“So tell me what else you did in there,” Emma said to Timoteo as they rounded a corner and the house fell out of sight.
“They've got all kinds of electric stuff. You can watch TV and play with computer things and everything. It's real fun.”
“Did you eat anything besides ice cream?”
“Cookies. They had cookies, too. I ate some cookies. And cake. I made friends with all the mens. They showed me their guns and everything.”
“Marvelous.”
“I will go to work for Señor Zuberan very soon, I think. He is very important man. Very rich. Many people want to steal from him because he has so much money. How did he get so rich?”
“He's in financial services.”
“What is financial services?”
Emma realized that she had no idea.
“Do me a favor, Timoteo,” she said. “Don't be a guard when you grow up. Be a doctor.”
“Maybe I will be a magician. Like you.”
“That's very flattering,” said Emma, glancing over at him and returning his big grin. “But study medicine, too. Have something to fall back on. Just in case.”
The guards at the gate were waiting for them and waved them through. Emma didn't talk much on the drive back to San Marcos City, though Timoteo chattered on about Nintendo and ice cream and money. She felt as if she had lost her innocence.
Only now did all she had learned begin to sink in. Her dear sweet grandfather running guns, smuggling gold artifacts, pursued by assassins. It was all so unbelievable.
But it made a strange kind of sense, too. If MarieâEmma's
motherâwas ill and had needed an operation, then Pépé would have done anything, Emma knew. He would have had no choice.
And what of Henri-Pierre? Could he actually have been involved in this? Just thinking about such a possibility made her want to cry.
Back in San Marcos City, Emma returned the car to the agency and paid the exorbitant two-day rental fee in cash. Timoteo followed silently at her side as she walked back to the Casimente.
They stopped at the gate to the hotel parking lot. It was a little after three o'clock. The other “tour guides” were in heated discussion down at the end of the block and didn't seem to notice them. The battered cars and trucks that constituted afternoon traffic whizzed by.
“Well, I guess this is it,” said Emma, looking at Timoteo, suddenly realizing that she would never see him again.
“You go back to States now?” said Timoteo, shuffling from one foot to the other, trying to smile.
“I'm not sure what I'm going to do. So. How much do I owe you for our two days together?”
Timoteo shrugged.
“You pay what you want.”
Emma reached into her pocket and counted out bills, remembering what Celia had told her, that twenty pesos would be enough for the boy.
“Here's three hundred pesos. How's that?”
The boy stared at the money in her hand, but didn't move. Emma took his hand and pressed the bills into it.
“Thank you, Timoteo,” said Emma when the boy didn't speak. “I couldn't have done it without you. You were a wonderful guide. And a good friend. I like you very much.”
Timoteo grinned.
“You give me tennis shoes now?”
“You really know how to wreck a tender moment, don't you?”
“Please?” he said. “You can buy more in States. You rich.”
“Forget it!” exclaimed Emma.
“Why not?”
“Come on, Timoteo. Can't you see they wouldn't fit you?”
“Yes, they would. They fit perfect. I will wear them all the time. I will always think of you.”
“I'll tell you what,” said Emma in exasperation. “You can have either the tennis shoes or the money. You choose.”
The boy's mischievous smile vanished. He stared at the bills in his hands, then looked up.
“I don't want to charge you at all,” he said sheepishly. “I'd work for you for free.”
Emma swallowed hard and nodded, staring at his brave, cunning face, wondering what chance Timoteo really had in life. How many boys from these streets escaped the poverty, beat the odds like Bernal Zuberan had? Could he even grow up to be a security guard, let alone a doctor? The worst thing of all, Emma knew, was that there was nothing that she could do to help him. His fate would depend upon himself.
“I guess I have to take the money,” said Timoteo. “I guess I need it more, okay?”
The next moment her arms were around him somehow, and he was hugging her back. They held the embrace for several seconds, then Emma turned and walked into the hotel parking lot. When she glanced over her shoulder, Timoteo was standing there, biting his lip, watching her.
Emma stopped. She walked back to him and pulled off one of the “shoes that cost as much as feet,” then the other.
“No ⦔ began Timoteo.
Emma put her finger on his lips, handed him the shoes, then hobbled quickly across the hot pavement of the parking lot to the hotel in her bare feet without looking back.
Â
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E
mma was waiting for the elevator in the Casimente's lobby, her mind so filled with images of boats and dragons and Timoteo that she didn't recognize her name at first.
“Emma Passant!” repeated the deep, familiar voice. “Well, saddle me with a standard-transmission Pontiac!”
Emma looked up and found herself staring at a refrigeratorsized figure in tooled-leather boots and a cowboy hat.
“Big Ed Garalachek!” he said, reaching out and pumping her hand. “Remember me, little lady? Big Ed? The Chevy King?”
“How can I forget?” said Emma, finally breaking free from his sweaty grip. He looked just as ridiculous as she remembered him âand even bigger, probably because she was in her bare feet this time.
