Santa Fe Dead

He realized that he was hugging the soft leather bag with his money in it. “No,” he said. “Can I have a drink?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the seat-belt sign is still on and will probably remain that way. Please be sure to put your bag under the seat in front of you for landing.” She went on her way.

Cato willed himself to relax and had nearly done so, when the airplane began its descent into Tijuana. Shortly they were in clouds, and the lightning started again. It was as if someone in some great video center was replaying their ascent, except the descent was, if anything, worse. The pilot a

They broke out of the clouds, but rain was streaming down Cato’s window, and the airplane was still bucking. Then, miraculously, they were on the ground and braking. Cato didn’t know how the pilot found the taxiway in the downpour, but he did. The moment the airplane stopped moving, Cato was on his feet, and the hell with the attendant’s instruction to remain seated. He was the first person off the airplane, and he nearly ran to the bar in the terminal.

It took two shots of tequila to begin to calm him; the third one he sipped more slowly. Finally, he weaved his way out of the terminal, and while his fellow passengers were still waiting for their luggage, he slung his bag over his shoulder and began waving for a taxi in the heavy rain. He was soaked before one finally stopped. He instructed the man to take him to the garage near the border crossing.

“Ah, yes, señor,” the man said. “I know the one. You would, perhaps like a clean hotel for the night? My cousin has a very nice place not far from this garage.”

“No, no thanks,” Cato said. He had an almost panicky need to be sure his truck was safe, then he would go to the Parador, where he had stayed before. He would have some di

The cab stopped in front of the garage, and Cato made his way to the elevator, since he had parked on the roof. The rain had begun to ease when he stepped out onto the upper deck and looked around for his truck. Then he saw something that chilled his soul. All the boxes that had been loaded into his truck bed were scattered around the roof. They had been cut open, and the contents-his clothes and belongings-were being blown about in the wind and rain. He heard tires squealing and looked wildly around, then saw his truck speeding onto the down ramp. The thief didn’t know about the lockbox welded into the truck’s chassis, the box with most of his money and the letter that he must destroy.

He had a chance, he thought. He stopped the elevator doors from closing and leapt back into the car. The ride down was painfully slow; it seemed to take half an hour to reach the ground. He ran from the elevator and into the street, looking up and down the block for his truck.

Then he saw it, at the Mexican side of the border crossing. The thief was driving it into the United States. He began to run, but the tequila was catching up with him. By the time he reached the Mexican side, the truck had been cleared and was driving toward the American side of the border. There were few cars waiting to cross, and he knew that soon the truck would be gone and that he would never find it.

He cleared the Mexican side and began to run again. “Stop that truck!” he yelled. “Stop that truck! It’s stolen! That’s my truck!” One of the American border patrol officers turned and looked at him. “Stop that truck!” he yelled again. “It’s stolen!”

The officer yanked open the truck door and pulled a young man out of the cab. “What did you say?” he asked Cato, as he wobbled up to the truck.

“That’s my truck; he stole it!” Cato puffed. “He threw all my stuff out and stole it from the garage.” Unable to continue, he sank to a cross-legged sitting position on the wet pavement and watched the officer handcuff the thief, then the man walked over to him.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Gimme a minute,” Cato said, gulping in new air.

“What is your name, sir?”

“Ca… ah, Timmons,” Cato said.

“May I see the registration for the truck and your driver’s license?”

Cato reached into his right hip pocket for his wallet, then changed his mind and reached into the left pocket for his Timmons license. He handed it to the officer. “The registration is in the armrest of the truck,” he said.

“You got here just in time, Mr. Timmons,” the officer said. “Another ten seconds, and he would have been gone with your truck.”

“Thank you for stopping him,” Cato said, struggling to his feet.

The officer walked around the truck slowly. “You said the thief removed your belongings from the truck?”

“Yes, they’re scattered all over the roof of that garage over there,” he said, pointing. “Can I take my truck back and get my things now?”

The officer was looking at the truck registration. “First, let’s clear up something. Why is the license plate on your truck not the one listed on your registration, Mr. Timmons. And who is John W. Cato?”

Cato’s legs failed him again.

59

CUPIE AND VITTORIO stood on the fore-deck of Enticer, staring toward the shore. “Where the fuck is he?” Cupie asked.

“He’ll be here,” Vittorio said. “He promised me, and he owes me.”

“Owes you?”

“He accepted a gift: I gave him a beautiful Colt.45 the last time I saw him,” Vittorio explained. “I couldn’t cross the border with it, so I thought, what the hell, it couldn’t hurt to keep a capitán sweet.”

“You’re sure he’s coming?”

“She cut off his nephew’s dick. He’ll be here.”

“He’d better; the yacht has to be back at Marina del Rey tomorrow morning, or it will cost Eagle another five grand, and I don’t want to have to explain it to him.”

Cupie went to the bridge, where Captain Ted was lounging, letting the autopilot take them south at a leisurely eight knots.

“What’s up?” Ted asked.

Cupie grabbed the microphone of the VHF radio and tuned it to cha

Static. Then a voice, very loud. “Enticer, this is Rodríguez. What is your position?”

Cupie looked up at the GPS and read off their latitude and longitude.

“That is not very far away. Are you wearing lights?”

“Yes, we are,” Cupie said. He turned to Ted. “Give me a white flare,” he said.

Ted dug into a locker and handed him the flare.

Cupie picked up the microphone again. “Watch for a bright light,” he said, then he walked back on deck, peeled the seal off the flare, struck it and held it overboard, so the phosphorous wouldn’t drip on him. The whole world lit up.

BARBARA WAS RIDING Ron Gillette as if he were a circus pony, and making a lot of noise doing it. She was suddenly reined in by a hammering on the door.

“Mr. Gillette!” a voice called out.

“Huh? Yes?” Gillette said.

“Please come on deck and bring Mrs. Keeler; the police want to inspect the yacht and see the crew’s papers. Please bring your passports!”

“Yeah, give us a couple of minutes, okay?”

Barbara sighed and rolled off Gillette. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just a routine thing,” Gillette replied. “Happens all the time; homeland security and all that. Let’s get dressed.”

They got into their clothes, and Barbara took a moment to apply lipstick. She grabbed her handbag. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“They’re going to want to see our passports,” Ron said, taking his from an inside pocket of his blazer and holding it up.