Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Do unto others—only do it first.

  —Perversion of the Golden Rule

  33

  It took all of Traynor’s resolve to keep the SUV’s speed at forty-two kilometers per hour—or as he thought of it, about twenty-five miles per hour. He wanted to stomp on the accelerator and send a couple of Toledo’s thugs to hell. Even though it was a great fantasy, it was hardly a smart tactic. Instead, he opted to use the truck to divide and conquer. He wanted to park it in a manner that would block out two or more of the perimeter guards, which, he hoped, would render them reluctant to shoot until they knew where their boss was located. Then, hopefully, he and Manuel could deal with the other four. Regardless, it was a gamble, but letting Toledo learn that they had no money was a bigger one.

  Traynor drove into the plaza and stopped close to Manuel, Toledo, and the two gunsels. He took his nine-millimeter pistol out and when he opened the door, aimed it at Toledo and said, “How’s this for trust, shithead?”

  Manuel pressed his pistol against Toledo’s head and said, “I’d tell your boys to back off, amigo. If they try anything, you’ll be the first to go.”

  Toledo spoke in rapid Spanish and his entourage raised their hands.

  “Tell them to drop their weapons,” Manuel ordered him. “If one of them so much as farts, I’ll blow your brains across the plaza.”

  Traynor heard the clatter of weapons falling to the pavement.

  “Now, I want them together where I can see them—all of them.”

  The six men kept their hands raised and walked to the center of the plaza. “Keep him covered, Ed. If he flinches, shoot him.”

  “It will be a pleasure.”

  Manuel quickly and professionally frisked Toledo. A knowing smile crossed his face when he discovered a small pistol and a nasty-looking switchblade. “It appears as if you didn’t trust us all that much either, amigo.”

  Traynor opened the console between the SUV’s seats, took out a pair of handcuffs, and tossed them to Manuel. Once Toledo’s hands were shackled behind his back, Manuel opened the back door and forced him in. Keeping his eyes on the clustered goons, Manuel jumped through the open door into the seat beside their prisoner. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Traynor stomped the accelerator and the tires screeched as they leaped forward. In the rearview mirror, Traynor saw Toledo’s men scrambling for their weapons and dashing for the limos. “Which way?” he asked Manuel.

  “Take the next left.”

  They raced through the city streets, which were starting to come alive with early risers and churchgoers, many of whom shouted as they sped by.

  Traynor kept a wary eye on the mirrors but saw no sign of pursuit. “I don’t see his goons.”

  “I’m certain they’re about. They’re probably on their phones, rallying the troops as we speak. They’ll have men headed for the airport and train station in minutes.”

  Manuel’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened for several seconds, and said, “Thanks, I thought as much.”

  “More trouble?” Traynor asked.

  “Nothing I didn’t expect. The Mexico City police have shut down the airport. It’s over land.”

  In his rearview mirror, Traynor saw one of the limos appear, skidding around a corner a couple of blocks behind them. “They’re on us,” Traynor said.

  “Take the next left … Let’s get off the main thoroughfares.”

  “Won’t it take us longer to get to the airport?”

  “Forget the airport—we’ll never make it.”

  “You will not make it anywhere,” Toledo interjected.

  “That will be a bad thing for you,” Manuel said. “The last thing I intend to do before I die is kill you.”

  “And if he doesn’t do it, I will,” Traynor added. “So just sit back, shut your yap, and enjoy the ride. It could very well be your last.”

  In the mirror, Traynor saw Toledo glaring at him. “If it’s money you want—”

  “We don’t want your money,” Traynor answered.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Your ass strapped to a table waiting for a lethal injection. So, just relax and try to remember a recent production of your movie company.”

  Toledo looked at Traynor as if he was delusional. “What? You speak riddles, gringo.”

  “Since you seem to be so slow, I’ll give you a hint … The Black Orchid.”

  Toledo’s eyes widened and Traynor believed he finally got the answer to the riddle.

