Short Straw by Stuart Woods

same.” Cupie looked over to see Barbara coming. “Get back in the bushes!” he yelled, and she turned around and disappeared again. He turned back to Vittorio. “You think they bought it?”
    “Well, they didn’t see the lady, did they?”
    “I don’t think they bought it.” Cupie yelled out the window. “All right, they’re gone; get back in the car.”
    Barbara made her way back to the Toyota and got in. “Was it them?”
    “You bet your sweet ass it was,” Vittorio said.
    “Where did they go?”
    “Straight ahead.”
    “Then let’s turn around and go back to the Acapulco airport.”
    Vittorio shook his head. “The driver of the Suburban talked to the cops there; they’ll be looking for you.”
    “He’s right,” Cupie agreed, “and they’re probably on the phone right now, giving them a description of us and our car.”
    “So what do we do?” she asked.
    “Let’s make a pass at the Puerto Vallarta airport,” Cupie said, “and if it’s staked out, we’ll just go straight on to Tijuana and walk across the border. We’ll get you a cab to the San Diego airport, and you’re free as a bird.”
    “Sounds right to me,” Vittorio said. “You on board, Babs?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    Vittorio put the car in gear and drove off, dawdling along at fifty miles an hour. “Let’s let them gain a little on us,” he said.
     
    E AGLE WAS BACK at his desk at three o’clock, showered and relaxed.
    Betty buzzed him. “That realtor, Sally Potter, is on the phone.”
    Eagle picked it up. “Hi, Sally.”
    “Hi, Ed. I just sold a house; you up for a closing?”
    “Sure, send me the contract.”
    “I’ll have the buyer bring it over; you in all afternoon?”
    “I’ll be here until five.”
    “You’re not breaking a sweat over there, are you?”
    “Not so’s you’d notice.”
    “The buyer will be there in twenty minutes.”
    “I’ll dust off the welcome mat.” He hung up. Sally Potter and other realtors often recommended him as an attorney for house buyers. He did forty or fifty closings a year, and an assistant did all the work. It paid for the copying machine and the phone bill, he reckoned.
     
    T WENTY MINUTES LATER, Betty buzzed him. “Your buyer is here,” she said.
    “Send him in.”
    There was a chuckle from the other end of the line, and Betty hung up.
    Eagle looked up to see a knockout blonde walk into his office. She was in her thirties, five-seven, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, wearing tight, starched jeans, a fringed buckskin jacket and a chambray shirt with the top couple of buttons invitingly undone. Her breasts were contained in about a 36C, and he reckoned it was a cup size too small. Eagle was sure he had seen her someplace before, but he couldn’t place her. He was on his feet in a flash. “Good afternoon. I’m Ed Eagle.”
    “Hello,” she said in a throaty voice. “I’m Susannah Wilde.” She held out a hand.
    Eagle shook it and waved her to the sofa, taking the chair opposite. The movies, he thought. He didn’t go to the movies much, waiting for them to turn up on satellite TV, but he’d seen her in something. “So, you’ve bought a home in Santa Fe?”
    “Yes, I have. The seller accepted my offer a couple of hours ago.” She dug into a large handbag and came out with a paper. “Here’s the contract.”
    Eagle scanned the document. A nice place on Tano Norte. A writer had built it and sold it to somebody else, who was now selling it. Three million bucks; Ms. Wilde was either very successful in the movies or handsomely divorced, or both. “Will you require a mortgage?” he asked.
    “No, it will be a cash deal.”
    “I’ll get a title search done and arrange for title insurance. I can recommend an insurance agent for your homeowner’s policy.”
    “Thank you, but Sally has already put me in touch with somebody.”
    “What brings you to Santa Fe, Ms. Wilde?”
    “Please call me Susannah. I’m an actress, and I live in L.A., but frankly