“I hope you’re right. Beer?” I asked.
“Love one.”
I went inside and retrieved a beer for Ernesto, and the three of us took a seat at the table.
“To Alessandra, the most beautiful woman in Costa Rica,” he said, holding his beer aloft.
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, clinking his bottle.
Alessandra joined our toast and looked slightly embarrassed by Ernesto’s bold compliment. It was always nice to receive praise, but it could also be awkward and often difficult to find the right words to respond. If you said thank you, it acknowledged their statement and kind of felt like an admission of vanity. Alessandra’s look of discomfort, however, confirmed she felt a little awkward, and that made her even more attractive in my eyes.
“So, what’s for dinner?” I asked.
“I didn’t have time to go to a proper store, obviously, but we keep the lab kitchen pretty well-stocked, and Nate helped me put together a lovely combination meal to honor both our countries. So, we’re having a mixture of American and Costa Rican cuisine.”
“And what would that be?”
“Grass-fed feel-good hotdogs with onions, cheese, beans, and chilies. Of course, none of that would be complete without some fine liqueur and Tres Leches cake for dessert. I believe it is the perfect camping meal.”
Yeah, perfect all right—if you wanted to produce enough methane to power a small town and gain about fifty pounds of pure flubber. Tres Leches wasn’t exactly low calorie, and sweet Lord—hotdogs, beans, onions, and chilies? Sure, I loved all of those food items, but not if I had to share a room with Professor Hot Sauce. Perhaps I should be calling Ernesto the Cock Blocking Bandito, as this entire meal might have been created to drive a great big odorous wedge between Alessandra and me.
“All right, I’m going to start dinner,” he said, as he grabbed his bag of food items and stepped up into the Roach Coach and set to work.
Alessandra, of course, decided to join him in the tiny kitchen, and I could hear them chatting away as Ernesto sliced and diced his way into her heart, all the while probably doing his best to get his spicy Chorizo sausage into close proximity with her lady taco. How romantic. Oh well, fate seemed to have its own lame-ass plans, so who was I to interfere? I leaned back, put my feet up on one of the other plastic chairs, and sipped my beer while I watched the remaining sunlight turn the sky from a turquoise to a dark navy blue. The stars were just starting to appear, and, had I not been sharing my beautiful companion with an overly touchy, charming, and intelligent third wheel as well as pining for my missing ex-girlfriend, it would have been a perfect moment.
Just as I set down my empty bottle, Ernesto stepped down out of the kitchen and brought me another ice cold beer and some chips and guacamole. Goddammit! How was I supposed to dislike the fucker when he acted like the perfect host? We clinked bottles, and he soon disappeared back into the kitchen, where he and Alessandra spent the next fifteen minutes finalizing dinner. Meanwhile, I spent the time drinking my beer and gazing at the countryside and pondering my Chalupa Conundrum. I’d like to think the missing UCLA team simply wandered off into the jungle and got lost, but the evidence, or should I say lack thereof, would hint at them having been spirited away by supernatural beings. Of course, seeing Ernesto’s complete lack of superstition concerning the myth of King Chalupa made me feel a little silly for even pondering it as an option, but it also brought up the darker question of what the hell actually happened to the team. Fuckinzee—I had been on site for a full day and managed to achieve nothing more than a minor case of blue balls.
A noise came from the roach coach, and I looked over to see Alessandra and Ernesto carrying out our dinner plates. They placed them on the table, took a seat, and there before me were three massive mountains of food, and each dish contained two hot dogs smothered under their various toppings, with the number one being chili and cheese. This was a gastrointestinal free for all, and, while my palate was somewhat optimistic, my intestines were apprehensive, for my butthole was already feeling minutely dilated in nervous anticipation. The sad part was that I loved beans, and it didn’t matter if they were white, kidney, pinto, black, or refried. You name the variety, and I’d eat it. In fact, back in high school, I’d often come home after my last class of the day and wolf down a can of beans without a single thought about the consequences it would have on the structural integrity of my boxers or the air quality of my bedroom. Ah—the recklessness of youth.
