The Chalupa Conundrum

by Lyle Christie

  “So, Tag, could you tell us more about your encounter with the guys who tried to kidnap you earlier tonight?”

  “It really wasn’t all that exciting.”

  “But you said you were held up at gun point, so you obviously disarmed them.”

  “Only one of them had a gun, and I’ve dealt with a lot of guys with guns.”

  “So, how did you deal with it?”

  “Well, I was lucky in that he wasn’t particularly skilled, so it came down to utilizing proper technique and some basic psychology.”

  “Meaning?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment then decided on a fun way to illustrate my point.

  “OK, point your finger at me like it’s a gun,” I said.

  He pointed his finger at me and eagerly waited for me to do something, so I let him stew for a second then looked at him questioning.

  “Dude, did you fart?” I asked.

  “What?” he asked, taken aback.

  At that point, I quickly grabbed his hand and twisted it back so that his finger was pointing up at his chin.

  He smiled as realization sunk in.

  “Dude! I totally get it! You got into my head then used that opening to get hold of the gun,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  Stephania leaned closer and looked at me curiously.

  “Tag, are these skills common for a private investigator?”

  “Probably not, as I had an unusual career path.”

  “Unusual meaning?”

  “Well, a lot of private investigators are ex cops, but, after college, I went into the military, then after that I worked for the government for a while but eventually got fed up, and that’s when I became a private investigator,” I said.

  “So, what exactly did you do for the government?” she asked.

  “Oh, just boring stuff.”

  “That's pretty vague,” Stephania said.

  “Obviously, he worked for a branch of the the United States Government that he can’t legally talk about,” Alessandra said.

  Ricardo’s eyes lit up.

  “Were you a spy?”

  “No, I was a civil servant,” I said.

  “Bullshit—I saw how you handled those guys in the alley, so, when you said you were in the military, I’m fairly certain you were referring to special operations, and that’s the ideal career path to end up in the CIA,” Alessandra countered, with her gaze unwavering.

  I tried to laugh it off, but she continued to stare. How in the hell could she have possibly guessed my entire past after only knowing me for four hours? Clearly, Professor Hitzig was either clairvoyant or ridiculously intuitive.

  “And what in the hell brought you to that conclusion?” I asked.

  “Personal experience. As you may or may not know, Costa Rica doesn’t maintain a standing military, but we do have special forces—namely the Unidad Especial de Intervencion, or, in English, the Special Intervention Unit.”

  I actually did know about them, as they trained with both the Israeli and Spanish special forces and had a standing order of sorts to be seconded to the United States in the event of war.

  “I’ve heard of them,” I said.

  “Well, it just so happens that I dated a guy in that unit, so I know the type.”

  “Handsome, debonaire, intelligent, and good with his hands?”

  “He was good with his hands all right—the same way you were in the alley.”

  “Just for the record, I’m good with my hands in a lot more ways than just what you saw tonight.”

  Alessandra smiled at me.

  “I’m sure you are,” she said.

  “So, what’s the deal? Were you really in special operations?” Ricardo asked.

  “Actually—yes, Professor Hot Sauce is correct.”

  “Were you a Navy SEAL?” he asked expectantly.

  “Close, I was a PJ, which is short for Parajumper. We had very similar training and operated on sea, air, and land, but our primary mission was rescue operations. I did, however, work directly with SEAL teams on many occasions and especially while I was part of the Joint Special Operations Command in Afghanistan.”

  “You saw combat?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “And killed people?”

  “Only the bad ones, but I saved a lot of good ones.”

  “Then after that you joined the CIA?”

  “No, I joined the State Department.”

  The entire group eyed me questioningly, which made sense, as I wasn’t a very good liar.

  “So, for all we know, you could be totally lying to us right now, and the truth is that you actually did join the CIA and may very well still be in it at this very moment,” Ricardo said, excitedly.

  At least my next statement would be partially true.

  “Definitely not, and I can assure you that I am currently nothing more glorious than an underpaid private investigator.”

  “Somehow, I highly doubt that,” Alessandra said.

  “Scout’s honor, and, if I told you about some of the shitty jobs I’ve had over the last few years, you would probably laugh yourselves under the table.”

  I noticed Alessandra was watching me very closely, as she was probably having doubts about my identity after the little incident on the way to the bar tonight. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what she believed because I was exactly what I claimed to be, and I was here for one purpose alone—namely to find a group of missing scientists—one of whom coincidentally just happened to be a former lover. A brief silence then descended upon the table until the waiter arrived, and we ordered another round of beers. He returned a short time later with a tray full of liquid sunshine, and I held my bottle up to toast.

  “To King Chalupa—may he be resting peacefully and not have our missing UCLA team,” I said

  Everyone joined their bottle to mine, then we sipped our beers and continued with some idle chitchat. Alessandra, meanwhile, finished off her beer rather quickly then looked at her watch and sighed a little sadly.

  “I’m afraid I have some papers to look over and have to call it a night,” she said.

  “Ah, come on, Professor, the night is just beginning,” Ricardo said, looking legitimately bummed.

