Backward-Facing Man (27 page)

“My brother does,” Manny said. “He knew a driver who was robbed by the Guatemalans.” He spit the word. Jim told them Mr. Preston would be cautious. He was carrying securities that needed to be deposited in a local bank. Jim said he represented an international group that had a scheme to break up the deal and save the Belizean rain forests. He promised the brothers a cash reward for getting the fat man there safely.

“I'll pay you a hundred dollars Belize,” Artie proposed, sticking his chin out.

Manny kept walking. He hadn't said exactly how much, but Jim was promising the brothers a lot of money.

“Okay, two hundred,” Artie said, thinking he needed to improve his offer. “I want to leave tomorrow. Can you pick m-me up in front of the Bank of Belize? Nine thirty?”

“Tomorrow's Baron Bliss Day,” Manny said. “Banks are closed.”

“Friday then.”

“We have a blue van.” The men shook hands. On his way back to the hotel, Artie passed the bank where every paper, every coin, every document of value representing his wealth, his security, and his freedom was tucked away. Jim was right. Despite the risks, he was better off keeping his money in a safe deposit box. This way, he could pick up and leave whenever he wanted. And there would be no computer records, no patterns, no Social Security numbers, nothing traceable. Soon, things would be perfect. Even with an occasional trip to Costa Rica for a medical checkup, Artie could live out his remaining days like a king. Unfortunately, though, he would have to carry his fortune with him to San Ignacio, which set him thinking about having a bag he could sling over his shoulder, something he could hold closer to his body than the blue valise he had long ago borrowed from his uncle Joe.

Along Main Street was a luggage shop that catered to wealthy cruise ship clients. It seemed wasteful to spend a lot of money on an item that would sit empty under a bed in San Ignacio, so Artie decided to venture a little bit out of town, hoping to find a bargain—something a native Belizean might buy—inexpensive, even a bit broken in. It was a beautiful day, uncommonly dry and breezy for late spring. He let himself wander, turning when he felt like it, stepping around children, piles of newspapers, trash and discarded containers of food, vacant yards, men playing dominoes on makeshift tables.

Soon, the streets began to turn uphill, and, a few times, he had to pause to catch his breath. He passed a landfill: a heap of stinking food and soiled paper, old discarded items, refrigerators, car parts, clothing and broken furniture, along with garbage in varying degrees of decomposition. He was surprised by how much these people, who had so little, threw away. A red wagon without wheels caught his eye and, beside that, a black object partially hidden by a wooden crate. At first, he thought it might be a dead bird or a garbage bag, but, as he moved closer, he saw a black bag, mud-stained, with two looping handles you could sling over your shoulder. He picked it up. A little scrubbing and it'd be perfect. He pictured himself loading his booty and carrying it into his new bank, then returning home and stepping out on the balcony of his new room overlooking the jungle, away from the scheming money changers and the drifters who set up cardboard houses and butane stoves to heat their meals. He lifted the bag with the very tips of his fingers. It was a miracle to Artie that Belize City hadn't erupted in plague.

The voice came from close behind. Artie reacted as he would have at home, clenching his butt and hunching his shoulders, while straightening in an effort to be on his way. “I'm talking to
you,
mon!” the man said. “Where you going in such a hurry?” Artie turned and saw an African man with dreadlocks tucked into a wool knit cap.

“I'm…I'm…I'm…” Artie stuttered.

The man stopped, his face inches from Artie's. He could hear him breathe. “Cat got yur tongue?” He grabbed the satchel. “What you doing wit an empty bag round yur shoulder?” Artie changed direction, but the man circled around, stepping in front of him again. “You want me to fill it wit ganja?”

“Leave me…” Artie said, spraying him with saliva.

“How about ya hire me to be yur guide?” the African said, putting his arm around Artie. “Get you home safe.”

The truth was he could have used a guide. The streets up here weren't arranged in any particular order, and Artie had no idea where he was. Fewer people seemed to be walking around than when he had set off. Artie tried to push him away.

“Didn't you hear me?” the man said in Artie's face. Especially under duress, he was hard-pressed to complete a sentence, which further angered his attacker. When Artie began to wail, the African wrapped his arm around Artie's neck and pushed him toward a cement wall that ran alongside the sidewalk. Time slowed. Everything became fuzzy. Artie continued yelling until he felt a knife blade against his neck.

