be a valuable trait … or a dangerous one.”

“Or both.” Connie dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “At any rate, your responsibility ends once the plane touches down. On the ground, Hooker will take over.”

“You will be in good hands,” Heinemann said.

“My secretary will be back soon,” Connie said. “I’ll have him prepare a check as an advance for your services. In the meantime, will you have a drink?”

Heinemann glanced at his watch. “It is tempting, but I should begin making the preparations. You can handle the financial arrangements through my friend Hooker.”

• • •

The German was at the bar in El Poche when Hooker walked in forty-five minutes later and handed him a check.

“How are the preparations coming along, Kraut?”

Heinemann let his pale eyebrows ride up in mock surprise. “You’re here already? I should have thought you and the lovely Mrs. Braithwaite were good for at least an hour.”

“Nothing like that is going on,” Hooker said.

“Really? Then I don’t suppose you would mind if I had a shot at the lady myself?”

“If you want to, go ahead.”

Heinemann laughed. “Just making a joke, my friend. A poor one, it would appear, but as you know, we Germans have no sense of humor.”

Hooker glared at him for a moment, then relaxed into a grin. “You can say that again. But you make good beer.”

Heinemann rolled his eyes and turned back to the bar, where a cup of Silvera’s terrible coffee was cooling.

“I’ve made up a list of supplies we’ll have to get before we leave Veracruz,” Hooker said. “I thought you’d want to go over them to check the weight and the space they’ll take up for the flight.”

Heinemann took the sheet of paper from Hooker and spread it out on the bar. He began reading methodically down the penciled list of items, using his fountain pen to make notes in a neat, angular hand.