Trouble Down Mexico Way

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

STUFF IT REAL GOOD

  “They got away,” said Antonio “El Jefe” Sánchez.

  “How, and why?” Oleantha Flórez de Losada stood with her hands on her hips, feet apart but ably planted in the five-inch, taupe patent leather heels. “And why do they call you El Jefe? You couldn’t push a fruit cart with any success.”

  His expression visibly drooped. He hated it when she talked to him like that.

  “They’re small? They got into that dumbwaiter between the rooms and ran out through the kitchen. I don’t know where they came from, but I know they’re not coming back.”

  “And the pendejo, El Doctor Emilio?”

  El Jefe grunted. “Not my problem. The boss has him. I think.”

  “You think,” she huffed. “Nothing but problems. And those women will go to the police and make trouble. Just our luck.”

  “They were kids. Students on a tour with the médico. You will not see them again. Believe me.”

  “You better be right,” she said. “We have to move the goods.”

  “Sí, Ole.”

  “And don’t call me that. It’s Doctor Flórez to you.”

  El Jefe (and Oleantha Flórez, for that matter) worked for La Capa Plata, a bunch of Mexican mobsters who specialized in smuggling and drugs. He’d been ordered to keep an eye on the lab, and when he found the intruders, he’d dealt with them. Admirably, he thought. But he could never please these people. So what that they got away. Good riddance. They were scared out of their minds, and it was a strong bet they’d disappear and never show up again. But the young doctor, the “tour” leader, that was another matter. He had been delivered …

  The boss, El Patrón, was one remote old bastion of evil. Had to be up there near eighty. “Knowledge is power,” he was fond of saying, “and I’ll keep it for myself.” He shared little about his plans and schemes, and he made certain that he kept his minions separated as well as uninformed until the last. It seemed better that way. For him, at least. He was best known for ordering the killing of dozens, blackmailing mayors and political leaders, and stealing goods right out of the safes of rival cartels. El Jefe feared El Patrón, but he feared Doctor Oleantha Flórez in equal measure; she could skin his cojones with a look. He still had to give her grudging props. She was pretty good at putting the thugs back together when they caught a gunshot or knife wound. Sometimes she seemed more inclined to finish the job on her patients, but apparently she had not succumbed to that practice. The population of La Capa Plata was fairly healthy under her watchful eye and expertise.

  They called her La Escandolera, and she was a scandal in high heels.

  Oleantha moved over to a closet and unlocked it. It was hidden in the wall. No one would have known it was there unless he, or she, had a damn map of the place. She gingerly rolled out a long, dry hunk of ancient human being. “You had your eye on the lab, and even though you screwed that up, it’s done. I don’t want to deal with it again.” She shot him a nasty look. “Right now I have to pack this baby. Blussberg gave me the goods.”

  El Jefe cringed. He didn’t like the criticism; it could mean his head. But at least he didn’t have to look at the newly dead one. Instead, the bundle Oleantha now fussed with was a pile of tightly wrapped old rags, the real mummy stolen from the original exhibit on loan to the Palacio. Not the “new” mummy—the poor young woman who Oleantha had drained and dried and baked to leather only recently and installed with the other three in the floor. He’d had a hand in that whole grisly switch. Out with the old and in with the new. He’d delivered Lalia Solis Iglesia to the doctor. He felt a new wave of disgust for himself, and more than a twinge of guilt, especially when he recalled her fright as he came after her. He’d burn in hell, for sure. But he didn’t want to think about that now.

  He sighed and awaited the doctor’s orders. He was unsuited for the job, but he’d be damned before he showed himself weak to Oleantha, or El Patrón. The woman had more iron than any ten men. He’d just go along with what she demanded and then get the hell out of there and back to his stucco hovel on the outskirts of Mexico City. The screaming feral cats and wild dogs that roamed his tire-littered yard were better tempered than the doctor.

  She opened a black satchel on the counter and lifted out a dozen small objects, each wrapped in white flannel. She carefully lined them up, opened each packet, and wrote down the contents in a ledger. Travertine beads. Gold necklaces. Bejeweled obsidian daggers. A statuette of Moctezuma. She handled each piece lovingly, a lust for the goods gleaming in her eyes. He knew she’d restrain herself. The price of the stuff dissuaded all of them from pocketing any of it. The black market was a cesspool of wealth; it bubbled up from hell and kept bubbling.

