Beyond Exile

Beyond Exile

by

William von Reese

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 by William von Reese

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CHAPTER 1

FLOTSAM

The Pescador Bar was crowded and loud that Thursday because the shrimp fleet was back in Santa Lupe. All hands had Mexican pesos to spend and opinions to shout on bullfighters, the price of shrimp and the abuses of the nation to the north. A few Americans huddled over a corner table, an uneasy minority for a change.

Richard had come to town only for a haircut. He had just left the barber, this morning luckily sober. Standing now at the bar, savoring cold beer, Richard failed to notice the approaching stranger until confronted by a man in white walking shorts and tie. He greeted Richard by name, speaking in an accent. A hand was extended for Richard to shake; the other held a gin-and-tonic, judging from the slice of lime perched on the rim of the glass.

Richard shook the proffered hand only because to ignore it was excessively rude. The man's grip was hearty and moist, implying an intimacy where none yet existed. A trick of the con-man.

Richard withdrew his hand before the other's grip relaxed, an awkwardness both pretended to ignore. He turned from the wooden bar to study the face before him, revealing only polite curiosity. He felt the itch of hair clippings under his shirt, an unease provoked as much by sudden social tension as by heat.

The stranger reminded Richard of a young Dirk Bogarde, rejuvenated somehow from an old black-and-white English film. This flesh-and-bone man was leaner, maybe two inches taller, and thinner of nose than his movie clone; but similarly engaging, as only the extraordinarily handsome can be, when they put their minds to it.

Richard was aware his stomach was cramping as he pondered the stranger's identity. Nerves or hunger, he was not sure. Bill collector, process server, PI in the hire of his Ex, Hester? Not all private eyes need be as seedy as, say, Darren McGavin playing the role. Some might conceivably project some culture, such as this engaging Englishman now handing him something. Richard recoiled before taking it, then saw it was only a business card--not the subpoena he was inwardly dreading.

The stranger spoke. "Stroke of luck finding you here. As you came in, the mesero was giving me directions to your caravan. Quite a muddle, really. I was never keen on Latin languages."

My what? Richard was mentally fumbling the meaning of caravan. Baja was a godawful desert, all right; but he had seen nothing like Saharan caravans crossing it yet.

Those homes on wheels you Americans favor.

Oh, 'trailer'. 'Mobile home' or 'coach' is considered less tacky.

Right. Whatever do you use for a studio?

So the stranger knew his line of work. The bill collector or process server theories became more remote. The acidic tweaking of his stomach began to subside.

I built a separate workroom (Richard avoided 'studio' as pretentious) out of stone. No windows. I don't like natural light. Or spectators.

Reade-Harrington nodded, noting those tidbits for future use. "Surely you've heard of our publication, Chic World ? It's a weekly, rather like your New Yorker, minus the fiction. We'd like to do a piece on you and your work, including the homey touch: wife, kids, pets. Maybe a few photographs?"

Richard turned his face away, so the stranger would not see his surprise. So far as he knew, he had not yet sold a painting outside of California. About once a month, or whenever he had enough stuff to fill the back of his station wagon, he took a load of paintings to his agent, Seascapes Unlimited, in Laguna Beach. A stream of checks in ever-escalating amounts flowed back to him through the Mexican mail, supporting a lifestyle that was, by Santa Lupeño standards, exalted.

He had played celebrity just once as star of a one-man show in a Los Angeles gallery. A wine-and-cheese affair attended by such phonies he promised himself never again. The pretty-good review in the Los Angeles Times only served to bring Hester's attorney down upon him again, and the remote shores of Santa Lupe offered him refuge...

Turned away from the Englishman, his averted gaze had been directed at, but not seeing, a barroom wall. Now his eyes came into focus upon a familiar abomination, a mural by a village artist, rendering the local scene: caramel fishing boats mired in a sea of grape juice. More than primitive chic, this was primordial. Folk artists were more plentiful than beggars in this land of graffiti and murals, a land where a bare wall cannot be endured.

What a rip-off, a sham, art was. Mere scrawling and splashing, some more elegant than others. Anyone, including Picasso, could do it and proclaim it great, or at least unique. That Richard was paid so well for what he did was always an amazement to him.

No interview, said Richard, turning back to this engaging man. I paint only for the money. Low profile is my style.

Reade-Harrington took his turn regarding the mural. No grimace of abused sensibility showed in his face. Maybe art editors grew hardened on the job.

Then let us discuss money, resumed the Englishman. He turned to the bartender and raised two fingers, swirling them around in what Richard first took for the peace sign. The barkeeper nodded, correctly picking up the signal for another round of drinks.

Simply ponder the impact of your appearance in our little weekly upon the market for Salton seascapes.

There is an established market for my stuff?

Where have you been, man?

Right here.

