The Chalupa Conundrum

by Lyle Christie

  “Wait a minute. Gave it to you? As in free?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell kind of drug dealer gives away his product?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but the guy approached us and asked if we were looking to have a good time. He seemed to know what he was talking about and didn’t exactly sound like your typical drug dealer.”

  “So, what was the drug?” I asked.

  “He called it Sexstasy and said it would be the best high we ever experienced, and, depending on the dosage, it increased libido, reduced inhibition, and caused euphoria.”

  “If it really did all that then why didn’t you three have any for yourselves?”

  “We tried. I put it in the pitcher, but you interrupted us before we could drink it.”

  Shit—the frat ape’s logic was actually sound and explained some of the events of that evening.

  “Well, pre-med, you can also add mild memory loss to its list of wonderful side effects.”

  “Wait a minute. Did you drink from that pitcher?” he asked.

  “Yeah, as did an entire table full of grad students.”

  “How was it?”

  I thought about my drug induced ménage à trois then, oddly, segued to thinking about my sexual escapades that I’d had with Alessandra, as I realized they were actually quite similar.

  “Well, aside from the mild memory loss, it might have been the best sex of my life.”

  Everyone sat quietly for a moment until I continued with my questions.

  “So, why would someone give away such a wonderful drug for free?”

  “He said he was conducting an off-the-books clinical trial and needed data. We could have the samples as long as we logged into a website and filled out a questionnaire after we tried it.”

  “A questionnaire? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, and we’d receive a fifty dollar VISA gift card in the mail, if and when we completed it.”

  “I know I’m sounding like a broken record here, but what the hell kind of drug dealer gives away his product, has a website, and hands out fucking gift cards after collecting your drug experience data?”

  “No idea, but the guy wasn’t sketchy. He seemed legitimate.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Well, he was a guy, obviously.”

  “Well now, that’s pretty un-fucking specific. Can’t you think of any details? Come on, guys, it isn’t that hard to come up with something. Was he young, old, tall, short, gringo, or hispanic? Did he have a beard, a peg leg, or a fucking parrot on his shoulder?”

  “He was white, American, and maybe about six feet tall if I had to guess. I’d also say that he was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, educated, and probably a scientist or in some kind of medical field based on the terminology he used.”

  Interesting. I had yet another mystery on my hands but no time or reason to pursue it. Oh well, Sexstasy would just have to remain a mystery for the moment, as I had other more important things to worry about—namely sixteen missing scientists.

  “Well, if you guys see the pusher man again, I’d appreciate it if you could drop me a line,” I said, handing them one of my business cards.

  “Why don’t you try the website?” pre-med asked.

  “Good point. What’s the URL?”

  “Goodtimespharma.com/sexstasy. The login name is do-you-like-sex and the password is hell-yeah—with hyphens between each word.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, that’s what’s on the card,” pre-med said, pulling it out of his pocket and handing it over.

  As bizarre as it sounded, he was correct.

  “Well, thanks for your time, boys, but I do have some parting advice. I understand what it’s like to be young, horny, and lacking impulse control, but even alcohol can be considered a date rape drug, so try and maintain a decent moral compass while you’re out in the world.”

  I grabbed my beer, left the frat-apes, and returned to the bar, and couldn’t help but think about the new wonder drug Sexstasy and how the frat apes had tried to use it. It was an interesting moral dilemma. If you and your friends willingly chose to do a drug it was one thing, but secretly dosing a stranger, even if you were dosing yourself as well, was pretty rapey. Hopefully, I had talked some sense into the young Trojans, and they would heed my advice, and their moral rudders would keep them on the right course as they navigated young adulthood.

  My attention was suddenly diverted when I spied the cocktail waitress who was working the tables in the bar, as she was extremely attractive, and her skintight stretch pants and equally tight shirt combined with her athletic and shapely figure to create an enticing visage that now had my full attention. Shit, had I been a little more observant when I entered the bar, I would have chosen a table instead, but I couldn’t move now, because it would just be a little too creepy. Oh well—at least I had the view, which was probably a purposeful and well-conceived plan to increase her tips—something every waitress, female bartender, and hostess would confirm.

  So, I continued to drink my beer and watch as she left the bar with drinks and returned with a handful of cash—a large percentage of which she would secretly hand to the bartender. Interesting. I continued to watch their interaction and eventually saw them exchange a little kiss that made me pretty damn sure they were boyfriend and girlfriend. I continued my covert surveillance and couldn’t help but smile as I thought about how many guys at the bar were hoping to score with her—to no avail, though her friendly demeanor and good looks would surely bring about a shitload of tips. I finally took the last sip of my beer and realized I desperately needed to pee, so I dropped a tip of four five hundred colon notes on the bar, which was about four American dollars, then headed for the bathroom. As I stepped inside, I discovered the urinal on the left side was occupied, so I went to the one on the far right, leaving the third and middle unit as a privacy buffer between us. I unzipped, steadied my aim, and proceeded to stare at the mythological pee spot—the place on the wall that all men stared so as not to intrude on the privacy of the men in the other stalls. Finished, I gave Tag Junior a healthy shake then zipped up and headed for the sinks to wash my hands. My fellow pisser joined me a second later, and, as we made eye contact in the mirror, both of us looked equally shocked to see the other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Mole in the Guacamole

  IT WAS NATE from the lab, and I had to wonder what in the hell brought him out to Rico’s Dirty Mustache, least of all, on a work night. He wasn’t particularly dressed up, so he didn’t appear to be out to meet women, but he was also a bit of a nerd, so I couldn’t rule it out entirely.

