Backward-Facing Man (26 page)

Safely inside, he leaned back against the door and surveyed his room. When he was satisfied that no one had entered while he was gone, he moved to the edge of the bed and removed his shoes, his jacket, his shirt. He slid the money belt from around his waist and wedged it under the mattress. Although he knew the Bank of Belize would not allow anyone without identification access to his box, he treated the key with great care. Losing or misplacing it would surely result in limited access for some period, which would frustrate and frighten him unnecessarily. He finished undressing and lay down on the bed, this time invoking the image of Maria—her soft lips, her unguarded smile, her desire to please—undressing Javier as he entered the room.

He thought about traveling for the holiday, perhaps to the place Beulah Johnson had suggested, but he would miss his routines and the familiar characters with whom he'd established rapport—Mrs. Johnson at the bank, Maria downstairs, Lydia O'Rourke, the widow who inherited this hotel. He put on a fresh shirt, his second of the day, then lifted the alligator suitcase, hesitated, and opened his door. He pulled the chair to within a few inches of the door, and pulled it shut. On the other hand, it would be a relief to be away from the street urchins, the noise, and the offensive smells.

 

Jim was waiting for him on the veranda. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat that cast a shadow over his face, which was covered in a mixture of reddish freckles and gray stubble. His arms were thin, muscular, and dark in contrast with his face. They stuck out of an old American-style T-shirt that had a picture of an R. Crumb character eating an ice-cream cone and the words
WHY NOT
? underneath. Behind his aviator glasses, Jim's eyes danced from the front desk to the faces at the bar and back to the front desk again. As always, he seemed distracted.

A light-skinned woman was serving beers to a table full of German tourists, all talking at the same time. The fat man motioned to a table nearby and set the alligator-skin suitcase with half of Jim's fee in it between them on the floor. “You want a sandwich?” the fat man asked, sticking his paw into a jar of oyster crackers. Jim ignored the question. He was watching one of the German tourists, playing with a digital video camera.

“I've been thinking,” Artie said, taking a sip of water. “Mayb-b-be it's time for me to see a little bit of the country. Not that I mind it here at all,” he said, backpedaling. “I think I need a lit-t-tle break.” He was careful not to mention San Ignacio.

“You don't need my permission,” Jim said. “Is the money all here?”

Arthur Puckman believed that Jim, like all businessmen, was mistrustful, yet there was no way he would open the suitcase here. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Go ahead and count it.”

Jim's head was turned so that he was looking over his left shoulder. “There's a guy named Manny,” he said. “He and his brother drive a taxi. They can take you wherever you want to go. You can trust them.” Artie followed Jim's eyes to the German tourist with the camera.

“How do I find them?” Artie asked.

“Manny fishes off the pier near the InterContinental.” Suddenly, Jim grabbed the suitcase and jerked himself up, twisting his body so that his face was turned away from the table of tourists. As he lurched toward the street, he knocked his bar stool, which collided with a table, causing a couple of drinks to topple over and soak an elderly man studying a map. By then, the Germans had assembled on one side of their table, arms around one another, grinning at a man holding a camera. Before Artie realized what had happened, he was caught staring straight ahead into the flash. His first reaction was relief. Jim wouldn't realize that the suitcase was light by thirty grand until he got home and opened it. It didn't occur to him until it was too late that a photograph, even a random snapshot by a tourist, could find its way to the FBI.

After a long nap, Artie stood in the shower for the second time that day, as much to wash away any residual doubts he had about his new plan as to cool himself down. His main concerns about traveling were his money and his safety. He began to catalogue the things he would need in a new home—a well-appointed room, privacy, of course, a clean bathroom, laundry and meal service, and a place from which he could observe people without being conspicuous. Belize City made him nervous. And Jim's reaction to the German tourists reminded him of how careful he needed to be. The fat man straightened his bed. He checked himself in the mirror and then turned to inspect the room. Neat enough for young lovers, he decided. He opened the wooden slats directly across from the bed so that they faced up.

At the front desk, Maria was straightening a shelf full of brochures. “Tonight,” he whispered. “Between seven and seven fifteen.” He pointed to his watch.

“Thank you, Mr. Alex,” she said, blushing.

