Strachey's Folly - Stevenson Richard - Страница 35

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"Yes, it was unfair. Who shot him?"

"I don't know," Suter said, shrugging. "Honestly I don't. You're going to have to go back to Log Heaven, Pennsylvania, for the answer to that question. Log Heaven or Engineville. But I'm confident that after you hear what little I can tell you about all of these recent disturbing occurrences, you'll decide on the spot to dig no further and concentrate instead on doing the one thing you can do safely, and that's helping Maynard get back on his feet. And don't worry, he won't be in any danger from here on out. His getting shot was nothing more than an absurd mis­understanding."

"So you're telling me that the Krumfutzes were involved?" "We can talk about that," Suter said with a little shake of his ringlets. "There's a lot you're not going to hear from me because there's no way in hell I can get away with telling you or anybody else. You're just going to have to take my word on that score. But I will tell you what I think I can, and then you can decide where you want to take it from there. I'm confident that you won't want to take it anywhere at all. Meanwhile, Strachey, why not bring your bag in and plan to spend the night? As you can see, we've got plenty of room. You won't have to share a bed with me if you decide not to."

"A lot of people know I was headed here. If anything hap­pened to me, they would know where to look."

He started to crack a smile, then didn't. "So, what do you think might happen? Are you afraid you might have your heart ripped out, old Mayan style, and your body tossed down a cenote—either actually or metaphorically? Believe me, for you the greatest danger is of the latter."

"Of getting thrown down a sinkhole?" "No, of having both happen, but only figuratively speaking." "Jesus, Suter, you just don't know when to quit, do you?" He grinned again, showing me his perfect teeth.

Chapter 20

The interior of the Ramos house contained a mix of heavy Spanish-colonial, dark-wood furnishings that looked un­used, more casual stainless-steel-tube-and-leather chairs, and lots of shelves displaying good crafts from all over Mexico: pottery, figurines, tinwork, and brightly painted wooden animal and human carvings from Oaxaca and Toluca, I thought, and I wasn't sure where else. The crafts collection looked all new, as if some­one had walked into the gift shop at the Cancun Sheraton, glanced around, and said, "I'll take two thousand dollars' worth of this stuff."

Only Suter's airy room on the second floor, overlooking the water, next to the one where I deposited my bag, appeared to be lived in by anyone with a life. He had his computer there, and the beginning of a collection of books, in English and Spanish, that looked read. Suter had insisted that I come into his room to see his computer with its new Beta DVD. While he was there, he decided also to change his shorts for no apparent reason. He slipped out of the cream-colored pair, retrieved a Nantucket-red pair from a dresser drawer, then stood there for a minute, which grew longer and longer, holding the clean shorts, naked from the navel down, as he described his gigabitage.

I finally said, "Look, if you expect me to notice your bare ass, now I have. It is excellent. Now quit wasting your time and mine."

Suter laughed and stepped into his fresh shorts. "I have to be crass. I can't waste time. I'm forty."

"Don't you have a boyfriend here?"

"Sure, this is Jorge's house. But he's in Merida for a few days. Anyway, who do you think we are, Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter? I'm married, but I'm not dead." Leading me out of the bedroom, Suter added, "You're probably amazed by both. I know I am."

I ignored that, and as we headed down the tiled staircase, I said, "How did you know I was looking for you, and how did you know I had located you and that I would arrive this after­noon?"

"Let's have a drink. It's too darn hot." Suter led me into the kitchen. He retrieved two bottles of Dos Equis from the refrig­erator and proceeded out onto the tiled terrace overlooking the beach. As I followed Suter, it hit me again how beautifully formed he was, and I knew he knew I was studying him and that the erotic tension in the air was not entirely of his cynical man­ufacture. His bronzed skin was as aglow as his hair, and he smelled faintly of whatever he had had for lunch—ham? pa­paya? ripe cheese?

I said, "Where does the electricity come from? For powering the refrigerator and the other appliances."

"Wind and passive solar from a house up the beach. The lines run underground. Each place has a backup generator, but none of these houses uses much power, so we rarely need the backup system."

"So all of the houses along here are owned by Jorge?"

"No, but his family built them all at the same time." We seated ourselves at a wrought-iron table in the shade of the big house. "Senor Ramos is a developer and sold off the other houses almost immediately a couple of years ago. This coast is one of the last choice, unspoiled spots left on the Caribbean. Most of the islands are sinking under the weight of development, but the Yucatan still has a long way to go. At one point, O.J. was looking at a place not far from here. This was back during his first trial. Did you know that?"

"Would his presence have lowered the tone of the neigh­borhood or elevated it?"

Suter frowned, swigged some beer, and said, "You think I'm a piece of shit, I know. But I'm not as bad as you imagine, Strachey."

"Uh-huh."

"I'll admit, I do have some problems with what some peo­ple like to call intimacy issues."

"That sounds far more passive than what's been described to me." The beer was icy and fresh, and I kicked off my sandals and leaned back in my cushioned chair. I'd been up since five to catch my early-morning flight, and despite the problematical company, I was enjoying the sea breeze and the sight of the un­interrupted expanse of water, turquoise near the beach, dark blue-green farther out.

"Who did you talk to about me?" Suter said. "I know you went out to Silver Spring and harassed my mother and brother. They didn't believe for a minute that you were a reporter for the Sun, by the way. You weren't frantic and you weren't rude enough to be a newspaperman, Mother said. She was worried about who you might actually have been. Until, that is, I re­ceived another call from a friend explaining who you were, and that you meant no harm. Then I was able to reassure Mother. She was relieved."

"Who called you and told you who I really was?"

Suter looked at me with his big green Botticelli eyes. "You should know better than to ask me that."

"Was it the person who shot Maynard? Or arranged to have him shot?"

"No. Not that I know of, I guess I should say. I actually have no idea who shot Maynard. I only know of the general circum­stances."

"And have you notified the D.C. cops of those general cir­cumstances?"

Suter gave a little shudder. "Nope. Can't do that."

"You said in your letter to Maynard that he must not let the D.C. cops know where you are. Why?"

He said ruefully, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Strachey. I am, truly. But there's just no way I can go into any of that."

"You can't seem to go into much of anything."

"No."

"Who's trying to kill you because you know too much about them, or because they think you know too much about them?"

"Sorry. Can't say."

"Uh-huh." I watched him and waited.

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