Westlake, Donald E - Novel 43 Read Free

wallowed in ease
and luxury, he was barreLbodied but in wonderful physical condition, with a
heart that could have powered a steamship. The efforts of assorted Mayan
Indians, Spanish conquistadores, African ex-slaves, and shipwrecked Irish
sailors had been combined in his creation, and most of them might have been
pleased at the result of their labors. His hair was African, his mocha skin
Mayan, his courage Irish, and the deviousness of his brain was all Spanish. He
was also—and this is far from insignificant—both Deputy Director of Land
Allocation in the Belizean government and an active real estate agent. Very nice.
                 The
road out from Belize City to the International Airport is somewhat better
maintained than most of the thoroughfares in that nation, and Innocent sprawled
comfortably on the seat, two thick fingers resting negligently on the steering
wheel. He honked as he drove past the whorehouse, and the girls at the
clothesline waved, recognizing the car. A moment later he turned left onto the
airport road.
                 Air
Base Camp was to his right, the British military installation, where two
Harrier jet fighters crouched like giant black insects beneath their camouflage
nets, dreaming of prey. Perhaps they were among those which had gone south not
long ago to play in the Falklands war. They were here as part of a 1,600-man
British peacekeeping force, the last true colonial link, made necessary by
neighboring Guatemala’s claim that Belize was in fact its own long-lost colony,
which it had threatened to reabsorb by force of arms.
                 However,
since the world recently had seen the result of Argentina’s belligerence in its
own similar territorial dispute with Great Britain, Guatemalan rhetoric had
begun to ease of late, and a settlement might yet be found. This prospect
Innocent approved; although war iself is good for business, threats of war sour
the entrepreneurial climate. Innocent St. Michael had lots of land he wished to
unload on eager North Americans, and it was only the possibility of war with
Guatemala that had so far delayed the land rush.
                 Belize
International Airport is a single runway in front of a small, two-story,
cream-colored, concrete-block building without glass in its first-floor
windows. Taxis and their drivers make a dusty clutter around the building, sun
glinting painfully from battered chrome and cracked windshields. Innocent
steered around them and parked in the grassy area marked with a rough-hewn
sign: VISITORS. He slid the LTD near the only other vehicle there, a crumbling
maroon pickup he thought he knew. So Kirby Galway was back, was he? Innocent
smiled in anticipation of their meeting.
                 Kirby
himself was around on the shady side of the building, hunkered down like a
careless native boy but dressed for business: short-sleeved white shirt, red
and black striped necktie, khaki slacks, tan hiking boots. “Welcome home!”
Innocent said, approaching, hand outstretched, beaming in honest pleasure.
Seeing Kirby reminded Innocent of his own wit, intelligence, guile; the thought
of how he had snookered Kirby Galway could always make him happy. “I was afraid
you were gone forever,” he said, squeezing Kirby’s hand hard, pumping it up and
down.
                 Kirby
squeezed back; the young fellow was surprisingly strong. With his own smile, he
said, “You know me, Innocent. The bad penny always turns up.”
                 If
there was one thing that even slightly marred Innocent’s pleasure in having
clipped Kirby, it was that for some reason Kirby never seemed to mind. Where
was the resentment, the grievance, the sense of humiliation? Just to remind
him, Innocent said, “Well, you know me, Kirby. Good or bad, if there’s a penny
around I want some of it.”
                 “Oh,
you’ve had enough from me,” Kirby said, with an easy laugh. One more