Ask for Me Tomorrow

“We — meaning all the U.S. government employees in this country — are in quite a delicate position right now. There are diplomatic negotiations going on between the two governments. Our government is well aware that illegal poppy fields are sprouting up all over the Sierra Madre, particularly the slopes on the Pacific side. It wants them destroyed. The Mexican government has pledged its cooperation and has actually burned off a few of the fields. But we’re asking for more widespread and more complete destruction, such as Army helicopters spraying the fields with herbicides. Certainly we know that something must be done quickly. The last samplings of heroin picked up in L. A. showed that all of it, one hundred percent, came from Mexico. And the last New York samplings were eighty-five percent Mexican. The stuff which is grown in Turkey and processed in Marseilles has been drawing everyone’s attention, while the Mexican stuff has been taking over the market. It’s processed in mobile labs around Culiacan, north of Mazatlan. Law enforcement officials refer to Culiacan as the new Marseilles. You see the problem?”

“Clearly.”

“Now the question is, what do we do about it? Obviously we can’t tell the Mexican government officials to spray the fields or else. We must ask. Politely. That’s called negotiating.”

“And while these negotiations are taking place you want to avoid any international incidents.”

“Yes.”

“Such as might be caused by a prominent American citizen becoming a narcotics addict while confined in a Mexican jail unfairly if not illegally.”

Miss Eckert looked grim. “That’s what we want to avoid. Exactly.”

“So let’s you and I do a little negotiating of our own.”

“I would rather not.”

“The Mexican government would rather not destroy the poppy fields, and the United States government would rather they did.”

“Which government am I supposed to be?”

“Take your pick.”

“Swiss.”

“Ah, you do have a sense of humor, Miss Eckert. Swiss. Ha ha.”

“Ha ha,” Miss Eckert said. “What are your terms?”

“I’ll keep quiet about Lockwood, and you use some of your consular clout to find out if and when he was released from jail. Somebody must have a record of him — the state or local police, the jail officials, the immigration department, the coroner. You can open doors that are closed to me. So you open doors, I shut my mouth.” Aragon took another card from his wallet and printed on it the address of his office and the telephone number. “You can write to me here, or if you want to phone, leave a message for me any time. There’s an answering service after business hours.”

“The consul should be here instead of out chasing fish or whatever. I can’t decide something like this alone.”

“Scorpios usually make quick decisions.”

“That’s what you want, is it — a quick decision? All right, here it is. I’m not going to break down doors trying to find traces of some junkie.”

“You’re not negotiating, Miss Eckert.”

“I don’t have to,” Miss Eckert said. “I’m Swiss.”

He flew back to Santa Felicia that afternoon. He found his car at the airport where he’d left it, the hubcaps and radio antenna still in place, the windows and tires undamaged. Even the battery was in working order: the engine turned over after only three attempts. He took all this as a good omen.

He picked up a quarter-pounder and fries at a McDonald’s near the airport and ate them on the way home. It was ten o’clock when he called Gilly’s house.

Violet Smith answered. “Good evening. Praise the Lord.”

“Praise the Lord.”

“Who’s this?”

“Tom Aragon.”

“Oh. Wait till I get a pencil and paper. She’s not here. I’m supposed to write down whatever you say.”

“But I haven’t anything that important to—”

“Okay, I’m ready. You can say something.”

“Where is she?”

“Where... is... she.”

“You don’t have to write that down, for Pete’s sake. This is personal, between you and me, like ‘How are you.’ ”

“Asked... regarding... health.”

“Knock it off. All you have to write down is that I’m back in town and I’ll talk to her tomorrow morning. There’s nothing further to report, anyway.”

“You didn’t find Mr. Lockwood?”

“No.”

“I must admit that’s a load off my mind.”

“Why must you admit that?”

Violet Smith made a number of small peculiar noises that sounded as though she might be wrestling with her conscience. “I just better not speak too freely over the telephone. You never know who might be listening in.”

“Who else is there to listen in?”

“A new nurse, for one, Mrs. Morrison. She was hired so Reed could take a couple of days off this week, and Mrs. Decker decided to keep her on for a while until Reed’s disposition improves. She’s a nasty old thing, all starch and steel, not a human bone in her body.”

“If she’s listening in, she’s certainly getting an earful.”