  “Who are you people?”

  “Friends of the family,” Manuel said.

  “Whose family?”

  “The star of The Black Orchid. The young lady came from a wealthy and influential family, and they have spent lavishly to bring their daughter’s murderers to justice,” Traynor said.

  Manuel looked out the back window, making Traynor look into the side mirror. The limo was racing down the narrow street, closing the gap between them.

  “Turn into the first street or alley,” Manuel instructed Traynor. “Then stop.”

  Traynor saw the mouth of a narrow street approach on their right and put the SUV into a tire-screeching drift that almost rolled the vehicle. Once it was inside the lane and out of sight, Traynor stomped on the brakes. With his hands shackled behind his back, Toledo could not brace himself and he slammed into the back of the front seat. When he bounced back, blood was streaming from his nose.

  “Just so you don’t get any ideas—” Manuel hit him alongside his head with his pistol. Toledo slumped over onto his side. “That should hold him,” Manuel said. He leaped from the SUV and ran to the back. He lifted the hatch and raised a secret compartment from which he withdrew a military-grade rifle, one that had a grenade launcher underneath the barrel. “Don’t go anywhere—I’ll only be a minute.”

  As much as Traynor wanted to say something pithy, he was speechless. Manuel had obviously planned this caper in much greater detail than he’d been led to think. He watched in amazement as Manuel stepped out into the street, in what Traynor assumed to be the path of the charging limo, and fired a grenade. A loud bang rolled down the street; the buildings that lined the sides served as an amplifier and the sound tsunami shattered windows and shook the SUV. Within seconds, Manuel had jumped back into the truck, grinning. There was a broad smile on his face when he said, “That ought to keep them occupied.”

  In the city, it’s too easy to lose the subject due to traffic jams and lights …

  —Private Eyes: A Writer’s Guide To Private Investigators

  34

  Manuel directed Traynor to Highway 15 and told him to stay on it until they came to Guadalajara. Toledo regained consciousness as they passed out of the city limits. A half-hour later, blood was still trickling from the small wound where Manuel had hit him. He said nothing, but his malevolent glare was message enough. It was an hour before he spoke, and when he did, Traynor wanted to tell him to shut up.

  “You are muerto! Dead! You have no hope of getting out of Mexico alive.”

  Manuel silenced him when he said, “The same thing is true of you. In case you didn’t think I was serious before, let me assure you that I am.”

  “You will never get me to the border, let alone cross it.”

  “Really?” Traynor answered. “What makes you think that?”

  “By now my people will have alerted my organization throughout the country.”

  “We can deal with that,” Manuel said.

  “Possibly … but have you thought about the policía and my rivals? The cops will want the reward for my rescue, and my rivals will want me out of the picture so they can take over my business.”

  Suddenly, Traynor realized just how monumental their task would be. “He does have a point.”

  “Yeah, we may have to avoid the large towns as much as possible.”

  “We should dump this truck,” Traynor said. “I’m sure a description of it will be broadcast everywhere. According to the GPS, it’s about a five-h
our drive to Guadalajara. If we’re lucky, we can make the switch before anyone gets wise.”

  Manuel was quiet for several moments and then said, “We could call Deborah and have the corporate jet meet us there.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Traynor answered.

  A dilemma (Greek: δί-λημμα “double proposition”) is a problem offering two possibilities, neither of which is practically acceptable.

  35

  Within fifteen minutes of receiving the call, Provost and Celia Doerr burst out of her house and leaped into the Jag. They backed out of the drive and were already accelerating when they passed McMahon and Deborah. They were in such a panic that McMahon was certain they hadn’t noticed they were being watched. McMahon, on the other hand, got a close look at their faces. Doerr looked terrified and was obviously the more upset of the two; she was shouting at Provost. When they turned the corner, McMahon started the car and did a U-turn. “Now,” he said, “let’s see where they lead us.”