Reade-Harrington's wide front teeth were incredibly bright. Capped? Richard returned the smile and, raising his beer aloft, swept a sizeable arc around his epicenter to indicate Santa Lupe's remote, garbage-strewn grandeur.

Precisely.

But my gallery-- Richard objected, recalling the elaborate arrangements he had worked out with Marty Gelthertz, president of Seascapes, Unlimited, Inc., measures that, because of Hester, would keep his whereabouts uncertain, his profile low and his income steady.

--has been underpaying you the past two years. Forgive me for ending your sentence, but it's true. You've lost touch with your own market.

Fresh drinks appeared before them. Richard reached for his new beer, crusty with ice. A guilt devil raised a toady head to forestall this lapse into excess, but Richard squelched it. He could reward himself with unlimited drinking for the rest of the day. His daily stint of work was already done.

Then it's time for a talk with Marty, Richard said, nodding resolve to his reflection in the polyurethane bar top.

"I've already spoken to Gelthertz before coming down here. I knew I must first clear the interview with your agent. Marty was delighted, of course, realizing he would double his prices on your work once your article in Chic World had percolated through the art markets of the world. Our circulation in the States is woefully small, so the piece is unlikely to spotlight your whereabouts.

Double?

No warranties, of course, but most likely.

So Marty would allow the interview? Richard mused aloud.

"Salton, he offered to cut his commission to twenty-five percent if you agree to the article.

Richard could see why Marty was tempted. Hell, he was tempted. Santa Lupe had kept him safe so far. So long as Hester was unable to get him into court he would remain immune from attachment.

Marty was getting 40% now: a 10% agency fee, plus 30% for wall costs: prime rent on Pacific Highway, utilities, advertising and other overhead. If the prices of his work rose, then Marty should be content with a lesser percentage, since his overhead was not going up proportionally. Richard resolved to get the 25% in writing when he next saw Marty.

By the time his second bottle rested empty in a pool of its own sweat, Richard had agreed to meet with the Englishman at his...caravan...the following Saturday afternoon. Richard felt obliged to delay until Saturday, because he had promised himself to put in a standard work week, for once: Monday through Friday. Today being Thursday, he had it almost made.

By distractedly rubbing his bottle-wet hands on the sides of his cutoffs, while simultaneously backing out of that magical arm's-length span delimiting body space, he spared himself a parting handshake.

ooo

As Richard emerged from the cool Pescador, the midday sun and humidity made his ears ring. He paused in the dirt street, aware of the hunger piqued by the beer, to watch the Englishman drive away in a white rental Camaro.

Gauging the shadows in the street (he had stopped wearing a wristwatch on moving to Mexico), Richard could be sure that Laura would have lunch started by now. Tide was out, so he could walk the strip of hard-packed sand just above the water line, taking the beach route, the quickest way home.

The downside was that route took him past the office of the mayor, his somewhat friend, Pancho. There was a sore molar to probe here: he had promised Pancho to paint a sign for his door. Pancho had been appointed to office three months ago, but there was no money budgeted for such amenities as an official sign.

For Richard to appear now, without paints and brushes, or at least a good excuse, would be an affront to The Honorable Pancho. Maybe the mayor would be out for lunch. Richard quickly discarded that hope, knowing that Mexican stomachs ran on different clock times. He would take his chances and proceed.

Civic Center was near the main intersection of the village, where the paved highway from Mexicali met the dirt street. Here a faded sign, tilting away from the prevailing wind, whispered ¡Alto! A red light, meant to reinforce this feeble command, flickered dustily, starved for voltage.

From the outside of Pancho's octagonal office Richard could not tell whether the mayor was in. There was no official car parked in front; Pancho did not rate one. A year previous, a chubasco had buried the village in sand washed down from the mountain. The street side of the office had been excavated; but the rest of the building was still window-sill high in detritus.

There was a sign on the window glass: Departamento de Turismo in peeling gold, above a scroll in red, white and green. The mayor was also the village tourist official. Thumbtacked to the door frame was a temporary sign on cardboard, lettered in felt pen: ALCALDE, a word he also wore stenciled on his hard hat.

Salton passed the mayor's office without being hailed. He made his way between the buildings fronting the beach, his eyes perversely seeking out the trash piled between the shanties. The organic stuff was quickly gone, thanks to animals; but aluminum cans would wink their candy colors to eternal suns, and the spore of bottle tops would endure forever in the sand.

In Santa Lupe, people and dogs cheerfully shared this squalor; but it scraped Richard's sensibility when he allowed himself to notice. No wonder, after the first weeks of residence, his mind blotted out the horror, turning instead to glory in the wide-angle wonder of the landscape and, especially, the sea.

He reached the firm strip of beach and turned south toward home. A short distance ahead he saw a crowd circling some mystery on the sand. He recognized the mayor in his aluminum hard hat and Reynaldo, the police chief, wearing his high-gloss holster. Also he saw his friend, Pepe, who ran the bait shop. The sight piqued his interest. Crowds in the midday sun were rare in Santa Lupe.

