Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [59]
“Adios.”
“Yeah, adios. You watch TV here?”
“Yes. The news mostly.”
“Great. Have you picked up on anything about me being in Mexico?”
“No.”
“I mean, the local cops aren’t looking for me because that drunken idiot Garraga shot that guard?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Mr. Munsch.”
“Then my passport should be good, huh?”
“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble.”
“See ya.”
Munsch walked with a swagger to the car, where the detectives stood leaning against the Ford.
“Everything all right, Warren?” the American asked.
“Oh, yeah, better than all right. I don’t get it, you picking me up like you did, threaten to shoot me, crap like that, then bring me to this Sebastian guy—nice man—who sends me on my way to Cuba.” He did a little shuffle to indicate dancing to a Latin rhythm.
“Well,” said the American, “you might as well get in. We’ll take you to the airport.”
“That’s right, only my plane doesn’t leave until seven. I’d like some lunch.”
“We’ll drop you some place. You can take a cab after that.”
“No, I mean let’s have lunch together. My treat.”
The PIs looked at each other and smiled, then broke into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Munsch asked.
“You, Warren. You’re a funny guy. You’re okay.”
They ate Mexican food at a roadside restaurant on the highway leading to the shiny new Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez. Munsch talked incessantly during the meal about the Cuban women he would make love to, the businesses he intended to start in Havana, his intention to make friends with Fidel Castro and maybe even end up as some kind of an unofficial advisor to the dictator. His table companions listened with bemused interest, occasionally egging him on to become even more expansive with his dreams and aspirations. Multiple glasses of Mexican beer helped fuel his gregariousness.
They left the cantina at two-thirty, got in the car, and headed for the airport.
“I still got time to kill,” Munsch said as they approached the long access road.
“There’s plenty of bars and restaurants inside,” the Mexican said.
“Too public,” Munsch said. “What ’a you say we hit another joint along the road here, have a few more pops?”
“Sorry, Warren, but we’re running late for an appointment.”
“Whatever you say.”
The American suddenly pulled off the road onto a dirt shoulder. “Here’s where you get out,” he said.
“What ’a you mean?”
“We’ve got orders not to go into the airport with you.”
“Orders? What kind ’a orders?”
“Just get out, Warren. It’s not a long walk, take you, what, maybe ten minutes. Walk off that big lunch.”
“This is nuts,” Munsch said, feeling light-headed from the beer. “I don’t feel like a walk.”
The American looked Munsch in the eye and said, “Warren, you are one lucky son of a bitch. Don’t mess it up for yourself. Just get out here and walk up the road. Enjoy a few more beers, get on your plane, and head for Cuba and all those wild women you’re planning to screw. Out! It’s been a real pleasure meeting you.”
Grumbling, Munsch exited the Ford and was handed his overnight bag.
“You take care, Warren,” the American said, slipping the car into gear and roaring away, leaving Munsch coughing in a cloud of yellow dust.
He looked down the road toward the airport, glimmering a half mile away like a desert mirage. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped perspiration from his face and neck. Swearing at the detectives who’d refused to drive him to the terminal, he started walking in the direction of the mirage. As he did, two marked patrol cars carrying uniformed Mexican federales that had been parked out of sight behind a building across the highway came to where the airport access road bisected the highway and stopped. As the cars’ occupants argued about something, a taxi, a vacant green Volkswagen bug, turned off the highway and headed for the airport. Munsch heard it approaching, stopped, and waved at the driver, who came to an erratic stop.
“The airport,” Munsch said, opening the passenger door and wedging his bulk into the seat, which was covered with newspapers and a greasy brown bag.