  “Yeah, have a little fun for once. The papers can wait,” Stephania said.

  “I suppose I should mention that they are your thesis evaluations, so if you would like them done in a timely manner, then you’ll be happy to see me go.”

  Everyone got quiet.

  “Shit,” Ricardo said.

  “I should walk you home after what happened earlier,” I said.

  “Nonsense, I’ll take an Uber, and you stay here and make sure the rest of them don’t get into too much trouble—especially my sister. She can be a bit of a hell raiser when she drinks too much.”

  Alessandra got on her phone to call an Uber, and, ten minutes later, I escorted her out to the curb to find a young man in a silver Prius eagerly awaiting his next fare of the night. She gave me a friendly hug and a kiss on the cheek then sat down and closed the door before rolling down the window.

  “Buenas noches, hasta mañana, profesora de salsa picante,” I said.

  “Buenos noches, mi hombre misterioso,” she responded.

  “Very funny.”

  She smiled.

  “Now, make sure to take good care of my sister.”

  “Por supuesto,” I responded, which translated as of course.

  The Uber pulled away from the curb, and, as I watched her go, I caught her gazing back in my direction one last time before the car disappeared around the corner. I suppose I had an unofficial new job for the evening—namely keeping Hot Sauce Sister Number Two safe and sound. Stephania was nothing more than a responsible adult having a little fun amongst her academic peers, so how hard of a job could it possibly be?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Trouble with a Capital C-Cup

  I REJOINED THE others, and we decided to take our party from the tab
le to the actual bar, which was now bustling with young people. We took up residence in a section that had just been vacated then ordered another round of beers, but the noise of people and music forced conversations to be condensed into smaller social units. In my immediate group were Carina and Ricardo, and they were speaking animatedly about the subject of archaeology, or, more specifically, the validity of their individual theses. I enjoyed listening to their enthusiastic banter, but, as a force of habit, I also spent part of the time taking in the crowd.

  I was in a foreign country that was at least a thousand miles from my alma mater, but it felt oddly familiar, as college students were the same the world over. They were young, idealistic, and spent their downtime spouting philosophical diatribes about a world they had yet to experience. In some ways, it was kind of refreshing—like waking up into a strange new society bent on optimism, because they had yet to be beaten down by the reality of life’s daily grind. Indeed, some of what lay ahead would likely be miserable, but some of it would also be amazing, and these youngsters were like blank canvases waiting in earnest for fate to paint the potential masterpieces that would become their lives.

  A few feet away sat an older group of patrons who, judging by their clothes and apparently intense conversation, I imagined were faculty. I’d bet a sizable sum of money they were philosophy professors probably contemplating how Hegel's teleological dialectic was diametrically opposed to Nietzsche's individualistic view. Of course, that discussion would be nothing without one of them bringing in the idea that Marx would criticize them both as being a product of the bourgeois class with too much time on their hands to consider the belief that humankind and its understandings originated in a communal setting. At least that’s what the professors back at Stanford would have been yammering about until they reached beer three and turned to ogling hot young coeds.

  A bump from my left brought me out of my reverie to see a tall blond athletic guy making his way towards the bar. Judging by his build, he was probably on some kind of sports team, and his Greek letter adorned, tight-fitting tank top gave away two very distinct pieces of information. One—he belonged to a fraternity, and two—he was very proud of his muscular arms and shoulders. Without so much as an excuse me, he pushed aside Julio and Stephania in order to get closer to the bartender. He was rude but didn’t appear to be any kind of dire problem just yet, but I definitely put him on my watch list. As he waited to get the bartender’s attention, he turned and noticed Stephania and did a quick top to bottom survey of her vast reservoir of assets before returning his eyes to her beautiful face, which he now stared at with great interest.

  “¡Hola bonita,” he said, with a rather subpar Spanish accent.

  He was obviously American and on vacation, and, from what I could surmise thus far, hoping to get drunk and meet a lovely Costa Rican coed. Alessandra’s parting words about keeping an eye on her sister suddenly came to mind, and I officially moved our new visitor’s threat level up to about DEFCON 3. To that end, I decided to move closer so as to better monitor the situation.

  “Hello,” she said, in English, also recognizing the guy’s country of origin by his terrible Spanish accent.

  “I’m Paul, nice to meet you,” he said.

  “I’m Stephania. I take it you’re from America.”

  “Yeah, my friends and I go to USC, but we’re here on break for some fun and sun,” he said, gesturing towards a table a short distance away that was populated by two more guys wearing the same silly frat shirts.

  Interesting, he said they were from USC, the acronym for the University of Southern California, rather than say they were from Southern California, so he obviously had a lot of school spirit, which was something that seemed to be a common occurrence for those who attend, or attended, the smugly esteemed institution. Around my home in Marin County, I’d seen more USC alumni license plate holders, T-shirts, caps, and bumper stickers than any of the other prestigious colleges combined. There was just something about being a Trojan that was apparently hard to let go.

  “Undergraduate or graduate?” she asked.

  “Undergraduate, but I hope that doesn’t mean I can’t buy you a drink.”

  Stephania sized him up then gave him an approving smile, as she apparently liked what she saw.

