chair.
“How about bed. Tim? You have a hard day’s work tomorrow.”
“Damn fine meal.” Tim got to his feet. “Man! Did you strike it good!”
My mind was pretty active on the way back to the airport.
I decided I would leave for Merida the following morning. After I had left Tim at his cabin, I called the Florida Airlines and booked a flight to Merida, leaving Paradise City at 10.27.
I would be a day’s jump ahead of Kendrick and I had a feeling any jump ahead of that fat queer was a move in my favour.
FIVE
A battered, rusty Chevy rushed me from the Merida airport to the Chalco hotel. The driver looked as if he should still be at school: his blue-black hair reached to the collar of his dirty white shirt and he continually leaned out of the car window to curse other drivers.
The heat was something and it was raining fit to drown a duck. I sat back on broken springs and sweated, and every now and then, shut my eyes as a crash seemed certain, but the boy finally got me to the hotel in one piece.
I paid him of in Mexican money I had collected at the airport and dashed through the rain into the hotel.
It was down a narrow side street, painted white and the lobby was clean with cactus plants, bamboo chairs and a tiny fountain that made a soft sound which encouraged a coolness that didn’t exist.
I went up to the reception desk where an old fat Mexican sat picking his teeth with a splinter of wood “A room for the night with a shower.” I said.
He shoved a tattered register towards me and a police card.
I went through the motions, then a tiny, dirty boy appeared to take my bag.
“Mr. O’Cassidy in?” I asked.
The old man showed slight interest. He said something in Spanish.
“Mr. O’Cassidy,” I repeated in a slightly louder voice.
The little boy said, “He in bar.” And he pointed. I followed the direction of his dirty finger and saw a door. I gave the kid the equivalent of a half dollar and told him to take my bag up to my room. The kid’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. The old man leaned forward and stared first at the money in the kid’s dirty hand and then at the kid. I doubted if the kid would stick with the money. I left them and entered the tiny bar where a radio played soft music, where a fat girl with long black plaits supported herself on the bar and where, at the far end of the bar, was a man, hidden by the Herald Tribune.
“Scotch on the rocks,” I said, moving down to the middle of the bar.
At the sound of my voice, the man lowered the newspaper and regarded me. I waited until the girl had given me the drink, then looked at him.
He was a man of around forty-five, big with reddish, close-cropped hair, a blunt, heavily tanned face and steady green eyes.
He was the same ilk as Tim O’Brien: a man you couldn’t help but like.
I raised my glass and said, “Hi!”
His wide Irish smile was warming.
“Hi, yourself. You just moved in?”
I wandered down the bar close to him.
“Jack Crane. May I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks.” He nodded to the girl who busied herself with a Scotch and soda. “Bill O’Cassidy.”
He offered his hand and I shook it.
“That’s luck. Tim O’Brien told me to look out for you.’
He lifted his eyebrows.
“You know Tim?”
“Know him? We were out on the town last night.”
“O’Cassidy glanced at the fat girl as she brought him his drink then picking it up. he jerked his head to a table away from the bar and we went over there.
“That babe never stops listening,” he said as we sat down “How’s Tim?”
“Fine. He’s working like hell on this runway. You know about that, don’t you?”
“Yeah. He’s in trouble with rocks.” O’Cassidy grinned. “He doesn’t know when he is well off; I’ve had swamps to cope with.”
“Tim was telling me.”
“Well, that’s all behind me now. I’m leaving tomorrow. Phew! I can’t wait to get out of this god-forsaken country!”
“Certainly hot and this
“How about bed. Tim? You have a hard day’s work tomorrow.”
“Damn fine meal.” Tim got to his feet. “Man! Did you strike it good!”
My mind was pretty active on the way back to the airport.
I decided I would leave for Merida the following morning. After I had left Tim at his cabin, I called the Florida Airlines and booked a flight to Merida, leaving Paradise City at 10.27.
I would be a day’s jump ahead of Kendrick and I had a feeling any jump ahead of that fat queer was a move in my favour.
FIVE
A battered, rusty Chevy rushed me from the Merida airport to the Chalco hotel. The driver looked as if he should still be at school: his blue-black hair reached to the collar of his dirty white shirt and he continually leaned out of the car window to curse other drivers.
The heat was something and it was raining fit to drown a duck. I sat back on broken springs and sweated, and every now and then, shut my eyes as a crash seemed certain, but the boy finally got me to the hotel in one piece.
I paid him of in Mexican money I had collected at the airport and dashed through the rain into the hotel.
It was down a narrow side street, painted white and the lobby was clean with cactus plants, bamboo chairs and a tiny fountain that made a soft sound which encouraged a coolness that didn’t exist.
I went up to the reception desk where an old fat Mexican sat picking his teeth with a splinter of wood “A room for the night with a shower.” I said.
He shoved a tattered register towards me and a police card.
I went through the motions, then a tiny, dirty boy appeared to take my bag.
“Mr. O’Cassidy in?” I asked.
The old man showed slight interest. He said something in Spanish.
“Mr. O’Cassidy,” I repeated in a slightly louder voice.
The little boy said, “He in bar.” And he pointed. I followed the direction of his dirty finger and saw a door. I gave the kid the equivalent of a half dollar and told him to take my bag up to my room. The kid’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. The old man leaned forward and stared first at the money in the kid’s dirty hand and then at the kid. I doubted if the kid would stick with the money. I left them and entered the tiny bar where a radio played soft music, where a fat girl with long black plaits supported herself on the bar and where, at the far end of the bar, was a man, hidden by the Herald Tribune.
“Scotch on the rocks,” I said, moving down to the middle of the bar.
At the sound of my voice, the man lowered the newspaper and regarded me. I waited until the girl had given me the drink, then looked at him.
He was a man of around forty-five, big with reddish, close-cropped hair, a blunt, heavily tanned face and steady green eyes.
He was the same ilk as Tim O’Brien: a man you couldn’t help but like.
I raised my glass and said, “Hi!”
His wide Irish smile was warming.
“Hi, yourself. You just moved in?”
I wandered down the bar close to him.
“Jack Crane. May I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks.” He nodded to the girl who busied herself with a Scotch and soda. “Bill O’Cassidy.”
He offered his hand and I shook it.
“That’s luck. Tim O’Brien told me to look out for you.’
He lifted his eyebrows.
“You know Tim?”
“Know him? We were out on the town last night.”
“O’Cassidy glanced at the fat girl as she brought him his drink then picking it up. he jerked his head to a table away from the bar and we went over there.
“That babe never stops listening,” he said as we sat down “How’s Tim?”
“Fine. He’s working like hell on this runway. You know about that, don’t you?”
“Yeah. He’s in trouble with rocks.” O’Cassidy grinned. “He doesn’t know when he is well off; I’ve had swamps to cope with.”
“Tim was telling me.”
“Well, that’s all behind me now. I’m leaving tomorrow. Phew! I can’t wait to get out of this god-forsaken country!”
“Certainly hot and this
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