by Tim Maleeny
Joe stomped to the car and lit another cigarette as he took a seat in the back, secretly hoping the driver would ask him to put it out. He was disappointed by the time they arrived at their destination.
They’d followed the curve of the marina away from the tourist hotels where the piers were crowded with sailboats and yachts to the commercial piers where fishing trawlers crowded the narrow slips, their hulls painted in garish colors. The limo stopped directly behind a forty-footer, the yellow and blue paint scarred with orange streaks of rust that shifted in the harsh lights set on poles along the wharf as the boat bobbed against the current.
“He is already on board, señor.”
Joe ground his cigarette out in the door handle before stepping out of the car. He squinted at the stern of the aging vessel and thought for a minute it bore the same name as the pristine yacht berthed less than a mile away. Then he shielded his eyes from the overhead lights and squinted through the night to read the faded letters.
The Frying Fish.
From flying to frying. A minute’s drive along the coast but a world away from the eighty-foot yacht and its crew of twenty. The boxy fishing boat with its cranes and nets looked pathetic. Joe was pretty sure he was being insulted.
But he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Chapter Twenty
Cape was glad he wasn’t wearing 3-D glasses.
The foyer was a cross between a Spanish manor house and Graceland. The interior was wood, with simple flourishes and elegant molding accenting high ceilings and a broad curving staircase. But clearly Elvis had come back from the dead, fully loaded on painkillers and booze, and went to work on the walls.
The paintings varied from oil on canvas to black velvet—rich, earthy tones juxtaposed to garish greens and blues. Family portraits adjacent to busty women straddling tigers. Small alcoves held busts of people Cape didn’t recognize, some finely crafted but others crudely rendered, rough plaster slapped together, making the proportions of the faces seem not quite human.
Cape felt dizzy and found himself thinking of Citizen Kane. Following the curve of the staircase, he saw two more guards waiting on the landing.
“Upsy-daisy.” Cyrano nudged him along the right wall, standing one step below him as they climbed. “You’ve kept Señor Big waiting long enough.”
The muscle at the top of the stairs could have been matching bookends from one of the gift shops in town. The two men had squat bodies with flat, chiseled faces and onyx eyes. In perfect synchronization they pulled open matching oak doors.
At the threshold Cyrano stopped to let Cape enter alone. “If I wanted to give you some advice, I might say don’t do anything stupid, but I’ll bet you can’t help yourself.” He started down the stairs before Cape could respond.
As the doors closed behind him, Cape found himself standing on carpet thicker than a Chicago pizza and just as cheesy. Orange shag ran from the door to a massive walnut desk where a lone halogen cast its glow across a high-backed leather chair.
Two men flanked the desk, not quite in silhouette. Their outlines revealed pistols in angled holsters. Cape noticed that the guy on the right wore the gun on his right hip and the man facing the back of the desk on the left was a lefty. That meant their shooting arms would be raised away from their boss, leaving him room to maneuver or be pushed aside by their free hands if anything unpleasant went down suddenly.
Nice to be working with professionals.
Behind the desk was a windowed door leading to a small balcony overlooking the treetops and the water far down the cliff. Given the tight security, Cape wondered if the glass was bulletproof or the angle of the hill made a clear shot impossible. To the left of the desk was a small alcove, completely in shadow from where Cape was standing. Probably a side door for emergency exits in case of fire, Feds or uninvited hitmen. Along the left wall was a bookcase with leather-bound titles older than the Book of Job.
Cape took a step forward and sensed movement to his right. From out of the shadows next to the door emerged another bodyguard, this one close to six feet tall. Long black hair parted in the middle exposed almond eyes and a thin, cruel mouth. His empty hands hung loosely at his sides, but he needed a better tailor. The bulge of his gun was clearly visible through the cheap fabric of his suit. Cape held the man’s gaze briefly before turning as his host leaned into the light.
A broad Mexican face with strong features peered into the gloom beyond the desk. Black eyes glittered as they studied Cape with a hint of amusement. After a long minute, the heavy black mustache curled into a smile, revealing small pointy teeth that reminded Cape of a piranha.
Cape scanned the room and frowned.
“Figured you’d have a fish tank for sure,” he said. “Exotic species, dangerous. Maybe one or two from the Amazon.”
The man behind the desk joined his hands together as if he were about to begin a sermon. “Do you know who I am?”
“What if I said I don’t give a shit?”
The man’s eyes turned cold, his smile retreating behind the black mustache. After a long moment the smile returned, but the eyes regained none of their warmth.
“I know who you are, Mister Weathers.”
“Call me Cape.”
“I believe we have a mutual interest.”
“Double-jointed women?”
Again the smile disappeared, then reappeared, while the rest of the face remained impassive. Like a magician’s slight of hand. “You have been looking for someone.”
Cape felt his own expression hardening. “All I found was a corpse.”
“You were a bit late, perhaps.” A small shrug, suggesting the man behind the desk didn’t see much distinction between finding a man dead or alive. “But you found this person, and I have found you.”
“Never should have joined Facebook.”