  El Jefe mumbled under his breath. Por dios, o, el diablo.

  She rewrapped the bundles with packing tape. “Hand me that shopping bag by the door. And hurry up.” El Jefe jumped and deposited it on the long counter.

  “Well, open it all up, and lay it out,” she demanded.

  He did, dropping each item like it was hot from the oven. Glue gun, sponges, alcohol wipes.

  “Scissors.” Her voice cut like a blade.

  He found them in the bottom of the bag. He felt unsuited for this operating theater, but the sooner they got it done, the sooner he was out of there and downing tequila and sucking on limes.

  She stood back, her gold-tipped fingers entwined, the diamond bracelet picking up a feeble ray of sun through the dirty window. El Jefe waited. He knew she was not a hasty one. Always meticulous down to the last damn detail. She seemed to take pride in her job to get things right, even when what she was doing could not be more wrong. It made him all the more regretful that he’d bungled the “detainment” of the little chicas. The doctor would surely find a way to make his life all the more miserable.

  Now Oleantha had donned a white lab coat, sparkling with starch and sunshine for the next awful job she was about to do. From a tray she withdrew a scalpel and dove into the long-dead body. El Jefe looked away but kept one eye on the procedure, fascination and horror mixing in his blood—with a healthy shot of adrenalin.

  “Are your hands clean? Get over there and wash them anyway,” said the doctor.

  El Jefe swaggered to the sink and returned to the counter. Oleantha was carefully pulling apart the flaky remains and creating a cavity in the body, which was an unrecognizable mix of old flesh and rags. “Well, gracias a Dios. The organs were removed.”

  El Jefe wasn’t sure if he should cheer or turn and run out the door. El Patrón would kill him if he left her hanging; he’d stick it out and beg to be let go of duties related to the doctor in the future.

  She eyed the items on the counter, ignoring her “assistant” for the moment.

  He was just glad the thing had been dead for hundreds of years and the gushy stuff was long gone. For a gangster, he had a remarkably weak stomach for the business of torture and killing.

  “This mierda has to fit,” she mumbled. “Now. You are going to hand me each item as I call for it.”

  He peered at the wrapped bundles on the counter. Each was numbered.

  “One,” she said, a slender hand upturned, the fingers curled like a golden claw.

  He placed the object in her hand. She inserted it into the cavity, shoving it up into the thorax. “Next.”

  And so it went, until all the bundles of art were placed inside the body. Oleantha drew the folds and flakes and patches of leather-like skin and crumbling fabric together, using the sharp fingernails like pincers, and with the precision of a surgeon (for that was her original intention if she hadn’t run afoul of the examiners and licensing boards) she carefully glued the creature back together. She had to make do. Only recently, she’d taken some of the wrappings from this ancient mummy to camouflage the newer mummy when they did the switcheroo in the exhibit. Now, the procedure to hide the goods was tricky at best, tugging gently here, patting and molding in place there. “Sorry, I had to take some of the shirt off your back,” she mumbled.
But she had enough to work with, and she was up to the task. The smell of hot-glued, desiccated flesh and old, dried-up linen filled the air. It stuck in El Jefe’s nose with an acrid stench that almost made him gag.

  She flipped the glue gun into a bag and ran her hands down her slim hips. Not a hair of her sleek, black shoulder-length helmet was out of place. Her face wore an implacable smile, partly drawn into place with a thick application of a glistening, slightly gooey red lipstick.

  “Ready for travel. It should go first class, if you ask me,” she said. “Be careful with the cargo when the time comes.”

  El Jefe went to the closet and drew out a pile of sheets, a role of bubble wrap, and a long, large wooden case. He knew the drill, though they had never sent the stolen items off in a mummy. He swaddled the body in the sheets and put it in the case. Next, several layers and wads of bubble wrap. Oleantha watched him pack. “Pretty good. You should get your own show.”

