The Chalupa Conundrum

by Lyle Christie

  “It’s possible. We both really like tits.”

  “Yeah, but so do I.”

  “The difference being you actually get to touch them.”

  “That’s not true. Beeber has Rachel, and you touched that murderous skank’s boobies in Hawaii.”

  “I suppose, but that was an isolated incident.”

  “Speaking of isolated incidents—what’s the name of that supermodel you’re in love with?”

  “Fabiana Castaletta, though she usually just goes by Fabiana. Oh my God, dude—have you seen her latest spread in Vogue?” he asked.

  Just mentioning her name made Doug go into a stream of consciousness that bordered on bonzo.

  “Wait—you read Vogue?” I asked.

  “No, but I look at it occasionally. Anyway, have you seen it?”

  “Hell no, but I have seen Fabiana’s latest spread.”

  “Which magazine?”

  “It’s not in a magazine. It’s on my phone. Hold on, I’m going to text you a pic.”

  I brought up my messaging app, selected the pic of Fabiana and me together at the pool, then hit send, and a second later I heard him laugh.

  “You’re getting pretty good with Photoshop, but I know for a fact that she’s never revealed her breasts in any pictorial,” he said.

  “It’s legit, as I met her down here in Costa Rica.”

  “What the fuck are you doing there?”

  “Working on a weird missing persons case, and get this, Estelle is one of the missing persons.”

  “No way. That’s fate trying to get you two back together.”

  “Doubtful, as she’s not only missing but fucking engaged.”

  “Again? What the fuck?”

  “No shit, and get this—she called me the night that she and all her colleagues disappeared and said that she needed my help.”

  “Maybe she’s trying to reconnect.”

  “That’s what I was wondering, though it’s probably just wishful thinking.”

  “Wait a minute. Was she part of the archaeological team from UCLA that went missing?”

  “Yeah, how’d you guess?”

  “Anytime Americans abroad go missing, we get word just in case it’s some kind of terrorist attack.”

  “Well, so far, I have no idea who’s responsible, but I doubt it’s terrorists, and, you’ll be interested to hear that my most likely suspect is a thousand year old ghost king and his evil minions.”

  “I assume you’re joking.”

  “No, and when Estelle called me I heard a crazy roaring sound in the background before she screamed and hung up. Then, to make matters even worse, I went to the Chalupa ruins and was chased around the jungle by the apparently real minions.”

  “Now, I know you’re fucking with me, so enough about your ridiculous missing persons case. What’s the deal with that pic?”

  “I told you. It’s legit. I met her as part of my investigation.”

  “Bullshit. It can’t be real.”

  “Send it to Beeber and have him run it through his latest facial recognition software, as he’ll be able to tell if it’s Photoshopped.”

  “I will—just so I can rub it in your face.”

  “Good, and, in the meantime, I need you to find me some information about someone.”

  “Wow, how unusual.”

  “Don’t make me call your boss.”

  My former best friend from the Air Force, a guy I called Corn, had gone on to become the Deputy Director of the CIA and was, more or less, Doug’s boss. Of course, he was more or less the boss of practically everyone in the CIA except for the actual Director.

  “For your information, since the whole Hawaii affair, Corn and I have become really good friends. We have lunch everyday, and he’s even invited me to join the CIA bowling team. We’re playing the NSA next week.”

  “Well then, be sure to tell him I say hello next time you two are out playing with your balls.”

  “I will. Now, give me the fucker’s name.”

  “Hector Gomez. He’s a costa Rican citizen, and I’m assuming you have access to their databases.”

  “I have access to all databases.”

  “Except the one with available attractive females.”

  “I’ll have you know that I have access to that one as well. It’s called the internet. Now, is that all you need?”

  “For now, and don’t forget to forward that picture to Beeber.”

  “He’ll be so proud of your Photoshop skills. They’re greatly improved since you placed our faces on the picture of the two cows fucking.”

  “Care to place a wager on its legitimacy?” I asked.

  “I would feel bad taking your money.”

  “Alrighty then, I’ll talk to you later, amigo.”

  I hung up and smiled to myself as I pictured Doug’s face when Beeber told him the picture was legitimate. Events like this were few and far between and would live on to haunt Doug and Beeber for years to come. I turned and threw my feet up onto the couch and stretched out as I brought up Fabiana’s text. She was quite a girl and one I hoped to see again. I typed into the little text window. Your pasture is about as green as it’s ever going to get. Would love to see you again! XXOO, Tag. I hit send then set my phone down on the table, closed my eyes, and decided to sneak in a little nap. It had been a hectic couple of days, and being in the Military had taught me the valuable lesson that it was important to rest when you could. My awareness faded, and thoughts of Professor Hot Sauce and the delectable Fabiana played across my mind as I slowly drifted off to sleep.

  A knock at the door brought me awake, and I opened my eyes to realize it was officially nighttime. Shit. How long had I been asleep? I looked at the clock and was surprised that it had been two hours when it only felt like ten minutes. I rose from the couch, and I still felt a little groggy as I went over and looked through the little peephole to discover it was Alessandra. I opened the door and found her looking particularly lovely in a white evening dress, so she had apparently done a little freshening up of her own.

