Green Ice (5 page)

Wiley thought perhaps the husband had chosen to enjoy sitting apart, or maybe it had been her idea, and then again, very possibly it was a mutual arrangement.

“I’m Doris Gimble,” she said.

Wiley said his name.

“In case you’re wondering, we’re not even related to the department store people,” she said. “They spell their name
e-l
, ours is
l-e
.”

Wiley was thinking about how much her tan must have cost. He’d be getting one a lot cheaper.

“What do you do, Mr. Wiley?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

“Honest.”

She seemed impressed. She reappraised him, didn’t try to be subtle about it, looked him down and up and down, lingered a moment on his shoes. He had on a pair of hundred-dollar loafers from Ferragamo.

“We’re in plastics,” she said.

Wiley winced inside at the word.

“At least we were until a few years ago,” she continued. “Now the business more or less runs itself.”

Like a money machine, Wiley thought.

Dinner was brought. Wiley’s tray was piled with three entrées. He ate nearly everything on his tray and then chose a napoleon from the dessert cart. Mrs. Gimble, meanwhile, poked at her squab, pushed at her potatoes and had a few grapes and a small wedge of Edam for dessert. As though what had been placed before her was old age. Meticulously, she removed the skins and seeds from the grapes. Before the meal, she had taken two green capsules and a tiny white pill, which Wiley had assumed were vitamins. Now he wasn’t sure.

“Are you, by any chance, on the junket?” she asked.

Wiley thought she’d said “junk.” She repeated her question.

“No.”

“What a shame.”

Wiley agreed politely.

“It’s a fabulous resort. Two or three planeloads are being flown down from New York, and there’ll be others. Just about everyone who is anyone, from all over. We could have taken the charter yesterday, and that would have been fun, but Allen had this long-standing date with his cardiologist.” She paused, changed tone. “Maybe it was for the best.”

Her eyes locked with Wiley’s for a moment. It seemed she had hands in her eyes.

Wiley looked away, out of reach. “Where is this place?”

“Near Manzanillo, on the west coast. Do you know where Manzanillo is?”

“Yes,” Wiley fibbed.

“The place is called Las Hadas, which means ‘the fairies’ or perhaps ‘fairyland,’ I think. All I know in Spanish is hello, goodbye, thanks and a few naughty words.” She laughed for punctuation. “Anyway,” she went on, “to promote the place a lot of the right people have been invited. You know, those who make news or at least will talk it up in the right circles.”

“Right.”

“It’s going to cost Argenti a fortune, putting all of us up for a week. But Argenti can afford it.”

Evidently Wiley should have known who this Argenti person was, so he didn’t ask.

The movie screen was being lowered, sterilized ear-sets were being distributed.

Did Wiley want a brandy or some other after-dinner drink before the movie began? He ordered a B&B. Strega for Mrs. Gimble.

“Where, exactly, are you headed?” she asked.

“Nowhere.”

“Just wandering?”

“Just wandering.”

“Then, heavens, why don’t you consider coming to the party? I can arrange it with Argenti. And I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

4

The flight was on time until it reached Mexico City, where it was ordered into a holding pattern for an hour. Air traffic was a chronic problem there because so many national flights went in and out of Benito Juárez International Airport.

At Immigration Wiley was asked how long he intended to stay in Mexico.

Maybe a lifetime, he thought. “Maybe a month,” he said.

He got through customs quickly and was fought over by three porters who must have sensed he would overtip in U.S. money. He did. Almost twice too much per bag, but it seemed cheap enough to him, and he was glad to be led straight out of the terminal to a street-level taxi stand.

On the way into town a change came over him. He stopped looking out, slouched down, the tip of his spine on the edge of the seat, chin to chest. Why was he so suddenly depressed, feeling out of place? Because he was alone now, with no fellow passengers or anything to distract him? Whatever, it had caught up with him all at once.

He’d told the driver the Hotel del Paseo. Other than the Hilton and the El Presidente, the del Paseo was the only hotel he knew in the city. A girl he’d dated in ’72 and ’73 had praised the place after staying there a week while doing fashion photos. It would be too expensive for him to stay there permanently. First thing tomorrow he’d go looking for an apartment. He’d keep to his allowance of ten dollars a day. That First Class fare had cost him five days’ allowance, and this taxi … he should have taken a bus, but what the hell.

