Greasing the Piñata (20 page)
Oscar Garcia hated loose ends. As if to illustrate the point, he tugged on a stray thread at the edge of his cuff and watched as the
gringo
bartender poured two more glasses of tequila.
“Whose room are you billing this to?” Juan Molina knew as head of hotel security that too many free drinks would get noticed, and eventually someone in the back office would ask him about it. The women in accounting were a bunch of Nazis. Another headache he didn’t need.
“The American detective?” Garcia raised his glass and took a sip.
“He isn’t coming back, Oscar.”
“Is his credit card still on file?”
“An outrageous suggestion—I am head of hotel security.”
“He never checked out—you said so yourself.”
“Guests leave all the time without checking at the front desk.”
“I think he will be back.”
“You told me the investigation was closed.”
Garcia nodded. “Señor Dobbins, father and son, are being shipped back to the United States—what is left of them.”
Juan raised his glass. “Congratulations. And where do you go next?”
“Are you so glad to see me go?”
Juan didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Garcia smiled. “I am awaiting orders.” As he spoke, a woman in a bikini walked through the lobby. It looked as though the bottom of her bathing suit had been exchanged for dental floss without her knowledge. “Until then, I thought I would stay here and enjoy the view.”
Juan followed his gaze until the woman reached the safety of the elevators. “For a man on vacation, you don’t seem relaxed.”
“I’m not wearing a tie.”
“But you are wearing a jacket, and it’s over eighty degrees outside. Most of our guests are half-naked.”
“I don’t want to intimidate the other men.” Garcia waved to the bartender who poured another shot before Juan could intervene.
“What’s bothering you?”
Garcia glanced toward the sliding glass doors fronting the pool. “I have a case file in my hotel room that is as thick as a phone book. It has crime scene reports. Autopsy reports. Photographs. Charts. Names, addresses, dates of birth. There must be hundreds of pages that all say the same thing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Garcia drank the shot in one gulp, then hissed as the tequila vaporized in the back of his throat. “Two men came to Mexico and died. Another man died with them. This we knew when the investigation began. That is all we know now.”
“And you think the gringo detective knows more?”
Garcia shrugged. “He was going home to investigate the Senator. Perhaps he found something.”
“You haven’t spoke to him?”
“No.” Garcia sighed. “I tried to call him when we identified the bodies, as a courtesy, but I couldn’t reach him.”
“You think something happened to him, don’t you Oscar? You’re the most paranoid cop I’ve ever known, even when we were in Mexico City together—you want to know what I think?”
“Absolutely.” Garcia said it as if he couldn’t care less.
“I think he got paid and lost interest once he had money in his pocket. He’s an American.”
“You could be right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Juan drank off the last of his shot. “You should listen to me, Oscar. You work all the time, have no life. Look at me—fat and happy.” He patted his belly as the woman in the bikini-floss walked past in the other direction. “Now which of us is smarter—the investigator with no answers, or the head of security enjoying all the fringe benefits of a luxury resort.”
The mention of
fringe
reminded Garcia of his cuff and the thread he couldn’t tear loose. He wished he had a pocketknife.
“You are wise beyond your years.” Garcia stood on shaky legs.
“I am older than you, Oscar.”
“Regardless, I appreciate your perspective.” He gestured thanks to the bartender.
“Where are you going?”
“To pack.”
“So you’re leaving?”
“I don’t know,” said Garcia. “I just have a feeling I’m going on a trip.”
“Just like you have a feeling the American will return?”
“Yes.”
“And why would he come back to Mexico?”
“Because I would.”
“Why?”
Garcia didn’t answer. He looked at Juan and played with the thread on his sleeve until it rested firmly between his thumb and forefinger. Then he yanked decisively and felt a satisfying snap. He let the loose thread drop to the floor, then he turned and walked away.
“We should have seen this coming.”
Sally said it softly but the words stung. She wrapped both hands around the cup of tea and drank, her green eyes clear and hard above the rim.
“You trying to make me feel better?” Cape took some crunchy noodles from the dish between them.
