The Untreed Detectives

by J. Alan Hartman

  “What about your enemies?” asked Rodriguez.

  “What enemies? Most of the people involved in that mess in Costa Rica had either died in the drug wars or were gone from the Judicial Police. If someone wanted to do something to me they’d do it here in Mexico; they wouldn’t have to make up an elaborate scheme of sending me to Cuba on a mystery mission.

  No, I figured that if I was indeed just a simple courier, I would take the money and run—that would be the end of it. But, if there was more to it, then I wouldn’t find out unless I went through with the scheme proposed.

  There was a ticket waiting for me at the Aeromexico sales counter at the airport. Señor Blanchet’s instructions had been simple and precise: I was to fly to Havana, take a domestic flight to Santiago and then a taxi to the property. I was to dismiss the taxi and ask it to come back for me in an hour. If the taxi driver refused to do so, I could get a local bus back to Santiago by going to the highway and flagging it down. He gave me a key to the front door but said that I probably would not need it since the place had been abandoned for so long.

  Everything went as planned: a week after I had met with Señor Blanchet I took the flight to Havana; I stayed there for a day, bought the suitcase and some used clothing, and then flew to Santiago de Cuba. The place was easy to find. It was about fifteen kilometers from Santiago. I told the taxi driver to leave me at the main house. I said I was visiting the place because my family had once lived there. I had no idea how close to the truth my lie was.

  I dismissed the taxi and told him to come back for me in a couple of hours. I walked around the old place, just out of curiosity. It had been partially torn down and the materials scavenged. The doors and window frames were gone, as were most of the roof tiles. You know me, Rodriguez, I am not an emotional person but somehow that house moved me. It was as if I was attached to it in some way. I went around the back and saw that this had been a sugar producing farm because the towers to the sugar mill were still standing although the buildings and the equipment where the sugar cane had been processed were gone.

  I didn’t dawdle because I didn’t want the taxi driver to come back and find me at the cottage so I went on and found the little, abandoned house that had probably once housed one of the workers or supervisors of the sugar cane farm or the mill. I didn’t need the key because the door nearly came off its hinges when I opened it. It was a small place so the kitchen was not hard to find just after I went through what must have been a small sitting room-dining room. The kitchen was a small room with a fireplace that bore the black stains of many kitchen fires for cooking. There was a long, steel bar in one corner.”

  “How convenient,” said Rodriguez,

  “Yes, I thought so, too. I guessed that Señor Blanchet had contacts in the island. Again I got that feeling I get when something is not quite jake, you know? If he had contacts enough to put a steel bar in this God forsaken place, why hadn’t he arranged for the box to be simply smuggled out of the island?

  I took the bar, gouged out the right brick and the next one to it, and there it was: the little tin box. It was covered with dirt and grime but it didn’t look to me as if it was fifty or sixty years old. There was no lock so after I dusted it off I opened it. There were papers inside. These did look very old. They were yellowed and somewhat brittle. The jewels in the box didn’t seem that valuable: a couple of sets of earrings, a necklace, and a broach. All had stones set in very tarnished silver. I put the stuff in the satchel I had brought for the purpose but before I put the papers in there too, I opened them and read the first page. That’s when it all came together: the reason señor Blanchet had hired me for the job, and why things had gone so smoothly for me.”

  “The papers were in his name, of course?”

  “No, not at all. The name of the party of the first part, as they like to say in these things, was Jose Antonio Lombardo Mijares.”

  “As in Guillermo Lombardo?” asked Rodriguez.

  “Yes, as in my name. The property was in the name of my grandfather.”

  “You never told me you were Cuban.”

  “You never asked, Rodriguez. The facts of the matter are that I can hardly consider myself Cuban because my family came to Mexico in nineteen fifty, way before Castro overthrew Batista. My father had been involved in supporting the early revolutionaries and when he found out that the government was about to arrest him, he fled to Mexico and took us with him. My grandfather, on the other hand, was against the revolutionaries, and against my father supporting them. That’s why his property was expropriated by the Castro regime.”

  Rodriguez ordered another round of Bohemias and then said, “But, I don’t get it. This Blanchet fellow must have known that you were going to find out that the property had belonged to your family. Why did he send you to get the papers? Or, did he not know that…”

  “Oh, he knew. He knew perfectly well what he was doing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he counted on me to make the wrong move, after all, I have a history of it. Do you remember the details of the Costa Rica case?”

  “No, not really. What happened? Remind me.”

  “Well, the governor’s daughter ran off with the drug lord; they went off to Costa Rica. I was part of the team that was to arrest him and bring her back to her family. We caught up with them, all right, but the drug lord paid off all the members of the team and they politely went back home saying that they couldn’t find the happy couple. I was the only one who persisted and had the Costa Rica police help me catch them and send them back to Mexico. It turned out to be the wrong thing to do because the drug lord had a lot of dirt on the governor; after he was jailed he leaked it and the governor had to resign, the cops on my team had to resign too because of the corruption charges that were leveled against them, and I had to leave town or they would have killed me.”