They were coming into the city on Avenida Santa Teresa de Mier and, after a couple of sharp rights, reached the Paseo de la Reforma. Wide straight street, tall new buildings, reflections patterning across steel and glass, slick storefronts, bars, restaurants, neon signs contending for attention, the competitive traffic and its fumes.

The taxi pulled up at the entrance of the Hotel del Paseo.

Wiley and his three pieces of luggage were deposited on the sidewalk.

The cab driver was waiting to be paid.

The doorman was expecting his tip.

The porter was ready to take the bags in.

Wiley hesitated. He glanced around and upward. He closed his eyes for a moment, listened, and knew he could just as well have been in New York. He’d only traded city for city, one milieu for another.

But he wasn’t in the trap yet, not all the way.

He slapped dollar tips into the hands of the doorman and the porter, had his luggage put back in the cab, got in, and when the cab was under way, he let out a deep breath, as though he’d just experienced a very close call.

There was an 11:40 plane to Guadalajara. According to the map of Mexico Wiley had bought at the airport, that was as close as he could get.

The intercity flight was a test of nerves and plane. Immediately upon takeoff, the DC-9 was put into as steep a climb as it could tolerate. The cabin pressure had to catch up with the altitude. At twenty-five thousand feet the jet leveled off so abruptly that stomachs lurched upward against hearts and throats.

Wiley glanced around at the other passengers. They all appeared to be Mexicans, and completely unconcerned. This was a normal flight. After about a half hour the plane began its descent. It did not go into a nice long, comfortable glide pattern but, as though it had only this one chance to land, nosed down into what was practically a dive. Again the pressure and the altitude didn’t match. Wiley’s ears were full. Sharp pains needled his eye sockets as his sinuses reacted. The DC-9 pulled out of it abruptly, causing everyone to feel for a few moments as though their bowels were loaded with lead. But the landing was smooth, perfect.

In Guadalajara, Wiley got a room with bath for twelve dollars. By then it was close to two. He ordered up three bottles of
cerveza
Carta Blanca, uncapped one and gulped it while, with jacket and shoes off, he lay on the bed in the near-dark. He didn’t think he was sleepy, his mind was racing; possibly it would be a sleepless night. The beer tasted especially good. Great beer in Mexico. Maybe he should call for a couple more before the bar closed. That was his last thought before his eyes closed for the night.

He slept, despite his trousers binding his crotch and his shirt cutting him at the underarms, for six hours. He got up feeling weary, heavy-headed, and knew himself well enough to know it wasn’t really tiredness. Yesterday had been so bad.

He dragged himself through a shower and shave, put on a change of clothes. As an afterthought he shoved the two unopened bottles of beer into one of his bags, making a point, albeit small, of his resolve to be frugal.

Instead of breakfasting at the hotel, he checked out, asked directions and walked. On the way, still in a sort of funk, he stopped in at a bank to exchange 100 dollars for 1249 pesos. Then, at an ordinary restaurant, a narrow but clean place, he sat at a counter for tortillas and eggs over easy. He had difficulty explaining “over easy” to the waiter, and the eggs arrived mauled and overdone. He pumped some runny ketchup-looking sauce on them and ate quickly. At once he realized the sauce was hot, but not until after he’d cleaned his plate did he really start to radiate inside. Each breath he took only seemed to fan that inner flame. No amount of water would extinguish it.

One good thing—it had lifted him out of that funk.

At a brisker pace now, he walked to Avenida Niños Héroes, found number 942-A, the Avis office. A choice of a Ford Galaxy at 260 pesos a day, 162 centavos per kilometer, or a Volkswagen at 150 pesos a day, 125 centavos per kilometer. He preferred cars with power (had once temporarily owned a Porsche Carrera), but signed up for the Volks, using his BankAmericard and wondering how long it would take before the bill caught up with him. And where.

He drove back to the hotel, picked up his bags, and was on his way. A five-hour drive ahead. It felt better to be going somewhere.

