rain!”
“This is the beginning of the wet season. The sonofabitch will rain non-stop now for a couple of months. Just got the job finished in time.”
“O’Cassidy?” I said idly. “No relation to Sean O’Cassidy who won the Silver Star?”
He sat upright.
“My kid brother! You knew him?”
“I was out there. I was with the bombers. I met him once. 6th Parachute . . . right?”
“For Pete’s sake!” He leaned forward, grabbed my hand and shook it. “Hell of a small world! You met Sean?”
“That’s it. We had a drink together. I had no idea he would win the Silver Star. We just got drunk together.”
He sat back and beamed at me.
“A great little guy.”
“He certainly was.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jack Crane.”
“Okay, Jack, you and me are going out on the town. It’s my last night here. We eat, we get goddamn drunk, but not too drunk and we get us a couple of girls . . . how’s about it?”
I grinned at him
“Fine with me.”
“Nothing gets moving in this city until around 22.00.” He looked at his strap watch. “It’s now only 20.18. I’ll take a shower and suppose we meet here at 21.45. . . okay?”
“Sure.”
We collected our keys at the desk. The old Mexican regarded us without interest. My room was five doors along the corridor from O’Cassidy’s room. We parted. I found my bag on the bed. In spite of the window being open, the room was stiflingly hot. I stared down into the street, watching the rain making puddles, then I unpacked, dug out another shirt and another pair of slacks and lay on the bed.
The noise of the roaring traffic and the clanging of the church bells made a nap impossible so I did some thinking.
Later I stripped of and took a shower, changed, but it didn’t help much. Life in Merida was like living in a sauna.
I went down to the bar and asked the girl with the plaits for a whisky on the rocks. At least there was a fan in the bar. I read through the Herald Tribune and then O’Cassidy joined me.
“That’s the last drink you buy yourself tonight,” he said.
“Come on . . . let’s go. I’ve got a car outside.”
We ran through the rain to a Buick. By the time we had scrambled in we were both pretty wet, but the heat dried us before O’Cassidy parked outside a restaurant. We ran from the car and ducked out of the rain into the entrance lobby.
A fat, grinning Mexican in a white coat shook hands with O’Cassidy and then led us into a dimly-lit room, but air-conditioned, to a table in the fat corner. There were about thirty tables dotted around, occupied by sleek looking Mexicans and sleeker looking girls.
“I’ve been in this city now for nine months and I always eat here nights,” O’Cassidy said as he sat down. “The food’s fine.”
He waved to a dark, sulky looking beauty who was at the bar and who lifted a tired hand and weary eyebrows. He shook his head, then turning to me: “The dolls here are very willing, but let’s eat first. You like Mexican food?”
“So long as it’s not too hot.”
We had tamales which were hot but very good, followed by Mole de Guajolote: a fricassee of turkey seasoned with tomatoes, sesame seeds and covered with a thick chocolate sauce.
The sauce startled me until I tried the dish to find it excellent.
After we had got through the Mole and had talked of Vietnam and O’Cassidy’s brother, I felt O’Cassidy was relaxed enough for me to get to business.
“Can I ask you about this runway you’ve built Bill?” I asked cautiously.
“Why, sure. You interested in runways?”
“I’m an aero-engineer and anything to do with flying interests me.”
“Is that right? Well, this goddamn runway was the worst I’ve ever had to build so far: Right in the middle of the jungle: trees, rocks, swamps, snakes . . . you name it, it was there.”
“Yet you built it.”
He grinned.
“When I get paid to do a job, I do it, but no kidding there were times when I nearly packed it in.
“This is the beginning of the wet season. The sonofabitch will rain non-stop now for a couple of months. Just got the job finished in time.”
“O’Cassidy?” I said idly. “No relation to Sean O’Cassidy who won the Silver Star?”
He sat upright.
“My kid brother! You knew him?”
“I was out there. I was with the bombers. I met him once. 6th Parachute . . . right?”
“For Pete’s sake!” He leaned forward, grabbed my hand and shook it. “Hell of a small world! You met Sean?”
“That’s it. We had a drink together. I had no idea he would win the Silver Star. We just got drunk together.”
He sat back and beamed at me.
“A great little guy.”
“He certainly was.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jack Crane.”
“Okay, Jack, you and me are going out on the town. It’s my last night here. We eat, we get goddamn drunk, but not too drunk and we get us a couple of girls . . . how’s about it?”
I grinned at him
“Fine with me.”
“Nothing gets moving in this city until around 22.00.” He looked at his strap watch. “It’s now only 20.18. I’ll take a shower and suppose we meet here at 21.45. . . okay?”
“Sure.”
We collected our keys at the desk. The old Mexican regarded us without interest. My room was five doors along the corridor from O’Cassidy’s room. We parted. I found my bag on the bed. In spite of the window being open, the room was stiflingly hot. I stared down into the street, watching the rain making puddles, then I unpacked, dug out another shirt and another pair of slacks and lay on the bed.
The noise of the roaring traffic and the clanging of the church bells made a nap impossible so I did some thinking.
Later I stripped of and took a shower, changed, but it didn’t help much. Life in Merida was like living in a sauna.
I went down to the bar and asked the girl with the plaits for a whisky on the rocks. At least there was a fan in the bar. I read through the Herald Tribune and then O’Cassidy joined me.
“That’s the last drink you buy yourself tonight,” he said.
“Come on . . . let’s go. I’ve got a car outside.”
We ran through the rain to a Buick. By the time we had scrambled in we were both pretty wet, but the heat dried us before O’Cassidy parked outside a restaurant. We ran from the car and ducked out of the rain into the entrance lobby.
A fat, grinning Mexican in a white coat shook hands with O’Cassidy and then led us into a dimly-lit room, but air-conditioned, to a table in the fat corner. There were about thirty tables dotted around, occupied by sleek looking Mexicans and sleeker looking girls.
“I’ve been in this city now for nine months and I always eat here nights,” O’Cassidy said as he sat down. “The food’s fine.”
He waved to a dark, sulky looking beauty who was at the bar and who lifted a tired hand and weary eyebrows. He shook his head, then turning to me: “The dolls here are very willing, but let’s eat first. You like Mexican food?”
“So long as it’s not too hot.”
We had tamales which were hot but very good, followed by Mole de Guajolote: a fricassee of turkey seasoned with tomatoes, sesame seeds and covered with a thick chocolate sauce.
The sauce startled me until I tried the dish to find it excellent.
After we had got through the Mole and had talked of Vietnam and O’Cassidy’s brother, I felt O’Cassidy was relaxed enough for me to get to business.
“Can I ask you about this runway you’ve built Bill?” I asked cautiously.
“Why, sure. You interested in runways?”
“I’m an aero-engineer and anything to do with flying interests me.”
“Is that right? Well, this goddamn runway was the worst I’ve ever had to build so far: Right in the middle of the jungle: trees, rocks, swamps, snakes . . . you name it, it was there.”
“Yet you built it.”
He grinned.
“When I get paid to do a job, I do it, but no kidding there were times when I nearly packed it in.
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