“Well, ain't this the damnedest coincidence,” boomed Ed, “our running into each other like this, way the hell down here in the middle of nowhere! Ain't this some cockamamie place? Usually people try to buy my hat. Here they been trying to buy my money! So what brings you to these parts anyhow? You doing
your magic show for some banana baron or something?”
“Just a vacation,” stammered Emma. “What about you?”
“Business, of course. I got me a fellow here wants to sell a classic 'vette convertible.
“'Vette?”
“Corvette to you. That's your Chevy sports car, the way they used to make them. Two hundred eighty-three horsepower, V-eight engine, Ramjet fuel injection ⦠oh, heavenly goodness, what an automobile! You know I also sell your one-of-a-kind and your hard-to-get collector's vehicles, don't you? If this fella here's tellin' me the truth, he could very well have the sweetest memory of 1957 left in the whole Western Hemisphere.”
His eyes sparkled. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Emma tried to smile, though her stomach was suddenly doing somersaults.
“Pretty far to travel to buy a car, isn't it, Ed?”
“Hell, honey,” laughed Ed, “I've bought cars in Saudi Arabia, Moscow, the Philippines ⦠Your really rich foreigners, see, your big-shot businessmen, your kings and dictators and the like, they've done a lot of shopping in the good ole U.S. of A. over the years, and what better for a well-off foreigner to buy than automobiles? They go to Detroit and get theirselves some fancy car, bring it back to their palace or their dacha or whatever, drive it around a few times to impress the peons, and then it's on to the next toy. The car gets stashed away somewhere and forgotten about until somebody finally finds it and decides to turn it back into cash money. That's where I come in. I advertise for old Chevys all over the world. You got a classic Chevy, you call Big Ed. âCall Big Ed, the Chevy King. He'll go to outer space for the right vehicle'âthat's what my ads say. You see any UFOs, Emma honey, you let me know. I'd love to get my hands on what them E.T. boys picked up over the years.”
“How's Lionel?” asked Emma, looking around Ed's pockets for signs of the Chihuahua.
“He's my best friend. You remember everything, don't you? Except your shoes, maybe.”
“I was just ⦔
“Oh, Lionel's fine.” Ed laughed. “He's fine. Only the crazy customs people down here wouldn't let me bring him. Like he's gonna contaminate the local breedin' stock or something. Can you imagine? I got him holed up with my sister back in Phoenix. Lionel's the only one in the whole family who likes her cooking. But then, of course, he likes dog biscuits, too; there ain't no accounting for taste. Hey, ain't this crazy, our running into each other like this? The odds must be a million to one.”
“Yes. It's pretty unbelievable.”
“Must be fate, that's what I say. Must be destiny. I hope you're gonna let me buy you a drink or something?”
“Sure,” said Emma. “Just let me go upstairs and freshen up. I'll meet you in the bar, okay?”
“Great! See you soon.”
Emma smiled and escaped into the waiting elevator. The instant the doors closed, her expression changed from frozen politeness to the dismay she had been feeling. She lifted her glasses onto the top of her head, cupped her hands over her long, pointed nose, and took a deep breath. What was going on? What was Big Ed Garalachek doing in San Marcos?
The elevator doors opened on the third floor. Emma got out and darted down the hall, almost breaking into a run. Once inside her room she bolted the door and put on the chain, then dropped into the armchair, and found herself shaking.
It was ridiculous, Emma told herself. Big Ed was just a giant overstuffed teddy bear. How could she be afraid of him? Maybe it was the residual effects of Bernal Zuberan's story that had made her paranoid, the thought of treasure maps and name-changing and murder.
The irony of it was that Zuberan had just been speaking about fate, and what he had said had made sense. Could it really be fate
that had brought Ed Garalachek to San Marcos? It was fate that had put Big Ed at the Phoenix Grand Marquis so she could use his dog in her act, wasn't it? Surely the Chevy salesman couldn't be connected to the murders of Jacques Passant and Henri-Pierre Caraignac. Or could he?
Emma had been staring at the room without seeing. Suddenly everything came into focus. She had unpacked only one of her two suitcases when she checked in, but had gotten a belt out of the other suitcase that morning and had left it open when she went out. Now it was closed. Emma rushed over, opened the suitcase, rummaged through the packed clothing, feeling invaded and frightened and helpless. Even though nothing seemed to be missing, someone had been here. Someone had closed the suitcase. Who?
“The same person who made the bed,” Emma finally said aloud, feeling like a fool: the maid had already come and gone today.
Emma collapsed onto the bed and forced her mind back to the weekend she had been in Phoenix and had met Big Ed. Henri-Pierre had been killed the Saturday night she had performed. Big Ed had been with her that night, had watched the show from the light booth, so he couldn't possibly have killed the Frenchman in San Francisco, eight hundred miles away. If Emma was right about the same man having killed Jacques Passant, then Big Ed was in the clear.
So what did he want? Was he stalking her? Was he some obsessed crazy? Or could he really just be here to buy a Chevrolet, as he claimed? Could it be that incredible of a coincidence?
There was only one way to find out.
Â
“Dr. José Jacinto Gautreau-Godoy,” said Big Ed. “I got the picture here somewhere.”
