see her grin. “I understand it’s a matter of stamina.”
“Nothing beats experience.”
“Still, there’s a lot to be said for naïveté;” She swished her hair back and forth so it could dry faster. “It’s refreshing, ego-nourishing. It’s …”
“Too fast and fumbly.”
She grinned right at him, a crooked grin, slightly higher on the left. The unevenness didn’t show when she laughed, only when she grinned. It gave her left cheek a commalike dimple, but it also conveyed the impression that she was a bit of a wiseass.
“You’ll do all right,” she told him. “You have a good body.”
5
Las Hadas.
Wiley had expected it to be the sort of resort hotel that qualified for its deluxe designation by being only slightly cleaner, roomier, better-furnished and more dependably staffed than ordinary.
Not so.
It was six hundred acres. A paradisaical village in itself, built from the ground up at a cost of 35 million. Dollars, not pesos. Situated on an easy slope at the merest indentation of coastline, it was protected by its own newly constructed breakwater. The quality of the original beach there would have been outstanding almost anywhere else in the world, but shiploads of even finer-grained, whiter sand had been brought in from Hawaii.
Two hundred white bungalows were placed modularly on and along the slope. Although they were clustered, they did not seem to be pushing one another for space. There was privacy and, at the same time, an intimacy created by connecting walls, terraces, and little secret walkways.
The architectural style was difficult to define, simply because, as pure and clean as it appeared, it was such a concoction. Part Monte Carlo, part Alexandria, some Mexican pueblo, of course, but mainly Moorish—like a mazy section of Marrakesh minus the babble and beggars. Minarets, onion-shaped spires, winding-staired towers, cupolas, gazebos, lattices, all sorts of twists and turns and surprising curlicues. As though the designer, given freedom to express any caprice, had put whimsy to service.
There were five restaurants, six bars, three nightclubs, eight tennis courts, numerous shops, a golf course, a cinema, and, for sudden pangs of piety or emergency expiations, a chapel.
A deep-water marina accommodated those who preferred to arrive privately by sea.
Three swimming pools. One was the largest in Mexico, perhaps in the world. Surely the most impressive. Right at beach-side, a free-form, lagoonlike pool holding two million liters of water that was purified twice and softened three times daily. So large a pool it was an obstacle. A bridge of woven rope was suspended across its middle to avoid the long walk around.
Cars were not permitted beyond the main entrance.
That rule was actually a convenience for Wiley, who felt self-conscious about the VW. Just ahead, a dark gray Daimler limousine was cruising in to unload, and ahead of that on the circular drive was a black Mercedes 600. All sorts of large, costly cars idled near the entrance and were parked around, their substantial composure hyphenated here and there by the incorrigible colors and lines of the smaller expensive cars such as Ferrari Dinos, Lotus Elites, Excaliburs and Maserati Boras. Off to the right of the entrance, parked in precise order like a fleet, were seven Bentley sedans, seven exactly alike, white with a family crest intricately handpainted on the left front door panel. The crest of Argenti.
Wiley drove past, around the drive and back out. No need to start with such a handicap. Lillian agreed. He parked the car well out of notice on the side road. They had to walk nearly a quarter mile. Lillian helped by carrying the smallest, lightest piece of Wiley’s luggage.
As they neared the entrance Wiley hesitated to study the situation. New arrivals were getting all the attention. He spotted a this-year’s Rolls Royce Corniche convertible, a deep-blue seventy-thousand-dollar beauty, parked in perfect position almost
“Nothing beats experience.”
“Still, there’s a lot to be said for naïveté;” She swished her hair back and forth so it could dry faster. “It’s refreshing, ego-nourishing. It’s …”
“Too fast and fumbly.”
She grinned right at him, a crooked grin, slightly higher on the left. The unevenness didn’t show when she laughed, only when she grinned. It gave her left cheek a commalike dimple, but it also conveyed the impression that she was a bit of a wiseass.
“You’ll do all right,” she told him. “You have a good body.”
5
Las Hadas.
Wiley had expected it to be the sort of resort hotel that qualified for its deluxe designation by being only slightly cleaner, roomier, better-furnished and more dependably staffed than ordinary.
Not so.
It was six hundred acres. A paradisaical village in itself, built from the ground up at a cost of 35 million. Dollars, not pesos. Situated on an easy slope at the merest indentation of coastline, it was protected by its own newly constructed breakwater. The quality of the original beach there would have been outstanding almost anywhere else in the world, but shiploads of even finer-grained, whiter sand had been brought in from Hawaii.
Two hundred white bungalows were placed modularly on and along the slope. Although they were clustered, they did not seem to be pushing one another for space. There was privacy and, at the same time, an intimacy created by connecting walls, terraces, and little secret walkways.
The architectural style was difficult to define, simply because, as pure and clean as it appeared, it was such a concoction. Part Monte Carlo, part Alexandria, some Mexican pueblo, of course, but mainly Moorish—like a mazy section of Marrakesh minus the babble and beggars. Minarets, onion-shaped spires, winding-staired towers, cupolas, gazebos, lattices, all sorts of twists and turns and surprising curlicues. As though the designer, given freedom to express any caprice, had put whimsy to service.
There were five restaurants, six bars, three nightclubs, eight tennis courts, numerous shops, a golf course, a cinema, and, for sudden pangs of piety or emergency expiations, a chapel.
A deep-water marina accommodated those who preferred to arrive privately by sea.
Three swimming pools. One was the largest in Mexico, perhaps in the world. Surely the most impressive. Right at beach-side, a free-form, lagoonlike pool holding two million liters of water that was purified twice and softened three times daily. So large a pool it was an obstacle. A bridge of woven rope was suspended across its middle to avoid the long walk around.
Cars were not permitted beyond the main entrance.
That rule was actually a convenience for Wiley, who felt self-conscious about the VW. Just ahead, a dark gray Daimler limousine was cruising in to unload, and ahead of that on the circular drive was a black Mercedes 600. All sorts of large, costly cars idled near the entrance and were parked around, their substantial composure hyphenated here and there by the incorrigible colors and lines of the smaller expensive cars such as Ferrari Dinos, Lotus Elites, Excaliburs and Maserati Boras. Off to the right of the entrance, parked in precise order like a fleet, were seven Bentley sedans, seven exactly alike, white with a family crest intricately handpainted on the left front door panel. The crest of Argenti.
Wiley drove past, around the drive and back out. No need to start with such a handicap. Lillian agreed. He parked the car well out of notice on the side road. They had to walk nearly a quarter mile. Lillian helped by carrying the smallest, lightest piece of Wiley’s luggage.
As they neared the entrance Wiley hesitated to study the situation. New arrivals were getting all the attention. He spotted a this-year’s Rolls Royce Corniche convertible, a deep-blue seventy-thousand-dollar beauty, parked in perfect position almost
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