  “Oh, hey, Finn! Fancy seeing you here,” he said.

  “You too. I can’t believe you made it out of the lab on a work night.”

  “Every night is a work night, so it doesn’t really matter when I take a break.”

  “Understandable. So, what brings you to Rico’s Dirty Mustache? A little R and R?” I asked.

  “More like T and A if you know what I mean,” he said, with a little too much enthusiasm, and it made me doubt the sincerity of his statement.

  “Oh, I definitely know. There’s nothing like a college town full of college girls.”

  “Speaking of girls, where’s Professor Hot Sauce?” he asked.

  Heh, fucking your boss’s boss, I wanted to say.

  “Meeting a colleague,” I said, instead.

  “So, you’re a lone wolf tonight.”

  “I am, sadly.”

  “Well, the cocktail waitress is a real hottie if you haven’t already noticed.”

  “I did, but she’s dating the bartender.”

  “No shit?”

  “One of the hazards of being an investigator—observational skills.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She’s handing him the majority of her cash for safe keeping, and they even shared a little kiss.”

  Nate raised an eyebr
ow and looked surprised and a little uncomfortable, perhaps because he thought that I might be using my skills to monitor him as well. He finished rinsing his hands and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser.

  “Well, I’m officially heading home for the evening. Will I see you out at Chalupa again?” he asked.

  “Possibly, as I’m not exactly sure where this investigation is going at the moment.”

  “Yeah, I imagine so. Ernesto told me about last night.”

  “No shit, and I’m not sure how to pursue a thousand year old ghost king.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a logical explanation for what happened.”

  “Yeah, hopefully.”

  Nate exited and left me alone with my thoughts, and my mind suddenly went into overdrive. It was often hypothesized that there were no coincidences, and if that theory were correct, then seeing the frat-apes and Nate in the same place wasn’t a coincidence. Nor was it exactly difficult to see and start connecting some potential dots. The frat-apes had been given the drug by some kind of late twenties or early thirties stranger, and that sounded a lot like Nate, who was a scientist and just happened to work for a pharmaceutical company. Perhaps Von Träger Pharmaceuticals was working on an entirely new and different kind of drug—one not exactly intended for the mainstream medical establishment. Illegal drugs like marijuana and cocaine were a billion dollar industry and bypassed the usual taxation imposed on legitimate business enterprises, but would a billionaire need to risk making billions of extra billions illegally? It was hard to imagine, but some people got where they were by having a pathological need to make money, and it never eased, not even when they had more money than they could ever hope to spend. Things were therefore starting to get interesting.

  I left the bathroom and returned to the bar, only this time I was being a little more critical in my scrutiny of my fellow patrons. I scanned the room and looked at the various faces, now curious if there were other persons of interest in the crowd. That’s when I spotted a middle aged man on the far side of the room who was sitting alone at a table for two. He could have been dining alone, but I knew he’d had a guest, because there was a used napkin and half full glass of water on the unoccupied side of the table. His presence by itself wasn’t all that unusual, but he was wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses in a dimly lit room, and that meant he was making quite an effort to go unnoticed, which, in my book, made him a shitload more noticeable.

  I left my spot at the bar and moved closer, only to discover that it was none other than Dr. Wainright wearing one of the world’s lamest disguises. Now, I had a new super drug called Sexstasy, three frat-apes, Nate, and Wainright all at the same place. What the hell did it mean, and was it in any way connected to Chalupa and my missing scientists? Not sure, but things were indeed getting interesting, and I was starting to feel like an investigator rather than a guy who got deserted by his dinner date. Shit, I was actually starting to get pretty damn excited, and so I slithered back to my spot and ordered a sparkling water with a squeeze of lime. Now that I was working, I needed to have a clear head.

  Ten minutes passed, and Wainright looked at his watch then stood up and headed for the door. I followed and saw him get into his same metallic silver Range Rover I’d seen at the lab. I quickly raced back to Alessandra’s FJ Cruiser and drove to the street just in time to see Wainright pulling out into traffic. I waited for an opening then followed but stayed several cars back in order to remain safely unseen. I doubted he’d be particularly observant, but, judging by his silly disguise, he was definitely up to no good and therefore more likely to be at least a little vigilant. A traffic light at the intersection ahead turned yellow, and Wainright accelerated through and left me behind. I might have been able to make it, but it was an unnecessary risk and made me stand out too much, and, worse case scenario, might get me pulled over by one of Costa Rica’s finest. Due to the light nighttime traffic, I managed to keep his silver Range Rover in view and hit the gas when the light finally turned green.