“My name is Antonio Salinas.” The man looked pointedly at Cape as if hoping to draw sustenance from his reaction. “Perhaps you have heard of me.”
Cape arched an eyebrow. “You don’t look as grainy as those surveillance photos they showed on 60 Minutes.”
“You saw the program,” Salinas said approvingly. “And what did you learn?”
“Let’s see,” said Cape, counting off the fingers of his left hand. “Former arms dealer, drug lord. How am I doing so far?”
Salinas nodded as each finger ticked off a new section of his resumé.
Cape continued. “Related by marriage to the Minister of Defense, who is currently under investigation for questionable campaign contributions during the last election.”
Salinas spread his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture.
“You were imprisoned twice in your own country, but only on minor charges and never for long. Almost extradited to the U.S., but proceedings were stopped after the sudden disappearance of key witnesses.”
Salinas leaned back in his chair. “That was not on television.”
“Wall Street Journal,” said Cape. “Short column a few months ago.”
“You have done some homework.”
“Tourists research the best diving spots, the local restaurants,” said Cape. “I’m not a tourist. I like to know who the local criminals are before I go somewhere.”
Salinas nodded. “I run the largest…” He let his voice trail off as he searched for the right word. “…enterprise in Mexico.”
“Enterprise.” Cape managed not to smirk. “You mean cartel.”
“Some have used that term. Personally, I find it somewhat pejorative.”
“What about Luis Cordon?” asked Cape. “Isn’t he a player in these parts?”
Salinas looked like he’d swallowed a jalapeño. “Luis is my competitor.” Salinas added something in Spanish too fast and guttural for Cape to catch. “Once, long ago, he worked for me.”
“Touchy subject?”
“Cordon has nothing to do with why you are here.”
“I was about to ask.”
Salinas didn’t
respond. He took a cigar from a humidor on his desk, opened a drawer and used a silver tool to clip the end before lighting up. He didn’t offer one to Cape. Soon the room was filled with thin tendrils of smoke and a cloying smell more sweet than rancid. After a minute of puffing, Salinas sighed contentedly.
“I think you are good at this,” he said. “Finding things.”
“I’m having a bad week.”
“You act the clown, but I was looking for this man, this dead gringo of yours, and you did much better—even though he was in my own country.” Salinas examined his cigar, rotating it slowly between his fingers. “But you were already here, so you must have been close.”
“Close doesn’t count,” said Cape.
“This is very embarrassing,” said Salinas. “I do not like to be embarrassed.”
“Next time I promise to give you a head start.”
“Like you, I wanted this man alive.”
Cape didn’t bother to keep the edge from his voice. “So you invited me here to commiserate?” It was tempting to ask Salinas which man he was talking about, the father or the son, but Cape instinctively didn’t like giving up information. If Salinas didn’t know about the two bodies, Cape wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.
“You are not stupid.” Salinas’ face was etched with disappointment. “I want to know how he ended up in Puerto Vallarta, and how he died.”
“He might have drowned. I’m sure you can check with the city coroner—you might even have him on the payroll.”
Salinas blew smoke at the ceiling. “You do not believe he drowned, or else you would have gone home…to your client. By the way, who is your client, Señor Weathers?”
Cape tilted his head to the right. “Sorry, I’m a little deaf in this ear.”
“I could make you tell me.” Salinas was sighing smoke as he talked. He seemed almost bored, like a snake with its eyes half-closed, as he jabbed his cigar toward the bodyguard standing behind Cape with a quick, impatient gesture. A sudden rustle of fabric was the only sound in the room.
Without turning, Cape bent forward and windmilled his right arm—back and around—hoping to deflect the blow before it connected. He got lucky and caught the guard under the left armpit. Cape pivoted and grabbed the man’s left wrist and twisted hard and fast, as if turning on a water spigot in the dead of winter. The guard yelped as his own momentum carried him across the desk, his legs knocking the halogen lamp and humidor onto the floor.
Salinas shoved his chair back from the desk just in time. Cape straightened, very deliberately holding his hands away from his sides. Before he raised his eyes from the floor he heard the telltale slide and crack of guns coming free of their holsters, safety levers being thumbed into the fire position.
Salinas’ face was lit from below by the fallen but still functioning lamp. He looked like a jack-o-lantern as he smiled broadly, with genuine warmth this time. He chuckled softly.
“As I said, Señor Cape, you are good at this.”
Salinas snapped his fingers and the bookends holstered their weapons. The guard with the long hair was clearly annoyed at being turned into a human projectile and stared at Cape with unabashed hostility. Cape blew him a kiss.
Long-hair held the edge of the desk and was trying to get his feet under him when Salinas grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair with his right hand. The guard’s eyes bulged as Salinas slowly moved his left hand—the hand holding the cigar—inexorably closer. Nobody took a breath as Salinas did all the talking.
“My men are good at some things, but not all things.” Salinas shifted his left hand, ash falling behind the desk. Cape kept his eyes on Salinas, not giving him the satisfaction of staring at his captive. Every sadist he’d ever known loved an audience.