  “Are you going to invite me in?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sorry. I was just admiring the view.”

  “Probably not as exciting as a supermodel.”

  “Honestly, you two could have easily pursued each other’s careers with equal success.”

  She smiled.

  “I’ll take that compliment. You ready for dinner?” she asked.

  “Yeah, just let me change and brush my teeth, and we can go.”

  She walked in and waited in the living room while I adjourned to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, then splashed on a little cologne. I moved to the bedroom, slid on some black stretchy adventure pants and my shoulder holster, then threw a button up shirt over my T-shirt to hide my gun. I checked the mirror and decided I looked nondescript enough and rejoined Alessandra.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “A place down on La Calle de Amargura,” she said.

  “Ah—the Street of Bitterness. Are we going to the Tavarua Surf & Skate Bar again?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Yeah—probably a good idea to avoid that place, and, speaking of which, will we be meeting your grad students this time?”

  “After what happened before—that’s a definite no, as well.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Oh, are you feeling lonely without your supermodel?”

  “Maybe a little. Are you missing your billionaire.”

  “Maybe a little, so I guess it’s good we have each other.”

  We walked downstairs, and Alessandra led me to her car, which meant we would be driving. It was probably a good idea considering what happened the last time we walked to a restaurant. We climbed in and were soon heading the two blocks away to a bar and restaurant called Restaurante Bigote Sucio de Rico. In English, the restaurant’s name translated as Rico’s Dirty Mustache, and, according to Alexandra, it was a very happening night spot with good food and an excellent bar. I wasn’t
sure if a dirty mustache sounded very appetizing, but I was willing to trust Hot Sauce on this one. We parked around back in their private lot then made our way out to the street and entered the restaurant, where we joined a number of fellow diners who were likely either college students or faculty. The place was crowded, and when we finally reached the hostess, we learned that the main dining room would be at least an hour wait, but we could get a table and eat in the bar right away.

  “Bar is fine with me. What do you say, Professor?” I asked Alessandra.

  “Bar, it is.”

  The lovely young hostess, also probably a college student judging by her age and proximity to the University, took us to a nice quiet corner table where we had an excellent view of the bar. A male server named Michael appeared a moment later to take our drink order, and, as expected, he lit up like a Christmas Tree when he regarded Alessandra. It made sense, as no sane or straight man would likely feel differently, while she was wearing her particularly revealing white dress. Ten minutes later, Alessandra ordered us Casado, a Costa Rican culinary delight that consisted of grilled steak served with onions and avocado as well as beans, rice, fried plantains, and a cabbage salad with tomato and carrot.

  “So, now that we’ve moved past our differences, what in the hell are we going to argue about?” I asked.

  “Hopefully nothing, and instead we’ll just talk like normal people.”

  “OK, so what do we talk about?”

  “We could start with work or Chalupa.”

  “As we’ve dealt enough with Chalupa today, why don’t you tell me about some of the areas where you’ve worked in the Middle East,” I said.

  Alessandra went on to tell me about all the interesting places she’d worked in the Middle East, and, coincidentally, one of them had been Jordan, which I too had visited while on one of my recent private investigation jobs.

  “So, were you working at or near Petra?” I asked.

  Petra was a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage Site that was rife with history and amazing structures, so it would make sense that she might have been working in that general area.

  “I was. Have you been there?” She asked.

  “Yeah, I was also there for work, though it wasn’t exactly a planned trip.”

  “Oh, well that sounds intriguing. Tell me more.”

  I explained that I had a job which entailed getting a brilliant scientist out of the United Arab Emirates, but, during the course of our rather tumultuous exfiltration, we ended up on a sketchy third world airline and were forced to escape from armed assailants by climbing onto cargo pallets that were being air dropped to a remote village in Jordan.

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “As serious as a boner at a waterfall.”

  She smiled.

  “That’s pretty serious,” she said.

  “Yes—yes it is, but you’ll be happy to hear that we survived the trip down unscathed only to be greeted by the entire village.”

  “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

  “Yeah, well I suppose I should also mention that we were wearing tuxedos.”

  “Why in the hell were you so dressed up?”

  “We didn’t have time to pack our things before leaving the United Arab Emirates, and we literally left with the clothes on our back. Of course, the best part was when we were forced to share a camel for the trek from the village to Petra and arrived to find an American church group touring the ruins.”

  “I’m guessing they were a little curious about your ride and your clothing choice.”

  “Yeah, and so I told them we were on our honeymoon.”

  She was taking a sip of her pinot noir, and it was just funny enough that she snorted and nearly sent it out her nose, though if she had actually done it, I think it would have been a lot funnier than the story, but, fortunately for the table cloth, she managed to swallow it without losing a drop.