I dug in and took a rather messy bite and quickly discovered that dinner was delicious. Ernesto, in his haphazard way, had found a fabulous culinary hybrid between our two countries. Unfortunately, I was sure every bite probably equalled about eight to ten large earth pounding, pants ripping farts. Dinner would be no less than eight large bites, which meant I was looking to expel around sixty-four to eighty farts. That’s a lot of fucking farts, and more than an average person could keep buttoned down in their butthole, which also meant that I’d need to sneak out for some serious open air alone time, and, as a religious non-smoker, I wouldn’t even have sneaking out for a cigarette as an adequate excuse to disappear. Wonderful.
“Ernesto, this is absolutely delicious,” I said.
“Thank you, Tag, and might I say you don’t have to worry about the beans. I thoroughly soaked them before coming here, and that should greatly reduce and most likely eliminate the gas.”
“Well, I thank you, my underwear thanks you, and I’m pretty sure Professor Hot Sauce would be thanking you if she had any idea the effect they can have on me.”
“Don’t worry, Tag, you’re not the only one who gets gas from beans. Face it. Farting is a fact of life,” she said.
“I just hope you remember you said that when dinner starts to make its glorious comeback.”
“So, Finn, let’s hear your story. How is it you became a private investigator?” Ernesto asked.
“Oh, it would probably just bore you to death.”
“Hardly, Tag has led a very interesting life and done everything from Military service to government work before becoming a private investigator,” Alessandra said.
“Oh, well, please do tell,” Ernesto said, looking legitimately interested.
I kept it mostly short and sweet, but threw in enough goodies to make it interesting, and, when I finished, he looked at me with his piercing blue eyes alight with interest.
“That’s sound like a pretty amazing life story to me,” he said.
“It’s a living, and, as with any job, it has its ups and downs.”
“It must be much more exciting than working in a lab.”
“At times, but what you do can help a hell of a lot more people.”
“Only when we get lucky.”
“How often do you get lucky?”
“Maybe once a year—if we’re lucky,” he said, which made us all chuckle.
“But, in all seriousness, finding the right plant or compound is only the beginning. After that, comes the serious scientific work, which includes chemical breakdown and analysis, in-depth studies, clinical trials, and, assuming we’ve found something useful, approval by the various agencies—with your FDA being one of the more important.”
“That does sound like a lot of work, so you must be dedicated.”
“Indeed.”
“So, did you always love science and nature?” I asked.
“Growing up in this area, it was a given.”
“No shit! You’re Chalupan?”
“Fifty percent according to my mother. She was full-blooded Chalupan, but I never met my father, nor did my mother ever speak much about him. All I know is that he was a member of the Peace Corps.”
“That would explain your height and more European features.”
“Yes, I suppose,” he said, with a little sadness in his voice.
Perhaps I had stumbled onto a sore subject.
“Your parents were obviously very good looking people,” Alessandra chimed in.
“Than
k you, and might I say that yours were as well.”
She smiled bashfully at Ernesto, and I was once again feeling like a third wheel, though I might have felt a little more included if either of those fuckers had made mention of my good looking parents. Oh well, time to move the conversation along and do a little cockblocking of my own.
“How did you manage to get such an excellent education?” I asked.
“The same way most people around here did. Thomas Von Träger.”
“From what I’ve heard, he really did a lot for the people here.”
“Yes, and his son is continuing the tradition.”
“Do you know Lars very well?”
“Of course, we’re as close as brothers, as we grew up together. In fact, I spent so much time in their household that the senior Von Träger was the closest thing I had to a father, which, I suppose, is probably part of the reason he paid for my education then gave me a job in the family business.”
“A really good job.”
