The Big Bite Page 3

  “Some joint,” the boy said admiringly. “When they get a paved road in here, this place will really jump. The boss is planning a bigger dance floor and casino, a real dock, a breakwater, the works.”

  Knox looked down at the stubby pier on the beach in front of the motel and decided that the landscape couldn’t be more thoroughly desecrated than it was now; it didn’t really matter what else was built.

  “You sound like a real native,” he observed, drawing the car under a portico.

  “I am, for a fact,” the boy said. “But I was raised in L.A.” Opening his door, he stepped out with a graceful movement. “This is better. More dough.”

  “And no place to spend it,” Knox remarked.

  “I got ways. But I’m saving my dough,” he said with the chatty frankness of youth. “Maybe I’ll go to Mexico City some day.” Drawing Knox’s two suitcases from the rear seat of the car, he started forward. Knox followed into a pleasantly dim lobby. It was thoroughly air-conditioned here and more than cool. The lobby had a tile floor with potted palms set about on it. In the center of the room was a fountain decorated by a bosomy nymph, the whole affair set in a lily pond. Knox stared at the nymph in fascination. In Italy he had seen all kinds of fountains but never one with such fine anatomical detail in places usually covered. Twin streams of water arched gracefully up and fell with a tinkle into the water below.

  “That’s Pepita,” the boy said. “Something, ain’t she?”

  She was, Knox agreed, something. He stepped around the fountain to find a registration desk of standard type. There was no one behind it.

  The boy set down the cases and ducked under a section of the counter. He came up on the other side and politely handed Knox a pen and registration card. “A regular cabin, sir?”

  “How many kinds are there?”

  “The regular, sir, for one or two persons, and the large for three or more—up to six. Also we have one that holds eight.”

  “A regular will do,” Knox said. He signed carefully, remembering that his car was licensed in California: “Paul Knox, San Francisco, California, U.S.A.” Where he was asked for his profession or business, he scribbled, “Consultant.”

  The boy looked the card over. “Oh, Frisco. Good town if you got dough. I remember a dame there …” He sighed and his finger went down on the word “consultant.”

  What does that cover?” He had his grin but his eyes were sharp.

  “Sins,” Knox said. “People want various kinds of information. I supply it.” He added, “Mostly about money—investments.”

  The boy lost interest. Taking a key from the box behind him, he slapped his hand down on a bell. “Take the gentleman to cabin three, Chuco,” he directed.

  Ducking under the counter, he picked up Knox’s bags.

  Knox followed him. “What else do you do besides play room clerk, bellhop, and shill?”

  “Wait table, sweep the floor. There aren’t many guests and we’re short handed. But wait till we get the road built.”

  Knox trailed along down a cool corridor, outside into heat slightly ameliorated by the cover over the walkway, and into one of the first row of cabins. As they went, Chuco said, “Dining room and casino upstairs.”

  From the view window of the cabin, there was a sweeping vista, including a small piece of the town and, Knox was sure, half the Gulf between here and Cuba. But what interested him most was the bead he could draw on Horsetail Island. He was glad he had brought powerful glasses.

  The cabin was nice. There was a living room, a bedroom, both furnished with heavy hand-carved furniture covered in bright Mexican colors, an efficiency kitchen complete with a refrigerator stocked with ice cubes, and a typically Mexican bath, which meant that the shower was almost large enough to hold a dance in.

  Chuco set down the bags. “The food in the dining room is sharp, but it ain’t open except afternoons and evenings, so if you want I’ll stock you up with coffee and junk.”

  “Sure,” Knox agreed. “Throw in some cheese and beer and such, too. I might get hungry in the middle of the night.”

  “Anything else? Tequila?”

  “Not if you’ve got Irish.”

  “A cellar full.” Chuco grinned and watched Knox peel off his sweat-soaked coat and shirt. “Nice muscles,” he said as if surprised. “I know some girls would like your kind of muscles. Nice girls. I mean nice—they wash.”

