A Game of Authors Read online

  Medina shrugged. “Raul fed the fish with a live chicken.”

  She shuddered. “That terrible man!”

  Garson could feel a measure of calmness returning after his near panic. He said, “It was supposed to be an object lesson for me. Maybe I should be thankful. I didn’t realize what caribe meant. I might have tried to escape by swimming the lake.”

  She took a deep breath. He could see her assume the mask of poise. “Do you dislike our company so much, Mr. Garson?”

  “Call me Hal.”

  “When you’ve answered my question.”

  “Some of my companions are utterly charming,” he said. “Others remind me that Spanish is a language with a special verb meaning ‘to kill slowly.’”

  “Spanish has many interesting verbs—Hal,” she said.

  Garson found that the nearness of danger gave him a new insight. There had seemed to be an invitation in her reply, but he recognized the effort that went into her pretense—and he still saw the light of mockery in her dark eyes.

  “We must explore the Spanish verb forms some time,” he said.

  And he found himself regretting the pretense.

  But a part of his mind was occupied with questions about the green notebook he carried under his arm.

  What did Luac conceal here for me?

  Garson excused himself to freshen up for lunch, went to his room.

  The regular pages of the notebook were numbered. He found the inserted pages by riffling through the numbered corners until he came to three pages without numbers.

  The first page was a family record for Anita Luac.

  Her mother was referred to by maiden name: Anita Monser. The ancestry was traced into French Canada.

  Antone Luac’s record might have been copied out from a biographical encyclopedia. Garson recognized names and dates, out of his previous research.

  Anita Luac’s age worked out to twenty years. Her mother had been dead fifteen years.

  The second page proved to be covered with rows of story titles. Beneath each title was a name, date and address. There were four names, among them George Merrill, the name attached to the story in the notebook.

  Why addresses? Garson wondered. Is there actually a George Merrill? Is Luac having people front for him rather than use pseudonyms?

  The back of this page carried another list of titles under the heading: “Unpubl. Luac.”

  Anita Luac’s insurance policy?

  The third page carried a brief history of Hacienda Cual—previous owners back to the period following the conquest, the list of improvements instituted by Luac.

  On the bottom half of the page was a list of organizational names headed by “The Friends of The Poor,” and beneath that another list of names. The list included one Olaf Sigurts, 21 Avenida Guzmán, Mexico, D.F.

  Is that the mysterious Olaf?

  Garson closed the notebook, stared at the cover.

  What’s Luac trying to tell me?

  Choco Medina interrupted Garson’s musing by bringing in the suitcase forwarded from the Palacio.

  “This just arrived. Where’ll I put it?”

  “On the foot of the bed there.” Garson got to his feet, tossed the green notebook onto the nightstand. “Choco, is Separdo a Communist agent?”

  The reaction left Garson open-mouthed.

  Medina threw the suitcase at the foot of the bed, darted to the door, peered down the hallway, shut the door, ran to the front windows, looked right and left. He was breathing heavily when he returned to plant himself in front of Garson.

  “I don’t think anybody heard you.”

  “What the dev . . .”

  “I haven’t had a fright like that since the night we took Parral. That’s where I got this.” He indicated a thin scar beside his nose. “Now, look, Mr. Garson—please think before you blat . . .”

  “Is he?”

  “Ask Antone Luac. Only, in the name of God, please do it when you’re sure you’re alone with him.”

  “What would’ve happened if I’d been heard?”

  Medina lowered his voice. “The thing we’re trying to avoid: a signal would’ve been given. Raul’s boys would come swarming across the lake and . . .” He drew a hand across his throat.

  “You’ve answered my question, Choco.”

  Medina frowned. “I guess I have.”

  Garson looked out at the lake. So, in his own cute fashion, my ever-lovin’ agent had it figured. But what did he have figured? What’s going on here?

  “They’d come swarming across, eh?”

  “Like locusts.”

  Garson shook his head. “One rifleman could hold them off. They wouldn’t dare the caribe.”

  “After dark they would.”

  “Oh. Where does the Cricket stand in all this?”

  “El Grillo?” Medina shrugged. “Quién sabe?”

  Garson took the notebook from the nightstand, pulled out the inserted pages, handed them to Medina.

  Medina glanced at them, swallowed, pulled nervously at his mustache. “Did Antone give you this?”

  “Yes.”

  Medina looked at the doorway, then to the windows.

  Garson said, “You’d better put them in a safe place. It wouldn’t do for them to be found on me.” He took a deep breath. “Now . . . can we talk?”

  “No.” Again Medina looked at the doorway. “It’s time for comida—luncheon.” He folded the papers, stuffed them under his shirt. “I’ll carry these on me until you ask for them.”

  Garson looked at Medina’s pock-marked face, thought: Luac said he’s to be trusted. But does Luac know? Maybe I’ve just made a serious mistake! And—good God! How do I know Luac’s to be trusted? Maybe he wanted those pages to be found on me!

  ***

  Chapter 6

  Luncheon was served for Luac, Anita and Garson in the summer house of the garden patio. The greenery around them gave an illusion of coolness, but there was no escaping the clinging heat of the tropical afternoon. Garson could feel the perspiration at his belt, the dampness of his neck and forehead. He wondered at the appearance of coolness maintained by Luac and daughter, decided that this, too, was illusion.