  We ended up on a rather uncrowded side street that passed through a residential area, and he made a right at the next stop sign. Shit, I now had a major strategic dilemma on my hands, for, if my sneaky scientist had suspected I might be following him, the turn could be an attempt to root out my presence. If not, I’d likely lose him and have nothing better to do than return to my lonely guest faculty housing to get drunk and masturbate while thinking about my exciting day on the Von Träger estate.

  Fuck it. I decided to gamble on option one, which assumed Wainright was looking for a tail. He had several options, the most obvious being to make four consecutive right turns. It was the easiest way to spot a tail because it ultimately put you back in the same direction and made anyone following you look like a jackass. I didn’t want to look like a jackass, so I decided to be proactive and hunker down in the theoretical spot where Wainright would appear at the end of the maneuver. That spot was right here, so I turned onto the side street, did a U-turn and found a parking spot before sitting back to wait for my prey. Three minutes passed, and I was starting to get nervous that I had chosen poorly. That is, until Wainright appeared at the stop sign exactly as I had hoped. Sometimes things actually worked out.

  I got back on his tail, and three turns later we were just beyond the northern side of the campus, and Wainright was pulling into a parking garage across from a rather modern looking six story building. I looked closer at the building in question and saw large ornate gold leaf lettering on the front that read Von Träger Industries. All the floors were dark except for the lobby and the top floor, and the latter was completely lit up and had the faint sound of music coming from its open windows. Assuming this was Von Träger’s office and nookie retreat, it sounded as though he was having a little party for two, and somewhere up above, Professor Hot Sauce was very likely having the screws put to her by her little Lars-bear.

  I parked the FJ and continued on foot into the parking garage, where I searched, floor by floor, until I had reached the top. There, I stepped out of the stairwell and found Wainright parked along the side and sitting in his car, so I stayed back in the shadows and waited, ever hopeful that he had a reason to be here. Fifteen minutes later a white Jeep Wrangler pulled up and parked beside him. Luckily I had seen the car before and knew that its owner was Nate. Both stepped out and stood between their vehicles as they had some kind of animated discussion. I moved closer in the hope of overhearing their conversation but was distracted by the sound of another car approaching from the floor below. Shit. I needed to hide, so I raced back to the stairwell in time to avoid a dark grey 5 Series BMW as it drove past and parked just across from Nate and Wainright. A figure emerged, and, though I still couldn’t see the guy’s face, there was something oddly familiar about his body language.

  He walked over and joined Nate and Wainright, and now all three of them were talking, so it was time to move closer and try and have a listen. I thought about using the concrete support pillars as cover, but if anyone else arrived, I’d be out in the open with nowhere to hide. Instead, I moved to the edge and saw that there was a ledge on the other side of the four foot tall concrete barrier that bordered the entire floor, and, aside from the risk of slipping and falling to my death, it seemed like my only alternative route to get closer without being seen. I stepped over the barrier and instinctively glanced down, and my heart skipped a beat as I experienced a touch of vertigo that made me realize this was a potentially bad idea. I therefore turned my attention away from the ground and towards Von Träger’s building and realized I was now just below and across from the top level and could actually see into his penthouse love shack. The music was also a lot louder up here, and I could now make out that it was a pounding dance mix that would be excellent for some spirited humping. Fucking Lars was pulling out all the stops tonight, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a grey silk tie and a riding crop sitting beside the bed. Come to think of it, maybe a good spanking is exactly wha
t Hot Sauce needed. I turned back to the task at hand and tried not to think about Lars and Hot Sauce having kinky sex and instead focused on carefully crawling on my hands and knees. I finally managed to get within earshot of the three fuckeroos, and that’s when things got interesting.

  “I don’t like this Finn guy snooping around,” the mystery man said, in slightly Spanish accented English.

  “He seems harmless enough to me,” Nate responded.

  “Believe me, he’s not,” he said, testily.

  The mystery man then took a moment to think, and, when he turned in my general direction, I could see his face. Sweet billowing shit farts! It was my fucking Latin menace Hector Gomez, and his presence meant that elements of this crazy case were actually starting to come together into something—though what exactly that was, I still had no idea.

  “So, what are you planning to do?” Wainright asked.

  Hector turned back to the others.

  “For the moment, wait until I have another opportunity to grab Finn. Then we can question him at our leisure and keep him out of the way at the same time.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Well, I think you’re overreacting, as I’m pretty sure he’s just here to find the missing team,” Nate said.

  “That’s what he’s led you to believe.”

  “Well, good luck with your whole kidnapping scenario, considering it obviously didn’t work the first time around,” Nate said.

  “It’ll be different, because I now know that he’s not just a flunky working for UCLA.”

  “Yeah, he’s a private investigator, though apparently that was more than enough for him to get the best of you and your friend,” Wainright said, with a little chuckle.

  “Fuck you—I found out that asshole is ex-special operations, and that means he could have been brought down here as some extra muscle.”

  “Which would kind of make me question that he’s only here to find the UCLA team,” Wainright added.