White Cargo

14

Back at the beach, Cat showered and changed into cool cotton clothes. The evening was warm, and he didn’t bother with a jacket. He strolled down to the pool bar and ordered a piña colada. He loved the drink, and he made a point of never ordering it unless he was in some tropical place. He had taken only a sip when someone sat down on the adjacent barstool.

“Pardon me,” she said.

He turned and looked at her. She had changed into a strapless flowered cotton sheath, and instead of speaking, he simply enjoyed looking at her for a moment.

“Why did you want the boy?” she asked.

“I had the feeling this afternoon that you knew him,” Cat replied.

“I know a lot of the gamines,” she said.

“The who?”

“Street children. Most of them have no family. They live any way they can. I’m doing a film about them. Why did you want the boy?”

Cat looked closely at the woman. Her dark hair was still wet from the shower, and her tan glowed against the bright yellow of the dress. There didn’t seem any reason not to tell her. Maybe she would know something. “I had a wristwatch stolen some time back. The boy was wearing a watch this afternoon that looked like mine.”

“So you wanted to catch him and take it back?”

“If it was mine, I was willing—”

“Señor,” the bartender interrupted. “You are Señor Ellis?”

“Yes.”

The bartender set a telephone on the bar. Cat picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Bluey. I’m at a bar on the beach just off the square called Rosita’s. The boy comes here every evening selling stolen goods, keeps a pretty regular schedule, the bartender says. He’s due here any minute.”

“I’m leaving right now,” Cat said and hung up. He turned to the woman. “Please excuse me. I have to leave.”

She caught his arm. “Is this about the boy?”

He was about to tell her it was none of her business, but she anticipated him.

“I know him,” she said. “His name is Rodrigo. I may be able to help.”

“Come with me then.”

They got a taxi at the front of the hotel. Cat’s mind was racing. Finally, a link to Denny and Pedro, something concrete.

“My name is Meg Garcia,” the woman said.

“Bob Ellis,” Cat replied. “Tell me about this kid.”

She shrugged. “He’s one of the bunch I’ve been filming. They’re lost, these children. They’ve no families, no schooling. They hardly know the name of the country they live in. They’re like a pack of little animals, except that they take care of their own. It’s quite touching, really. But, like animals, they can be very mean in packs or when cornered. Has your friend found Rodrigo?”

“He’s at a bar called Rosita’s. Apparently, the boy comes there regularly selling stuff.”

“I know the place. Look, if we see the boy, let me talk to him. It’s important that you don’t try to take the watch from him. He won’t let you have it without a fight. He’s very proud of it.”

“Do you think he might sell it?”

“Maybe. I’ll talk to him about it. How will you know if it’s yours?”

“There’s engraving on the back. I have to know exactly how he got it. I’m looking for the people who stole it from me.”

The cab pulled up in front of Rosita’s, and they got out. It seemed an ordinary enough place. There were some sparsely populated tables along the sidewalk, and inside, more tables and a bar. Bluey was nowhere to be seen.

Cat turned to the woman. “Will you ask the bartender where my friend is? He’s a big, heavy fellow, an Anglo.”

She spoke briefly to the bartender, then turned and ran from the place. She stopped and whipped off her high heels as Cat caught up with her. “He chased Rodrigo this way.” She started running down the street.

Cat was unprepared for how quickly she could run in the tight dress, but he managed to stay close behind her. Ahead half a block, across the street, he could see a small crowd of people gathered, looking into an alley. Suddenly they were moving back, away from the alley, and there was a woman’s scream. As Cat and Meg Garcia reached the spot, Bluey staggered out of the alley into the street, holding both hands against his chest.

Horrified, Cat watched as, with a great effort, Bluey pulled his hands away. In his right hand was a knife, and the front of his shirt was red and shiny. As Cat reached him the Australian sank into a sitting position, one leg collapsed under him. Cat grabbed his shoulder and took Bluey’s weight against him. With his other hand he ripped open the sodden shirt to find a spurting wound.

“Quick,” he said to the Garcia woman, “get an ambulance.” At that moment, a police car pulled up, and she began talking rapidly to the policeman, who said something into a radio. Cat got a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

Bluey wore a look of astonishment. “Cat,” he managed to say, “I wasn’t expecting...”

“Shhh, Bluey, it’s going to be all right. An ambulance is on the way. We’ll get you patched up in a hurry.” Cat knew it was a lie, even as he said it. The wound was near the center of the chest and was spurting. It had to be the aorta.

“Cat,” Bluey was saying, but more weakly, “Cat, Marisa — it goes to Marisa, she’s the only...” He stopped in mid-sentence, coughed up some blood, and stopped. There was a streetlamp above them, and as Cat looked into Bluey’s eyes, he clearly saw the pupils dilate. He removed the handkerchief from the wound; it had stopped spurting. He felt at the neck for a pulse; there was none. Cat closed Bluey’s eyes and stayed there, holding him until the ambulance came.

Cat was at the police station until midnight, numbly answering questions translated by Meg Garcia. Bluey’s body was placed on a bench in a back room until an undertaker came and took it away.

“I must send the passport with a report to the American Consul in Barranquilla,” the policeman was saying. “Is there a next of kin?”

Cat nodded. “He has a daughter in Miami, Florida.”

“Will you act for her?”

“Yes, I’ll see that she receives his personal effects.”

The policeman handed him a brown paper bag. “Do you have the address?” he asked.

“No,” Cat replied.

“Do you think it might be with his effects?” Meg Garcia asked.

Cat emptied the bag onto the desk. There were a fat wallet, the keys to the car and the airplane, some coins, and a small notebook. Cat leafed through the notebook. He wanted to leave this place.

“Here it is,” he said. “Marisa Holland, in care of Mrs. Imelda Thomas.” He read out the address in Miami.

The policeman duly noted it in his report. He handed Cat a sheet of paper. “Here is the name of the undertaker, and the telephone number of the American Consul. You must make arrangements tomorrow.”

Cat nodded. “Yes, of course. May we go now?”

“There is nothing more to do.”

“Will you catch the boy who did this?”

The policeman shrugged. “No one actually saw the stabbing occur, no one who will say so, anyway. It will be very difficult.”

They didn’t talk much on the way back to the hotel. When they parted she said, “You look exhausted. Try and get some sleep and I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning and help you make the arrangements,” she said.

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he replied. “Do you think you might still be able to get the watch?” It was his last shred of hope. He had to have it.

“I’ll try. It may not be possible now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Cat’s body and mind cried out for rest. He managed to get to sleep without thinking.