“No more Mr. Nice Guy,” the African whispered, his face in close. “Shut up and give me yur money, fat mon. You can find yur own fucking way home.” He took Arthur's arm and twisted it behind his back while pressing the blade against his throat. Artie's arm went rigid, then limp. He heard a crunching sound and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. The part of his brain that controlled his voice, never much of an ally before, shut down completely now. “I…I…I…I…I…I,” he stammered, jerking his other hand toward his pocket.

“Stupid mon,” the African hissed.

When Artie awoke, he was on his back and his glasses were off. Intense nausea accompanied pain in his shoulder, his left arm, and his upper body. He was staring at a wind vane in the shape of a chicken that was mounted on a tiny blue house. A teenage girl holding her baby was leaning over him. His face was burning, his upper lip swollen, and his left arm limp by his side. He coughed and winced as he tried to roll over and stand. She leaned over and handed him his glasses. When he finally stood up, she held out a ten-dollar bill the African had dropped.

 

Arthur Puckman spent the rest of the afternoon in a hammock on the veranda of the Hotel Mopan, while Lydia O'Rourke, who'd fashioned a sling out of mosquito netting, brought him ice wrapped in a towel and codeine pills. He had one stiff drink after another, drifting in and out of consciousness, happy to be the focus of attention, happy to have learned his lesson about how dangerous Belize City could be, happy to be alive and to be receiving Lydia's kindness. At one point, when Lydia asked him what exactly he'd done in Cuba to be able to afford such a lengthy vacation, he babbled incoherently about the manufacturing business he once ran.

Pain woke him before dawn. With his good arm, he reached under the mattress but felt nothing. Then, with considerable effort, he pulled a beaded wire attached to the lamp. The room he was in was very similar to his own, except it was filled with books, wall hangings, and stuffed animals, including a very menacing-looking jaguar. He was wearing his boxers and the same shirt he'd worn the day before. His seersucker suit pants were draped over a chair, the belt still in its loops.

Artie touched his shoulder and winced. He could move his arm along a short arc, but the pain took his breath away. He remembered the mugging, which strengthened his resolve to leave Belize City. He took a codeine pill out of the jar Lydia had left him and swallowed it dry. Outside, a curtain of rain obscured an old car propped up on blocks. He was on the first floor of the hotel, most likely in Lydia's room. It was early in the day, perhaps just after dawn. Soon, the sun would come out and the taxi drivers would get into their cars, the electric wires would start hissing, and the first shift in Belize City—the security guards and hotel employees—would make their way from the hills downtown to work. After that, the money changers with their fanny packs and calculators would head toward the commercial district, passing the fruit stands and the tour guides and the street vendors, all of whom would start trolling for tourists and customers. One more day he had to endure before he would be leaving for good. One more day before he would enter the Bank of Belize with his black satchel, make small talk with Beulah Johnson and the security guard as if this day were like any other, except tomorrow he would take everything—paper, coin, and currency—out of his safety deposit box and carry it out with him.

 

Artie napped until late Thursday afternoon. He had dinner at the restaurant near the bay but was too distracted to enjoy his meal or the ministrations of his homely waitress. He was down to his last few codeine pills, which he decided to save for the ride. When he returned to the hotel, he got Javier to help him upstairs so he could pack. He loaded his dobb kit with dental floss, toothpaste, hemorrhoid cream, and Band-Aids and packed the blue valise with underwear, socks, shirts, and pants. The two rayon shirts he'd bought in Belize he stuffed in the black satchel, which he brushed off as best he could. Everything else he put in the trash. The night passed slowly. His shoulder hurt, and he was constipated.

In the morning, with some effort, he washed and dressed himself and then went downstairs. Maria had set a tray of muffins and juice against the wall, and Lydia emerged from the kitchen, smelling of cold cream and cigarettes. Artie explained that he intended to do some traveling over the next few weeks. He didn't mention San Ignacio, whether he intended to come back or when. When Lydia protested, he agreed to take along a roll of mosquito netting to use as long as his shoulder hurt him. “Take these, too,” she said, handing him another vial of codeine pills. Maria fetched his bags, and the fat man hobbled down the steps. Despite the pain and stiffness in his body, he was feeling hopeful. For having escaped from his old life, for having survived yesterday's attack, for having proven himself braver and more resourceful than his father or Chuck had ever been, he felt large and expansive. This is what it must feel like, he thought, to be proud.