“Yes, but I also worked very hard to get where I am. I graduated at the top of my class at the University of Costa Rica then went on to earn a PhD in both botany and biochemistry at UC Berkeley.”
“So, working in pharmaceuticals was a perfect fit for you.”
“Yes, I love the combination of field and lab work. I think offices are for people who don’t like to get their hands dirty.”
“As the head of operations for Von Träger Pharmaceuticals, it can’t be too easy to get time in the field.”
“Strangely, it gives me the power to do what I want, which is to get the hell out of the office whenever I can.”
“How does Dr. Wainright feel about your visits?”
“That’s a strange question, Tag,” Alessandra interjected.
“It’s just that I thought I detected something between you two back at the lab.”
Ernesto smiled.
“No wonder you’re a private investigator. You are very intuitive, and, as you suspect, there is indeed something between us, though it’s mostly coming from him. You see, Dr. Wainright and I started working for Von Träger Pharmaceuticals at the same time, but, as you already know, I was promoted more quickly up the corporate ladder. I suspect Wainright thinks my rapid ascent is based on my close personal relationship with the company’s owner, but the reality is that I work very hard and excelled at my job, and, unfortunately, it alienated me from some of my colleagues—Wainright being the most obvious.”
“It’s almost impossible not to alienate someone along the way.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“So, are you two able to play nicely together on Project H?”
“We are, but mainly because I officially started it then was nice enough to hand it over to him to complete the analysis and testing stage in order to give him some of the credit.”
“That’s pretty nice of you.”
“I suppose, but the bottom line is that we are both working to find ways to cure diseases and help people. It shouldn’t be about jealousy or personal grievances.”
Shit, Ernesto actually was an honorable stand up guy and worthy of any affection Professor Hot Sauce threw his way. Fucker.
“Can I ask what the H stands for?”
“Of course, it’s more of a random designation that’s designed to throw off any of our more nosey competitors, as the H is simply from the word Huitaca, which is the name for an ancient Chibcha goddess.”
“Kind of like Bachué?” I asked, in reference to the goddess for which my favorite Chalupan was named.
Ernesto laughed.
“Yes, but not exactly big breasted.”
“I see you know your Chibcha deities,” I said.
“Well, what man doesn’t remember a goddess with big breasts?”
“Good point.”
We both laughed, but Alessandra remained quiet, and, for once, the Kissing Bandito and I were the ones bonding. With dinner finished, we cleared our plates, and Ernesto declared it was time to serve the Tres Leches cake. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I had any room left in my stomach, but Tres Leches, when it was made properly, was absolutely delicious. Ernesto disappeared inside the roach coach and returned a moment later carrying the cake, three plates, and a knife. It might have been more prudent just to bring three pieces, but I suspect the bastard imagined we might want more after sampling the tasty treat. He set it on the table, and I could smell the vanilla and cinnamon and suddenly felt my stomach making room for dessert.
“Did you make this yourself?” I asked.
“I wish I could make it this good, but this beauty comes from a little bakery in the town to the south. It was made fresh this morning, so it should be delicious.”
He cut three pieces then placed one on each plate and handed them out.
“Please, dig in,” he said.
Alessandra and I did as instructed then looked at each other with expressions of wide eyed gastronomic ecstasy. I’d had Tres Leches on many occasions, but this was world class, and that fucker of a wonderful host had been correct in bringing the entire cake to the table. No sooner had I finished my first piece than I was cutting off another and digging in, boldly filling a stomach that was already full. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only pig in the pen, as both Ernesto and Alessandra also had another piece. As I swallowed my last bite, I officially waved the flag of surrender and decided I couldn’t eat another morsel.
“Damn you, Ernesto!” I said, placing my fork down on the plate.
“You’re welcome, but I have another special treat,” he responded with a smile.
“God no,” I muttered.
“Afraid so,” he said, reaching under the table and lifting up a bottle of Cacique Guaro.