Sally called to the waitress, a young Chinese girl in her teens. They spoke rapidly in Cantonese for a minute, the girl looking from Sally to Cape, then smiling and bowing before she went downstairs.
“What was that about?” Cape looked around the dim room. The second floor of the tea house was empty save for the two of them, at Sally’s request, but the scars on the floor and the tables crowded along the walls were testaments to its popularity. Cape thought he knew Chinatown but Sally always managed to find someplace he never knew existed.
“I asked her to make something special.” Sally studied his face for a moment. “You look better than you did in the hospital, but your forehead is still—”
“—purple. I know. You were in the hospital?”
“You were unconscious. I left before Beau arrived, once I knew you were going to come around.”
“How did you know?”
“I checked you out.” Sally smiled and Cape had an image of her running her hands along his neck, squeezing his temples. He suspected she could give the doctors a run for their money.
“How did you know Beau was there?”
“I saw him.”
“He didn’t mention seeing you.”
“That’s because he didn’t.” Sally took another sip of her tea. “Doors are over-rated.”
The waitress brought a mug that smelled so bad she held it at arm’s length. Cape could see her eyes watering behind the steam. After she set it down she bowed once and then disappeared again.
“What is it?” Cape looked at the noxious liquid, a bluish-green concoction with flecks of brown floating on the surface.
“Ancient Chinese secret.”
“It smells horrible.”
“Then make a face when you drink it,” said Sally. “Just drink it.”
Cape frowned but didn’t say anything.
“Trust me.”
He did. Cape grabbed the cup, which was almost too hot to touch, and poured its contents down his throat. He figured the best thing to do was get it over with, so he tried to open his throat like a beer-chugging contest.
He almost fainted. Cape had a sensation of lava hitting his stomach, then an explosion in his head that cleared not only his sinuses but his ears and tear ducts at the same time. His eyes started to water and his nose ran like a faucet.
“It’s working.” Sally handed him a napkin.
“Thanks.” Cape wiped his nose, let the tears run down his cheeks. He took a deep breath and realized the pounding headache that had plagued him since the car accident was gone. Not diminished, utterly gone. He looked around the room and could’ve sworn his eyesight had improved. He wondered if X-ray vision would develop if he drank another cup.
Sally smiled, laughter in her eyes.
“What’s in that drink?”
“You don’t want to know.” Sally shook her head. “If you did, you’d never swallow it.”
Cape took a deep breath and gingerly touched his forehead.
“It’s still purple,” said Sally.
“But it doesn’t feel it.”
“You’re welcome.”
Cape leaned back in his chair. “You were telling me how I should’ve seen this coming?”
“We—I said
we
. You’re not always as suspicious as you should be.”
“Salinas got what he wants—it’s over. The Senator is dead, the racket he and Cordon set up is bust.”
“Look at it from his perspective.” Sally set her cup down. “I was raised by men like Salinas.”
“And what would they do?”
“When Salinas first discovered what the Senator was up to, what do you think he did?”
Cape remained silent.
“He would threaten the Senator’s family.” Sally’s eyes seemed to harden with memory. “You always threaten first, to see if there is any leverage. And if the target does not respond—”
“—you act on that threat to let them know you’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“But his wife was already dead.”
Sally nodded. “So our attention turns to the son.”
“And Danny was an easy target. Already in the life, because of Frank. Just an arm’s length away from Salinas.”
“You said the Senator resigned suddenly.”
The buzz from the drink was fading but Cape still felt more lucid than he had in days. “They must have snatched Danny, demanded the Senator come down to claim him. And then they killed them both.”
“But we forgot something.” Though her face was unlined, Sally suddenly looked incredibly old. The moment passed and Cape wondered if it had been a trick of the light or an after-effect from the drink. “A threat always has two audiences.”
“It does?”
Sally nodded. “The victim and…” She let her voice trail off, then found it again. “The people watching.”
“Salinas had an audience.”
“A man like that always does. Business associates. Rivals like Cordon. Law enforcement. Even the press. As long as he avoids proof of his guilt, Salinas doesn’t mind rumors—in fact he covets them.”
