Third World customs and immigration officials, while a porter piled a nearby cart ever higher with their luggage. In their midst, holding a clipboard, stood Pilar.
To come upon her suddenly, without the benefit of mental preparation, was almost too much for my oxygen-deprived brain. I felt as if I had just stepped into a freezing shower, and then the chill passed over me, and all that was left was the shivering grin on my face. I lunged toward her; between the stare and the grin, I could hardly now pretend not to have seen her, even just to buy a few moments to compose myself.
The Americans saw me coming and widened their eyes and their smiles to welcome a fellow pale-skin, but Pilar stepped in front of them, like a basketball player intercepting a pass. I stopped short, wondering whether to kiss her on the cheek. Did we qualify as friends again? Her body was shielded by her clipboard, but then she dropped her arms in surprise.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I decided to spend a few days in La Paz,” I said. “They let me change my ticket.” The Americans behind her abandoned their inquiring expressions and returned to their chatting, confident that I either was irrelevant or would be fully explained later.
“We’re waiting for some VIPs from the Lima flight.” She pronounced it “vips.” “Who’s this?”
Her voice echoed in my mind; I couldn’t pin down the meaning of any of her words. Control yourself, I thought, and tried to conjure up the many, many times I’d slept with her andthereby overcome my panic with brute lust, but my powers of concentration seemed to have leaped overboard. I could dimly discern, bubbling over in my subconscious, memories of our last meeting, in a Best Western in the town of Wall, South Dakota, just outside the Badlands. She had patted me on the butt like a football player, just before I abandoned her for a Guilford minivan back to Rapid City. Why had they made her stay on in Wall?
Kenny had eased up behind me. “I’m Ken Rawls,” he said, barking his name like a stockbroker. “You Bolivian?” His gym bag was slung over his shoulder, the frayed strap pinching the Marlboro Man’s ten-gallon hat.
“No, Kenny,” I said. “She’s Pilar. A friend of mine.”
Kenny nodded. It didn’t surprise him that I bumped into friends at the La Paz airport.
“I’m here to find Hilary Pearson,” he said.
“You brought a deputy?” Pilar asked me, frowning.
“He’s on his own,” I said.
“I’m a friend of hers,” said Kenny. “I love her.”
“Why do you need to tell her that?” I said.
“I understand, Ken,” said Pilar, laying on the professional warmth so thickly that I was jealous of him. “She’s a very lovely woman.”
“You knew her?” said Kenny.
“I met her about a year ago, at my old job,” she said. “We used to play darts at the hotel bar.”
I remembered that Pilar had once told me that after she arrived in Miami, friendless and confused in a strange country, she spent the summer shut up in her bedroom in her aunt’s house, chucking darts and luxuriating in the air-conditioning.
“She played darts?” Kenny asked.
“Are you coming into town?” I heard myself ask. “Let’s split a cab. Afterwards we could get a bite.” Get a bite? “And talk. So we can get down to business.”
“I want to, but I wasn’t ready for this. I have clients.”
“Right,” I said, “but maybe—”
“And I’ve got another load in from Colombia in an hour. But of course I want to talk to you. I thought you were coming straight to the Matamoros. Why are you staying in La Paz?”
“Oh. No reason. Just … checking out a few hotels.” I hitched up my eyebrows and twitched my nose at Kenny. She probably thought I was about to sneeze.
“We’re gonna look for leads,” said Kenny. “Try the embassy, maybe troll the bars for the word on the street. Jake the Snake here can translate. He knows Spanish.”
“Really? He must have been
To come upon her suddenly, without the benefit of mental preparation, was almost too much for my oxygen-deprived brain. I felt as if I had just stepped into a freezing shower, and then the chill passed over me, and all that was left was the shivering grin on my face. I lunged toward her; between the stare and the grin, I could hardly now pretend not to have seen her, even just to buy a few moments to compose myself.
The Americans saw me coming and widened their eyes and their smiles to welcome a fellow pale-skin, but Pilar stepped in front of them, like a basketball player intercepting a pass. I stopped short, wondering whether to kiss her on the cheek. Did we qualify as friends again? Her body was shielded by her clipboard, but then she dropped her arms in surprise.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I decided to spend a few days in La Paz,” I said. “They let me change my ticket.” The Americans behind her abandoned their inquiring expressions and returned to their chatting, confident that I either was irrelevant or would be fully explained later.
“We’re waiting for some VIPs from the Lima flight.” She pronounced it “vips.” “Who’s this?”
Her voice echoed in my mind; I couldn’t pin down the meaning of any of her words. Control yourself, I thought, and tried to conjure up the many, many times I’d slept with her andthereby overcome my panic with brute lust, but my powers of concentration seemed to have leaped overboard. I could dimly discern, bubbling over in my subconscious, memories of our last meeting, in a Best Western in the town of Wall, South Dakota, just outside the Badlands. She had patted me on the butt like a football player, just before I abandoned her for a Guilford minivan back to Rapid City. Why had they made her stay on in Wall?
Kenny had eased up behind me. “I’m Ken Rawls,” he said, barking his name like a stockbroker. “You Bolivian?” His gym bag was slung over his shoulder, the frayed strap pinching the Marlboro Man’s ten-gallon hat.
“No, Kenny,” I said. “She’s Pilar. A friend of mine.”
Kenny nodded. It didn’t surprise him that I bumped into friends at the La Paz airport.
“I’m here to find Hilary Pearson,” he said.
“You brought a deputy?” Pilar asked me, frowning.
“He’s on his own,” I said.
“I’m a friend of hers,” said Kenny. “I love her.”
“Why do you need to tell her that?” I said.
“I understand, Ken,” said Pilar, laying on the professional warmth so thickly that I was jealous of him. “She’s a very lovely woman.”
“You knew her?” said Kenny.
“I met her about a year ago, at my old job,” she said. “We used to play darts at the hotel bar.”
I remembered that Pilar had once told me that after she arrived in Miami, friendless and confused in a strange country, she spent the summer shut up in her bedroom in her aunt’s house, chucking darts and luxuriating in the air-conditioning.
“She played darts?” Kenny asked.
“Are you coming into town?” I heard myself ask. “Let’s split a cab. Afterwards we could get a bite.” Get a bite? “And talk. So we can get down to business.”
“I want to, but I wasn’t ready for this. I have clients.”
“Right,” I said, “but maybe—”
“And I’ve got another load in from Colombia in an hour. But of course I want to talk to you. I thought you were coming straight to the Matamoros. Why are you staying in La Paz?”
“Oh. No reason. Just … checking out a few hotels.” I hitched up my eyebrows and twitched my nose at Kenny. She probably thought I was about to sneeze.
“We’re gonna look for leads,” said Kenny. “Try the embassy, maybe troll the bars for the word on the street. Jake the Snake here can translate. He knows Spanish.”
“Really? He must have been
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