Westlake, Donald E - Novel 43 by High Adventure (v1.1) Read Free Book Online Page A

           Bringing
the pickup truck to town today, Manny had carried a shopping list from Estelle—cloth
and thread for the girls’ school dresses, salt, filters for Mr. Coffee—so he’d
spent the afternoon downtown while Kirby was off showing the temple. After
dropping Witcher and Feldspan at their hotel, Kirby had given the pickup to
Manny and gone to see a fellow about a shipment to be taken north on Friday.
For security’s sake, they’d had their conversation in the fellow’s Toyota , driving around and about for a while,
there being some disagreement about money. Finally, consensus having been
reached, the fellow dropped Kirby at the Municipal Airport, from which Manny
and the pickup and the dishwasher and the other goods had long since departed.
                 Feeling
weary from his long day, and a bit cranky because of arguing about money with a
man in an air-conditioned Toyota, Kirby had flown north and west, less than 60
miles, and when the familiar design of the Cruz homestead had spread out below
he had smiled and relaxed, not even caring that Manny hadn’t yet had the
pasture cleared.
                 Estelle,
who was very short, always looked up at Kirby with adoration glistening in her
eyes. For a while he’d been awkward with her, thinking her feelings toward him
were sexual, but everything became all right once he understood her passion was
religious. On the surface a rational modern woman, who enjoyed the Guatemalan
and Mexican television stations as much as the kids did and who frequently
talked back at the announcers during news broadcasts, somewhere in her deepest
soul Estelle was still a pre-Columbian artifact herself, an unreconstructed
Maya. Kirby was the creature who dropped out of the sky, bringing electricity
and magic, bringing comfort and riches. What was the name of such a creature?
Exactly.
                 Now,
with the usual light in her eyes, Estelle approached Kirby with a bottle of
Belikin beer in one hand and a piece of notepaper in the other. “Cora brought
it home after school,” she said, extending the paper. Since there was no
telephone line out here, Cora, the eldest, picked up Kirby’s few messages at
the store in Orange Walk.
                 Kirby
took the beer with more pleasure than the message, which must have shown on his
face, because Estelle said, “You look tired, Kirby.”
                 “I’m
very tired.”
                 “I
hope you got a good appetite.”
                 “I’ve
always got an appetite, Estelle,” Kirby said, and swigged beer, and looked at
his message.
                 Shit
and damn! Whitman goddam Lemuel!
                 Last
month, three days after the disaster at the Soho gallery, when that irritating
pest had queered his pitch, Kirby had run into Lemuel unexpectedly at another party—this
one on Park Avenue in the 90s, in the apartment of a rich and avid collector of
pre-Columbian art—and on that second try he had succeeded at last in landing
his fish. Yes, Whitman Lemuel was interested in previously unknown Mayan
artifacts. Yes, his museum had the funds to support that interest. Yes, they
were prepared to be casual about the provenance and prior ownership of items
they bought. YES, he would come to Belize to look at an undiscovered Mayan
temple!
                 Next
week, next Thursday. It had all been arranged, with an exchange of phone
numbers and a writing down of dates. And now here was a message from Whitman
Lemuel, bland as could be, saying he would arrive tomorrow! “Know you’ll
understand my impatience. Wouldn’t want anyone else to beat us. Will be on
afternoon Miami plane. Fort George Hotel reservation confirmed.”
                 No;
it’s not possible. On Friday, day after tomorrow, Kirby had another shipment to
fly north, the very topic of his discussion this afternoon with the man in the
Toyota. But