 

At 9:05
A.M.,
he entered the Bank of Belize and set the blue suitcase with his clothes on the linoleum floor. Pointing to the black satchel over his shoulder, he told Beulah Johnson that he would need some extra time. As they'd done every banking day for the past month, the two of them walked toward the tiny room. On this day, Artie lifted the lid to his safe deposit box before Mrs. Johnson could excuse herself, revealing wads of cash, mostly hundred-dollar bills, both U.S. and Belize, rolls of coins encased in plastic, various bonds and Treasuries paper clipped together in a legal-sized manila folder. It seemed important for him to show her—as a tiny child presents his body's output—to leave her with a visual of his vast wealth, his net worth, naked. Perhaps he wanted her to feel diminished when he emptied the box and terminated their relationship. Once she left, he began lining the bag with the contents of the box—every last stack of bills and securities—which he then covered with the rayon shirts before emerging from the room.

Despite the glimpse he'd offered her, Mrs. Johnson had no interest in what the fat man was doing. She never tried to guess her customers' whims or get involved in their business. She considered it bad taste to concern herself with the fortunes of the bank and inconceivable to imagine that one customer's withdrawal could have an effect on an institution such as hers. What she did notice that day was that Mr. Preston was in so much pain that he had difficulty moving. She offered to help him—an offer he accepted. Her last memory of him was looping the mosquito netting through the straps of the bag, so she could draw it tight against his body.

Manny looked fresh and relaxed behind the wheel of the van. He was wearing hiking shorts, thick wool socks, and a pair of battered old leather boots. On the seat next to him was a grease-stained paper bag and a thermos. Like most other large vehicles in the country, the van was probably bought cheap in the States and driven south from Galveston, through Mexico, into Belize. Artie made several attempts to lift himself up into the passenger seat before the back door slid open and a dark-skinned, stocky young man in his mid-thirties got out to help. “Carlos,” the man said, sticking his hand out.

Carlos wore a pair of tan shorts and a white T-shirt with the words
MAYAN EXPEDITIONS
. He had jet black hair cut short and a careless grin, which could be construed as either glib or friendly. The change in temperature between the bank and outside caused Artie's glasses to fog up, so he didn't notice Carlos's hand. He put the blue valise on the seat beside him. “Why don't we throw this one in the back?” Carlos said, but he was unable to get the fat man to part with the satchel. Cars honked around them. Even before the tourists arrived, the streets of downtown Belize City were nearly impossible to navigate. Carlos finally managed to get Artie in by leaning against his hips and pushing with his shoulders. Old cars powered by rebuilt engines puttered along, their trunk lids tied down with rope. Motor scooters with helmetless riders and kids dragging fruit in wagons passed by them, some hauling large packages, others with headphones. Manny piloted the van forward, inches at a time. Artie jammed his good hand into his jacket pocket and unhinged the bottle, then swallowed a codeine pill.

 

As an economy, Belize is bush league. The finest luxury hotels have mildew in the lobbies. Mosquitoes swarm the eighteen-hole golf course where the half-dozen Belizean businessmen of any consequence meet to make deals. And the cinder-block fast-food shacks along the Western Highway look more like public restrooms than places you'd want to eat. For the most part, the road to San Ignacio has one purpose: to move Belizeans and Belizean goods back and forth between the ocean and the jungle.

After about an hour on the road they entered the town of Belmopan, a glorified little intersection that became the capital of Belize after Hurricane Hattie leveled most of Belize City in the sixties. It was a hot, humid, inhospitable little crotch of land nestled in the country, a place where, aside from bureaucrats forced to move for their jobs, only insects thrived. Carlos sat on the forward edge of the backseat talking nonstop in a patois that was unintelligible to Artie—a mixture of Spanish, Mayan, and English that blended with engine noise and the Spanish-speaking radio station Manny had tuned in. Thanks to the codeine, Artie was able to relax and ignore his guides, who bantered and laughed, waving and yelling to people who were walking by the side of the road. After a while, he closed his eyes.