Chapter 50 The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
“All together at last,” Roberto said in the cheery tone of someone sitting down to evening drinks with friends. “We haven’t been introduced. You must be Osvaldo Salazar. My name’s Roberto Lobeira.”
“I’ve heard about you,” the Colombian hissed. “Got my money?”
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time. Tell me, are you a movie lover by any chance?”
“What the—”
“Movies, cinema, you know.”
“I don’t have time for this—”
“The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” Roberto went on. “Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, Eli Wallach? It’s a classic, from 1966, you must know it.”
Osvaldo gave a dubious grunt but allowed him to continue. Rosalía and Ramón looked on in bewilderment.
“I love the ending of that movie. The three main characters are in this graveyard; each of them wants the money for himself, but nobody dares shoot—they can only hit one opponent at a time, and if they do, the other one will take advantage and shoot the survivor.”
“Mexican standoff,” Osvaldo said, comprehension dawning.
“Mexican standoff, exactly. I always wondered where the phrase came from. Well, I’m afraid our situation is much like the one in the movie.
You and your men here, the islanders over there, and over in the lighthouse behind me, Ibaibarriaga with his rifle, sitting on a mound of explosives. A perfect triangle.”
Roberto was silent for a moment, letting the idea sink in with all present. He had said it loud enough to be heard by everyone else, too, and he was pleased to hear some concerned murmurs strike up on both sides.
“No one can win here,” he continued. “Whoever shoots first will be open to attack from the third one in the triangle. That’s what makes it awkward. But beautiful, too, if I may say so.”
Osvaldo gave a half smile and looked at him with renewed respect. “You did this,” he muttered. “You planned it to happen like this.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had quite a lot of time to think it through,” Roberto said, modestly tilting his head. “And I believe I’ve come up with a solution that suits everyone, and that means this can end without violence.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Okay. Salazar, you release Helena and Tristán and let them go back to their families. In exchange, the islanders guarantee you safe passage to the speedboat so you can get away from here.”
“No way,” Osvaldo said. “I’m not going anywhere without my money.”
“I’ll give you the bags with the money—and the keys to your speedboat—in exchange for that detonator you have in your hands.” He pointed to it. “You can leave with your money, and we can all part on good terms.”
“Let me get this straight,” Osvaldo said. “I get the money, and they get their kids, right?”
“Right.”
“What about the lighthouse keeper?” He pointed to the lighthouse. “What does he get?”
“Ibaibarriaga gets to live, which isn’t bad in the circumstances,” Roberto said. “Everyone in the triangle comes away with what’s most precious to them right now. I think it’s a good deal.”
Osvaldo was silent for a few moments, weighing the offer. Roberto kept up his smile, though a tiny bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. It all rested on the gunman’s response now.
“There’s just one thing I don’t get,” Osvaldo said at last. “Everyone gets something . . . apart from you. What does Roberto Lobeira get out of this?”
“I get a wonderful story to tell,” he said nonchalantly. “Don’t forget I’m a writer.”
Osvaldo gave him a long, calculating look. Eventually, the rarest of occurrences: He let out a hearty, resounding laugh.
“All right! Deal. But no real names in that book of yours.”
“You have my word,” replied Roberto gravely, holding out a hand to shake.
“How do we do this?” Ramón said. “We don’t trust this guy as far as we can throw him.”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” Roberto said. “First, the detonator.”
Osvaldo searched his face, still trying to ascertain the trap, but finally, very slowly, held out the battery to Roberto, who immediately disconnected the wires.
“Now it’s my turn.” Roberto turned to the lighthouse and shouted, “Antía, the money!”
Antía and Diego appeared through the door, each carrying one of the duffel bags. When they brought them over, Roberto undid the zippers, showing the wads of money inside.
“I’m sure you’d like to count it, but I don’t think you have time. It’s all there.”
“I believe you.” Osvaldo pulled out a wad of bills and in the bright morning light ran his thumb over the edges, satisfied. He tossed it back into the bag and gestured to Python, who came over and grabbed the bags.
“Let the lovebirds go,” he ordered.
Helena and Tristán went running over to the islanders, to be enveloped in hugs and cries of relief.
“Tell me, Lobeira.” Osvaldo scrutinized him again with those cold eyes. “What is there to stop me from just killing all of you anyway?”
“The fact that you don’t know if you’d manage it—you’d still be trapped between two armed opponents. Besides, you’re a practical man. You got what you came for, and the authorities will be here any minute. Everyone’s capable of appreciating what things are worth, right?”
The Colombian looked pensive for a moment and at last gave another of his rare smiles. “You’re a clever man, Lobeira. I hope we meet again.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we don’t.” He handed him the speedboat and SUV keys. “Have a good trip.”
“What about Barreiros, the skipper? Was he in on this?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. The keys were in the ignition; I just thought it prudent to have something up my sleeve.”
Osvaldo stared at him and finally blinked. “Okay, we’re out!” He whistled and pointed to the SUV. “Move, men!”