Pancho looked up from his note pad and motioned him over. Come take a look. Who knows? You may recognize him.

Richard broke into the circle of spectators.

Very bad for tourism, said Pancho, almost to himself. An American, apparently.

Pancho then turned to the police chief, who stood cap in hand, mouth open. Send an urgent wire to the chief in Mexicali, he told Reynaldo. Recalling his budgetary problem, he added, Collect.

There were no phones as yet in Santa Lupe, which Richard considered a big plus for the place. A strand of telegraph wire was Santa Lupe's only official link with the capital of Mexicali.

From the inner ring of the circle, Richard followed the focus of the crowd's attention: a form on the beach. Someone had covered it with a worn-out tarp. Pancho knelt and peeled it back.

A man wearing Bermuda shorts lay face down in the sand. Pancho made notes on his pad. He motioned Richard to come closer. Richard bent over the form, feeling his stomach flutter. Flotsam, he thought, part of the bobbing multitude of milk cartons, bottles and cans cast overboard by shrimpers devoid of any sentimental misgiving about spoiling the scenery.

Something was disturbingly familiar about the Bermuda shorts, now the subdued shade of canned spinach, due to the bleaching effect of sea water. The shorts he was almost remembering were a bright, bottle green. The body did not appear in too bad shape, considering--except for skin color. What did catch Richard's eye was a bluish, puckered hole in the nape of the neck.

He heard Pancho ask Pepe, How long in the water?

Two days. Maybe three.

How did you find him?

I took this old American couple out to fish. We were trolling, and they snagged him with a marlin hook.

Pancho made more notations. Then he motioned Pepe to help him turn the body. Seeing the dead man on his back, Richard sensed something déjà vu about the body shape. But then, he reminded himself, every human variation was in some way, to some degree, familiar.

Does anyone recognize him? he asked the crowd in Spanish.

The simultaneous inhalation of the crowd seemed to create a vacuum of horror. The bullet, as it left the skull, had taken the face with it. Or had sea creatures done it?

Richard quickly scanned the body until he found a triangular scar above the right knee. He had seen that before, recently. He even recalled the dog-bite story that went with it. It was that tourist from hell he had nicknamed Bermuda Shorts.

Pancho looked at Pepe, who was lighting one of his black cigarettes.

I am wondering where to put him, Pancho mused.

In the ice house, said Pepe without pause.

Of course.

Richard, feeling sick, pushed through the crowd and stumbled to the water line. He knelt and doused his face with sea water. Pancho came up to him, looking paler himself.

I knew him, said Richard.

He felt Pancho's hand on his shoulder. I regret you had to see it. Was the deceased a friend?

No, I met him a few days ago. His camper was parked near my trailer.

Richard declined Pancho's offer of refreshments available at his office. Richard's only thought was to get home, concoct a martini and ponder the hazards of life that can capriciously clobber anyone setting out merely to get a haircut.

Stay close to home, Pancho was addressing his retreating back. The Mexicali police will want a statement from you tomorrow."

Richard nodded and continued down the beach toward camp, anticipation of Laura's lunch now forgotten. Sure, Bermuda Shorts was a pain, like many of his countrymen. Despite his unfortunate taste in clothing, however, he did not deserve that puckered hole in his neck. No one did.

CHAPTER 2

BERMUDA SHORTS

Trouble comes in the most banal of disguises, thought Richard, remembering his first sight of the bottle-green shorts and the paunchy man wearing them. And the shape of your destiny is always a surprise: like finding that death comes to you not as a man, as expected, but as a woman.

What could be more banal than this American in shorts, zoris and T-shirt, a cigar as thick as his thumb lending his otherwise bland face a pugnacious look? Alive just three days ago--and now a cold, tarp-wrapped burrito in the icehouse.

ooo

Richard sipped his instant martini, gin splashed over ice, remembering the day he met the dead man, just last Sunday. Richard had been sitting in this same camp chair, sipping a clone of his present drink, and hoping the approaching tourist would pass him by. No such luck.

Richard's life over five years in Santa Lupe had not been a bask in the Sea of Serenity, as he had hoped. Behind the mask of every stranger, Richard glimpsed potential process servers, bill collectors, private eyes or other spies dispatched by his ex-wife. Even at the ends of the earth, like Santa Lupe, there was no peace of mind to be found. So never take your problems to paradise, he reminded himself sourly. You will just screw that up, too.

Tourist or persecutor? A glance over his shielding paperback told him Bermuda Shorts would not pass by. He was hovering, showing signs of approach. He flashed a tentative grin that evoked some brothers-in-an-alien-land affinity and spread smooth as margarine over the American's wide face.

