“No good askin’ you what you’re gonna say in the box,” Fats ruminated after his first sip. “You’d go all high-hat an’ say you’ll answer the questions put to you. Better at improvis-in’ my attacks on expert witnesses; find their weak spots an’ enlarge on them. Hope I’m not worryin’ you.”
“Not much,” I said.
“Won’t talk shop anymore,” he went on. “Um — hear about Mig?”
“Dissociating himself from that article in Tiempo the other day? Angers just told me about it.”
“Ah-hah. Guess Mig an’ I were the only two guys in Vados who knew about it beforehand. Clever! Wish I’d thought of it!”
“You what?”
He gave me a faintly surprised look. His eyes nearly disappeared in rolls of fat as he wheezed into an enormous laugh. “You thought it was a run-out? Oh-ho-ho-ho! Hakluyt, you’re dumber’n a Vadeano when you try! That was strictly for the — hey, of course! It was strictly for the boids, and here’s a Boyd who swallowed it. Heh-heh-heh-heh!”
I waited for him to finish chortling. “Since you think it was so clever,” I suggested, “suppose you tell me why.”
“Pipeline for the scandal of the legal world, that’s me. Sure I’ll tell you. Mig was in a pretty sticky position. Romero had smeared him ’bout as thorough as he could. He had to get himself out of it in the eyes of the reputable citizens of Vados, get? So up he Stan’s an’ makes this dignified an’ lawyerlike statement — all hogwash, but like I said, Vadeanos are dumb once you get out of the gutter, where they’re sly as foxes. Anyway, people give him another look an’ say, ‘Not such a bad guy! That’s pretty good!’ Result — swing of public opinion. Romero’s wondering if he’ll stay around long enough to finish what he started on Tezol. Didya know it was Romero tried that case? No? Trust the old coot to grab himself anything where the National Party’s involved. Hates their guts.”
“So I gathered,” I agreed. “But how do you mean — finish what he started on Tezol? Did he pay his fine?”
“Romero gave him time to find the cash. Prob’ly thought he’d make him squirm a bit. Anyway, here’s Romero, he says to himself, right, this guy Dominguez is chickening out, won’t have the guts to push through what he started against me. So what does Romero do? He goes on TV — one of this bastard Rioco’s little programs, sat around for days while he was tryin’ to make up his mind. I got advance word of it from a pal at the studios — they’re finally going to shove it out. Tonight. He’s goin’ to lambaste Tezol an’ take a swipe or two at Cris Mendoza for good measure, an’ say what he’s gonna do when that fine’s not paid.” Brown sipped his drink. “Think he’d have learned his lesson by now, wouldn’t you? They make out he’s a fine respectable upholder of justice an’ all that crap. Well, figure for yourself what’ll happen when Mig shows him up as an ol’ blowhard who don’t even know what evidence means!”
“You mean when this case against Guerrero’s chauffeur is tried again?” I said.
Brown finished his drink and nodded; his cheeks shook. I finished mine also and called for a repeat.
“Confusion to you in the witness box!” Brown said with a big grin, and lifted the glass.
“Down with lawyers,” I replied.
The television set at the end of the bar came on; it was six o’clock. I saw the familiar face of Francisco Cordoban smiling down at me. I deliberately turned my back. Whether or not the picture they interspersed with the programs by subliminal perception were a fair representation of the state of things, I preferred to form my own judgments.
I had a sudden vision of Maria Posador, perched on the bench in the concrete shed where she had shown me those pictures, her long slim legs swinging, her lovely face drawn and serious.
“Well, see you tomorrow,” Brown said after a pause, gulping the contents of his glass. The CO2 in the drink came back in an unashamed burp. “Make a mess of you — promise. ’Night.”
I stayed only a few minutes longer myself and then went back to my hotel, intending to have dinner there. First, though, I went upstairs to clean up and change my shirt — the day was hot and sticky, and even the air-conditioned court building had wilted the one I was wearing.
There was a man sitting in my room reading one of my textbooks.
I stopped with one hand still on my key, in the act of withdrawing it from the lock, and said in an incredulous voice, “Who in hell’s name are you?”
Unconcernedly, he shut the book. Then he rose very leisurely to his feet. “Good evening, Señor Hakluyt,” he said. “Please come in. Close the door, if you don’t mind.”
I took a good look at him. He was six feet two and broad-shouldered. He had big hands, which held the fat textbook as though it were a paperback. He had dark brown skin, darker than sun-tan, and his hair was inclined to be nappy. He wore a gray suit, a real silk shirt, expensive hand-lasted shoes. Diamond cuff links. Platinum watch. Wealthy.
He outweighed me by about forty pounds; he outreached me by inches in every direction. Obviously, I couldn’t throw him out. Well, either he was here for some good reason — in which case I had better hear what he had to say — or he wasn’t. And if he wasn’t, maybe I still ought to hear what he had to say. I shut the door.
“Thank you,” he said. He spoke good English with a vanishing trace of a local accent. “I should apologize for the intrusion, but it was necessary, I assure you. Kindly be seated.”
With a generous gesture he offered me the chair he had been sitting in. I shook my head.
“Well, our talk may take some time, but if you prefer to stand, let us not argue.” His eyes twinkled. “My name, señor, is Jose Dalban, and I have come to discuss with you the subject of your presence in Ciudad de Vados.”
“I’m here,” I said shortly. “What else is there to say?”
“Oh, very much! Very much indeed! Such as why you are here, and what you are doing. Now please” — he raised one hand; the broad palm was very bright pink — “do not try to be elusive and say you are only here because you signed a contract and you are doing only what that contract calls for. What I wish to make clear to you is what your contract implies — what misery and deprivation for how many human beings.”
“Señor Dalban,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I’ve probably heard all this before. I know quite well that if I do what I came here to do, a lot of people are going to be made temporarily homeless. I can’t see, though, that anything could be much worse than the so-called homes they have at the moment. Sooner or later the government is going to have to face the problem squarely; till then, what I do isn’t going to be as important as you seem to claim.”
“I represent,” he said, not answering me directly — he sounded as if he were launching into a prepared speech — “a group of private individuals who are afraid that if the government’s plans are put into effect, there will be civil war in Aguazul, and that soon. I have come to suggest to you that you might consider changing your mind. You would not, of course, lose by doing so. You might even profit.”
“Out of the question,” I said. “For one thing, I’m a freelance expert. I’ve worked for years to build up my reputation. If I quit this job, it wouldn’t just be a contract I’d broken; it would be a setback to my professional status.”
“Señor Hakluyt,” said Dalban, blinking rapidly, “we are businessmen, we for whom I speak. We are not poor. If it were necessary, we would guarantee your earnings for life — outside Aguazul.”
“The hell with money!” I snapped. “I do this work because it’s the work I want to do! And let me tell you this. Getting rid of me would solve nothing. Nothing at all. If I don’t do the job, since the government seems determined to have it done by somebody, Angers and his crowd in the city traffic department will probably be turned loose on it. They’re not competent. The result will be a botched makeshift worse than what you’ve got already.”