The men trotted over to the vehicle and climbed in, gunning the engine as they raced away. Osvaldo caught Roberto’s eye as they passed, and then the SUV was disappearing around the corner.
Roberto let out a massive sigh and doubled over. He felt dizzy. “I can’t believe it,” he gasped. “It worked.”
“You did it!” Antía cried. “It’s all over!”
“It’ll only be over once they’re off the island,” Roberto said, and then looked over at Rosalía and Ramón. “And when these two finally decide to call it quits.”
Rosalía and Ramón looked at each other in embarrassment. In the light of day, under the sharp winter sun, everything seemed quite different.
Doubtless they were being assailed by all the bad calls they’d made—all they had done, all they had been on the verge of doing. Without the nefarious presence of money, it was as if a black cloud had dissipated and things as they really were had been revealed.
Docampo looked around, no doubt searching for Luis. Antía and Roberto exchanged a sad look. Even if he had been a murderer, Luis Docampo had also been somebody’s son, and a husband and father. There was still a lot of pain to get through.
But now wasn’t the time for them to say anything. That would come later.
“I think . . .” Ramón cleared his throat. “I think I owe you an apology, Rosalía. On behalf of all of us, for everything.”
“Us too, Ramón.” The woman puffed out her cheeks. “I can’t believe we let it get to this point.”
Tentatively, she held out her hand, which the man hastened to shake. If they had been in a movie, everyone would have burst into cheers of joy at that moment, but there was only a disbelieving silence.
It was over. Finally.
“Your daughter and my Tristán.” Ramón shook his head. “Who would have thought?”
“Oh, come on, Ramón.” The woman patted him on the back. “We Freires and you Docampos have been hooking up for more generations than anyone can count. They’re hardly the first.”
“If only they’d told us . . .”
“They’re young and stupid,” the woman concluded. “Time will heal both those things! As it will our differences, Ramón.”
Ramón gave a half smile.
“Sure, sure.” He nodded. “Although . . . this doesn’t mean we’re even.”
“You’re right about that!”
The two became embroiled in a heated argument. Roberto gave Antía an incredulous look.
“Some things will never change, right?” he whispered, instinctively putting his hand in hers. Antía squeezed his hand in return, as if worried that he might be about to disappear.
“If they didn’t have something to argue over, they’d both die. They need each other like that.”
“As long as it’s just words, everything will be fine.” Roberto straightened up with a wince. Then he remembered something. “What about Ibaibarriaga?”
Antía shook her head disconsolately. “He’s gone. He lost too much blood.”
“Poor guy,” Roberto muttered. “I don’t think he was actually bad. The money just clouded his judgment.”
“I think he felt guilty about Pazos’s death,” she added. “He was devastated. His final moments weren’t pretty.”
“I hope he rests in peace. It’s too high a price.”
“Same with Pampín, and Ricardo and Luis Docampo, Elvira Couto too. They’ve all paid dearly.”
Roberto walked over to the lighthouse and slumped against the wall. He was exhausted. The amphetamines were wearing off, and his eyelids felt like lead, but he still couldn’t relax completely. Not yet.
He patted his pockets, looking for his cigarettes, before remembering they were doubtless somewhere at the bottom of the Devil’s Hole. He sighed and simply leaned his head back, enjoying the warm caress of the sun’s rays, the feeling of being alive.
Antía went and sat down beside him, and a few minutes later, they heard Diego shouting with excitement.
“Look, look!” He was jumping up and down. “Over there, by the headland!”
Everyone looked out to sea. The Colombians were racing away in the speedboat, although the efforts of whoever was at the helm would have horrified the late Chuco Barreiros.
The sea was still choppy, and rather than negotiating the waves, they were trying to shoot directly through them like an arrow.
Huge walls of water broke constantly over the vessel.
“They shouldn’t be going that way,” Antía muttered. “They’re heading away from the channel. There are sandbanks there; it isn’t safe . . .”
At that moment, with a burst of throttle, the speedboat tackled a particularly tall wave. As it reached the crest, the inexperienced skipper failed to cut the speed, letting it go hurtling down the far side, so that the nose was caught under the next oncoming wave.
Even from up on the hill they could guess what was going to happen next.
The rear of the boat flew up and over, and the vessel proceeded to turn a near-somersault.
The crew were thrown violently overboard—dim human silhouettes could be glimpsed arcing through the air.
The next wave slammed down, swallowing bodies and boat in a foaming whirl of gray surf.
The capsized hull glistened briefly like a wounded sperm whale before disappearing into the depths.
In less than fifteen seconds there was nothing but floating scraps of plastic and fiberglass, and an oil stain in the water. It was as if the speedboat had never existed.
That’s an end to Osvaldo’s career. Probably for the best . . .
Roberto looked up. In the distance, he could already hear the syncopated beating of rotor blades, and after a few moments, a helicopter came into view, in the white-and-green livery of the Guardia Civil, approaching at full speed.
He looked at it with satisfaction. And relief.
It was all over. They had weathered the storm.
And with that, he collapsed.