Salinas didn’t blink as he slid the cigar against his man’s cheek, barely an inch below the eye. The fallen guard muffled a scream through clenched teeth as Cape gritted his own at the unnerving calm of Salinas’ expression. The smell of charred flesh blended seamlessly with the rank odor of his cigar.
“You sure know how to reward loyalty.”
“I reward results.” Salinas unclenched his right hand and released the guard, who fell gasping behind the desk. “Not incompetence.” Then he looked down toward the floor with an almost paternal expression. “But I am willing to give people second chances. And you, detective, you desperately want to have a second chance, don’t you? You are as angry about your failure as I am, no?”
Your failure. An obvious jab, almost childish. Still, it had the desired effect. Cape was pissed.
“So here is what we shall do.” Salinas smiled as the guards returned to their respective positions. “You will continue to do what you were already doing, only now you have a new client.”
“Let me guess,” said Cape. “You?”
“Sí.”
“And why, exactly, do you think I’ll do this?”
Salinas interlaced his fingers. “We have a saying—plato o plomo—take the silver or the lead. If you do this, I will pay you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“The lead.”
“You’ll force me to chew on a toy made in China?”
“No.” Salinas sighed. “I am going to have you shot—with bullets.” He gave Cape a deliberate stare. “Bullets made from lead.”
“I’ll take the silver.”
Salinas nodded. “I will pay you ten thousand dollars.”
Cape didn’t hesitate. “I want fifty.”
Salinas laughed. “And why should I give you that much money?”
“Because you’re too high-profile—you’re on TV. And you don’t want to kill me.”
The black eyes glittered. “Don’t be so sure.”
Cape looked skeptical. “You don’t know why I’m here. Kill me and you might get another half-hour segment on American television. That won’t make your government friends very happy.”
Salinas studied Cape like a man trying to pick a lobster from a tank. “Continue.”
“I don’t think your buddy Luis Cordon has public image problems, do you? I had to really dig to find dirt on him.”
Salinas blinked once, almost reptilian, but his face remained placid. He glanced to his right and the guard on that side of the desk bent to grab a stainless steel briefcase that he placed carefully in front of his boss. Salinas spun the combination locks and turned the case around. Cape could see neatly packed rows of American bills.
“Take this case with you. Another case—a bigger one—will be delivered to you once I know everything.”
Cape came forward and gently pushed the lid closed, then stepped back from the desk. “Keep the case, Salinas.”
Salinas worked his jaw. “You are choosing the lead?”
“No way.” Cape held up his hands. “But I’m kind of a first come, first serve detective. I already have a client, and whatever I have to say, my client hears it first.” Cape waited for a reaction. None came. “But if I discover something you can use, I’ll come back for the case. The bigger case.”
Another crocodile blink, a long pause from Salinas. “And why should I believe you?”
“I like money.”
“An honest answer, but can I trust you?”
Cape almost laughed. “You can trust me about as much as I trust you.”
Salinas frowned and reopened the case. “I would feel better if you took the money.”
“But I might feel worse—I might feel like I owed you something.”
“Do you go to the movies, Cape?”
“I only like films about zombie baseball.”
Salinas pressed on. “In American movies about criminals, there is often a scene in which the policeman—or the detective—is offered a chance to work with the so-called bad man. And you know what he always says?”
“Never!” Cape spoke in an overly dramatic voice. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
Salinas clapped. “Plenario! These scenes make me laugh—”
“Bec
ause in reality that would never happen. You don’t say no to the bad guy, even if you plan on double-crossing him later. It would be—”
“—insulting.”
“I was going to say unwise.”
“That, too,” said Salinas. “Take the money.”
“Fine.” Cape closed the lid and grabbed the handle of the case with his right hand. It was heavier than he expected.
Salinas studied him for a minute before speaking.
“Do not disappoint me.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“So bold for a gringo. One more thing…”
Cape kept his face open, his mouth shut.
“I am perhaps not as good at finding people as you,” said Salinas. “But I am not so bad at it, either.”
“The silver or the lead?”
Salinas nodded. “It seems we understand each other.”
“Guess those team building exercises really paid off.”
Salinas reached across the desk and extended his right hand. “That is my direct number.”
Cape took the card, shoved it in his back pocket. “We through?”
“Adios, Señor Cape.” Salinas gave a short nod and the bodyguard on the right moved to open the door. “Good hunting.”
Cape followed the curve of the stairway to the front door. No one blocked his way or accompanied him. When he reached the driveway he continued past the cars to the large iron gate, which stood open. Cape looked back at the house. He couldn’t see anyone in the windows but knew he must be under the watchful eye of security cameras. He looked back toward the open road and sighed.
“Guess I’m walking.” He said it to no one in particular, wondering how long it would take to follow the winding road back to town.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Do you like calamari?”
The question seemed idle enough when Joe Drabyak first stepped onto the fishing boat, but now he wasn’t so sure. His host had never followed up with the calamari. No snacks or drinks, but thirty minutes out to sea, Joe was glad he hadn’t eaten anything deep-fried. His stomach was starting to lurch with every swell as he gripped the low railing near the bow, salt spray stinging his eyes.