  “No. Gracias. No.”

  u

  Sarloff Blussberg licked his lips. The lovely Oleantha stood before him, filling the air with orange blossom and spice, but the look on her face was pure venom. He wished the woman were as sweet as the fragrant package she was wrapped in, but, alas, he knew too well, she was poison.

  “Great job, Ole,” said Blussberg. His small hands flew apart and back together like he was swatting flies. He wore the same blue suit and long red tie. A sunlamp and make-up created his orange aspect. The hair was another matter—a distinctly blond version of an Elvis Presley do meant to cover thinning tresses and a bald spot. None of this mattered; Sarloff Blussberg was the Palacio director, but he fancied himself a kind of lord about town. He’d made the deal with El Patrón to get the priceless artifacts out of the country, and Oleantha had been a splendid help.

  “I’d like to go over that inventory, Sar,” she said, taking a seat in a leather armchair and crossing her legs.

  Blussberg couldn’t resist glancing at the long silken gams, and, as ever, her tiny narrow feet tucked into stiletto heels. He had dreams of her walking all over his body and his face, but that would never happen. El Patrón had her tied up in jewels and cars, and Blussberg could not compete. He would check his lust at the door and continue to dream.

  He cleared his throat and produced a small journal. “Let’s see. A fortune here. I must thank El Patrón again for putting me in touch with you (how he wished). I’m delighted to have this little project all sewn up.”

  “Glued up,” said Oleantha. “Never mind. The inventory?” Oleantha produced her own ledger and a gold pen. She was poised and ready.

  He eyed her. “As I said, a fortune. Two obsidian daggers with carved stones on the hilt; six large travertine beads, polished and inscribed with Aztec lettering; a gold hair ornament, extracted from a queen’s tomb; two necklaces of beaten gold encrusted with turquoise. Some other items listed here, most of them dating from the Aztecs, pre-Hispanic, fourteenth to fifteenth centuries.”

  “That is what I have,” she said, diddling the pen back and forth. “Priceless. I’ll let El Patrón know the shipment is packed. He’s working on the other end for you.”

  “Oh, that’s great. I plan to fly to Frankfurt next Thursday, Lufthansa. I hope to make the connection at the airport. I don’t want to be traveling around Germany with the goods. We need to set this up in the next few days.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE MISSING

  Blanche and Haasi hadn’t sprung themselves an hour when Cardenal called Blanche. Their phone calls practically crossed. She was on the case to find Emilio, and the detective needed Blanche to come by the station. He didn’t say why.

  Blanche was eager to oblige. She was frantic. Emilio was missing, and she needed help.

  “Calm down, Blanche. We’ll talk when you get here,” the detective said.

  Blanche stormed into Cardenal’s office, and she immediately stopped short.

  “Señora, le presento a Señorita Blanche Murninghan.” Detective Cardenal was on his feet behind the desk as he introduced Blanche to the mother of Lalia Solis Iglesia. “Señorita Blanche, Amparo Solis.” The two women locked eyes, worlds of sadness and fear passing between them.

  Blanche had seen this woman before, and she couldn’t for the life of her remember where. Mexico City is a big place, and I’ve seen a lot of faces. But this one …

  The detective was still on his feet, concern etching his normally happy features. “It is conclusive. We have identified the person you alerted us about in the exhibit, Señorita Blanche. The person in the floor under the glass.” Here, he cleared his throat. “It is the señora’s daughter, Señorita Lalia.” The detective spoke softly, bowed his head slightly, and held one arm out to the older woman huddled in the chair at the front of his desk. Her eyes seemed vacant, her shoulders slumped. She had lovely long black hair, like her daughter, but streaked with silver.

  Blanche stood frozen to the spot, but her heart was melting. She reached for Lalia’s mother, took her hand. “Lo siento. I am so sorry,” she said. Blanche sank into the chair opposite the señora and didn’t let go of her hand.

  “Amparo. Please call me Amparo,” she said. “It means protection, safety. It means nothing now.” Tears welled in her dark eyes. Blanche was having trouble keeping it in. The detective didn’t move except to clasp his hands together. She was on the verge of asking Amparo if they had met before, her face was so familiar, and then she thought better of it. The air was thick with grief. Blanche left it alone, for the mother’s sake.

  “I thought you two should meet, since you were the one, Blanche …”

  “This is terrible. How did you find out?”

