Quintana Roo Page 16

  “In 1923, the attitude in the United States was still one of self-congratulation for having won the Great War. The feeling was that everything was going along just fine, and nothing should be done to rock the boat. Putting dark-skinned people in responsible positions would definitely have rocked the boat.”

  Hooker ground out his cigarette in an empty bowl and waited for Holchacán to continue. The chief seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, and there was no reason to disturb the mood.

  “After two years, the best I could achieve was a job as shipping clerk in a San Francisco department store. I had failed in the land of opportunity. It was then I received word my father was dying. My choice was between staying in the United States, where I would be just another educated Indian, or returning to Quintana Roo, where I would be king of my people. No choice at all, really.

  “In the years since, I have rebuilt and restored Iztal to something approaching its former glory. And I have restored to my people a pride in their heritage. Not a small accomplishment, would you say?”

  “Not small at all,” Hooker agreed. “I’d be interested to hear how you managed it.”

  The dark eyes of the Mayan chief clouded. “Perhaps at another time we can discuss that.”

  “That’s fine with me. Meanwhile, we can discuss getting me and my friends out of here?”

  “Of course. But first I will need assurances from all of you that you will keep the secret of Iztal once you return to what they like to call civilization. You must see how important it is to our continued existence that no word of our city leak out.”

  “Oh, sure, I can see that,” Hooker said, not seeing it at all.

  “I’m glad. And to be sure that your friends understand how important their silence will be, I hope you won’t mind remaining for several days as my guests.”

  “Do we have any choice?”

  “No.”

  The tall Mayan king stood up, and guards appeared instantly, as if they had materialized from the shadows. The discussion, Hooker saw, was over.

  CHAPTER 24

  They walked out of the palace together. In a show of camaraderie, Holchacán let his hand rest lightly on Hooker’s arm. The Mayas, who stood by silently as the two men passed, maintained a respectful distance but let their eyes follow their leader.

  It became plain to Hooker that the chieftain was not steering him back toward the building where he had been held with his friends. When he turned to ask why, Holchacán anticipated the question.

  “I have arranged for you to be moved to what I think you will agree are more comfortable quarters.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re expecting us to stay.”

  “No longer than necessary, Mr. Hooker. You have my word on that.”

  Somehow, Hooker thought, I don’t find that terribly reassuring.

  The building to which the Indian led Hooker was indeed more elaborate than the plain stone cell where they had been held overnight. It was a neat little dwelling of stone with a thatched roof. It had a path to the door bordered by white stones the size of eggs. There was a little vegetable garden, two small windows, and a private latrine back near the wall that encircled the city.

  The two guards were still outside the door, only now they were trying very hard to look as though they were engaged in some kind of woodcarving. Each of them had a mahogany log at which he sliced vigorously with a knife clearly designed for other purposes. They were, Hooker thought, as subtle as a pair of cops in ballet tights.

  While the woodcarvers pretended to ignore them, Holchacán ushered Hooker into the small house. It was partitioned into two rooms with crude but comfortable furniture. In the center was a fire pit over which bubbled a cauldron of something that smelled like stew. A Mayan girl in her early teens looked up and smiled shyly at Hooker from where she knelt beside the fire. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the fact that her teeth were stained an uneven tobacco brown.

  “This is Xita,” said the chief. “She will see to your needs during your stay with us. You will find she has been very well trained.”

  Buzz Kaplan sat scowling in a chair made of hide stretched over a warped mahogany frame. He made no move to rise when the chief walked in. The wooden foot lay beside his chair while he rested the reddened stump of his right leg on a cushioned stool.

  “Mr. Kaplan,” Holchacán said smoothly, “I am pleased that at last we meet. I’m afraid it is my fault we did not get together during your recent stay with us.”

  Buzz eyed the tall Maya from under lowered brows and said nothing.

  “I can’t blame you for feeling the way you do,” the Mayan chieftain said. “I hope we can improve your opinion of us before you leave again.”

  Hooker realized suddenly what was bothering him about the neat little house. “Where are the women?”

  “Ah, Mrs. Braithwaite and your Mexican friend Alita. They have been provided with quarters of their own. Slightly more commodious, I might say, than these, but such are the privileges of the fair sex; isn’t it so?”

  “What’s the idea?” Hooker said, brushing aside the chiefs blandishment. “The four of us are together.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell them when they split us up,” Buzz said. “I couldn’t get through to anybody.”

  “Try to understand,” said Holchacán. “What may be quite acceptable in the United States, or even in some of the cities of Mexico, is in severe violation of the moral code of the strict Mayas. Men and women who are not married to each other simply do not share the same quarters. When you were considered captives and had a full-time guard, that was one thing. Now that you are our guests, it would be scandalous to house you under the same roof. You do understand?”

  “Understand, my ass,” Hooker said. “What have you done with them?”

  The Maya’s tone chilled several degrees. “As I told you, they are well taken care of.” Behind him, the two phony woodcarvers sidled over to where Hooker could see them through the open door. “You will rejoin your friends this evening, when we have a small ceremony planned. In the meantime, if there is anything you desire, Xita is anxious to please. Now I bid you good day.”

