Gideon.
"Leo here was lucky to escape with his life when the ceiling gave way,” Gideon said. “It not only stopped his watch at 4:12, it almost took his arm off. There was blood all over the place.” It was but a small exaggeration for the greater good. Leo's wrist had, after all, been scratched, if Gideon remembered correctly.
Leo was more than happy to go along. “There sure was,” he agreed. “There was blood everywhere."
This obviously appealed to Ard, and Gideon pressed on. “Leo, Stan is doing a story on Tlaloc for Flak. He was thinking you'd be a good person to talk to."
"Flak!" Leo was clearly impressed. “You work for Flak?"
"No, I'm a free-lancer. I work out of L.A."
"L.A.!” Leo was even more impressed. “L.A. is a great place to live. Wonderful. You're only a hundred and fifty miles from the Salton Sea, did you know that?” He slid a chair next to Ard's. “Stan,” he said, bulking sincerely at his side, “have you ever thought about the benefits of time-share ownership of a waterfront hacienda in the desert?"
He was reaching for a soggy brochure when Gideon made a discreet exit, and the last he heard from them, as he headed up the stairs, was a brayed "bueno-bueno." Leo was calling for another round.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 10
* * * *
Later that evening Julie and Gideon were on their balcony, about as relaxed as people can get without being asleep. After Gideon's abbreviated interview, they had showered and changed, then gone in to dinner by themselves. They'd had sea bass in pesto sauce, with a more-than-decent bottle of Frascati. Later, they'd spent a highly satisfactory interlude in their cool and darkened room, marred only by their working up another sweat. They had showered for the third time that day, and now they were sitting in the wrought-iron rocking chairs, snifters of brandy beside them. Above them the tops of the trees were hidden by the night, but the gardens and pathways were lit with a mellow amber glow from ornate, fern-shrouded lanterns.
"Ah...” said Julie.
"I know,” Gideon said. “The raw, primitive—"
"No,” she said, smiling, “just ah. This is lovely."
"Mmm."
"Gideon, I've been doing some more thinking about whoever's been digging in the temple."
They had talked about it several times with Abe and arrived at no useful conclusions. The site was now patrolled at night but there had been no sign of the diggers, and Abe had decided to go ahead with the legitimate excavation, or re-excavation, of the stairwell the next day. Four Mayan laborers had been brought on for the heavy work, and Abe had asked Leo, as the only one of the crew who knew something about shoring, to supervise them, at least to begin with. Another crew member, assigned on a daily rotation basis, would be stationed at the foot of the pyramid to sift the fill that would be brought down in buckets on a clothesline arrangement. After that it would be trucked away.
The crew had expressed surprise when they were told about the surreptitious excavating, but little interest. They were more concerned with griping about having to sift the rubble even though the stairwell had already been excavated once before. As always, the screening table was the most unpopular of dig assignments. But Abe was firm, as he should have been. No fill or dirt would leave Tlaloc without sifting.
"What I was wondering,” Julie went on, “was whether the codex might not still be down there."
Gideon looked at her, surprised. “That's impossible. Howard's been trying to peddle it for years. That's what the committee was all about."
"Has he? Have you ever actually seen it again? Since that first look you had at it, I mean?"
"No, but there have been reports from all over the world—"
"Reliable reports?"
"Well—"
"That you can vouch for?"
"Well, no, not personally—"
"Has anybody produced any photographs? Or detailed descriptions that you could check for accuracy?"
"Well...no, not that I know
"Leo here was lucky to escape with his life when the ceiling gave way,” Gideon said. “It not only stopped his watch at 4:12, it almost took his arm off. There was blood all over the place.” It was but a small exaggeration for the greater good. Leo's wrist had, after all, been scratched, if Gideon remembered correctly.
Leo was more than happy to go along. “There sure was,” he agreed. “There was blood everywhere."
This obviously appealed to Ard, and Gideon pressed on. “Leo, Stan is doing a story on Tlaloc for Flak. He was thinking you'd be a good person to talk to."
"Flak!" Leo was clearly impressed. “You work for Flak?"
"No, I'm a free-lancer. I work out of L.A."
"L.A.!” Leo was even more impressed. “L.A. is a great place to live. Wonderful. You're only a hundred and fifty miles from the Salton Sea, did you know that?” He slid a chair next to Ard's. “Stan,” he said, bulking sincerely at his side, “have you ever thought about the benefits of time-share ownership of a waterfront hacienda in the desert?"
He was reaching for a soggy brochure when Gideon made a discreet exit, and the last he heard from them, as he headed up the stairs, was a brayed "bueno-bueno." Leo was calling for another round.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 10
* * * *
Later that evening Julie and Gideon were on their balcony, about as relaxed as people can get without being asleep. After Gideon's abbreviated interview, they had showered and changed, then gone in to dinner by themselves. They'd had sea bass in pesto sauce, with a more-than-decent bottle of Frascati. Later, they'd spent a highly satisfactory interlude in their cool and darkened room, marred only by their working up another sweat. They had showered for the third time that day, and now they were sitting in the wrought-iron rocking chairs, snifters of brandy beside them. Above them the tops of the trees were hidden by the night, but the gardens and pathways were lit with a mellow amber glow from ornate, fern-shrouded lanterns.
"Ah...” said Julie.
"I know,” Gideon said. “The raw, primitive—"
"No,” she said, smiling, “just ah. This is lovely."
"Mmm."
"Gideon, I've been doing some more thinking about whoever's been digging in the temple."
They had talked about it several times with Abe and arrived at no useful conclusions. The site was now patrolled at night but there had been no sign of the diggers, and Abe had decided to go ahead with the legitimate excavation, or re-excavation, of the stairwell the next day. Four Mayan laborers had been brought on for the heavy work, and Abe had asked Leo, as the only one of the crew who knew something about shoring, to supervise them, at least to begin with. Another crew member, assigned on a daily rotation basis, would be stationed at the foot of the pyramid to sift the fill that would be brought down in buckets on a clothesline arrangement. After that it would be trucked away.
The crew had expressed surprise when they were told about the surreptitious excavating, but little interest. They were more concerned with griping about having to sift the rubble even though the stairwell had already been excavated once before. As always, the screening table was the most unpopular of dig assignments. But Abe was firm, as he should have been. No fill or dirt would leave Tlaloc without sifting.
"What I was wondering,” Julie went on, “was whether the codex might not still be down there."
Gideon looked at her, surprised. “That's impossible. Howard's been trying to peddle it for years. That's what the committee was all about."
"Has he? Have you ever actually seen it again? Since that first look you had at it, I mean?"
"No, but there have been reports from all over the world—"
"Reliable reports?"
"Well—"
"That you can vouch for?"
"Well, no, not personally—"
"Has anybody produced any photographs? Or detailed descriptions that you could check for accuracy?"
"Well...no, not that I know
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