Greasing the Piñata

by Tim Maleeny

  Something flashed in the back of Priest’s eyes, a flicker of life buried in the deadly gray, but he stretched his smile taut. “You like publicity, don’t you Frank?”

  Frank shrugged. “Hasn’t hurt my business.”

  “But has it hurt ours?” Priest steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them. “You’re a respectable businessman, a major political donor. A civic leader. Makes for a nice resumé, Frank.”

  Frank was getting sick of hearing his own name, Priest saying it every other sentence, trying to get under his skin. Frank-this, Frank-that. Sounding like his third grade teacher, another psycho in a black-and-white outfit, only she had carried a weapon: a ruler. Frank unconsciously rubbed his knuckles at the memory. No wonder he hated this asshole. “Wanna get to the point?”

  “Your lack of discretion makes some people uncomfortable.”

  “Tell those people to get over it,” said Frank. “Those political connections pay your salary.”

  The pale eyes seemed to glow. “I’m not on your payroll.”

  “My mistake.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Priest replied. “Let’s hope it’s your last.”

  “That a threat?” Floorboards creaked as Frank shifted in his seat.

  “The kid was an addict. Think that’s smart?”

  Frank held his hands up. “Kids today…whattya gonna do?”

  “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously, Frank.”

  “I’m taking this situation very seriously. I think you’re worried I’m not taking you seriously.”

  Priest flashed a smile full of malice, lips closed. “Do I look worried?”

  “You look like a retard at a comic book convention.”

  Priest nodded as if Frank’s comment deserved some further thought. “And the Senator…you weren’t keeping tabs?”

  “He retired. Fell off the grid.”

  “Uh-huh.” Priest pursed his lips. “You know, we’re all fishers of men, Frank. Some we catch and keep, watch after them, nurture them as they grow. Some we throw back into the water because they’re not worth the time and trouble.” He paused as if remembering a summer day, feet dangling in the water as fish darted just below the surface. “But some we gut right there on the dock, because we don’t want them flopping around, scaring the other fish. We gut them and then cut their heads off—do you get my meaning?”

  “Your feet stink.” Frank waved a hand toward Priest’s shoes but was careful not to make contact. “And I’m tired of dancing—cut to the chase or go fuck a nun.”

  Priest collapsed his legs to the floor, leaned forward in his chair. “I—we—don’t give a rat’s ass what you do in San Francisco. But this little program of ours demands cooperation.”

  “Cooperation.” Frank expelled the word, clearly disliking its taste.

  “It requires control,” said Priest. “And you, my portly colleague, seem to have lost control.”

  Frank’s bulk shifted ominously and Bruno rolled onto the balls of his feet, thinking his boss was about to launch himself across the desk. He’d seen it before and it wasn’t pretty, like a killer whale breaching, leaping into the air to devour a seal. And whenever that happened, it fell to Bruno to clean things up.

  Frank breathed heavily through his nose before settling back into his chair. “I’m on it,” he said. “I got a guy in Mexico, looking into things.”

  “The kid might be dead,” Priest said.

  “You surprised?” said Frank. “Didn’t you just tell me he was a junkie?”

  “The Senator is AWOL.”

  “Who the fuck are you,” asked Frank. “CNN?”

  “The horse is out of the fucking barn, Frank.”

  “And the dish ran away with the spoon—I said I’m on it.”

  “So am I,” said Priest, his voice suddenly quiet, barely a whisper. “That’s why I came here—to tell you that until this is settled, you’ve got a shadow.”

  “Stay out of my way and we’ll get along just fine.”

  Priest stood and stretched, his fingers locked together, long arms thrust toward the ceiling. A yoga pose. Frank gave him a look that suggested his testosterone level was being measured and found wanting. Priest arched his back and twisted his shoulders one way, then the other, his gaze locked on Frank, his features vaguely effeminate if not for the soulless eyes.

  “Are you threatening me?” His tone was suddenly warm, playful.

  “What if?”