  “Yeah, now I remember,” said Rodriguez.

  “Then there was that murder in Monterrey…”

  “Stop. You don’t have to remind me of that one. I know how that turned out.”

  “OK, so back to my story. I had two choices: either I destroy the papers and thus baffle whatever designs Blanchet had or plans he was hatching, or I could go back and confront him and ask him why he had involved me in this “rescue” of my grandfather’s papers.

  When I stepped out of the cottage, I found out that I had no choices at all: the cops were waiting for me. The taxi driver was with them. He just shrugged his shoulders as if saying, ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

  I was put into an interrogation room and after about an hour a modern version of Che Guevara—with a beret and a cigar and beard—came into the room. He greeted me politely and took out a picture from a folder he was carrying.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ he said and he showed me the picture. It was señor Blanchet.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘He hired me to get those papers for him.’

  He said nothing. He just puffed on his cigar. Then he took out a paper and read:

  ‘Alejandro Etcheberri, was part of the group of sugar plantation owners that aligned with the Batista regime. Made deals that brought him great profits as he and his partners sold commercial interest to the American mafia, therefore receiving kickbacks from the drug, gambling, and prostitution businesses in Havana and Santiago. He also made deals with large multinational American corporations that invested large amounts of money in Cuba. When Comandante Fidel Castro overthrew the corrupt regime, the revolution confiscated Etcheberri’s businesses and two sugar mills in Santiago de Cuba. In 1961, he worked for the CIA, and was responsible for sending thousands of weapons from Florida to the counterrevolutionary insurgents. He also participated in the Bay of Pigs invasion. He was captured but he managed to escape and made it back to the United States. He now owns several companies in Miami and is an important leader of the right-wing, anti-Castro Cubans in Florida. You did not know this, señor Lombardo?’

  I told him I didn’t. ‘I don
’t make it a habit of checking up on my clients,’ I said.

  ‘Your clients, señor Lombardo?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am a private investigator.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you should make it a practice to do so,’ he said.

  He explained my choices very clearly: either I could be put in jail for an indeterminate amount of years for working with counterrevolutionary elements or I could be put on a flight for Mexico. If I chose the first, I didn’t have to do or say anything; if I chose the second, all I had to do was sign a paper saying that as the last descendant of the former owner, I was surrendering all claims that I or any member of my family might have regarding the property. Bam! Check and mate!”

  “So, that was the end of it?” asked Rodriguez.

  “No, not quite. About a week after I got back to Mexico, I got a check in the mail: three thousand dollars, for services rendered it said on the stub. I took the Cuban cop’s advice and looked up my client. I still have a few friends left, especially in the CISEN (The National Investigation and National Security).

  I was informed that señor Blanchet or Etcheberri, is working for several European multinational companies. What they want and what he provides is land that has been cleared of any and all claims by former owners. They are cutting deals with the Cuban government and making large investments in sugar production, corporate farming and retail stores, and so on. The corporations need assurances that their investments will be safe in the future and securing the land they build on is a priority.”

  “So, that’s why you were set up so they could produce a paper that says no one will claim your grandfather’s land.”

  “That’s why I was set up.”

  “And, that was the end of it?” asked Rodriguez as he signaled for more beer.

  “No, not quite. You see, I am going to tell you something that few people know. In fact, only two people know: a certain lady and me. My name, my dear friend, is not Lombardo.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “My real name is Hernandez, at least that was my father’s name and the name under which I was registered when I was born. You see, when I was young, I was involved with a group of urban guerillas—it’s a long story and I won’t tell it to you now. But, I had to flee to the United States and when I joined the Army there, I changed my name. It was my mother’s name. She was a direct descendant of my grandfather, not me. According to the Law the paper I signed is not worth, well, the paper it is written on.”

  Rodriguez laughed. “But, they’ll still use that paper.”

  “They might. But, in point of fact, there are some legitimate Lombardos out there somewhere. If ever Cuba opens up and they make a claim on the land, it will be a mess, a legal and commercial mess. Anyway, I sent a letter explaining the situation to señor Etcheberri and to the Cuban captain that made me sign the paper—who was probably working for Etcheberri. Corruption is everywhere, my friend. I offered to send them a copy of my birth certificate in case they needed it. Of course, I cashed the check señor Etcheberri sent me before I sent him my letter.”

  Rodriguez laughed again and ordered some more beer.

  The Trident Caper

  By Wade J. McMahan

  “The Trident Caper” is the sixth Richard Dick mystery published by Untreed Reads. Who is Richard Dick? First, please just call him Dick. Think of him as your bumbling next-door neighbor who happens to be a private detective. Poor Dick; it seems he has an affinity for attracting screwball clients who lead him from one paranormal misadventure to another. Werewolves, witches, ghosts, vampires, and even Santa Claus, Dick has seen them all.

