Eventually they drove through the town of Vallodolid, and soon reached Chichen Itza, where they stopped for the night at the old, sedately raffish yellow two-story hotel which sat in the archaeological park on the edge of the ruins. The huge trees along the driveway and around the porte cochere were full of screaming birds. They entered a lobby which appeared to be suspended in time, a mausoleum of elegant history, with ceiling fans turning in slow motion over faded wicker and tile floors, and the jungle stretching snaky tendrils in and around the windowframes. The hotel's General Manager, Señor Herman Gomez, was a friend of Maggie's father; a few moments after she gave her name to the desk clerk, perched alone and forlorn behind thirty yards of ancient mahogany countertop, the GM emerged, an old man slowly shuffling, and after greeting Maggie with courtly grace and kissing each of their hands with his dry, cool lips as they were introduced, he explained that no, he had not see Nathaniel in many months. Then he showed them to the Presidential Suite, where they each had a bedroom with a private bath. There were three new hotels down the road, with color tv and bars built into the swimming pools and discos that throbbed till dawn, and they were full of Club Med heads up from Cancun to do a little ruin-hopping the next day between parties. This hotel on the other hand was old and elegant, with valleys in the beds and a recalcitrant hot water tap in Lucy's bathtub. The women shared a quiet dinner as the roaring of the jungle rose to meet the fall of night. There were three other tables occupied—by ancient American tourists—in the long, dark dining room, with maybe two dozen tables empty, and not a soul at the bar except the bartender, who looked like he might be Herman Gomez's older brother. No, he had not seen Nathaniel either. After a taste of brandy they went to bed early, planning a hike through the ruins at dawn.
Instead, light-sleeping Lucy stayed up most of the night listening to the archaeological "Sound and Light Spectacular" blazing and blasting through the Mayan jungle. A combination of lasers and primitivo-disco beat, the spectacular drew a crowd of Cancun tourist yuppies, who partied at the foot of the Temple of the Warrior till the wee hours, when at last they dispersed in a small fleet of buses back to their own hotels. At six, when Rosa knocked on her door, Lucy had been asleep for an hour or two. The three of them gathered in the restaurant to drink coffee and eat boiled eggs. Neither of the other women had even been aware of the Chichen Itza Sound and Light Spectacular. And so Lucy dragged along behind as they wandered the ruins for three hours. She was properly impressed with the ball court, where the players, it is surmised, attempted to hit the ball through a tiny loop way up high on a stone wall. Supposedly they were not allowed to use their hands. Was it the winners or the losers who were honored with decapitation? Or was it that they were dragged off to the chac mool atop the Temple of Kukulcan and had their living hearts cut out? Or were they instead herded down to the cenote, the sacred well, weighted down with gold, and tossed in? When she tired she grew morbid. Couldn't be helped.
Off to Ticul, in pursuit of the elusive Nathaniel. The trip occupied most of the day, since they elected to drive up to Merida and double back, sticking to main roads rather than braving one of the dirt tracks that covered the territory between Kantunil and Tekit. Lucy nodded off sporadically in the backseat, and thus felt slightly revived by the time they arrived in Ticul around nightfall.
They drove into the middle of Ticul, parked just off the plaza behind the church; while strolling across the plaza, mingling with the families out on evening promenade, they heard the unmistakable sound of a tenor saxophone drifting over the honks and rumbles of the early evening traffic. "It's Nate," Maggie said. "Listen." They paused, and heard twelve closing bars of nitty gritty blues, followed by a pause which was then followed by a hot Mexican polka, and a sax playing lead. The rollicking sound led them a block off the plaza; they dodged the pedicabs and triciclos, turning right on Calle Merida to stop outside the Villa Maya Restaurant, with a neon pyramid lighting up the sign. Behind an adobe wall, they could hear the band cutting loose on the patio; wailing over all, the sound of the sax. "That's Nate," said Maggie. "I could tell his tone from a million miles away. Let's go in. You first. Find a table so I can keep my back to him. When he comes over to say hello, I want to surprise him."
"What makes you think he's gonna come and greet us?" Rosa asked.
"Oh, don't worry about that," Maggie said, pulling open a faded blue wooden door. They followed her into the restaurant patio. "Soon as he sees you he'll be over."
The women quickly took seats at a table under the open sky. The band commenced with another tune as Lucy ordered beers and they sat back to listen.