  “Well, that’s really my job—to threaten people.” Priest ran his tongue suggestively across his full lips. “Tell you to stay out of my way, not fuck up again, keep your goombah nose where it belongs.”

  Frank’s head twitched as if a seizure had begun. That was the cue Bruno had been waiting for—he took a long, aggressive step around the desk. It wouldn’t be the first time he escorted an unwanted guest out of Frank’s office by the scruff of his neck.

  Most guys backed away when they saw Bruno coming, even the hard cases, so he wasn’t prepared when Priest stepped toward him, an almost flirtatious smile on his face. Before Bruno could bring his hands up, Priest glided past, his right hand sweeping toward Bruno’s face.

  Priest hooked his thumb into the other man’s left eye socket as effortlessly as a child popping a soap bubble. There was a wet sucking sound and suddenly Bruno was on his knees, screaming.

  “Jesus.” Alex froze momentarily, repulsed by the scene before him. The sound of Frank’s chair scraping against the floor brought him back to his senses. Alex went for the gun in his waistband but for once moved too slowly. As graceful as a dancer Priest ducked behind him, arching as he grasped the other man’s head, a silent partner in a ballet of pain. He pirouetted to face the other way, twisting his arms as he turned. A loud snap as vertebrae separated and Alex slumped across Frank, his lifeless body pinning his erstwhile employer in his chair.

  Frank pushed against the desk frantically, desperate to free himself, but Priest was already behind him. Bruno was crawling across the floor toward the door, his left hand scratching pitifully at his ruined eye socket, blood pouring through his fingers. And Alex was dead weight, more effective than handcuffs at keeping Frank prisoner.

  “Now then,” said Priest, moving to sit on the edge of the desk. Frank’s lips twitched spasmodically. Priest reached forward and ran his hand gently across Frank’s sweating scalp, a mother soothing an hysterical child. “I think you’d agree that threatening you now would be, well, redundant.”

  “I don’t do business with psychos.” It sounded better in Frank’s head than when he actually muttered the words. His voice felt hollow, even to his own ears.

  Priest noticed the gore on his thumb, jellied plasma from Bruno’s ravaged eye. He removed his hand from Frank’s head and extended it for a good look. With the air of a man pulling lint from his suit, Priest brought the thumb to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it as Frank watched in disbelief.

  Priest sucked noisily, his eyes flashing with delight as Frank started to gag. He removed the thumb with a dramatic pop, then smiled with an open mouth, and Frank noticed for the first time how both incisors had been filed to sharp points. Priest curled his tongue against one of the fangs as if cleaning it, then laid his hand gently on the side of Frank’s face. “Believe it or not, I’m a patient man.” He caressed Frank’s cheek lovingly with his thumb, up toward the left eye, down toward the trembling mouth. “So I wanted to give you the opportunity to share anything that you think could be useful. Anything at all.”

  Frank’s eye tracked the movement of the thumb as if watching a tarantula crawl across his skin. His lips moved but no sound emerged.

  “Look at me, Frank.” The dull eyes looked like holes drilled into Priest’s face, the empty orbs of a pirate skull. “Look at these clothes. Isn’t there something you want to confess?”

  Frank felt the pressure of the thumb increase as it swept upward, the bite of the nail, and started to scream.

  Chapter Seven

  C
ape left the Ford dealers poolside with a collection of mini-umbrellas vast enough to protect the entire population of Lilliput from a monsoon. Bud had passed out, and Cecil was on a rant about the importance of quality, service, and reliability to the educated car buyer. Neither noticed when Cape took his leave and moved inside to the lobby bar.

  The bar sat on the other side of a glass wall overlooking the pool. You got the same view of scantily clad women as the poolside bar plus air conditioning and some shade. Maybe it was the gnawing in his gut over Cecil’s news, or maybe a lack of sunscreen, but Cape was beginning to feel the heat.