It was one of Costa Rica’s most popular liqueurs, and it was distilled from sugar cane and incredibly high in purity similar to a top shelf vodka.
“What are you? A Genie—and if not, then where in the hell have you been hiding that bottle all night? Or should I not ask?”
“You didn’t notice the pained expression as I sat down?”
I laughed at Ernesto’s inference that he’d been hiding the bottle in his butt.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before you two bonded over something, though I would have thought it would have at least been over boobs,” Alessandra said.
“The night is still young,” I responded.
“Yes, and there are technically two boobs in the immediate vicinity,” Ernesto added.
“Four, if you also count mine,” Alessandra said.
Professor Hot Sauce had made a decent joke at our expense, and it annoyingly only made her more attractive.
“Good one,” I responded.
“Well then—in honor of all four boobs, I shall hereby bring forth the highlight of the evening,” Ernesto said, as he set down three shot glasses and poured us each a round.
“To friends, old and new,” he said, as we clinked glasses.
We relaxed under the beautiful Costa Rican night sky and sipped the liqueur and enjoyed its distinctly clean taste. The conversation continued on, as did the drinks, and Ernesto, while serving as bartender, also turned out to be a pretty decent amateur astronomer, and he pointed out Omega Centauri and the Eta Carinae Nebula—a chunk of sky which some would argue is even more magnificent than the Orion Nebula. After about two hours of star gazing and liqueur sipping, it was getting late and about time to call it a night.
“I should be going,” Ernesto said.
“Are you going to be OK? Perhaps we should give you a ride back to the lab,” Alessandra said.
“Ridiculous. It’s a beautiful night, and I could use the exercise after such a large meal.”
“Me too. I’ll walk you back,” she said.
What the hell was that maneuver? Either Professor Hot Sauce was being extremely polite or trying to get some alone time with the Kissing Bandito! Now I had the green shade of envy to go with my blue balls, and no sooner had that thought crossed my mind than Ernesto
spoke up.
“In that case, I think Tag should go as well. I would prefer you not walk back alone in the dark.”
Wow—Ernesto just officially un-cock blocked me, so I guess that fucker actually was as cool as he seemed. We cleaned up our mess, then Ernesto packed up his things, and Alessandra and I made a quick stop at the bathroom to pee and brush our teeth. Apparently, she was equally fastidious about dental hygiene, and, once we were properly minty and ready to go, Alessandro joined Ernesto while I made a quick stop at our guest cabin to grab my pistol and slip my shoulder holster on under a button up shirt. It was probably a ridiculous accessory, but, as Louis Pasteur said, Chance favors the prepared mind—and I thought it would be a lot easier to keep my mind prepared if I had a gun at my side. I joined the others, and we set off under the stars with only a partial moon to guide our steps. The sound of the jungle’s nighttime inhabitants filled the air, and, around us, insects, birds, and all manner of animals foraged, hunted, and buzzed about in the darkness, though, busy as they might have been, none were as boisterous as the three homo sapiens loping along the dirt road. Several hundred meters into the trek, my thoughts started to drift back to my Chalupa conundrum.
“So, Ernesto, what do you think about Von Träger’s plan to make this all a Chalupan national heritage site?”
“I think it’s the best thing that could ever happen to this place.”
“You don’t worry about it drawing in too many tourists and turning everything and everyone into a kind of sideshow?”
“Not at all. The Chalupa People are an amazing culture, and it’s about time the world knew more about them—besides, they will at last officially own the land they have occupied for centuries, and they can make it as admissible or private as they feel is necessary.”
“Which of course brings us back to my main problem—namely what in the hell happened to the UCLA team.”
“It really is one hell of a mystery,” he said.
“Assuming they weren’t carried off by King Chalupa and his minions, do you have any idea who stands to gain from the Chalupa deal falling through? Are their any rival drug companies or other native factions that would sabotage the deal?”
The Chalupa Conundrum Page 22