Ed patted down his pockets, eventually producing a color snapshot, which he passed to Emma. She had changed from her
shorts to white slacks, put on some shoes and some lipstick, and was sitting across from the Chevy King in a back booth of the downstairs bar.
Emma glanced at the photograph of a man in dark glasses sitting in the driver's seat of a red-and-white sports car, while Ed continued searching his pockets. He had taken off his cowboy hat. The wave in his light-brown hair made him look like a little boy. A very big little boy.
“Here it is,” said Big Ed triumphantly, holding up a crumpled blue aerogram with four canceled San Marcan stamps, which he passed to Emma. The letter was addressed to him at Buena Vista Motors on Alameda Boulevard in Phoenix and postmarked October 25âmore than a month ago. Before Pépé had been murdered. Before she had ever heard of Henri-Pierre Caraignac.
“âDear Señor Big Ed,'” read Emma aloud. “âI have seen your classified advertisement in the
International Herald Tribune
and wish to know if you are interested in buying a 1957 Chevrolet Corvette, which has been in my family for many years and which is in perfect condition. You may telephone me at the above number for further information. Truly yours, Dr. José Jacinto Gautreau-Godoy.'”
“He's a psychiatrist, can you believe it?” chortled Ed. “Never occurred to me they had psychiatrists down here, but it makes sense when you think about it. You can go nuts anywhere, I guess. Jose and me been dickering all this time about the car there in the letter, and I finally had to come down and see this baby for myself. Apparently it originally belonged to the son of Pegueroâhe was the dictator here for a while, until they shot him. You know that big modern highway that goes from the airport into town?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it's supposed to be this great public works/public relations project, but the way I hear the story, Peguero really built the road so his spoiled kid could have a place to race his cars. Finally killed himself in one.”
“Somehow that makes sense,” said Emma, leaning back and making room for the bartender, who deposited their drinks on the table.
Ed, who had ordered a margarita, stared at the glass of mango juice Emma had ordered.
“I thought you were a margarita gal,” he said finally, his nose crinkled up in distaste. “I hate it when a fun gal reforms.”
“I hate it when I wake up and my head explodes,” said Emma. She was damned if she was going to let her guard down this time.
Emma had been racking her brain trying to remember exactly what she had told Ed the night they had spent drinking together in Phoenix. She knew she had talked about Pépé and about growing up in San Francisco. Beyond that, all she could remember was Lionel's wet tongue on her cheek and the taste of salt in her mouth. And her exploding head the next day.
“So, when did you get in?” she asked.
“Just this morning,” said Ed. “I already took the bus tour of the cityâthat's where I was coming back from when I ran into you. How about you? You been here long?”
“A few days.”
“Then you must be an expert by now. What's there to do down here, now that I've seen the botanical garden and all the monuments?”
“There are casinos, I understand.”
“No, ma'am. Never gamble. âEddie,' my mamma used to sayâthat's what she called me, EddieââEddie,' she'd say, âdon't be a sucker. Put your money on a sure thing. Put your money on a Chevrolet.' She worked with Daddy at the lot, you know. Big Muriel, they call her.”
“What do they call him?”
“Nick.”
“Just plain Nick?”
“Sometimes they call him Shorty. He's not big like the rest of us.”
“I didn't realize it was a family business.”
“Yes, ma'am. Two generations of Garalacheks. I'd like to make a go for three, but it kinda depends on my finding that little lady of my dreams. I'm still looking, though. I'm still looking.”
“I'm sure you'll find her.”
“So what else is there to do down here? What you been doing?”
“Just sight-seeing.”
“What? You rent a car or something and drive around?”
Emma stared at Big Ed, searching for some sign of cunning in his broad, ingenuous, dopey face. If he had ulterior motives, they didn't show.
“How did you know I rented a car?” she said finally.
“How else you gonna sightsee?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.
“I did rent a car.”
“So where'd you go?”
“Around the city. Up to Las Calvos.”
“Las Calvos? What's that?”
“Big resort to the north.”
“That where you were today?”
“Yes,” lied Emma. “You'd probably like it up there if you play golf.”
“No, ma'am. I can't see myself whacking little balls around. I may look like an idiot in this getup, but I'd look even stupider dressed the way them folks do. Besides, I'm about as coordinated as a back seat full of monkeys. I'd probably kill someone.”
“They've got some nice restaurants at Las Calvos, too.”
“Now that sounds interesting. Up north, you say? Anything to the south?”
“I haven't been down that way yet.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So you meet any interesting people while you been down here?”
“Why are you so interested in where I've been going and who I've been meeting, Ed?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you really down here?”
“I told you, Emma honey. I'm gonna buy me that 'Vette from the shrink, provided it's all it's cracked up to be. You seen the letter. Hey, what's the matter with you? Don't you believe me? What do you think I'm doing? Following you around or something?”
“The thought has occurred to me.”
“You mean ⦠You think that I ⦠Jesus, Emma. I thought we was friends. You think I'm some kind of kook? Is that what you think?”
“I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings, Ed. But you must admit that this is pretty strange, our both being here on San Marcos in the same hotel like this.”