  “I’ll fish a while first,” Knox said. He flipped a bag onto the closest of the twin beds in the bedroom. “I could use some of that beer right now.”

  Chuco flicked off so quickly that Knox hardly heard him go. He returned as Knox was stepping out of the shower.

  Knox knotted a towel about his waist and padded into the kitchen to watch a tremendous basket being unloaded. Enough food to stock a delicatessen appeared and went into the refrigerator. The beer came last. Knox rescued two bottles, damp and frosted, and set them on the sink.

  When Chuco had set the two bottles of Irish in the cupboard, he handed Knox a bill. Knox lifted his eyebrows. “What do you do, fly this stuff in piece by piece?”

  “That’s in pesos,” Chuco said. “They’re worth eight cents.”

  Knox went for his wallet. Chuco said, “Got any dollars?”

  “It isn’t legal,” Knox said.

  “Neither are a lot of things,” Chuco said. “Like marijuana, for instance. Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Knox handed him the money in dollars, adding a good tip.

  He opened the two bottles of beer and handed one to the boy. They sat before the view window, their feet on its broad sill and surveyed the water. The beer was Mexican, which meant it had few rivals—the dark kind that Knox liked so well.

  “That’s quite an island out there,” he said. “The way those palms stick up makes it look like a mare’s tail.”

  “Horsetail Island,” Chuco said. He helped himself to one of Knox’s cigarettes from a pack on the coffee table. “My boss wanted to buy it and put this place there, but some joker with more dough than brains owns it and he had it leased. No sale.”

  “You mean someone lives on it?”

  “Someone is right. A dame with two guys and a flock of locals for servants. I mean, some dame.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Sounds screwy,” Knox said.

  His apparent disinterest made the boy garrulous. “A dame named Tinsley. Miss Natalie Tinsley. Claims she’s writing a book and that one of the guys is her secretary and the other her research assistant.” His grin was mocking. “First time I ever heard a hood called a research assistant.”

  “You get around,” Knox said.

  “They come up and play at the casino now and then. And I go out and deliver food when they want something special. I shoot the breeze with one of the maids—Manuelita.” His eyes rolled again. “It pays a guy to keep his eyes and ears open.”

  He was definitely a boy with an eye to the main chance, Knox thought. Rising, he got two more beers. Chuco seemed to know everyone and everything in the area. He continued talking and in between his running commentary on the lack of morals—actual or wishful—Knox learned a good deal.

  Natalie Tinsley and one of her assistants—an Englishman named Forrest—usually came to the casino twice a week. This was Wednesday and she hadn’t been in since Saturday, so it might be that she would come tonight.

  There was a ship-to-shore type telephone hookup with Horsetail Island, so Knox could pick up the telephone at his right hand and call if he felt like it. He told Chuco that he didn’t feel like it.

  The town’s inhabitants liked the money the norteamericanos brought, but they disapproved of such things as Natalie Tinsley appearing in shorts and halter top and of a man named Curtis who rented a dinghy with a little outboard, went fishing, and disappeared. The owner of the boat was in a stew; it was the only boat he had. This Curtis was a real schnook, according to Chuco. He stayed in town rather than at the Viewhouse.

  The Viewhouse had, at presen
t, only four guests, counting Knox. There was an American businessman fishing for swordfish, a Central American diplomat incognito while he took a rest—too much Mexico City night life, Chuco confided with a wink—and a lady etymologist (whatever that might be, he added) who was busy running around with a tape recorder and paying the natives to make noises into it.

  The skeleton staff of the Viewhouse consisted of the manager, like Chuco a native who had spent some time in Los Angeles, Chuco himself, two waiters, and the cook—a Mexican-Chinese who could hold his own in Paris.

  After unburdening himself, Chuco looked expectantly at Knox as if expecting reciprocation. Knox only said, “These dames you know, are they better than the lady etymologist?”

  “Her? A tipa,” Chuco said. “Naw, don’t waste your time.”

  Which told him nothing. A lady etymologist, Knox could understand. But one flush enough to stay at a place like the Viewhouse while doing research, he could not. He had known a number of scholars and college professors and few ever had enough money to spend time in a twenty-dollar-a-day setup.