 

Artie had dinner near the bay at a restaurant run by a large, middle-aged woman and her daughter. He sat on the concrete porch that was attached to a cinder block enclosure, which surrounded a barbecue pit. Judging by the number of motorcycles and pickup trucks that pulled up and then sped off, food was only one of many things being sold from the property. The waitress was a heavy, slow-moving girl in her twenties, and she wore dresses and shoes that looked as if someone else even heavier, perhaps her mother, had broken them in. Night after night, she watched Artie lather himself up with mosquito repellent and then wipe his hands with antibacterial cream. After seeing him spill hot sauce on his shirt, she'd taken the liberty of tying a bib around his neck.

“Chicken wing appetizer, and t-t-two plates of fried chicken,” Artie said, sitting down. To celebrate his decision to leave Belize City, he had two beers. When he finished, he pushed his rice and vegetables into neat piles for the girl to scrape off and give the dogs.

On his way back to the hotel, Artie bought himself a bottle of schnapps and a cigar. On the front desk was a little folded paper tent that said “Back in ten minutes,” which meant Maria was already upstairs. Lydia was watching satellite TV, which meant
she
was into her third or fourth whiskey. Angie, her daughter-in-law, was serving drinks and keeping an eye on reception. If a guest were to show up to check in or ask for their key, Angie would attend to them, the goal being to make sure Lydia didn't know Maria was gone. Artie checked the clock over the front desk.

Javier was a soccer player and could make it up four flights of steps faster than Artie could get out of the way, so he took the steps as quickly as a man his size could, then he tiptoed around to the end of the balcony and around the corner, sidling up to the window with the wooden slats. Quieting his breathing, he pulled in close. He heard a zipper open, a gasp, then Maria making a purring sound. Through the slats, Artie saw Javier on his back, up on his elbows, his head off the edge of the bed while Maria leaned over him, her dark hair spilling over his body. While she ran her hands over his chest, Javier rose and then fell, his torso arching up toward the ceiling and then sinking into the bed. Artie took a swig of schnapps. Javier lifted Maria and turned her over, sliding down and then moistening her between her legs, before climbing on top. Against the back wall, Artie watched their silhouettes become one person, together as in a tango. When at last Javier collapsed, Artie slid to the floor of the balcony with a soft thud.
“Cuál era ése?”
Maria whispered, looking at the wall. A moment later, he heard bedding being pushed aside, whispering voices, and fabric sliding across skin as the two of them dressed and then slipped out the door. When Artie entered his room, he knelt down before the bed as if praying, moving his hand to feel the warmth. In a few moments, he would pour himself a shot of schnapps and light a cigar, but not until the scent and the imprint of their ardor had disappeared.

 

The next morning at the bank, Artie pulled out of his front pocket several brochures he'd selected from a rack at the hotel—Ambergris Caye, Placencia, Honduras, and Costa Rica—while Mrs. Johnson watched, smiling. Beulah Johnson considered it her civic duty to sell foreigners on the merits and the beauty of Belize. Over the past month, she'd regaled Alejandro Preston with stories of her country's liberation from Britain some thirty years ago, its easy commerce and, unlike Guatemala, its friendly ways. “I want to see Central America before I g-go back to Cuba,” he told her before entering the safe-deposit room.

“You really shouldn't leave Belize before seeing the jungle,” she said politely.

Actually, San Ignacio sounded perfect to him. It was inland, surrounded by river and jungle, yet far enough from the Guatemalan border that it would be difficult for thieves to cross back and forth. According to the literature, it had a friendly integrated community made up of Africans, Spaniards, Mayans, and whites, including Mennonites, who Mrs. Johnson told him were very good at business. The other day, Beulah Johnson had assured him that San Ignacio had several major international banks, including a branch of the Bank of Belize, to which she would be happy to phone ahead.