The band members were all Mexican except Nathaniel: two guitarists, an accordianist, a bass, a drummer, a trumpet player, and a fiddle player. The tune was another polka, tempo-wise, but too jazzy to call it that. Nathaniel was remaking the music even as they played it, pulling in elements of r & b, quoting Coltrane, circling the beat to land on it one time, close by the next. A master at work.
Lucy looked him over. Nathaniel Clements was about six feet tall. He wore old jeans and a black t-shirt and appeared very thin. He had medium long blonde hair pushed back behind his ears, and a clean-shaven face shaped like his sister's. Lucy didn't have to look hard to tell that he was a handsome man, in spite of the tension which distorted his jaw as he worked the mouthpiece. He wore sunglasses in the falling darkness, so they could not see his eyes, but Lucy sensed that they would be blue and full of clouds, like Maggie's. A lit cigarette stuck out sideways from the neck of his horn, where he'd wedged it, and smoke drifted up in irregular patterns as the voluptuously curved tenor danced intensely, driven by Nathaniel' s obsessive body English. Swaying and bobbing like a mad bird, he appeared possessed by his own music.
But this dancing did nothing to diminish his cool. In Lucy's eyes, for that moment at least, Nathaniel Clements' cool existed beyond diminishing, untouchable, Platonic; gleaming horn in hand, he embodied the principle of cool. Lucy did something she hadn't done in years. Within five minutes of sitting down, as the band wrapped up the tune, she pictured herself in bed with a man she didn't even know. What was with her and ex-junkies, dopers, and borderline bad boys? She didn't have more than a few seconds to wonder: sure enough, as soon as the band finished with the tune, he picked them out, set his sax down on a stand, and headed over to their table, removing his sunglasses en route.
"Evening, ladies," he said, sauntering up. His Texas accent was much heavier than his sister's. "Ah hope you enjoyed the—Maggie!" he cried, interrupting himself as he spotted his older sis. "What the hell. I can't believe it!" he said as Maggie stood up and they hugged. "Jesus in a jumpsuit! Where did you all come from? How did you find me here?"
"Hey, bro," Maggie said. "You leave tracks like a tank." They stood back and looked each other over, smiling. "Bub, you ever gonna look your age? Look at this babyface." She offered him to the other women. "Nate, I want you to meet a coupla friends of mine. This is Rosa Luxemburg." Rosa half-rose, they shook hands, said hellos. "And this is Lucy, Lucy Ripken. She's come all the way from New York City. And you know why she's come, Nate?" Maggie said, cutting right to the heart of the matter as Lucy stood for a handshake.
"Hey, not now, Maggie," Lucy said quickly. She wanted to size the situation up a little before plunging in. "Hi, Nate. Nice to meet you." She shook his hand, had a better look at his face. Maggie was right to wonder if he would ever catch up to his own years—he looked eighteen, although his eyes were guarded and distant behind the softly maniacal afterglow left by the music. There was something unformed and yet dangerous in his face: some weakness. A perpetual adolescent. She'd known a few. Lucy quickly guessed that he grew up only when he picked up the horn, and maybe as well when he put down a few drinks.
"Likewise, Lucy Ripken," he said, grinning. Clearly he'd figured out who was cruising, here. "But what's the story, Mags? You girls down here to party, or what?"
"Siddown, Nate," said Maggie. He did, next to Lucy, then pulled out a Camel and lit
it. He smoked in the old guilt-free style, like a French movie star imitating James Dean.
"Bring us a round of beers," he called to a passing waiter. "And a shot of Sauza for me, Jaime," he added. "Any of you ladies want tequila?" he asked quickly. "I like to do a shot or two between sets. Keeps the improvisational fires stoked."
"Nah," said Rosa. "Stuff's too intense for me."
"I'll have one," Lucy said. "Hey, that was some serious horn you were playing there."
"Thanks. I try to get a few licks in where I can. These guys are amazing." He gestured at the band members milling around near the stage. "I can throw anything at 'em, and they pick it right up and roll with it. Bring me another shot, eh?” he added as the waiter arrived and put beers and a single shot of tequila, along with lemon and salt, on the table. "This one's for the lady here," he added, smiling at Lucy as he pushed the shot glass her way. The guy was definitely charming, although the "lady" talk would wear thin fast, Lucy decided.
"Thanks," she said. "So how'd you end up in a band down here, for God's sake?"
"Well, you folks probably came from the Isla, right? I mean, I don't know what y'all're up to down here, but I figure Mags here musta showed you the house."