  “Maybe this Tinsley woman …” His voice slurred as though he had had too much beer.

  “This guy Forrest looks hard,” Chuco warned, “and that hood of hers—Tiber’s his name—ain’t any patsy. Let me get you a dame.”

  “Yeh,” Knox said, mouthing his words carefully, “something different.” He grinned slyly at Chuco. “Know any lady beachcombers?”

  “Whats?”

  “Beachcombers. You see ‘em in movies. American or English women that get themselves stranded in the tropics. I met one once in Singapore. Ah!”

  “Now, ain’t that a coincidence?” said Chuco. “We got one of them in town now. Staying at the cantina.” He thought it over. “But you wouldn’t want her. Says she’s a showgirl headed for Mexico City. She showed up here in an old clunk of a car and no dough. She’s been trying to raise bus fare out.”

  “That’s the type,” Knox said. “Naw. This one looks like she’s in the business.”

  Knox appeared to consider this. He didn’t want to push it too hard or too obviously.

  “Bad?”

  “Stacked, but messy. You know the kind.”

  “Still,” Knox said, “a showgirl. Dancer, maybe?” He put a lot of leer into his voice.

  Chuco hadn’t thought of that. He stood up. “Want to give it a try?”

  “Sure, see what you can do. After dark, huh?”

  Chuco looked at Knox’s wallet lying on the table. “Way after dark. Well, I gotta go. A charter plane full of fishermen from the States are due.”

  “Is due,” Knox said, gravely correcting his grammar.

  “Go to hell,” Chuco said with a grin. He left.

  Knox dressed. Then he got out his glasses and had a look at Horsetail Island. They brought the low, wide house with its innumerable wings and verandas into view. He had a narrow glimpse of a patio set some distance oceanward from the house. The area was in shadow, but Knox could make out someone lying in a beach chair beside a pond. His attention was distracted by the sight of a cruiser moving rapidly from the town pier toward the island. When he looked back, he saw the person in the patio rise from the beach chair, turn to look briefly in the direction of the house, and then dive into the pool.

  His glasses showed clearly when she faced in his direction that she had been enjoying the rays of the slanting sun without benefit of clothing. He had to admit, even though his glimpse had been brief, that, whatever her age, she was a handsomely endowed woman.

  With the woman in the pool marked only by a bobbing white cap, Knox turned the glasses onto the boat. It was heading directly for the island, at such an angle that he suspected it would dock on the seaward side. It rounded the tip of the island and disappeared.

  He became aware that someone was approaching and he lowered his glasses and resumed his chair. He sat and watched the newly arrived party—apparently what they claimed to be, three businessmen down for the fishing, with women so irritated looking that they could only be wives. Later, he saw the other guests: an American carrying fishing equipment, the Central American diplomat dressed in impeccable white and accompanied by a small dark man clad in the same fashion, and finally the lady etymologist.

  She looked so much as Knox expected a lady etymologist to look that he wondered if he shouldn’t be suspicious of her. She came puffing into view, carrying a portable tape recorder with battery case slung over her shoulder. She was certainly not much older than he—if any—but she wore a dried-out air as though a determination to remain maidenly had put its stamp on her. She had a rather long but not unattractive face. Her skin had a leathery cast. He could not judge her eyes, hidden as they were behind large glasses. Her hair was drab and brown and worn knotted at the nape of her neck. The kind of hat that sagged all around was perched on the top of her head. Khaki shirt and khaki knickers—of a vintage Knox had not seen since he was a boy—completed her costume. She had nice calves, he decided, and let it go at that.

  The sun was edging toward the horizon and Knox was on his fourth beer. He turned his attention to the telephone at his side.

  The reception was a bit fuzzy, but the voice that came through was distinct enough once he got his call through. If phoning Horsetail Island was unusual, the operator had not revealed it. From the masculine voice that answered in a clipped British accent, Knox decided he was talking to the man called Forrest. “Miss Natalie Tinsley, please.”