  As the chief turned to go, Hooker said, “Do we have to stay in here?”

  Holchacán turned back, his good humor restored. “Heavens, no. Feel free to walk about the city. Naturally, there are some sacred places that are taboo to strangers, but you will be warned before you get too close to them.”

  “I’ll bet we will,” Buzz observed sourly.

  The tall Maya nodded to both of them and left. Outside, the woodcarvers returned to their assault on the mahogany logs.

  “How’s the leg feel?” Hooker asked when they were alone.

  “It hurts.” Buzz nodded toward the wooden foot that lay beside him in a tangle of straps. “That thing may keep me from toppling over sideways, but it ain’t so hot for getting around on.”

  “We’ll get you something better when we get out of here.”

  “Do you really think we’re going to get out of here, Hooker?”

  “Hell, yes. What kind of a question is that?”

  “An honest question. You didn’t let that Indian with the fancy hat and the uptown English sell you a bill of goods, did you?”

  “No. I don’t trust him any more than you do. There’s a hell of a lot more going on here than he lets on. But our only chance is to play along, watch for an opportunity, then light out. You’re not giving up, are you?”

  “Me? Shit, Hooker, when did you ever know me to give up?”

  “Then how about strapping that thing on and we take that walk around the city. We might find something we can use.”

  “I’m with you,” Buzz said. He picked up the wooden foot, fitted his stump into the cavity on the ankle end, and fastened the straps. “Let’s go.”

  As they strolled together out the door and down the path leading from the little house, the two woodcarvers abruptly lost interest in their work and with elaborate nonchalance b
egan sauntering along behind them.

  “Shadows,” Kaplan said under his breath.

  “Ah, you detected them, too.”

  In a seemingly aimless pattern, Hooker and Buzz strolled through the twisting passages between the buildings of Iztal. As Holchacán had said, the city was in a remarkable state of restoration. Many of the buildings, in fact, looked quite new.

  “What do you think his game is?” Buzz said. “The tall Indian.”

  “I don’t know yet,” Hooker said. “But I don’t think he’s paying for all this selling blankets in Campeche. And I don’t think he gives that much of a damn for Mayan culture, either.”

  “A phony,” Buzz agreed. “But I’m damned if I can figure out what he’s up to.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Hooker said, “as long as we get our asses out of here.”

  “And the women,” Buzz added.

  “And the women, naturally,” Hooker said. “Do you think I’d leave them behind?”

  “You might,” Kaplan said. “I’ve known the time when you would have kissed them off without a thought.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m getting soft,” Hooker said.

  “Or growing a heart.”

  They passed what appeared to be a bazaar with fruits and clay pots and swatches of colored cloth on display. The Indians seemed to be haggling over prices in their own tongue until the two gringos approached. Then they fell silent and watched.

  “It’s like we’ve got an invisible wall around us,” Buzz said. “Every time we come close, people shut up and look dumb.”

  “You’ve been in towns before where strangers weren’t welcome,” Hooker said.

  “Not like this, pal. Not like this.”

  They started up a narrow alley at one side of the bazaar. The two erstwhile woodcarvers behind them suddenly quickened their pace and hurried around in front to bar the way. They both wore wide, brown-toothed smiles, but their hands hovered restlessly near the knives they had used to hack away at the wood. The Indians rotated their heads slowly from side to side in an unmistakable message that this path was off limits.

  “Oh-oh,” Buzz said, “I think we’ve found something.”

  “Or we’re about to.” Hooker spread his hands and shrugged and tried to look as though he had no idea what the Indians were trying to tell him.

  The smiles faded from the brown faces. The Mayas grunted and made pushing motions with their hands as though they would shove the white men back out of the passageway.

  “Yep, I think we’re on to something,” Hooker said.

  “Do we rush ’em?”

  “Not while they’re carrying those knives. I saw the way they sliced through mahogany logs like so much baloney.” Hooker put on a smile and nodded elaborately, showing the Indians they had at last got through to him. To Buzz, he said, “Let’s stroll around awhile.”

  As they started to turn, down at the end of the alley, a large, broad figure strode past the opening with a long bundle bent in the middle and slung over one shoulder. Hooker recognized the steady, nerveless stride as that of the mueratero. More important, at the lower end of the bundle the tall man carried was a brush of short blonde hair. In a second, the man was gone, but Hooker had seen enough.

  He turned Buzz around by the shoulder and started him in the other direction. “Did you see that?”

  “Sure. There ain’t that many blonde Indians around. It was Connie.”

  “That lying bastard Holchacán wasn’t even going to give us one day.”

  “Well, what are we going to do? We can’t just let them take her and … do whatever they do.”

  “Our shadows are watching us,” Hooker said. “If only we had a weapon. A knife … a club … anything.”

  “Hell, we’ve got a club,” Buzz said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Buzz jabbed a finger down at his carved wooden foot. “This thing weighs two pounds easy, and with them straps to swing it with, I’ll bet I could cold-cock half the tribe.”