  “Sure, I’ll take a Margarita on the rocks,” she said.

  “Let’s make it a pitcher,” he countered, as he turned towards the bartender.

  Shortly thereafter, the blender was buzzing, and Paul was chatting away with the lovely Stephania. The pitcher arrived, and he invited her to join him and his friends at their table. It seemed like a bad idea to me, but I tended to be the paranoid type, especially when it came to college age males. They were trouble when they were sober and downright dangerous under the influence of alcohol, and, when you combined that with the brotherhood of a fraternity, you had a recipe for disaster—at least in my experience. Stephania, however, seemed pleased by the offer and dragged Carina and Isabella over to the frat-ape’s table, thus leaving me, Ricardo, and Julio in a veritable sausage party.

  “I’m probably jumping to conclusions here, but those three Americanos have date rape written all over them,” I said.

  Ricardo and Julio glanced over at their table then nodded.

  “I would have to agree,” Ricardo said.

  “We should therefore keep a keen eye on the ladies,” I responded.

  “Yeah, but those are some pretty large and intimidating looking dudes,” Ricardo said.

  “I agree,” Julio added.

  Ricardo and Julio weren’t small in stature, as both were close to my height, but they were slender, and their builds were more lithe, like that of a hiker or mountain biker. I could therefore understand their trepidation should any kind of physical intervention be required.

  “Don’t worry, guys. You know the old saying—the bigger they are…”

  “The harder they hit?” Ricardo interjected, before I could finish my sentence.

  “No, I was going to say fall.”

  “Says the ex-special operations soldier turned spy turned private investigator. Don’t forget Julio and I are humble men of science and learning.”

  “As are some of the best special operations guys I ever worked with.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I swear on the sanctity of my fleshen ball satchel, and may God strike me dead if I’m lying.”

  Both Ricardo and Julio stepped back.

  “Where are you two going?”

  “Just getting out of range of the lightening bolt that’ll be coming any second.”

  “Good one,” I responded, as I turned my attention back to our rogue females.

  The girls fanned out around the table of frat-apes, and each engaged a respective alpha male while my team of Archaeology nerds and I kept vigilant track of the events from afar. It was a lot like watching wild animals from a hunter’s hide, except that we were here to observe rather than kill. The first pitcher of Margaritas went down quickly, and, combined with the earlier beers, made the girls more receptive to the frat-ape’s advances. Shit, I had told Alessandra I’d look after her sister, but what if she left the bar peacefully and willingly with one of the frat-apes? I guess I’d have to cross that bridge when I came to it.

  Alpha male Paul soon came back for more booze and pushed his way through the crowd like he owned the place, so, I, of course, made a point of stepping into his path—merely with the intent to instill some courtesy. After shoving Ricardo and Julio rudely aside, he barreled into me, obviously expecting me to crumble before his formidable arms. Such wasn’t the case, as I was waiting and ready. I was in good shape and also carried and maintained an athletic frame, but I had other skills—namely martial arts, and a lot of that training was about maximizing the forces when striking another person, but it was also about learning how to maximize your body mechanics, with one key aspect being grounding. In fact, NFL coaches were known to have defensive linemen train in certain martial arts in ord
er to improve their ability to deal with hard charging opponents. So, now, as Paul came bounding along, he literally hit a wall—a human wall, and he bounced back a few steps then stared in disbelief before his confusion quickly turned to anger.

  “What’s your fucking problem, Pedro?” he asked.

  “Ah, lo siento señor,” I said, in my best Spanish accent, which translated as sorry mister.

  “I said, what’s your fucking problem, Pedro!” he repeated more loudly as he stepped closer and got in my face.

  Sometimes it really was embarrassing being an American. It was a commonly accepted cliché that we spoke louder when we thought people didn’t understand us. Of course, it was a cliché because it was true—as I’d just experienced with young Paul.

  “Oh, you no comprendes! Porque usted es un mono,” I said, which translated as he didn’t understand because he was a monkey.

  Ricardo and Julio both laughed, but I thought I might have been a little mean—as monkeys were generally pretty smart. To the contrary, Paul looked confused and angry.

  “I am—how do you say in English? So sorry, my friend. You were so nice and gentle, I didn’t feel you trying to get by,” I said, with a pretty decent Spanish accent.

  Paul didn’t like being referred to as nice and gentle, but it was such a strange response that it made him pause for thought. I smiled and stepped aside in order to leave a clear path to the bar, and it left him somewhat unsure what to do next. His look of confusion seemed to disappear, however, as he decided upon a course of action indicative of his simian thought processes. He glared menacingly then jabbed me in the chest with his finger.

  “Don’t let it happen again, Pedro!” he said, loudly.

  “Ah, sí señor. No problema.”

  He continued on to the bar and ordered another pitcher, and it wasn’t long before he was heading back to his table. He moved past our little group and glared at me, so I smiled and held up my beer like we were best friends, and, as expected, it had the intended effect of confusing and annoying the pompous Trojan. Classic! When he was well out of earshot, Ricardo burst out into laughter and slapped me on the shoulder.