"And the broad," Maggie finished for him. "And the mess. And the dead motorcycle. Jesus, Nate, when are you gonna—"
"Hey, don't start in with your bullshit, Maggie. Gimme a break. Star's an old friend."
"Yeah, well, you guys coulda done a little better with S O C, Nate," Maggie said. "The place is a ruin, for God's sake!"
"Well, what the fuck!" He came right back at her. "What's it been? Ten years since you were there? What the hell do you care, Maggie?"
"Hey, hey," Lucy cut in. "Come on, cut the bickering. Jesus. We're not here to argue housekeeping, for God's sake!"
"Sorry," Maggie said, but the edge remained in her voice. "Sorry. Look, let's cut the bullshit. Nathaniel, Lucy came to Santa Fe because she says the pieces I sent to New York—the ones you brought across the border to me—were fakes. That's why we're here. So what do you have to say to that?"
"Fakes?" he said, and Lucy noted his eyes sneak a glance across the room. "What are you talking about?" His disbelief seemed credulous, as far as she could tell. But then again, he had the look of a polished liar. No telling, really.
"Some friends of mine in the business of knowing this stuff had a look at them, and think they're fake," Lucy said.
"But another expert said they were OK," Rosa interjected.
"So here I am, trying to figure it out. Actually, I'm writing a story about it," Lucy said. "I thought maybe you could tell me where you got the pieces."
"Wait a minute, slow down," Nate said, and Lucy stole a glance where his eyes had gone. Two American men in pale suits, and a dark-haired woman, facing away, seated at a corner table across the room, eating dinner. "So are you telling me I—my sources sold me fakes or not?"
"Maybe, baby," said Maggie.
"Yes," said Lucy. "Some of them are definitely forgeries."
"Whoa," said Maggie. "Just a minute, Lucy. Nothing is that clear now, is it?"
"As a matter of fact, it is," Lucy said quietly. "I was in the gallery in New York when Quentin and Beth Washington examined the pieces you sent. Quentin said they were definitely fake. There was no doubt about it. I can't speak for your two pieces, but the New York stuff is bogus." Lucy picked up her shot of tequila, ate some salt, downed the shot, then finished with a bite of lemon. "Whew!" she gasped.
"Well," said Nathaniel after a few seconds had passed. "What the hail." He grinned at Maggie, putting on the drawl. "So what am Ah s`posed ta do, sis? There ain't no money-back guarantees in this biz, far as I know." With that he licked up some salt, knocked back his own shot of tequila, and bit a slice of lemon. He took the peel out of his mouth and grinned again. The grin faded as two men, both elegantly dressed in pale tropical suits without ties, appeared at the table. "Hey boys," Nate said. His tone was still relaxed, but Lucy read fear in his eyes. "How ya doin’? Ladies, this here's some friends of mine down from Texas—Louie Mon and Jack Partridge. Boys, like you to meet my sis, Margaret—Maggie—and a couple friends a hers."
Greetings were spoken. Mon was fiftyish and paunchy; Partridge thirtysomething, slick, black-haired, and utterly self-assured. Their clothes were expensive. Lucy looked them over obliquely but carefully. They hardly looked at her. Partridge, in another life, might be her type, but not this time around. The other guy looked like a league bowler with a good tailor. Harry had called them professional bad guys. Nothing in their eyes or demeanor suggested a threat. She wondered what bad they did. "Well," said Nate, after the brief exchange of vapid pleasantries. Maggie was tense, and it was obvious to all. Erratic siblings can do that. "I'd ask you to join us, boys, but I got another set to play. You ladies gonna stick around a while, maybe we can get together afterwards. I know another bar where this mariachi band just kicks ass."
"I don't think so Nate. We've been up since dawn and I'm exhausted. But we need to talk about the—that other thing, some more," Maggie said.
"Yeah, right." He grinned too easily at Mon and Partridge. "Family affairs, boys, you know," he said, then returned his attention to his sister. "I'm stayin' at the Parc Azul Hotel. It's right around the corner. Room 17. Come by in the mornin' and we'll get some breakfast and have a chat." he looked at Lucy. "You sure you don't wanna stick around a while? The next set's gonna smoke. I'd love to have another drink with you afterwards."
"Sounds good to me," Lucy said. "Rosa?"
"Excuse me," interjected a smiling Lewis Mon. "But we have some business to take care of, Nathaniel. Immediately after the set I mean."
"Right," Nate said. "Well, stick around for a couple tunes anyway, huh?"
"Hey Nathaniel," a guitar player called out from the stage. "Show time, my friend."
