Montezuma’s Revenge

“You had better believe it was. I only came back—and this is your last chance—because money talks. Talk money.”

“I am sure that something can be arranged.”

“Name a figure.”

“Five hundred thousand lire.”

Tony reached inside his bundle and seized his hat, then poked the entire thing in Timberio’s direction. “I have a gun in here and I am a deadly shot, so no more tricks. Say a million.”

Timberio shied back, beginning to sweat. “Yes, a million, it can be arranged.”

“That’s better. I don’t have the painting with me.”

“Payment on delivery.”

“Of course. Give me a thousand pesos now and the balance when I hand the painting over. I need it for the man who is holding the painting for me—and also as a symbol of your good will.” A globe of fiery gas rose at this instant from the churning vat of his stomach and Tony laughed to cover the sound of the eructation. Necessarily, the laugh that emerged had a singularly artificial and echoing quality which Timberio misunderstood as the laugh of a cold killer, for he stepped back again, eyes on the bundle.

“No need for guns ...”

“There had better not be.” He removed his hand and tucked the parcel back under his arm.

“I will give you the thousand now on one condition. I and one other operative will come with you.” Tony chewed this one over but could see no way out of it.

“All right, we’ll do it that way.”

Timberio went back to the restaurant but returned fairly quickly with a solid young man who had a scar that half closed one eye and muscles that strained his thin shirt—a suspicious bulge at the waist as well, which was surely a concealed gun. Well, he had no choice. Timberio looked around carefully before passing over a green wad of bills. Tony ruflled them with his thumb, it seemed ample enough, before putting them away.

“Here we go,” he said and started down the hill with his watchdogs close behind. “Wait here,” he said in front of the Long Porker. “If anyone is with me the message will not be passed to release the painting, that has been arranged. You can see there is no other exit.”

Timberio nodded reluctant agreement then stood back against the opposite wall to watch, while his operative joined the line at the tortilleria where he had a clear view through the door. Strong in his gringo personality, Tony entered the establishment. Redhead and baby sat talking to a prospective customer; she looked up and nodded.

“Come back for another lesson?”

“I just might, But I want to look in the back room, think I left a towel there.”

She waved a languid agreeing hand and he passed by. The workroom was empty, the bathroom door locked and emitting the sound of rushing water. Someone there, he must do this quickly. The box was still in its place beneath the others. He stood on tiptoe, pulled it out, clutched the tottering pile in fear as it all threatened to fall on him, restored its balance and had just pushed the boxed painting inside his parcel as the door opened and the man who had first drawn him to the establishment emerged. He looked suspicious.

“You want something?”

“Just to check in there, think I left a towel yesterday. Nope, doesn’t look like it, be seeing you.”

Followed by a rapid exit to be joined quickly by his bodyguard.

“Did you see me pass the message? Everything is arranged. I will be met at the rendezvous in ten minutes by a messenger with the package.”

“What rendezvous?”

“There,” Tony said, pointing at the familiar whitewashed blockhouse around which so much of his activity seemed to rotate. “He will meet me there.”

Neither representative of the Agenzia Terza seemed surprised at the choice of location, perhaps it was a common locale for agenting gambits, but followed quietly instead.

“Stay here,” Tony ordered, stopping outside the door. “The contact will be a man in a black suit carrying a tightly rolled umbrella.” Where on earth had that idea come from? The hang-over must still be operating. “Allow him to come in. Then I will bring out the painting.”

“I will check inside,” Timberio said, starting through the door. “He may be there already.”

“No,” Tony said loudly, his voice cracking. One look inside and his whole plan was destroyed. “That will ruin everything.” As indeed it would.

Timberio withdrew reluctantly and took up station a few feet away as did his aide. Tony entered slowly and, as soon as he had passed from sight, burst into frenzied activity. He had to effect the change quickly or not at all. A button popped as he tore the shirt from his back, then stripped off the trunks. There was a startled grunt from an old man who was emerging from the last cubicle, the only other occupant.