  “Yeah, but — ”

  Buzz paused at the bazaar and fingered a guava as though he had serious intentions of buying it. “As soon as the guys with the knives get around on the other side of us, make a dash for that alley. I’ll hump along as fast as I can, and we both ought to make it around the corner before they get there. When they do, I’ll be waiting for them. You get your ass after that zombie who was carrying Connie.”

  “That leaves you in kind of an embarrassing position.”

  “We got to do something, pal. If you got a better idea, let’s hear it.”

  “No better idea,” Hooker said.

  “Then let’s get moving. We’ll be lucky if any of us get out of here alive, and we might as well raise a little hell before we go down.”

  “Might as well,” Hooker agreed. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Hooker gripped the bottom of the tray where the fruit was displayed and hurled it up and backward to the astonished cries of the Mayas, who had been standing silently by watching the gringos. The two woodcarvers leaped forward but were slowed by the fruit rolling around on the ground and the Indians rushing to and fro in confusion.

  Hooker took off at a run for the opening to the alley. He could hear Buzz clumping along behind him, but he did not look back. He rounded the corner and pounded down the hard-packed dirt of the passageway between the walls of two stone buildings. Behind him, he heard Buzz yell, “Go, champ.”

  Hooker reached the end of the alley and skid-turned in the direction he had seen the mueratero carrying Connie.

  • • •

  Back at the entrance to the alley, Buzz planted his broad back against one of the stone walls and bent down to rip loose the straps that held on the wooden foot. Using the wall to keep himself upright, he gathered the straps in his big fist and swung the foot in a gentle circle to gather momentum.

  When the first of the woodcarvers, knife in hand, rushed into the alley, he ran directly into Buzz Kaplan’s wooden foot, which bounced off his forehead with a resounding crack.

  The second follower took the foot in the groin and dropped to his knees. Another swing brought it down on top of his head. The two woodcarvers lay on the ground moaning. Buzz looked to the far end of the alley to be sure Hooker had made it around the corner, then relaxed as a swarm of Mayas from the bazaar bore down on him.

  CHAPTER 25

  Once around the corner at the end of the alley, Hooker flattened himself into a niche in the stone wall to await the expected pursuers. The daylong drizzle had slacked off to an unpleasant mist. He heard shouting and scuffling that he figured must be Buzz tangling with the two woodcarvers. Then the tumult increased as the rest of the tribe joined in. Hooker felt a quick pang of guilt that he wasn’t back there fighting beside his friend, but doing it this way was the only chance for any of them.

  At least he had bought a little time. The Indian clothing would help make him less conspicuous, but his size would be a giveaway as soon as anybody started seriously looking for him.

  He continued in the direction he had seen Connie being carried, hunching down into the shapeless white shirt and pants whenever Indians passed. He tried to keep his mind off what was happening to Buzz. He would be of no use to anybody without a clear head.

  In the path dead ahead of him was the temple, and beyond it, Holchacán’s palace. The palace would be heavily guarded. He would probably not get any farther than the front door, if that far. Waste of time and effort. The temple was an unknown. Of the two possibilities, it seemed the less foolhardy, if only slightly.

  The heavy temple door, rich with ancient Mayan carvings, was slightly ajar. As Hooker started to push it open, three Mayan guards, carrying their short, vicious spears, came running toward him from up ahead. With no sensible plan in mind, Hooker got down on his hands and knees to make himself as small as possible and began rubbing vigorously at the carvings on the lower part of the door. At least, he thought, it might give the impression that he h
ad some kind of legitimate business there.

  Amazingly, the three guards ran right past him. Apparently, the alarm had gone out from the disturbance Buzz had created, and the guards were on their way to restore the peace. As soon as they were out of sight, Hooker pushed the door all the way open and entered the temple. He struggled to pull it closed behind him, leaving a crack for the daylight to show through in case he needed to find it in a hurry.

  He turned then and saw he was in the long corridor Buzz had described. A flickering light was provided by oil lamps set into the wall at intervals of about twenty feet. With no time to think about it, Hooker took off down the corridor at a run.

  When he had gone several yards beyond the last of the lamps, Hooker smacked face first into something heavy, black, and soft. He recoiled, raising his hands defensively. He relaxed slightly when nothing attacked. Cautiously, he reached forward and felt a heavy curtain that stretched across the entire corridor, blacking out whatever was on the other side. He found where it parted, with much overlap, and eased his body through.

  Before him was a sunken amphitheater ringed by stone benches, now empty. Down at the center, lit by an oil lamp at each end, was the raised stone slab that Buzz had described as an altar.

  The altar was not empty. Connie was lying on it. Face up and naked. Her arms were fastened by wrist straps down at her sides. Her legs were held apart by more straps at the bottom corners of the altar. Standing over her, his headdress bobbing excitedly, his ceremonial robes open in front, stood the wrinkled Mayan priest. The weapon he held in his hand was no knife.

  “Why, you dirty old man.”

  Hooker started down one of the aisles between the rows of empty stone benches. The priest snapped his head up and looked at him, the wrinkled face a comic mask of surprise. One hand still held his penis, which was wilting fast. Connie rolled her head to one side and looked at Hooker. She wore a dazed expression.

  “What goes on?” Hooker demanded.