"Gotta go," Nate said. "See you tomorrow, Maggie." He dashed for the stage.
"I think I will hang here for a little while," Lucy said, although she was running on alcohol and not much else.
"I'm gonna cash it in," said Maggie, rising. "The Parc Azul did he say? Maybe we'll check in there too. Rosa, you coming?"
"Yeah, I think so," Rosa said. "Sorry Lucy, I can't do it." She stood and smiled at the two men, who didn't seem to have much to say. "Nice to meet you all." She and Maggie left.
"Well," said Lucy, getting up. "Hope to see you again, gents. I'm gonna hang out at the bar. Goodnight." She gave Mon and Partridge a smile—they nodded, pleasantly if noncommitally, in response—and headed into the restaurant. She went to the bar, ordered a beer, then swivelled around to watch and listen as the band started up again. Nate blew a blast on the horn, approached a mike, and said, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for coming to listen. We're the Temple Dogs, and we play what you want to hear. This first tune is an original I wrote for the band. It's called Precolombian Jive." He snapped his fingers, a bass line snaked in, and the tune took off.
About forty-five minutes through the set—during which Nate downed three more shots of tequila and three bottles of beer, and it only improved his phenomenal saxophone playing—Lucy slipped out the patio door and walked around the corner towards the plaza. On the way out, she noticed, Mon and Partridge were still there, in their corner table on the other side of the room, although the woman who'd been sitting with them had left. On the plaza she found a taxi; she climbed in, and as they pulled around the corner she explained to the driver what she wanted. This was a long shot but worth a try.
Lucy woke with a start as the driver, Eduardo, whispered at her, "Excuse me miss but I theenk the men you have described come out now." She looked up. Sure enough, Nathaniel and the two pale-suited goons wandered down the sidewalk away from the blue door of the Villa Maya.
"Follow, but slowly, slowly," Lucy said softly, forcing her weary brain onto red alert. Eduardo started up and crept along, around the corner, where the three men unlocked and entered a dark blue late model American
car. Nathaniel's awkward lurch into the back seat suggested the beer and tequila had caught up to him. The younger one, Jack Partridge, drove the car, and they quickly headed out of downtown and hooked onto Route 184. Lucy and Eduardo stayed sufficiently back, a green taxi in thin traffic, to go unnoticed. She hoped.
A few miles outside town the blue car, a few hundred yards ahead, abruptly turned off onto a dirt driveway and halted in front of a small private house. Eduardo stopped short a hundred yards away. "Wait here," Lucy said. "I'll be back in a few minutes." She got out her camera, then climbed out and headed on foot towards the house, staying close to the edge of the undergrowth. Soon she approached the house. Lights had come on, and there were no curtains on the windows. She found a rock and threw it in the general area to check for dogs. None barked, so she moved closer and circled towards the back. Soon she was close enough to carefully push a branch aside and peer in a back window. She lifted her camera, looked through the viewfinder and positioned the camera, then began to fire away.
She watched from the edge of the window. Nathaniel stood to one side of the room with a beer in hand and watched the same thing she watched: a transaction being done. The two Americans stood by a wooden table in their pale suits, handing over stacks of cash. The young Mexican man across the table in turn handed over several artifacts. While the Americans examined the artifacts, the Mexican counted the money, then counted it again, stopping to wave a stack of bills to Nathaniel, who came over to get it. Nathaniel then peeled money off his stack and handed it back to the short, pudgy American, Lewis Mon. Nathaniel pocketed the rest of his cut, and finished his beer while the two Americans carefully wrapped the artifacts in fabric, then placed them in cloth bags and set them on the table. Then Mon, the pudgy American, as if just remembering something, pulled out the money Nathaniel had returned to him, and counted it. When he finished, he grinned, saying something, and held out his hand to Nathaniel. A conversation ensued, the level of irritation visibly growing. Jack Partridge suddenly grabbed Nathaniel by the collar and shoved him against the wall. Up close he said nasty words. As he was snarling at him, Nathaniel happened to look out the window—and locked eyes with Lucy, who ducked quickly, but not quickly enough. She had been seen. Did she dare run? No. She waited, then chanced another look. Saw Partridge slap Nate hard across the face once, twice, three times. Saw Nate hand over his stack of bills. Partridge, utterly contemptuous, peeled a couple of hundreds off the stack and shoved them in Nate's t-shirt pocket. Lucy ran for her cab, clutching the camera which had recorded the whole sorry spectacle.
Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2) Page 11