The Scared Stiff

38

In a funny way, I was disappointed. I’d wanted to do the caper. Hiding in the men’s room, eating Ifigenia’s quesillo in the Hall of Records at midnight, sliding out in the morning just before Leon Kaplan would march in; then all of a sudden, it became too easy.

But that was a quibble; basically, I was delighted. We’d had a terrible danger hanging over our heads — mostly Lola’s head, but mine too — and now, as far as we could see, it was swept away. So I returned to the back of the Impala, Arturo got behind the wheel, and he drove me back to Casa Montana Mojoca.

And along the way, we also resolved the question of the quesillo, though not quite as easily. Arturo was very hoggish about that dessert, until finally I said to him, “Arturo, what am I gonna say, the next time I see Ifigenia and she asks me how was the quesillo?”

“What makes you think,” he wanted to know, “you’re gonna see her again?”

“I’ll make it my business to see her again, Arturo,” I said.

He glowered at me in the mirror, but he knew when he was beaten, and there was no further discussion on the subject of quesillos.

Being basically a sunny guy, Arturo had gotten over it by the time we reached the ferry, because, as he himself said, “She’ll make another.”

“I’m sure she will,” I said.

It was midafternoon by the time we reached the river, and two other taxis shared the ferry with us, containing two middle-aged couples dazed by sightseeing. They wanted to chat and smile and share their experiences, but I did not. The ferry coming the other way had one taxi on it, with two Guerreran businessmen inside — white guayabera, powder-blue guayabera — arguing furiously. My old friend with the beer truck was nowhere to be seen.

Arturo deposited me at last under the porte cochere, and I rescued the quesillo from among the beer bottles on the floor in front. “Let me know what’s going on,” I said.

“I will,” he promised.

“See you later.”

“So long,” he told the quesillo.

Two days later, Saturday afternoon, Arturo phoned to say that Leon Kaplan was gone, had flown out from San Cristobal that morning. Arturo, being a cabdriver at that moment — though not Kaplan’s — had been at the airport and had seen him go.

It was over. Kaplan might still have his suspicions, but he had no proof and he wouldn’t get any proof. Guerrera was the only place there could possibly be evidence, so if he was leaving Guerrera, it meant he’d given up.

After Arturo’s phone call, I was too restless to stay in the room, so I went out and walked the manicured grounds for a couple of hours, alone with my thoughts. This had been much trickier, much more difficult and dangerous, than I’d guessed, with jail for Lola and murder for me, but it was over now. What a relief.

I got back to the room around five-thirty. What would I do till dinner? Nap? Shower? HBO or CNN?

There was a knock on the door. What was this, another invitation from Dulce de Paula? I called through the door, “Yes?”

“Rooh sehvice.”

“Wrong room,” I called. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Tree two tree,” called the voice. “Emory.”

Well, now what? I opened the door and in they came, the six of them: Manfredo and Luis and the other Luis with the bad arm and José and Pedro and poco Pedro. Without, at least, his machete.