After the bank, Artie walked about a half mile to the very edge of the downtown area, past the U.S. embassy, which was surrounded by stone pillars and a row of bougainvilleas that were always in bloom. A half block away, an immaculate gravel path led to the tip of a jetty where the Hotel InterContinental, an extravagant glass-and-stucco mansion, sat gleaming in the sun, and to the right of the hotel was a pocket of surf reserved for gigantic cruise ships, themselves huge floating hotels, which arrived weekly filled with wealthy tourists from Europe, South America, and the United States. Off to the side was a tiny pier that received the smaller boats, and, in front of that, a bench, where Arthur Puckman, aka Alejandro Preston, took a seat and waited.

He watched gulls line up on the pilings and thought about how far he'd come. Since leaving home, he had changed his name and cut his ties. He'd secured his financial future in a way he'd been unable to for the thirty years, pulling himself out from under his father's thumb, and removing from his day-to-day life the extreme irritation of working next to a brother for whom everything—from finding love and friendship to selling elaborate security configurations to pawnbrokers—came easy. For the first time in his life, Arthur Puckman felt accomplished. Proud even. His face—thinner and slightly sunburned and peeling—looked different to him in the mirror. People like Beulah Johnson, Lydia O'Rourke, even the young lady at the barbecue took notice of him now. About himself, he would once have said he'd started believing his own bullshit, which everyone knows leads to preoccupation and dangerous mistakes.

When Jim first showed up at Regina Puckman's in South Philly, less than twenty-four hours after Gutierrez had gone down, he told Artie that many years ago he'd gone to MIT and that he and Chuck had once been close friends. Over the summer between Chuck's freshman and sophomore years, they argued over a woman and had a falling out. Jim said he heard about Gutierrez on the news as he was passing through town and felt the least he could do now was try to help Chuck and his family through the crisis. That was when Artie decided to tell him about the cash; the extravagant run of luck he'd had at the track. Jim told him his theory about capitalist reincarnation: how if you had enough resources, you could break free of entanglements and invent a new self. All you need is money, balls, and a willingness to act in ways nobody expects. Here, now, in Belize, Artie decided it was time for that new person to be born.

 

Manny brought his little skiff in near the restaurants that were most likely to pay him well for his catch. He tossed a nylon-coated rope onto a small dock and started wiping down his boat when he noticed the fat man waving. Manny was expecting him. The night before, Jim, the American, had told Manny and his brother that a man with a lot of cash would be contacting them about a ride. Jim had also told the brothers that the man with the money was not who he said he was—Alejandro Preston, a vacationing Cuban—but rather a representative of an American company who wanted to bribe local officials to allow extensive deforestation to advance their business interests. Manny carried a bucket with fish and headed toward the bench.

For Manny's brother, Carlos, the appearance of a corrupt American businessman had great potential. In Belize, the Mayans were a laboring class, and busting ass was simply what you did unless you were lucky enough to run a scam, win at gambling, or come across a wealthy benefactor. Although Jim hadn't been specific, the brothers were hoping Alejandro Preston would turn out to be the answer to their prayers.

“Jim said me you c-c-could set me up,” Arthur Puckman said cautiously. The boy with the chocolate skin and the flat brown eyes nodded, as if he was either mildly retarded or was just barely able to understand.

“Manny Punta,” the boy said, holding out his hand.

“Alejandro Preston,” Artie said. “I need a ride to San Ignacio.”

“When?” Manny asked.

“As soon as p-p-possible.”

Manny smiled, showing a gold tooth. “Me and my brother, Carlos, we drive a lot of people out there. That's where our people are from. What brings you to Belize?” Manny was shy and a little clumsy. He had buckteeth, which he made no effort to conceal.

“I had some success in b-b-business back home. I figure a man in m-m-my position ought to t-t-travel a little why he's still got his health.” The two men started walking. They passed the InterContinental and headed down the road. In front of the American embassy, Artie tilted his fedora. “The road to San Ignacio,” Artie said, haltingly, “is it s-s-safe?”

“Yes, sir,” Manny told him. “Very safe, Mr. Alex.”

By then it was almost noon, time for the shops to close. Mayans, Spaniards, Africans, and gringos scrutinized them. “Do you have a gun?” Artie asked next. Manny Punta took the question in stride. In countries like Honduras, Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala, police and underworld figures are often interchangeable. They go to school together. They date the same girls. They make money in the same ways. Traveling at night, you could count on being approached by con artists, banditos, and drug dealers.