Route 80 was straight enough so he didn’t have to keep his mind entirely on it. He thought of his immediate prospects. At the least he was in for a week of plenty with the rest of the freeloaders. Then there was the chance that, while mingling, a business opportunity of some sort would present itself. Maybe someone such as Mr. Gimble would like his style and make him an offer. More likely, though, it would be someone like Mrs. Gimble. What the hell was the difference? Big business had been buying his looks for years. He ought to be used to being used.

Fortune hunter.

Sure, why not?

He’d charm the pants off her, whoever she was. She’d be divorced, probably, or wealthy in her own right. He wouldn’t go for anyone married; trouble enough without that. She’d be forty maybe, no more than fifty. Attractive, once a great beauty and still attractive. An intelligent, generous person. He wouldn’t try to fool her. After the preliminaries, but before getting into anything too much, he’d lay it on the line to her, make a deal. It probably happened all the time. And, actually, his being new at it was an advantage.

The other side of his thoughts wanted to know if he’d come to
that
.

Evasively, he took interest in the scenery, noticed he was passing close by Lake Chapala, the place D. H. Lawrence wrote about. Along the way, towns such as Cocula, Tecalitlán, and others so small he didn’t get their names. The countryside was tropical but in its dry season. Still green, however, always green. He must have passed a thousand people on burros. And, it seemed, just as many churches. He was impatient with the Volks. He started humming and then singing. Often he did that when he was driving alone, sang right out full, trying for perfection as though he were a performer.

For once in my life
…

He didn’t remember all the words, dah-dee-dahed some of the lines:

For once I can say

This is mine, you can’t take it
.

Long as I know I got love
,

I can make it
.

For once in my life
,

I have someone who needs me
.

A sign pointing off to the left said Purificación—15 Km. Maybe that was where he should go. Get purified. He’d bet it was really a scroungy little town. The worst.

A few miles farther on, the air got heavier and cooler and smelled of the sea. He let up on the gas pedal, only to stomp back down on it, and the Volks kept running as though it were scared. Route 80 ended when it reached the Pacific, joined Route 200 that ran down the coast from Puerto Vallarta. Wiley turned left, headed south, had only about forty more miles to go, with the ocean now on the right to keep him company. He was thirsty and hungry, but he’d wait.

There was a hitchhiker at the roadside, wearing a cardboard sign in front:
LAS HADAS
, in handprinted red letters. A lean young fellow, Wiley thought as he went by, a gringo, probably a migrant American dope smoker from the looks of him: Castrotype field cap with a wide beak, huge dark glasses, navy surplus blue chambray shirt, baggy cotton twill trousers tied at the ankles, green-striped tennis shoes, and a khaki duffel bag.

Wiley had no qualms, really, about picking up someone like that. He’d done plenty of thumbing around in his day. They’d called it “bumming” then. It was just that he wasn’t in the mood for talk. Or maybe he was.

He slammed on the brakes, began backing up. The hitchhiker ran for the car. In the rearview mirror Wiley saw that there was something not quite right about the hitchhiker’s way of running, sort of mincy. Oh, well, too late now.

The duffel bag was being thrown in back.

The hitchhiker was getting in, smiling, saying “Thanks.”

Wiley tried to hide his surprise with activity, got the Volks in gear, and lighted a cigarette.

The hitchhiker took off the sign. Her chambray shirt was unbuttoned three down.

She took off the Fidel cap and shook down her hair. It was healthy thick, to her shoulders, a rich brown shade with coppery glints.

She took off the sunglasses, used index finger and thumb to massage where they had made pressure marks on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were an unusual blue, deep and at the same time bright and textured like lapis lazuli.

For a mile, two, three she didn’t say anything, kept her eyes straight ahead, and although she was in profile to Wiley, he believed she knew he was sizing her up.

She was in her late twenties, could look younger if she wanted. Very pretty, fine-featured, with a well-defined chin and cheekbones and a nearly perfect nose. Her mouth had just a trace of a natural moue to it, so it was never slack or without expression. No makeup. An immaculate, well-sunned complexion. At first Wiley thought her eyelashes, upper and lower, were too long and thick to be true; on second glance he believed them. He also stole a glance at her neck, the long line of her throat, the leanness of her wrists and bare ankles. Beneath those floppy trousers would be excellent legs.