  The crone who had delivered Garson’s breakfast hovered over them, serving. She acted as a damper on conversation. Each time she bent over Luac, the old man fell silent.

  Garson turned to Luac. “Who’s the old woman?”

  Luac wiped his goatee on a napkin. “Maria Gomez.”

  She stopped at the sound of her name, stared at Luac with an expression that made Garson think of a poisoner watching her victim. He suddenly lost his appetite, put down his fork.

  “Does she speak English?”

  Now, the crone looked at Garson.

  “She understands what you’re saying now,” said Luac.

  Garson felt uncomfortable, recalled that Luac had said the old woman was a spy for Raul Separdo. He looked up, met her eyes. They were like the eyes of a lizard with the lids down until only the thinnest of slits were exposed.

  Luac seemed grimly amused. “Why’d you ask?”

  Garson thought: Because I saw that you’re afraid of her! Because there are so many things I don’t understand around here that I’ll leap at any opportunity for information.

  He said, “Gomez. Are you related to Eduardo Gomez?”

  “There’s nobody by that name around here,” said Luac.

  But Garson was watching the old woman. She had seemed to crouch at the sound of the name. Her gaze darted to Luac.

  “She’s the sister of one of our men,” said Anita Luac. “El Grillo—The Cricket.”

  “That’s a curious nickname,” said Garson.

  “He was a sniper for Villa,” said Luac. “It was said that he could hit a cricket in flight.”

  The old woman was still staring at Luac.

  He motioned her to the kitchen with a curt movement of his hand.

  The lizard gaze passed over Garson as she turned, shambled to the kitche
n with a curious, leaning walk. It was though she moved her feet only to keep from falling forward.

  Recalling her expression, Garson thought how he knew how the legends of the “evil eye” could have arisen.

  “Garson, you would play with matches in a gas tank!” hissed Luac.

  “Father!”

  Garson was still seething about his discovery of Raul Separdo’s role. Shall I hit Luac with it now? he wondered. But the old woman was returning with another dish of food. Is Luac involved in some fantastic espionage plot?

  “A penny for your thoughts,” said Anita Luac. She leaned toward Garson.

  He tore his gaze away from the soft cleavage of her breasts. Damn! Why’s she playing up to me?

  He said, “I was thinking that your father’s not the type.”

  “Type? For what?”

  “For the role I have him cast in.”

  Luac lifted his chin, regarded Garson with an amused expression. “We didn’t know you were casting.”

  “What role?” asked Anita Luac.

  “Friend of the people,” said Garson. He glanced at the crone, but she was intent on serving.

  “You’re right!” barked Luac. “I’m their enemy!” He chuckled. “You’ll have to rewrite your script.”

  “I think I’ll throw the whole thing away and start all over,” said Garson.

  This seemed to bother Luac. He coughed into his napkin.

  Anita Luac looked concerned. “Are you all right, Father?”

  “Of course I’m all right! Show Mr. Garson to his room, will you? And see that he’s locked securely.”

  “I’m still under house arrest?” asked Garson.

  “Let’s call it protective custody,” said Luac.

  “Did Choco bring you your bag?” asked Anita Luac.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “There was a message with it from a Gabriél Villazana,” said Luac. “He sent his kindest regards. We sent back word that you’re having a happy visit here. Is that correct?”

  “One never knows until the visit is over,” said Garson.

  “Spoken like a true disciple of Confucius,” said Luac. “And a greater fool never lived. We will see you later, no doubt?”

  “No doubt,” said Garson. He looked up, caught the crone staring at him, her eyes open. The lids dropped immediately, and again there was the expression of the lizard in her seamed face. But for a moment, Garson had seen something: a dull look in the open eyes—something about her as though a terrible boot had crushed out her ego. And behind the dullness there had appeared a sense of watchful waiting.

  Garson was struck by the sudden wondering thought: Is she one of the meek who’ll outwait us and inherit the earth?

  He followed Anita Luac to the door of his room, stopped there and looked down at her. “Let’s stop this nonsense, shall we?”

  She blushed. “What do you mean?”

  “What’s happened to Eduardo Gomez?”

  “He was killed in an accident at Torleon.” Her glance darted nervously up the hall. “It’s so frightening! Maria is his mother.” She looked back to Garson. “We think Raul told her that Eduardo was murdered . . .” She swallowed. “ . . .and that Father ordered it!”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see the . . . I didn’t see him.”

  “What made you decide to confide in me?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. It suddenly seemed like too much work to lie.”

  “Why’s your father carrying on this pretense about Eduardo?”

  “Because you asked in front of her. Things are supposed to be concealed from you.”

  “Does Raul want to marry you?”

  “Raul?” She shuddered. “He has a wife and two children in Torleon.”

  “What’s your father doing for the Reds?”

  Her eyes became pools of fear. She put a hand to her mouth, shook her head. Presently, she whispered: “Please. You don’t understand. If Raul . . .”

