The Chalupa Conundrum

by Lyle Christie

  “Are you always so aroused after exiting the shower?” she asked.

  “Do you always stand around naked when you dry your hair?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, I often get boners from showering. It’s probably the negative ions from the moving water.”

  “Yeah, probably,” she responded.

  We returned to our guest quarters and got dressed, and I chose shorts and a button up short sleeve shirt, while she went with her usual sexy Tomb Raider-meets Indiana Jones outfit. This time, however, she dappled on a few drops of perfume as well as some lipstick. Interesting. We packed our things, and fifteen minutes later we placed our bags in the FJ Cruiser and were soon heading south along the dirt road on our way to the Von Träger estate. We reached the little intersection and made the left turn and passed the no trespassing sign I had seen the day before.

  “How far is it to Von Träger’s?” I asked.

  “As the crow flies, not that far, but, on this winding dirt road, it’s a bit longer.”

  “At least it’s scenic.”

  I wasn’t exaggerating, for around us was a beautifully green jungle that was rich with wild flowers, birds, and the occasional small mammal scurrying for cover. We came upon a lovely river, and the road skirted it for another quarter mile until up ahead I saw the Von Träger estate looming in the distance. It sat atop a hill and rose out of the jungle like a storybook castle, and, while it looked a little out of place here, it would have been right at home sitting beside Germany’s Rhine River.

  “Holy shit! I’d say that’s a hell of a lot more than a country estate, and the weird part is that it looks identical to Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria,” I said.

  “You’re correct. In fact, it’s a perfect replica, as, apparently, Lars’s father wanted to bring a little bit of his homeland to Costa Rica.”

  “More than a little bit. That place is fucking huge and really looks identical to the original.”

  “Oh, have you actually visited Neuschwanstein castle?”

  “I have, though I was lucky enough to have managed it as part of a work assignment.”

  “As a private investigator?”

  “No, it was while I worked for the government.”

  “Sounds mysterious.”

  “Not exactly, but it made for some very good memories,” I said, leaving out the fact that they involved a certain german intelligence agent named Heidi.

  Just ahead of us on the road lay an old European style drawbridge that architecturally matched the style of the castle, and it crossed over a fairly deep section of river. It also had a little stone house that served as a manned checkpoint, and, as we neared it, a fairly handsome uniformed man around twenty-five stepped out to greet us. He obviously recognized Alessandra’s vehicle, because he had a smile on his face as wide as the FJ’s grill.

  “Hello, Alessandra. It’s nice to see you again,” he said, in accented English.

  She stepped down out of the car and embraced the young man, who, of course, proceeded to kiss her—on the lips. First Ernesto and now this joker. Sweet Jesus! Was there any man in Costa Rica she didn’t kiss on a regular basis—besides me, that is? I was starting to think that Professor Hot Sauce probably eclipsed the Chalupan ruins as the most popular attraction in these parts. Who cared about a thousand year old hand carved waterfall or some dusty old ruins when you could feast your eyes upon a woman with brains, beauty, and the curves of a supermodel?

  “Hello, Carlos, how are things?” she asked.

  “Better now that you’re here.”

  “Oh, is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, it just gets lonely out here in the country.”

  “It beats being stuck in an office,” she said.

  “Well, only when you visit. So, who’s your passenger?”

  “This is Tag Finn, and he has an appointment with the big guy.”

  “Ah yes, we were expecting someone—though I’m a little shocked to see you arrive via this side.”

  “We came from the ruins.”

  “Oh, I see, well, what brings you to see the big guy?” Carlos asked.

  “I’m here overseeing the investigation into the disappearance of the missing UCLA team.”

  “I don’t envy your job, my friend, as this situation is highly unusual, and incidents like that don’t usually happen out here. At least not since I started working for Von Träger.”

  “And how long is that?” I asked.

  “About four years.”

  “You don’t happen to have any theories on the matter do you?” I asked.

  “Not really. All I know is the gossip.”

  “Really? What would that be?”

  “Well, there are rumors floating around that King Chalupa has risen from the grave to enact vengeance upon the outsiders. Of course, that sounds pretty ridiculous.”

  Alessandra and I looked at each other and exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

  “Well, we better get going. I imagine Lars is on a tight schedule,” Alessandra said.

  “Always,” Carlos responded.

  Alessandra got back in the car, hit the gas, and we continued on up the hill, though, now that we were officially on the estate, the road was paved smooth with cobblestones, and the landscape was well-manicured and crisscrossed by paths, fountains, and ornate statues.

  “So, it’s Lars, not Mr Von Träger? That sounds awfully chummy,” I said.

  “We’ve known each other since I arrived, and we cross paths fairly often at social functions.”

  “And I imagine he kisses you at every opportunity.”

  “Yeah, though he also pats my ass and fondles my breasts.”

  “I guess I need to become a billionaire and start going to a tanning salon.”

