Westlake, Donald E - Novel 43 Read Free Page A

shared
squeeze and they released one another’s hands. “Selling any more land?” Kirby
asked.
                 “Oh,
here and there, here and there. You back in the market?”
                 “Not
yet.”
                 “You
be sure to let me know.”
                 “Yes,”
Kirby said, with a slight edge in his voice, and looked up.
                 The
plane from Miami? Innocent couldn’t yet hear it, nor could he see anything when
he gazed skyward, but Kirby apparently could. “Right on time,” he said.
                 “Meeting
someone?”
                 “Just
a couple of fellows from the States,” Kirby said. Moving off, he said, “Nice to
chat with you, Innocent.”
                 “And
you, Kirby.” The fact is, Innocent thought in happy surprise, we do like each
other, Kirby and I.
                 There
was the plane. Innocent could see it now, and a moment later hear it, making a
great easy purring loop in the sky, like some cheerful iceskater just fooling
around. Then all at once it turned businesslike, pointing its no-nonsense nose
at the runway, seeming to accelerate as it neared the ground, the big
blue^and^white plane surely far too large for this tiny airport, these little
scratches in the dirt surrounded by the lushness of the forest a month after
the end of the rainy season.
                 The
plane growled as it touched down and raced past the building toward the far end
of the runway. Then it roared quite loudly, decelerating, as though warning
lesser creatures that the king of the skies was come.
                 Innocent
was not here to meet anyone in particular; he just liked to know who had both
the money and the need to travel by air. Absentmindedly grooming with his gold
toothpick, he stood in the shade of the building and watched the plane trundle
back, a tamed tabby now, an outsized toy. It stopped, and 15 or so passengers
got off, to be herded toward the building by Immigration officials in odds and
ends of uniform.
                 Innocent
classified the arrivals as they went by: several North American tourists,
heading most likely to Ambergris Caye and the offshore barrier reef, where
those who like that sort of thing said the scuba diving was unparalleled.
Innocent himself wouldn’t know; the largest body of water in which he ever
intended to immerse himself was his swimming pool, in which he could be sure he
was the only shark.
                 Three
serious young men in suits and ties and white shirts were local boys,
continuing their studies in the States. The University of Miami is now as
important as any British school in turning out lawyers for the Carribean basin.
A couple of slightly older fellows in neat but casual clothing would be
expatriates, gone north for the advantages of American wage scales, home on a
visit to show off their solvency, and incidentally to get some relief from the
horrible winters of Brooklyn, where so many expatriate Belizeans made their
home.
                 A
pair of white Americans in sports jackets, carrying attache cases, but not
apparently traveling together, would be either businessmen or functionaries at
the embassy; in the former case, they might eventually be of interest to
Innocent. And the pair of pansy-boys were undoubtedly the “fellows” Kirby was
here to meet.
                 Definite
pansy^boys. They were both in their 40s, quite tall and almost painfully thin,
and both unsuccessfully trying to hide an intense nervousness. The one in
designer jeans and an alligator’d shirt apparently had grown that absolute
forest of a pepper-and-salt moustache to make up for the fact that he was
completely bald on top, with thick curly hair standing out only around the
sides, resting on his ears like a stole. The other had a slightly less imposing
moustache, russet in color, but the top of his head