  He gestured toward the bartender, a young guy with bleached blond hair and a strand of leather around his neck—this year’s variation of a pooka shell necklace. Cape figured him for a college student, just old enough to serve drinks in Mexico. Not a bad summer job. Cape was about to order when the bartender’s gaze shifted over his shoulder and a familiar voice spoke first.

  “Trés Generaciones—dos.”

  Cape wasn’t surprised when Inspector Garcia took the adjacent stool. The bartender disappeared to the right as Cape nodded at his new neighbor.

  “I think the kid’s an American,” he said, jutting his chin toward the returning bartender. “The leather necklace is a dead giveaway.”

  Garcia arched his eyebrows. “So?”

  “Not sure he speaks Spanish. A lot of the college students working at the resort don’t.”

  Garcia nodded. “Trés Generaciones is a tequila. Very expensive. If a bartender does not know that, he should be fired. And dos—”

  “—means two,” said Cape. “Even my Spanish has that covered.”

  “Exactly,” said Garcia. “And if the bartender at a Mexican resort doesn’t know uno, dos, tres—”

  “— he should be fired,” said Cape.

  “Exactemente. It seems we think alike, my friend.”

  The bartender set two short glasses in front of them. Not shot glasses but heavy tumblers. The liquid inside was paler than most tequila Cape had seen, almost as clear as vodka. Garcia took a slim folder proffered by the bartender, opened it and used the pen inside to sign for the bill.

  Cape held up his glass in thanks. He prepared to throw it back when Garcia put a restraining hand on his arm. “No, amigo. This is sipping tequila.”

  “Sipping tequila.”

  Garcia nodded. Holding up his glass, he slowly, almost reverentially, took a sip. Cape followed his example and whistled through his teeth as he set his glass down. The tequila had vaporized in his mouth, returned to a liquid state, then sluiced down his throat as if it were alive.

  Cape blinked away tears. “That’s good tequila.”

  “Indeed.” Garcia took another sip.

  “Is that why we’re sipping it?”

  “One must savor it,” said Garcia. “Besides, it costs twelve dollars a shot—U.S., not pesos.”

  “Twelve dollars? Maybe I should ask for a straw.”

  Garcia sighed contentedly and set his glass down, but his expression became grave as he turned on his stool.

  “I am sorry about your client.”

  Cape shrugged. “My client doesn’t know yet.”

  Garcia arched his eyebrows. “But you know about the body?”

  “Bod—eeze,” said Cape, doing his best to sound like Bud. “I saw—heard—the news.”

  “I saw you talking to the brothers.”

  Cape took another sip and felt the lava worm squirm toward his stomach. “You don’t miss a trick.”

  Garcia spread his hands. “But it seems I did, my friend. When we spoke about your search, I was under the impression you were looking for your client—”

  “I wasn’t looking for my client—I mean, looking for her. I was looking for someone else; someone she asked me to find. What I should have said was that I was looking on her behalf.”

  Garcia studied Cape over the rim of his glass but didn’t say anything.

  “I might have been a little vague,” said Cape.

  “I think you were.” Garcia set his glass down with thud. “Sadly, a common technique among American detectives. I should have seen it coming.”

  “You’ve worked with a lot of PI’s from the states?”

  Garcia shook his head. “I have studied them. Sam Spade let everyone think he was—what is the word—a shady character—so he could get the Maltese Falcon from Peter Lorre and the Fat Man.”

  “Sydney Greenstreet.”

  “Sí, el hombre gordo. And then there is Jessica Fletcher.”

  Cape took another sip and wracked his memory, coming up empty. Garcia saw his confusion and shook his head in dismay.

  “Jessica Fletcher, the great American detective?”

  Cape shook his head.

  “Murder She Wrote?” said Garcia in a tone that suggested he’d lost all respect for his drinking partner. “Surely you know this show.”

  Cape almost laughed. “You mean the TV show with Angela Lansbury?”

  “It ran for over a decade on your television.”

  “Not on my television.”