  The detective and the mother stared at each other. Amparo dabbed at the tears. “I filed a missing person’s report, fearing the worst. Lalia had gone to that club on the outskirts of Zona Rosa. I’d warned her. It was late, and there’s a bad crowd there. She knew better.” She seemed to be working her way into the anger phase of mourning as the detective and Blanche looked on.

  “No,” Blanche said. “She should be able to go out with friends and not have this happen.” Now Blanche was getting angry. The detective fell back in his chair and pushed away from his desk.

  “With friends like these, I don’t know. They were not good people,” said Amparo. “Not like my Lalia.” She dissolved back again into that drowning sea with no bottom and no shore.

  Blanche turned to Cardenal. “What are you going to do about it? You said you were going to check …” She stood up. “We have to talk.”

  Amparo was already headed toward the door. Blanche looked down at the distraught mother’s hands. She was clutching a pink plastic hair clip. Blanche wondered if it was the hair clip. Had Cardenal shown a bit of empathy and handed it over from the evidence locker? No telling. Amparo clutched the last vestige of her daughter’s presence and set her lips in a grim, sad line. Blanche reached for Amparo, but it was a feeble gesture. She saw something in Amparo’s eyes that would haunt her every time she thought of her and the terrible loss she suffered.

  u

  Amparo was gone. Blanche leaned on the detective’s desk, both arms taut, her eyes blazing. “You found her? Lalia? A missing person?”

  “Sí,” He hunched his shoulders. “Suerte pura. The mother was over here, fearful, pressing us. We ran some tests and other ID on that ‘new’ mummy, and it turned out a match for Lalia. Poor girl.”

  “We need more luck. We need to find Emilio.” The detective didn’t know the details of the “detainment” in the lab, so she filled him in.

  Blanche started pacing the small office. The windows looked out on a park, children chasing each other, pairs sitting on the benches. It looked so peaceful out there in the shade. She wanted to go back to the beginning of their vacation and capture some of that wide-eyed excitement, but that would not be possible. It had been one crazy mishap after another.

  Cardenal rubbed his enormous chin and studied Blanche. “Well, you’re back safe. That
’s what matters now. I wouldn’t worry about Emilio. Did you check with Carmen and Eddie?”

  “I don’t have a number for them. Do they even have a phone? Besides, I don’t want to upset them.”

  “I’ll check around, get over to that lab and look for clues. Seems strange that if he got away, he didn’t alert us about your detainment.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I don’t think he got away.”

  He leaned back in the chair, crossed his fingers over his large middle. “How well do you know him? The Mexican man, the machote …”

  “I know what that means. He’s not some tough guy. He’s sweet and thoughtful.”

  “Ah. But the hombre … In general. You might say, sometimes he disappears. On purpose.” Cardenal smiled, slyly. A man in on the secrets of all men. Their desires, their play, their irresponsibility.

  “No,” said Blanche. “That is not the case. You need to look for him.” Blanche told him more details of their lab adventure and the findings—the clump of black hair, the strange bed of ceramic pipes, a description of the goon who had “detained” them in rooms upstairs. And Emilio! Where was Emilio?

  “You shouldn’t have gone in there in the first place. Trespassing. It was dangerous,” said Cardenal.

  “No.” Now she was getting hot, her temperature rising despite the window unit that rattled like rocks in a blender. “No, that’s not it at all. Emilio was a med student in that lab. He had a code to get in.” She flopped in a chair. “He was taking us on a little tour.”

  “Some tour. Bienvenido a DF,” he mumbled, obviously ruminating on the situation.

  “La Escandolera,” she said. “Have you looked into her background?”

  “Blanche. Not much in that department. It was a miracle we found Lalia, that the mother didn’t let up.” He stood up and jabbed a finger at the pile of folders on the long cabinet behind his desk. “Do you have any idea the workload over here? Poking around in a lab when thousands out there are disappearing? Killing each other over drugs. And territory?” Blanche glanced at the folders and papers, stacked haphazardly, teetering against the wall. She wondered how many names were noted, how many were in there lost forever. In front of the stacks, a small photo of a little girl and a little boy grinned widely, innocent and oblivious.