Puerto Vallarta Squeeze Read Free

livers, that he had five or six good ideas under way. What he had and knew he had was rubbish, tales already told a hundred times over and nothing to separate his telling of them from what’d already been said. But he was thinking, not too clearly, and more at the level of instinct than conscious thought, there might be a hell of a story in all this if he could just figure out how to bend it the right way. Get the story, then turn the virulent bastard over to the cops. Perfect: Danny gets rich, Luz is happy, the shooter hangs for his indecencies, and… the goddamn critics get it shoved up their noses.
    The shooter helped Danny along, or maybe pushed him along, as Danny came to think of it later on.
    “I’m looking for a ride up to the border… know any-one going that way? I’m willing to pay well for a lift.” He was speaking English with pretty good diction, a slow and almost lazy cadence to his voice, keeping his words quiet enough so Felipe couldn’t hear. Didn’t matter, since Danny was pretty sure Felipe didn’t understand English anyway
    “That’s a long haul,” Danny said, shoving his hands underneath his thighs and sitting hard on them to hold down what might have evolved into a noticeable shake. He looked down at his feet and could see the third toe of his left foot peeking at him through a hole in his sneakers. “Three, three and a half hard days, depending on where you’re headed.”
    He glanced at the shooter. “Most people fly down here except for truckers and those who have long-term rentals or own houses.”
    Danny was sweating even more than the evening called for, but nobody seemed to notice. The shooter kept one foot against his knapsack, knowing that way where it was all the time and keeping close track of it. A taxi horn honked twice in the street, and a group of tourists went by Felipe’s door, a male voice shouting, “Are you sure this’s the right way to Pizza Joe’s?”
    “Danny has Ford Bronco named Vito.” Luz had finished her cone and moved into the conversation, smelling money She knew they were short, and Luz liked margaritas and going uptown to hear Willie and Lobo and eating lobster at a beach restaurant up the coast in Bucerias. The shooter looked at her; lots of men looked at Luz. She was turned toward him, fine, slim legs crossed and running out from under her lavender dress, the hem of which had worked its way above her knees, wheat-colored sandal hanging from only one toe with silver nail polish on it.
    “Who’s Danny?”
    Luz poked her finger against Danny’s arm. “This Danny.” She was grinning and speaking pidgin English, which she did sometimes, even though she handled English just about perfectly when she felt like it. Danny signaled Felipe for another double shot.
    The shooter waved off a mosquito buzzing around his right ear, looked at Danny. “You interested in giving me a lift up there, to the border? Say, Laredo or Brownsville, maybe farther west?” Slow, easy words, as if he didn’t care when he might get to the border or if he got there at all.
    “Not particularly. If I were, I’d charge a hell of a lot more than a first-class ticket on Mexicana would cost.” Pretty good, Danny was thinking. A little cagey, showing lack of interest, but still leaving the door open, slowly getting back some of the old confidence from his killer journalism years. Do it the way you did when you were courting the Chicago mob and getting the dope for Chicago Underground, making them think they were tough, practical guys who grew up on the scramble while the carriage trade was going off to college. You’ve handled big dicks before, and the shooter comes off as an easygoing country boy compared to the Chicago wiseguys. Not too smart, either, shooting from the window of a crowded bar. The Chicago kids would have done it in the back on a dark street and ridden the evening train afterward. Danny—Danny boy—get up and get on the high wire and walk it. Walk the wire,