  As they entered the Reagan Expressway, Deborah’s cell phone rang. She listened for several moments and then said, “I’ll take care of it and will call you back.”

  When McMahon glanced at her, she said, “Ed and Manuel have Toledo.”

  “That’s great.”

  “There’ve been some complications, though. They weren’t able to get to the airport and are driving north to Guadalajara. They want me to have the corporate jet meet them there.” Without saying anything further, she called Hollis International’s Mexico City office. She explained the situation and then hung up. She turned to McMahon and said, “They’re working on it.”

  Within minutes her phone chimed and she answered. Once again, she listened. “I’ll pass that along.” She dialed another number. “Ed? It isn’t good news. The authorities in Mexico City have impounded the plane—you’ll have to bring him out via land … Call the Guadalajara office.” She relayed a phone number. “Tell them to meet you with a clean car. Tell them to provide anything you need. Let me know if I can do anything else.”

  McMahon’s face was grim as he stared through the windshield. “I gather they’re taking the long way home.”

  “They have no other option. Well, maybe one, and if things get rough, I hope they take it. They can always kill Toledo and hope that takes the heat off.”

  “Either way, they’ll be running a gauntlet—with crooked cops on one side and who knows how many different criminal factions on the other. They could very well find that they’re the filling in a shit sandwich.”

  The first rule of life: Shit happens.

  —Old adage

  36

  The Mexican authorities have impounded the jet,” Traynor informed Manuel.

  “Shit.”

  Traynor tossed Manuel his cell phone and a small notebook and then repeated the number Deborah had given him. He said, “Make a list of anything you think we’ll need. Hollis International has been given instructions to provide it.”

  “One thing we could use is a platoon of Marines.” Manuel spent several minutes developing his list and made the call. When he was finished, he handed Traynor back the phone and said, “Drive through the city and take Route 54 north. They’ll be waiting for us there.”

  At a quarter to two, they reached Route 54. Traynor followed Manuel’s directions to a small, unpaved road that meandered along the banks of a river—or more accurately, a trickle of water drifting through a dry gulch. When Traynor saw a white Ford Expedition with dark, tinted windows, he pulled in behind it. They got out and slowly approached. A young man got out of the Ford and met them near the back. He raised the hatch, and Traynor saw six five-gallon gas cans lined up against the back of the rear seat. In front of the cans was a wooden box similar to a military-issue footlocker. The young man raised the lid and spoke rapidly to Manuel.

  Manuel patted him on the back, and he and Traynor walked around to the front of the Ford. “Everything is set. Give Mendoza the keys to the Excursion and bring our passenger.”

  Traynor threw the Excursion keys to the driver and then opened the back door. Toledo gave him a surly look and said, “This will be of no help. My people will still find us.”

  “For your sake, you’d better hope they don’t,” Traynor said. “In California, you’ll probably get twenty-five to life…. If your people show up, Manuel and I will make sure that life becomes a very short sentence. Now, shut your mouth and get out before I drag you out.”

  His hands were still cuffed behind his back, and Toledo stumbled and almost fell on his face when he slid off the seat. He lurched forward a couple of steps, regained his balance, and gave them a dirty look.

  “Cool dance,” Traynor said, “but I don’t think it will catch on.”

  “Bastardo.”

  “Now let’s not bring my parents into this.” He shoved Toledo into the backseat of the Ford and when Manuel got into the driver seat, got in beside him. Toledo once again glared at Traynor and said, “I have been shackled for six hours. My hands are numb.”

  “Just think,” Traynor said, “eventually they’ll become gangrenous and fall off and then you’ll lose the handcuffs. Until then, shut your mouth and enjoy the ride.”

  “I’d like it better if his goddamned mouth was numb,” Manuel snarled.

  Traynor looked at Toledo and smiled. “I got a dirty sock I could shove in his mouth.”

  “How dirty?”

