Chapter 22
He did not have that many things to pack, and he had folded most of his clothes and set them aside the previous night.
Therefore, he made quick work of his belongings.
He stuffed the money that he had stolen from Perla’s desk in the lining of the smaller suitcase, along with a couple of items he thought he might be able to pawn: a tiny ivory box that normally sat in one of the china cabinets, a pair of earrings.
Then he grabbed the suitcases and took them downstairs, tossing them in the trunk of the car. He had dressed himself in a light linen suit that was adequate for an automobile ride in the hotter climate of the lowlands. In one hand he carried a map; he had already traced his route with ease.
He’d go down to the port and sell the car there, where a crooked buyer might easily be found.
Then he’d board a ship to Tampico and keep heading north.
There was, after all, still that widow from Monclova he could write to, and other women he could ensnare once he had found a new base of operations.
He lit a cigarette, pausing to consider how many weeks it would take him to get back up to speed. At least four. He’d have to buy new issues of ladies’ magazines and scour the lonely hearts sections. With everything that had happened in Puerco Ahogado, he had not paid any attention to fresh leads.
Soon he’d be crafting letters studded with baroque compliments and corny lines. Dearest, beloved, I’ve been waiting my whole life to fall in love with you. Back to his old beat, back to what he understood best. What did he know about murder? Not a single thing.
He couldn’t believe he had even considered the scheme in the first place. He was usually cautious, smarter than this. But the girl made murder seem natural and easy. Also, to be frank, this town could inspire anyone to kill. It was a terrible bore.
I might write to her, he thought for a moment, and then laughed at the idea. Write to Inés! Whatever for? Except he felt uncomfortable about the way things had ended. Not that it could be helped. It was foolish to dally any longer.
He might send money in a crisp white envelope addressed to her. He might tell her to get out now, on her own. To do what he was doing. Hitch a ride to the port, and from there to another city.
He turned to look at the house and wondered if he shouldn’t write the letter right there and then, slip one of the bills in his pocket into it, leave it on her nightstand.
If you’re ever in northern latitudes, look me up, he might say, and scribble the name of a town where he might be found. Though that was dangerous. He shook his head. Maybe not.
Then again, he didn’t owe her anything. These rackets did not always work, there was nothing to be done about it.
It was not as if she were a real business partner.
From now on he was determined to never join forces with anyone.
It was too complicated, a waste of time.
There were fewer distractions and more to gain when you went at it alone.
It was less dangerous too. No one to betray you to the authorities. Although she had never broken his trust, had she? She’d had a firm, steady hand.
They’d fucked, yes. But only on a couple of occasions, and it was not as if she hadn’t derived her share of pleasure. Perhaps he ought to have maintained more of a divide between them, because there had been, at times, a weight of emotion that threatened to choke him.
He checked his watch and smoked his cigarette. He could smoke and drive, but he was anxious and he’d better finish it before he drove off.
I’ll be on the boat to Tampico next Wednesday, he could write.
He immediately scoffed at that thought. No. He was not going to do that. Inés would be fine. She had a home, and eventually, one day, she’d have Perla’s money and her house. Years down the line, maybe, but he was not leaving a destitute waif behind.
If she wished to accelerate the lady’s demise, let her figure it out.
He tossed the cigarette away and opened the gates of the house, smoothly maneuvered the vehicle to the street. Then he jumped out of the car and closed the gates again, for appearances’ sake. He did not want Perla to suspect anything was amiss.
The north wind had been blowing that morning, pushing the vapors of the ocean up against the mountains, birthing that cool, wispy fog that characterized the land.
The fog had descended from the mountains and embraced the town as gently as a lover, caressing its rooftops and kissing the windowpanes.
The town was white, with the whiteness of a bride’s veil, and damp, and its coolness made him shiver.
But the sun would warm him once he drove out of there. In the port he’d have a chance to dip his feet in the ocean and drink cocktails by the seashore before picking a boat to take him away to distant locales.
He’d never liked Puerco Ahogado anyway. Humid, sleepy Puerco Ahogado. It held nothing of interest for him. No precious cargo.
Yet he thought of her as he spun the wheel and drifted through the town’s streets, as the fog parted and bade him goodbye.