  “Who is calling, may I ask?”

  “You may, chap,” Knox said. “The name is Paul Knox, of the Seattle-Biarritz Knoxes.”

  “Quite.”

  Silence, and then a slightly accented, very warm feminine voice. “Mr. Knox, this is Natalie Tinsley.”

  She sounded faintly curious, no more. Knox said, “We have a mutual friend, it seems. I was asked to bring regards.” He paused. “From a man named Nivolo. We met in Tangier.”

  The voice did not change inflection. “How kind of you—and how surprising this far from everywhere. Are you staying here, Mr. Knox?”

  She was good, he thought. He said, “At the Viewhouse. I’m doing a bit of fishing.”

  “Delightful. Perhaps you’ll come for coffee and brandy soon. Tonight, perhaps?”

  “Tonight would be perfect,” he said.

  He hung up after she told him that a man named Forrest would meet him at Marengo’s Cantina at eight and bring him out in the launch. He sat watching the shadows lengthen over the Gulf, darkening to a soft purple that faded finally to a steely gray.

  CHAPTER V

  The wind had shifted and the breeze felt cool and pleasant. The town was not a quarter mile from the Viewhouse and Knox did the last half of it on the packed white sand of the beach. The sea smelled good; he was in a pleasant, relaxed mood. He wished it would last—but he knew better.

  When he reached the main street, his watch showed nearly seven. He strolled along, looking in the two flyblown shop windows the town boasted, nodded to a pudgy uniformed policeman who stared at him and at three small children coming from the grocery store. They were arguing vehemently about which one should carry the wicker basket. The last Knox saw of them, each one had a grubby hand on the bail.

  Marengo’s Cantina had two glassless windows, shutters thrown back, and an open door. Inside, the long dim room reeked of pulque and beer. There was another door and beyond it a veranda with checked tablecloths on small tables set along a railing. From the tables there was an unobstructed view of the water.

  A waiter moved toward Knox.

  “Dinner, señor?”

  There was one customer at the moment, a girl who was wolfing paella. He indicated her dish and spoke loudly enough for her to hear. “Is that good?”

  She raised her head and turned. It was Nat, dressed much as she had been in Tangier, but not quite so blatantly and with a little less make-up. She had on the absurd foundation garment that made her look all hips and bust, and the blonde wig, but somehow she had managed to ton
e down the whole outfit.

  “Good,” she said through a mouthful of food. “Handsome.” Her voice was hoarse.

  Knox took a chair at the table behind her so that, they sat back to back. “Paella,” he directed the waiter. “A bottle of red wine.”

  The waiter went away and for the moment they were alone. Knox leaned back with one arm draped over the top of his chair. He appeared to find the harbor with its scattering of fishing boats extremely interesting. He spoke in a low voice, barely moving his lips.

  “There’ll be a boy down here tonight. Name of Chuco.”

  Nat did not lift her head from her food or stop chewing, but her voice reached him distinctly. “I know him. He’s made two passes already.”

  “Don’t let it flatter you,” he said. “Tonight you’ll end up in my room. Wait for me. I’m going out to the island.”

  He could hear the sharp intake of her breath. “So soon?”

  “Why not?”

  There was no answer. The waiter had returned, bearing Knox’s plate of paella. It was a steaming mixture of rice and vegetables and small hulled shrimp and tiny clams still in their shells, all lightly spiced. It smelled wonderful and, accompanied by the heavy white rolls and the surprisingly good red wine, was as good as it smelled.

  The girl finished first and without a glance in his direction rose and wandered off, a cigarette drooping from one corner of her mouth. Knox smothered a grin in paella. She was really something, Nat Tinsley.

  It began to grow dark. Knox could see the pinpricks of light on the water that identified the island. One of them detached itself and began moving at a steady, not too rapid pace shoreward. Soon Knox picked up the soft purring of a powerful motor burbling its exhaust into the water. The light became distinct; shortly a searchlight beam pinpointed itself on a nearby pier. Forrest had arrived.