  “I’ve worn them all day … if I know my feet, the smell will be enough to knock a buzzard off a gut wagon …”

  When Manuel said, “Sounds like a plan to me,” Toledo shut up and looked out the side window.

  Manuel waited for the young driver to depart in the Excursion and drove after him. “If we try and avoid the toll roads, it will take us two or three days to reach Juárez.”

  “How much cash do we have? According to the travel guide, it costs forty-three of our bucks in tolls between Mexico City and there.”

  “Not to worry, Deborah has been ahead of us. She knew we’d need cash and sent a thousand dollars in pesos.”

  “Then by all means, take the toll road. Secondary roads down here are for shit. The sooner we’re back in the good old US of A, the better I’ll feel.”

  “Sit back and relax. If all goes well, it’s a seven-hour drive to Durango.”

  Traynor stared out the window, making it a point to ignore Toledo when he would sigh or moan in a futile attempt to let them know of his discomfort. As they drove north along the toll road, he was surprised by the countryside. Rather than a cactus-filled desert, it looked more like central Texas or the plains of Kansas. The rolling hills were grass covered and as they passed through a myriad of small farming villages, Traynor saw fields of cactus that appeared to be cultivated. “What are these fields?” he asked.

  Toledo looked at him as if he were the most ignorant person he had ever met. Traynor was getting tired of his act, and it took all of his willpower to keep from punching him.

  “That’s nopal,” Manuel answered. “It’s a staple of the Mexican diet. Two nights ago, you ate a nopal salad at the hotel.”

  “Is that the stuff that tasted like green beans?”

  “Yeah.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes and then Traynor asked, “You give any thought to what we’re gonna do with old Holy here when we stop?”

  “Haven’t thought much about it.”

  “I know one thing,” Traynor said. “If I have my way, we aren’t gonna drive all night. You and I have been up for over twenty-four hours and we need to sleep—and I, for one, don’t want to spend hours trying to sleep crammed into a truck seat.”

  “I’m with you. We’ll find a place in Durango. We can take turns guarding him.”

  “Great, not only is he the biggest pus-bag on earth, but he’s the only one who’ll be getting a full night’s sleep …”

  Traynor heard Manuel chuckle. “I wouldn’t worry. I’ve dealt with pricks like him all my life. They’re gutless and only fight with t
heir money. With an army of paid muscle, they’re pretty brave—but by themselves, they’re softer than shit and twice as useless. But, if it makes you feel better, we can wake him up every hour to check his hands …”

  Traynor glanced at Toledo, saw an almost petulant look on his face, and knew that Manuel was right—at least as far as Holy Toledo was concerned. All of a sudden, he was looking forward to the night.

  The Second Rule of Life: Shit happens every day.

  —Old adage

  37

  McMahon and Deborah followed the Jag through Santa Susana Pass and into Los Angeles. Provost was headed someplace, but it was not his estate. “You don’t suppose,” McMahon mused, “that we’ve gotten lucky and he’s leading us to someone else in this chain?”

  “How many others can there be?”

  “We still haven’t identified the cameraman. The film was pretty good quality, so there could be any number of assholes involved.”

  “Jack,” Deborah asked, “what do you think our chances are of getting them convicted and sent away?”

  “With that DVD as evidence, the odds should be good.”

  “That’s what they thought about O. J. And just recently, there was that case in Florida …”

  “Nothing is certain once you turn it over to a jury.”

  She stared pensively at the freeway for a few seconds and then said, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  US residents should avoid traveling to the states of Chihuahua, Durango, San Luis Potosi, Sinaloa, parts of Sonora, Zacatecas, and others.

  —US Department of State, January 9, 2014

  38

  Manuel and Traynor arrived in Durango just after nine at night. They found a small hotel on the northern edge of the city and checked into a single room. The room was passable: two single beds, but it did have a shower and hot water. The furnishings were more suited to a patio than a hotel room, but Traynor realized the heavy metal tables would work in their favor. “I’ll get us some food,” Manuel announced.