  Our evening was officially going extremely well in spite of the brief setback of the sexting incident at the apartment, and we were talking like nice, normal people. We were both also starving from our long day and therefore particularly excited when the food arrived. Alessandra had chosen wisely in taking me to the Dirty Mustache, as I found it decidedly delicious. I’m not sure why Rico never cleaned his mustache, but I could see it getting dirty from him wolfing down his delicious food all day and night. We finished dinner and came to a mild dilemma when our waiter Michael returned and asked if we wanted dessert. I generally abstained from the extra calories but decided to leave it up to my hostess. Just as she was about to order something called Profiteroles de Chocolate, her phone rang, and she pulled it out of her purse, saw the caller name, then looked over at me guiltily.

  “Shit, it’s Lars. Do you mind if I take it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Actually I wasn’t sure if I minded or not. The last three days had gone by so quickly and been such an emotional roller coaster that it was hard to tell night from day let alone anger from understanding. She got up and left the table and retreated to the hallway that led to the bathrooms. I would have liked to have listened in, but such wouldn’t be the case. The waiter swung by again, and I ordered a cappuccino. It arrived a moment later, and I sipped it and spent my time gazing around the bar, where I also periodically checked in on my non-date of the evening. Alessandra cast me an uncomfortable glance every few moments, and I thought I detected some legitimate guilt. About time! She finally hung up and returned, still looking a bit guilty.

  “Let me guess—you have to go meet your Lars-bear,” I said.

  “Yeah, and he’s going to pick me up, so you can take my car.”

  “OK, cool—no problem.”

  “I really am sorry, but…”

  “I get it. You obviously don’t have the opportunity to spend a lot of time together, so you have to go when he calls.”

  “I don’t have to go. I want to go,” she said, though I wasn’t entirely convinced.

  “Either way, it’s none of my business. I’ll be fine—all by myself, and I can always fill the time with a good cry,” I said, purposefully sounding a little overly sad just to fuck with her.

  She smiled and shook her head side to side.

  “You are kind of a fucker, by the way,” she said.

  “A lonely fucker.”

  “Just for one night.”

  “One long, lonely night—in a foreign country—with no friends, but that’s cool, as I might write some poetry or something, and, if I get really desperate for companionship, I’ll just call your sister.”

  “You better not,” she said, as she sighed and leaned back in her chair and scrutinized me to see I were actually being serious.

  We sat there in silence for a moment until she received a text which broke us from our reverie.

  “I guess it’s time to go,” she said, handing me her car keys.

  “Your house key is on here as well. I take it you won’t be needing it tonight?”

  “Um, no, I don’t think so.”

  We both stood up and faced each other, and the moment was mildly awkward, as we weren’t sure what kind of physical action should accompany our goodbye. After a moment, she took a step closer and appeared as though she was going to kiss me, but wavered at the last second and went for the hug. She gave me a harder squeeze than I’d expected, and her large breasts felt good pressing against my chest. We finally parted, and she looked visibly bothered to be deserting me.

  “Hey, there’s no reason to feel guilty. Go have a good time with your Lars-bear.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

  “Oh, well then how about little stinky buns?”

  “No.”

  “Little tickly balls?”

  “No.”

  “Then how about fart face?”

  “Now, you’re truly regressing.”

  “Fine, then I guess we’re back to Lars-bear.”

  She groaned and gave me a playful little hit.

&
nbsp; “OK then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

  “Tell Lars I say hello.”

  “I will,” she said, as she turned and walked out of the restaurant.

  The table was suddenly feeling very empty, or at least it was until the waiter came by with the bill. I handed him a credit card and waited until he returned before I signed it and headed over to the bar. Just because I was on my own didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun, and I found an empty stool in the corner, ordered a pint of Pilsen, and sipped my beer while I took a moment to gaze at the crowd. Movement brought my attention over to my right, where, to my amazement, I spied Paul, the leader of the date rape frat-apes, walking towards a table a table on the other side of the bar. Apparently, he and his brothers from Delta Gamma Rapes-a-lot had moved on to a new hunting ground, so it was unusually good timing, because now I could find out what the hell the grad students and I had taken the other night. I waited until he returned to their table before grabbing my beer and walking over and taking a seat in one of the empty chairs.

  “Evening, boys. How’s the date rape circuit? Any hopefuls for tonight?”

  “Where the fuck did you come from?” Paul asked, looking annoyed to see me again.

  “California, the northern part, thank God.”

  “Not what I meant, asshole.”

  “That’s pretty strong language for someone who got tossed around like an insolent toddler the night before last.”

  The smarter of the three frat apes, namely the one who managed to avoid any physical confrontation at the bar that night, interjected.

  “Look, we’re not looking for any more trouble, and we didn’t intend to date rape anybody. We just wanted to have a good time.”

  “Really, so that was just exceptionally strong tequila in the margaritas?”

  “No, but it wasn’t Rohypnol.”

  “Oh, are you at USC to become a pharmacist?” I asked.

  “No, I’m pre-med, but I know it wasn’t Rohypnol because the guy who gave it to us told us what it was.”