“Because every threat carried out sends a message to everyone else. Fuck with me and I’ll kill your family.”
“Your
whole
family.” Sally’s mouth was a straight line. “That means the daughter, too.”
“The daughter with the different last name.” Cape banged his hands against the table and wished it had hurt more. “Who was sent away for her own good when she was young. Who was invisible to Salinas and men like him.”
“Until the press found her.”
Cape said nothing. Sally sat immobile. Traffic whispered and honked two stories below. Finally Sally broke the silence.
“You want to go after her.” She said it as a statement.
Cape met her gaze. “Yes.”
“They’ll try to kill you, too.”
Cape touched his forehead and tried to look nonchalant. “What else is new?”
“She might already be dead.”
“I know. You coming?”
“Of course.”
Rebecca Lowry was exhausted.
The United flight from SFO to Mexico City was delayed by almost four hours. The gate attendant said it was because of weather, but when several passengers pointed out that it was perfectly sunny in both San Francisco and Mexico City the plane suddenly had a mechanical problem.
Rebecca calmly made her way to the front of the line and pointed at a button the attendant wore on her blouse.
Ask me about our on-time performance!
The woman tersely explained that the crew had been delayed getting to the airport, but her tone of voice made it clear that she suspected the delay was really being caused by Rebecca’s inquisitive attitude.
Rebecca had tried to follow the instructions in the telegram to the letter, but she missed her connecting flight in Mexico City. After pacing the airport for three hours she caught a bumpy AeroMexico flight to Monterrey. There she stood in line for twenty minutes waiting for a taxi, her carry-on bag feeling like it was filled with lead.
The taxi navigated busy streets, the architecture a blend of modern-ugly and colonial, the Sierra Madre Mountains visible at every turn. The driver cruised past Fundidora Park and Macro Plaza, movie theaters and discos exploding with neon to spare. It was almost midnight when he pulled into the driveway at the Calinda Plaza hotel.
The lobby was empty save for a balding man in his fifties behind the desk. He had been sitting on a stool but stood and gave Rebecca a huge smile. She almost fainted with gratitude.
“
Señorita
Lowry?”
“How did you know?”
“We have been expecting you—I held your room.”
Rebecca remembered they had asked her for her flight information when she made the reservation. She smiled and pulled out her credit card.
“Thank you—
gracias
.” She wished she remembered her high school Spanish, but it had been too many years.
“It is a long trip from the U.S.” He pronounced
U.S.
like
oooh, yes
.
“Ooooh, yes,” repeated Rebecca lamely. She could barely keep her eyes open. She had tried to rest on the flight but couldn’t close her eyes, though the adrenaline rush from receiving the telegram had long since faded. She had too many questions, too many stray thoughts to relax. But now that she was here at the hotel, all she wanted to do was sleep.
The man handed her a key card. “
Ocho cientos doce
—eighth floor. Elevators right over there.”
Rebecca rested her head against the side of the elevator as she watched the numbers light up above the door. The eighth floor was quiet save for the humming of the ice machine. Judging from the ambient noise as she walked toward her room, it might have been empty.
She slid the key twice before she got a green light, then stepped into her room to let the door shut behind her. The room was pitch black. A green light glowed on the far side of the room, and she could hear the tortured grinding of an air conditioner. Dropping her bag, she reached along the wall to find the light switch.
Her right hand slid along the stuccoed surface almost two feet until she felt a something smooth. Just as her fingers shifted to push it into the wall, Rebecca felt it move suddenly. Her tired brain sent sparks but no clear signal, telling her the smooth surface wasn’t hard like plastic but surrounded by something warm and calloused. Rebecca backed against the door as she realized it must have been a nail, and she just touched a human hand.
The lights came on and Rebecca blinked as she tried to find her voice.
A man standing not more than three feet way had hit the switch. He had a dark complexion and a mild expression on his face. He wore a navy suit and loafers. His overall appearance was non-threatening, but his eyes were hard.
“
Hola, Señorita Lowry.
You have kept us waiting.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out, and she wondered if maybe the hotel was empty, after all.