  “I know! The cavalry would come galloping over the lake!” The heat of the afternoon, the unanswered questions, all were piling up on Garson. “You’re all playing some stupid game, and you’re trying to use me in it without telling me any more than you have to!”

  Some of the mockery returned to her eyes. “You came for a story . . . Hal?”

  He felt like pulling her to him, crushing her mouth with his.

  She saw it in his eyes, stepped back. He could see her regain composure, feeling her control of the situation. “Sometimes one pays a price for a story,” she murmured.

  “What price are you paying?” he asked. “And for what?”

  The questions shook her. “You’re not amusing!” she hissed.

  “I wasn’t trying to be.” He studied the lovely oval of her face. And he recalled Separdo’s words: “Beauty may conceal so many things.”

  Are there piranha in her soul? he wondered.

  “Has Raul always been your watchdog?” asked Garson.

  She shook her head. “Before him there was Maltzeff. Raul has only been with us for about eighteen months. Things were so different before. With Papa Maltzeff . . .” She sighed. “He kept a casita . . .” Her color deepened. “ . . .a little house in town. Carmela—the woman—wasn’t his wife, but they had nine children. We teased him that it was very Catholic of him.” A hint of a smile touched her lips. “It used to make him angry. Religion, you know.” She shrugged.

  “What happened to him?”

  “They called him home. Perhaps if we hadn’t teased so much, he would’ve stayed.” Again she sighed. “Poor Carmela.”

  “What does your father do?” asked Garson.

  “You’re trying to trick me!” She motioned to his room. “Please go inside.”

  “Okay, warden.” Still he hesitated, looking down at her.

  They heard Raul’s voice in the room at the end of the hall.

  “Hurry!” she whispered.

  Garson slipped through the doorway, closed the door. He heard the lock click.

  Trying to trick her? God, what a woman!

  He crossed to the bed, stretched out on it with his hands under his head, tried to relax.

  Okay, so I’ve learned something: Luac does some kind of work for the Reds. But what?

  Garson could feel perspiration collecting at every place where he touched the bed.

  This damned heat!

  He got up, crossed to the bathroom, stripped off his clothes to take a shower. There was no window in the bath, only a vent above the shower stall. It was closed. He stood on tiptoes, opened the vent, froze in that position as he heard voices—very faint but distinct. One of them, he realized, was Raul.

  “ . . .without fail,” said Raul. “Now hurry along with you.” There came the sound of receding footsteps, then Raul’s voice again, this time in Spanish: “Sí? Que necesitas?”

  What do you want? Garson strained to hear the words.

  A woman’s voice answered, and he thought it was Maria Gomez. She spoke too rapidly for Garson to follow.

  Separdo said, “Ahorita no!”

  Not now! He sounded angry.

  The woman’s voice said, “Sí, Yegua.” Her voice carried a tone of rebuke.

  Then Garson began to tremble. Yegua! Slowly, he slid down from tiptoe, withdrew his hand from the vent. But he could still hear Separdo’s angry voice telling the woman never to call him that—never!

  Yegua!

  He recalled the scene in the lobby of the Palacio, Medina telling about the murder of his brother.

  Someone called “La Yegua.” It must be coincidence. Choco said it was a common nickname for people of unpredictable anger.

  Unpredictable anger!

  Why was Separdo so angry at being called that?

  Garson forgot about his shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, returned to the bed.

  What do I do with this piece of information? Do I give it to Choco?

  Somehow, this did not se
em the correct move.

  Garson was still debating the problem with himself after dinner that night when Anita Luac invited him to sit on the terrace “for the sunset.”

  She seemed filled with a gentle nostalgia, leaned back in a canvas chair, waved a hand at the horizon. “It would have all been mine.”

  Garson shifted his chair until he faced her. “What would? The world?”

  “Don’t be facetious!”

  I suppose she means the hacienda, he thought. The curious tone of her words came home to him. Would’ve been? What’s to prevent it?

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. “Who knows?”

  “Have you ever thought of marriage?”

  “Once. He was the engineer who built our dam on the lower rancho. He had a wife and six children in Milwaukee. I was fourteen.”

  Garson smiled. “I have no wife and children.”

  She spoke without looking at him. “Is that a proposal?”

  He felt a terrible distress close to the surface of consciousness, spoke in a low voice, “I believe it was. But I’d like to withdraw it and save it for a better time.”

  “And for a better woman?” He sensed tears in her voice.

  “I didn’t say that, Nita.”

  She made a visible effort to lift her spirits, straightened in the chair. “Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Silence came between them.

  The brief tropic sunset swept its primary colors across the mountains, left them in the warm intimacy of the night. A full moon spread an iridescent carpet across the lake.

  Choco Medina crossed in front of them at the lakeshore, outlined like a goblin against the moonpath.

  Anita Luac arose from her chair. “I must be getting inside. The insects.”

  “And one particularly obnoxious bug called Garson.” He got to his feet, faced her.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No. Of course you didn’t.”

  “And you’re sorry?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She held out her hand.

  Garson heard Medina’s footsteps on the terrace.

  “Your guard approaches.”

  He took her hand, had the feeling that he should kiss it. Instead, he shook her hand in a short, hesitant gesture that made him feel silly.