  “It is very popular in Mexico,” said Garcia. “I saw it once in English, while visiting your country, and must admit the woman who dubs the dialogue for Señora Fletcher on Mexican television has too deep a voice. She sounds more like a man than a snoopy old woman. Still, she is coy like you, always letting people jump to conclusions.”

  Cape drained the last of his drink. As the liquid heat found its way down his gullet, he felt simultaneously tortured and at peace with the world. Therein lay the mystery of tequila.

  “This case,” he said. “It’s complicated.”

  “Your client is a woman?” Garcia smiled ruefully. “Of course it is complicated.”

  “You want an apology?”

  “I will settle for an explanation.”

  Cape looked at his empty glass and nodded. Garcia caught the bartender’s eye and held up two fingers.

  “So tell me, Señor Weathers. What brings you to Mexico?”

  Chapter Eight

  Some women just looked like trouble. Rebecca Lowry wasn’t one of them, which should have been the first clue.

  The woman who walked into Cape’s office two weeks ago was excruciatingly attractive in a remarkably wholesome way. An expensive gray suit and skirt, tailored to reveal the faint contours of a distracting figure. Short dark hair, large brown eyes, a long straight nose, and full lips defined a classically beautiful face adorned with little or no makeup. Within the first few minutes of the interview he decided that, if asked, he might consider compromising his professionalism and running away with her. She didn’t ask, and he didn’t press the point. A good detective knows when to be patient.

  She started to explain why she had called but stopped herself in mid-sentence and looked uncertainly across the desk.

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions first?”

  “Most people do.” Cape gestured toward the client chair, which she took, crossing her legs demurely.

  “Your references were excellent.”

  “They wouldn’t be references if they weren’t.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “About ten years.”

  “And before that?” she asked. “Were you a cop or something?”

  “Reporter,” said Cape. “I worked for the Chronicle here in San Francisco, the Times in New York. A few other papers and magazines you probably didn’t read before they went out of business.”

  “You covered the crime beat?”

  “Some. I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong—they call that investigative journalism when editors get full of themselves. Local mob activity. Construction scams. Political scandals.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  Cape shrugged. “My editor said I had problems with authority.”

  “Do you?”

  “Depends on who’s in charge.”

  “You didn’t get along with your editor—that’s why you left?”
<
br />   “No. I could have gone to another paper, or freelanced.” Cape shrugged. “Over the years, I saw some things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Things I don’t really like to talk about—things that convinced me the pen isn’t always mightier than the sword. I got tired of trying to make a difference only to have guns pointed at me.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I get to point one back,” he replied. “And every once in a while I even get to make a difference.”

  Rebecca studied him for a minute, teeth working her lower lip. Cape could tell she’d already made a decision—she was just working herself up to tell him about it. The intensity of her gaze almost made him uncomfortable.

  Almost.

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  “You mentioned political scandals,” said Rebecca. “What do you think of politicians?”

  “Not much.”

  A bitter smile vanished from Rebecca’s lips almost before it appeared. “That might be a problem.”

  Cape raised his eyebrows. “For me or you?”

  “Lowry is my mother’s maiden name,” said Rebecca. “My given name was Dobbins—as in Jim Dobbins.”

  “The California State Senator?”

  “Retired.”

  “That’s right,” said Cape. “Didn’t he resign suddenly, a couple of months ago? The papers said he wanted to spend more time with his family.”

  The bitter smile returned and held.

  “I haven’t seen my father in ten years, Mister Weathers.”

  “Call me Cape. So you two aren’t close.”

  “You have a talent for understatement, Cape.”

  “You’re saying the story was spun.”

  “Like a top.”

  “What about the rest of your family?”

  “My mother died when I was in college.” Rebecca’s teeth flashed white before she brought her lips together into a thin line. “And my brother Danny, well, he’s the oldest son. To my Dad—the Senator—he could do no wrong, until he developed a substance abuse problem, as the papers called it.”

  Cape noticed she almost choked on the word Dad and practically spat Senator when she said it. “Why are you here?”