Puerto Vallarta Squeeze by Robert James Waller

Author:Robert James Waller [Waller, Robert James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cookie429, Extratorrents, Kat
ISBN: 9780759524828
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2009-09-25T14:00:00+00:00

Foothills of the Sierra Madre. Piedra Blanca, Magistral, Guasima, Zapotillo—villages not on any map, but nevertheless straddling the road or lying a few clicks to one side.

The shooter said, “Good job back there, both of you. Now, we need a place to lay up for a day or two, get a feeling for how serious the hunters are. Pretty serious, I’m guessing. We’ll stand out too much in these villages, word’ll get passed around about us hanging out. Am I right or wrong about that?”

“Pretty much right,” Danny told him. “Every village has what we’d think of as a local cop, a constable. He won’t be armed and won’t bother us directly, but it’s his job to notify other law about any unusual goings-on in his village. Eventually the police drive up to the village and take a look for themselves. Sometimes they let a week gp by before they get around to it. With all that’s happened, however, they might respond right away. We’ll stick out, no doubt about that.”

“Any ideas?”

“Up the road about sixty miles is a place I’ve heard about, called Zapata. Friend of mine hung around there for a couple of weeks a while back. It’s quaint, been turned into a minor tourist stop. Buses haul tourists up from Mazatlán for a few hours, let ’em eat and take a walk. They go back home and say they’ve been to a traditional Mexican village. There’s some kind of place to stay, cantina or two, maybe a restaurant. A few gringos live there permanently from what I understand, so we won’t be quite as noticeable as in some of these other places.”

“Let’s take a look at it.”

Around a curve, hombre on a chestnut horse coming the other way, riding on the edge of the road. Mustache and goatee, aristocratic and handsome in the face, black vest and pants, white shirt open at the neck, black flat-crowned hat and black boots, saddle inlaid with silver. An apparition coming out of a lavender evening. He watched them pass, then moved down the road. Mexico… that way: garbage and cruelty, beauty and surprise, nobility on a horse in the middle of nowhere.

Seventy-five minutes later and a mile west of Zapata, the Bronco began jerking and made weird, threatening noises under the hood.

The shooter came to attention. “What’s that?”

Danny was hunched over the wheel, looking at gauges. “Don’t know, sounds bad.”

They limped up to the Zapata turnoff, rolled down into a deep valley on the edge of the village, then began climbing again. Up front the noise got louder. The Bronco gave signs of stopping completely, leapt forward a few feet, halted for a moment, then jerked and humped its way up the hill. They made it to the top and sputtered along narrow cobblestone streets, making a not-so-grand entrance into the central plaza area of the village.

The plaza was square and thirty yards on a side, with a gazebo in the middle and lots of trees. A cobblestone street circumscribed the plaza and separated it from buildings on all four sides.

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