  We reached the summit and parked in front of a grand entryway, and a man in the same uniform as Carlos opened Alessandra’s door. He waited for her to exit and, needless to say, kissed her—though this time on the cheek. I joined her, and we headed onto a stone paved pathway that led past an amazing swimming pool, which kind of reminded me of something you’d find at the Playboy Mansion. It was probably as large as an Olympic sized pool, but it wasn’t rectangular and instead was shaped more like a piece of Rotini pasta. Its sides were a series of curves, and in one area it stretched into a rather private area that housed a smaller though similarly shaped Jacuzzi. In the middle of this aquatic playground was a strikingly beautiful woman that looked eerily similar to one of the world famous supermodels currently dominating the many media outlets. This woman, like her famous counterpart, had a figure that would break men’s hearts and leave their balls hanging empty and dry from overly vigorous masturbation—something I was able to discern due to the fact that she was wearing a red string bikini that was indeed hardly more than string. It was a lovely piece of swimwear—something my penis would attest to, as it was currently experiencing some unplanned growth. As we drew nearer, she heard our footsteps and looked up from her magazine and smiled.

  “¡Hola, ¿cómo estás,” she said.

  “Excelente ahora que he visto a verte,” I said, which translated as excellent now that I’ve seen you.

  She smiled.

  “Ah—if I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re American.”

  “Yes, and, if I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re Brazilian.”

  “Very good. I’m impressed. Most Americans can’t tell one accent from another.”

  “Most Americans can’t find Brazil on a map, but I definitely know geography, accents, and, more importantly, women.”

  Her full lips formed into an alluring smile.

  “Oh, so if I were man, you wouldn’t be able to tell where I’m from?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, because I wouldn’t give a fuck.”

  Her smile transformed to a laugh, and I found the woman was almost uncomfortably beautiful with her long dark hair and smooth, tan skin that offset the lightest bl
ue eyes I had ever seen. Brazil was an interesting place genetically, as it had a colorful mix of different ethnicities that resulted in the creation of an inordinate amount of beautiful people. Case in point being the woman before me.

  “Hello, Fabiana,” Alessandra interjected.

  Holy fucking supermodels! She looked like the girl on the magazine covers because she actually was the girl on the magazine covers. Fabiana was a famous Brazilian-born supermodel who had also been on no less than two Sports Illustrated Swimsuit covers and was in every Victoria’s Secret catalog in recent memory—not that I spent an inordinate amount time leafing through the coveted periodical. Apparently, Lars had pretty extraordinary taste when it came to women.

  “Hello, who is your charming friend?” Fabiana asked.

  “This is Tag Finn, and he’s here to see Lars.”

  “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Tag. You know, I like American men. As a whole you are less concerned about the whole machismo thing and more in touch with your feelings—which I personally find to be very sexy”

  “Machismo is for men lacking in other areas,” I said.

  “¡Hola, Alessandra,” a man bellowed from the other side of the pool.

  I looked over to see a man in his middle to late forties with shaggy dark brown hair and just enough facial growth to call it a goatee. He was tall, dark, and handsome with piercing blue eyes, and I could instantly see how he managed to corral such a lovely female companion. He walked over to join us, and his perfectly white teeth were glowing beneath his smile as he regarded Alessandra. He embraced her then landed a big ol’ kiss right on her lips, though I think he held just a bit too long for a casual acquaintance, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he followed it up by patting her ass and fondling her breasts.

  “I didn’t know you would be coming with Mr. Finn,” he said.

  “Four times,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh nothing,” I said, just as Alessandra elbowed me in the ribs.

  “Yes, I have been designated as his liaison while he oversees the search efforts for the missing UCLA team.”

  “I am very sorry about your people and want to help in any way I can,” he said, as he turned to me.

  “I appreciate your concern. I’m Tag, by the way.”

  “Lars,” he said, holding out his hand.

  We shook, and his grip was a little firm but not overbearing. So far, I liked him.

  “What say we relax and enjoy a beverage and talk right here on the patio,” he said.

  I looked over and spied Fabiana basking beside the pool then turned my attention back to Lars.

  “Sounds like an excellent idea.”

  He led us over to a shaded table then called out his drink order to a young woman who was standing at the periphery, and she left us but soon returned carrying a tray with a pitcher and four glasses. She filled each one with a milky colored beverage then nodded at Lars before heading into the house.

  “I hope you like Horchata,” Lars said.

  Horchata was a rice based drink, creamy in texture, and flavored with cinnamon and vanilla.

  “Love it,” I said.

  I took a sip and discovered that it was delicious and provided the perfect respite from the heat and humidity. A moment later, Fabiana joined us, and her scantily clothed state somehow made the drink ever so perceptibly more delicious. Fortunately, my sunglasses were just dark enough that the rest of the people at the table couldn’t see that I was enjoying a long unobstructed peak at Fabiana’s goodies. It wasn’t often that I had the pleasure of gazing at a supermodel in the flesh.

  “So, Tag, how can I help?” Lars asked.

  “Well, any information you have concerning Chalupa would be of assistance.”