Would a subpoena served abroad be valid? Would Hester actually try? He would look it up in his paperback Everyman's Law Guide. Meanwhile, dissimulation and defense. Failing that, he could always hit the intruder with The Story; that was always good for a harmless defensive ploy. He had used it with success before.

Bermuda Shorts paused in front of Richard's cabana. He removed the lens cover from the camera dangling from his shoulder, and pulled in the zoom lens for a wide-angle shot of the sweep of beach to the south. Then, having taken (or faked) the obligatory seascape, he replaced the cover, scratched the back of his neck and turned toward Richard.

It’s getting kinda dark, he muttered to himself. Maybe it won’t come out.

While the shot was in progress, Richard made a move to avoid the stranger. His glass was convincingly empty. He pushed up from the chaise and turned for the kitchen. Too late.

Great view you've got here.

Richard turned back, squinting. The man kept his distance, at least. Some would take a seat in a patio chair without waiting for an invitation. Richard acknowledged the great view.

As they plodded through the inexorable rituals of what's-your-name and where're-you-from, Richard heard Laura's station wagon chug to a stop behind their trailer. There was hope of relief. Maybe Laura could extricate him.

He heard her pad barefoot through the cabana. Lights came on inside, and homey rattles came from the kitchen. A moment later Laura came out to stand beside him in the dusk, her head not quite reaching his shoulder.

Hungry, Babe?

He watched her size up Bermuda Shorts, who rose gallantly from his patio chair while tossing his cigar stub into the fire pit. The man was empathic enough to sense the universal female aversion to cigars, thought Richard. Not entirely without sensitivity, then, hideous shorts to the contrary. He wanted Richard and Laura to like him.

Frank Gallagher, meet my wife, Laura, Richard said. The habit of politeness was compelling as the pull of gravity. He wished he were sometimes capable of overt rudeness, which was what this social travesty really called for.

Laura was polite, too, following his lead. Her face was instantly likeable, like that of a frolicking puppy. Her American accent was so good one would never guess she came from Guadalajara.

You can freshen this. Richard held out his glass.

He noticed her frown. He knew how to read it: any more gin would hinder his work tomorrow. And he was way behind in his work.

Make it a short one, he said, feeling good watching her concern evaporate. Second marriages can succeed he told himself once more. This one had turned out better than both had hoped. Thirteen years already.

How about you, Mister Gulliver? Laura asked, all pert and polite again.

She had fumbled the name on purpose, Richard knew, and he had to hide a smile. She was a good ally in his game of putting off intruders.

Gallagher hesitated, letting the name thing pass. But he surprised both of them by saying, Maybe a beer, if you have some.

This one was going to be trouble. There was a hidden sinew of tenacity is his acceptance of a drink. The surface diffidence was a put-on. Most tourists, hearing Laura's mere mention of dinner, would have the decency to back off. Not Bermuda Shorts. He was hanging in, using politeness for a handle. He had a mission, but what was it?

Well, The Story was a useful counter ploy. Not at all honest, but usually effective. Richard was initially reluctant to use it. But, once started, he got an impish delight out of it that was maybe a tad sadistic as he drew his opponent more deeply into the game.

Where's home? Gallagher led off, assuming that tone of easy comradeship among compatriots abroad.

Here. He watched Gallagher pause in mid sip to survey Richard's domain. The skirted trailer, the attached cabana and the patio landscaping did project a kind of permanence.

Here in Santa Lupe?

The same.

The man's clear surprise would inspire a long catechism, Richard knew from experience.

How long?

Almost six years.

Gallagher studied the nutrition label on his beer can and turned reflective. I envy your lifestyle. Independence, no smog, no traffic...

Richard could feel the question coming. It takes income to support an independent lifestyle. The source or means of this life-giving flow was not apparent. So how do you pull it off?

But Bermuda Shorts did not ask the question, not yet. Maybe he considered it too soon. He would circle around Richard and sneak it in low and from behind, later. Many Americans secretly dream of escaping to a more primitive life, never dreaming they would soon feel resentful and deprived without their TV and supermarkets.

It wasn't easy. I was the first American to settle here. Now there are several handfuls. Mostly retired people trying to live on Social Security.

Was it a hassle? I mean the papers, the immigration, the lawyers?

They all want to know how you did it. Just in case they fall into enough money--or get into enough trouble--to make it advisable to head South. The idea of splitting lay quietly in the back of their minds, a kind of perverse insurance against personal calamity. If things get tough enough, you can always head for Mexico.

Normally it is, said Richard, pausing to glance around him as if to dispel unwanted auditors. The movement was not lost on Gallagher, who leaned closer.

Here goes, thought Richard. All true so far, but now comes the fancy cape work.

Keep this under your belt, right? My Agency arranged a special contract with Mexico.

Gallagher frowned at the sand at his feet. That was the payoff of the game. Each answer aroused more curiosity