Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [57]
“Comfortable, Warren?” the American PI asked from behind the wheel, sounding as though he didn’t care what the answer was.
“Yeah, I’m comfortable,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the Mexican sitting behind him. “Where are we going?”
“You ask one more time where we’re going, Warren, and we’re going to have to do something to shut you up.”
“Pardon me for living. I like to know where I’m going, that’s all. Make plans, you know?” The bravado in his voice wasn’t matched by the tremors in his stomach.
They slowly lurched through the sluggish traffic of Mexico City before breaking free on a short run of open road leading to the pretty, leafy suburb of Coyoacán. The driver slowed as he passed the Leon Trotsky Museum, then turned onto a road flanked by stately colonial homes. He pulled into a circular driveway in front of a two-story house whose entire front was covered with indigo and terra-cotta tiles. Munsch had valiantly tried to keep his emotions in check during the ride, his nonstop questions and wise-guy chatter his outlet. But now that they’d evidently reached their destination, the dread that consumed him came to the surface. He turned to the driver and held out his hands, palms up, eyes bulging with fear. “Look,” he said in a faltering voice, “I don’t know you guys and I don’t want to know you. All I want to do is get out ’a Mexico and get to Cuba. I don’t know what this client of yours is paying you, but I’ll do better.”
The American PI laughed. “That so, Warren? You’re a rich guy, huh?”
“No, I’m not rich, but I’ve got plans, b-i-g plans. Once I get to Cuba there’ll be plenty of scores, believe me. I’ll cut you in, give you half.”
“Just half?”
“You want more? You got it! So let’s just get out of here and go to the airport. Stake me a ticket to Cuba and believe me, you guys will see more money than—”
The driver opened his door.
“Please,” Munsch said.
Both detectives left the car and held open the front passenger door for Munsch. He stepped out unsteadily, turned and reached for his overnight bag that had been on the floor beneath his feet. The Mexican roughly pulled him erect.
“You won’t need that,” the American said.
The detectives each grabbed an arm and led Munsch toward the front door. But before reaching it, they veered left and came around the side of the house to a rear garden enclosed by a high, fortresslike wall covered with vines bearing yellow and pink blossoms. Beyond the wall, the volcanos of the region rose majestically into a cobalt-blue sky.
Munsch’s attention shifted to a corner of the expansive brick patio where a man sat at a white wrought-iron table. He appeared to be going through a stack of mail and didn’t acknowledge the trio’s arrival until they approached within a dozen feet. He slowly looked up, smiled, and with a wave suggested Munsch join him. Munsch glanced at his two captors; the American nodded for him to do what he’d been told. Munsch sat heavily, his chin tucked into his breastbone, his eyes taking in the man at the table through the top of his head.
Munsch judged him to be in his sixties, maybe seventy. He was slender; he wore pale yellow linen slacks and a shirt-jacket to match. He was bald, his head obviously shaved. Small, tortoise-rimmed glasses perched at the tip of an aquiline nose.
“Thank you for taking the time to join me,” he said, his English bearing a trace of Spanish ancestry, the smile remaining on his lips.
“It’s not like I had a choice—with all due respect,” Munsch said.
“No, I see that you didn’t.”
He turned to the detectives, who’d remained standing a few feet away, and said in Spanish, “Why don’t you gentlemen wait in the car. We won’t be long.”
It occurred to Munsch as they left that this might be a good chance to escape. The problem was, he realized, he’d never get over the wall, and the only apparent route would take him back around the house to where the two muscles waited. Maybe I can make a deal with this guy, he thought. Seems nice enough.
“I have a few questions to ask you,