  “I’ve already told the authorities everything I know, but feel free to ask any questions you think they might have missed.”

  “Well, I’m curious as to who might have anything to gain by thwarting your plans for Chalupa.”

  “That’s a good question, but I can’t imagine anyone having any interest whatsoever. Chalupa is pretty far off the beaten path, and the land isn’t particularly valuable.”

  “If it’s not too personal, do you mind if I ask what compelled you to do this Chalupa project?”

  “I wanted to preserve my history—well, half of it anyway. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m fifty percent Chalupan on my mother’s side. My father came here from Germany, and, in the course of building his business empire, met and fell in love with a Chalupan woman. The more he got to know her and this area and its history, the more he loved it and wanted to preserve it. He started buying up the land to make sure it didn’t get developed, but he died before he could achieve his final dream of buying the remaining land, which includes the city and the thousand or so acres around it. Having grown up in both worlds, new and old, I understand how important it is to complete his legacy.”

  “I notice you have a laboratory near the ruins. Are they working on anything that could be particularly valuable to a competitor?”

  “Anything is possible, but it wouldn’t make any sense. There isn’t anything growing there that isn’t growing everywhere else in the Costa Rican rain forests, and there’s certainly nothing that warrants kidnapping an entire group of people,” he said, though there was something unusual in his tone.

  “Well, somebody out there obviously has a motive. In fact, on the flight here, one of your fellow countrymen stole my passport and tried to knock me out with a shot of ketamine.”

  “See what I mean about latin men and machismo?” Fabiana interjected.

  “I do,” I said.

  “Well, not all Latin men suffer from such idiosyncrasies—just look at Lars,” Alessandra said.

  “Thank you, Alessandra,” Lars said, as he gave her a warm smile.

  Interesting—Professor Hot Sauce was quick to come to the defense of Lars.

  “I must say, Finn, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps your altercation was an isolated incident.”

  “I might have thought so had the very same asshole not made another run at me on the University campus.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and he’s obviously not working for the board of tourism. He shoved a gun in my face and attempted to kidnap me off the street.”

  “Did you call the police and report the incident?” he asked, sounding concerned.

  “No, as calling the police would have taken up more time than it was worth. I already got his name on the plane, so I figured it was easier just to settle the score personally at that moment.”

  “And who was this man?” Lars asked.

  I detected something in his tone that bordered on unease, but, as this was our first meeting, I didn’t know him well enough to be sure.

  “A rather clean cut and athletic guy named Hector Gomez. Sound familiar?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately no,” he said, but there was definitely something in his tone and facial expression that made me question the sincerity of his answer.

  Interesting. Had I stumbled upon a clue or perhaps some kind of connection between Hector and Lars? But, what could Lars possibly gain from sending someone after me? I was trying to find the scientists who were making it possible for him to pursue his grand plans of a Chalupan cultural heritage site.

  We all quietly sipped our horchata, and I used the moment to get another peak at Fabiana. She was quite a woman, though she was by no means more beautiful than Alessandra. Still, there was just something about her. I suppose it might have to do with her official status as a supermodel and the fact that she oozed sex appeal and had the kind of looks and figure that caused men to prematurely ejaculate the moment she walked into a room. As if she could sense my gaze, she made a point of adjusting her bikini top, with the result being that I got an ever so tiny peak at her right nipple. It was dark, pokey, and made a point of gazing back at me—as if it were saying a friendly hello. Her pointy protuberance couldn’t
see it at the moment but my penis was doing its best to respond—hardening being its most obvious form of communication. I decided to try and clear my mind of such improper musings, and that entailed attempting to steer the conversation in a new and awkward direction.

  “This is going to sound a little silly, but I’m curious what you think of the King Chalupa myth.”

  Alessandra eyed me nervously, which I suspect meant that she was praying I wouldn’t mention our little adventure last night. As a member of the Board of Antiquities, it wouldn’t do much for her reputation to be telling ghost stories. Either way, Lars looked at us rather sincerely as he responded.

  “My mother used to tell me stories about King Chalupa and his minions each night at bedtime. I, of course, believed them—until I was around seven. It was basically the same as Santa Claus, though he didn’t bring any presents—quite the opposite in fact. Instead, bad boys and girls would be taken in the night and spirited off to work as slaves in the dungeon of his pyramid.”

  “Wow, I think Santa presents a much more positive message. Be good and get presents versus be bad and end up as a slave to a ghost king. Jesus, if my mom had told me that story before bed, I probably would have shit myself to sleep each night.”

  Alessandra kicked me in the shin, probably for using such colorful language in front of her kissing buddy. Apparently, Lars wasn’t offended and instead chuckled amiably. It was interesting that he was the second person who compared King Chalupa to Santa Claus, so it was too bad there weren’t any existing carvings or pictographs of the king, so I could see if he wore red and carried a lot of weight in his midsection.

  “Santa is definitely a better childhood myth,” he said.

  “So, needless to say, I take it you don’t think he’s still around?” I asked.