  Rapping on my office door drew my attention from the rook hovering above the chessboard. “All right, Percy, you know the drill. I can’t afford to have you spooking another client, so keep your trap shut.”

  Percy’s voice emanated from the empty chair across my desk. “Of course,” he murmured. “I’m terribly sorry about the last time. I—”

  Rapping resumed, and I waved my hand. “Forget it. Now, put down the rook. I don’t want it floating in the air when the door opens.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” The rook settled onto the board. “Checkmate.”

  What? I glanced at the board. “Percy, that’s not—”

  Insistent knuckles rattled the opaque glass in my office door.

  “Shh.” Rising behind my desk, I called, “Come in.”

  The door swung wide and she stood there. My greedy eyes drank in her pale, oval face and traveled down a trim figure wrapped in a silver thigh-length dress exposing a terrific pair of gams. The corridor lights cast highlights upon her flowing green hair. I did a double-take. Green?

  She tottered into the office, closing the door behind her, and wobbled across the room on spiked heels to stand before my desk.

  Goose bumps ran down my spine as she smiled, her voice husky. “Are you Mr. Richard Dick the private detective?”

  “Yes, but please. Call me Dick.” Her green eyes, perfectly matching her hair, held me mesmerized. “How can I help you?”

  “Perhaps, Mr.… Um, Dick, that is a matter we shall discuss later.” She cocked a green eyebrow. “First, I must decide if you are a pearl or an oyster.”

  What? So, she wanted to play games, eh? I could play too.

  “Please,” I waved to the vacant chair, “sit down, and you can start by telling me your name. Then we’ll be pals, see?”

  Apparently she didn’t speak smartass because she continued smiling while settling onto the chair. “Names are like a string of air bubbles that go pop-pop-pop. If you must, you may call me Coral.”

  What she was talking about? I continued playing along. “Coral? Unusual, but I like the way it pops. Do you have a last name?”

  She sat straight in the chair, hands folded in her lap. “No. Merpeople don’t have last names. Then again, neither do sharks.”

  “Yeah. Loan sharks can be like that.” I pondered. “You live here in Chicago?”

  “No, I live in the sea.”

  “You live on a boat?”

  “No, Dick. Under the sea.”

  Percy’s voice arose from the corner of my desk. “Dick, I think she’s trying to say she’s a Mermaid.”

  Coral’s mouth fell open. “Who said that?” Her green eyelashes fluttered as her gaze swept the empty room.

  Damn. The jig was up. I warned Percy to keep his pie hole shut. “Do you promise not to be afraid if I tell you?”

  “No.”

  Well crap—a screwball. A Mermaid? Sure, and I was the Prince of Baghdad. Still, if Percy had blown another case for me I would…I would…think of something. I cleared my throat. “You see, Coral, my friend and former client, Percy, is here with us.”

  She continued staring around the room. “He is? Where?”

  Her eyes widened as Percy materialized beside my desk sporting a checked coat, bow tie, gray trousers and white spats, his bowler hat tucked in the crook of his arm. He bowed. “Percival J. Buttersnipe at your service, my dear.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth, covering her gasp. “How did you do that?”

  “You see,” I began, “Percy is—”

  “I,” Percy interrupted, “am a ghost, but please don’t be afraid. I’m quite harmless.”

  “Oh, I’m not afraid.” She giggled. “In fact, I think you’re cute—like a seahorse. But tell me, what’s a ghost?”

  I snorted. She hadn’t called me cute. And how stupid can you be not to know what a ghost is?

  “Cute? Ahem, I must say, I’m, ahem,” Percy blustered. “A ghost is the lingering earth-bound spirit of someone who died. I, therefore, am the spirit of my former self who died many, many years ago.”

  Coral’s eyes sparkled as she clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s totally delightful.” She cocked her head. “You’re right. I’m a Mermaid. Are there Merghosts too?”

  Percy stroked his chin. “I couldn’t rightly say, though I see no reason why not.”

  I managed not to laugh as I drum
med my fingers on my desk. “If you’re a Mermaid, where’s your tail?”

  “Oh,” she scowled. “You don’t believe me. We Mermaids can alter our tails to form legs when necessary. Of course, I can’t walk well, but I don’t intend to remain on land for very long anyway. I hope to return to the sea as quickly as possible.”

  “And there you have it, Dick.” Percy beamed.

  “Okay, sure, we’re all chummy now.” I leaned back in my chair, my arms folding across my chest. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “Business?” Coral frowned. “What business?”

  What a dumb broad. “You know; the scoop.”

  “What?”

  “The scoop, the dope, the skinny, all the news, the story, the whole enchilada.”

  Her glazed eyes turned towards Percy, who explained. “I believe Dick is wondering why you’re here.”

  Wasn’t that what I said?

  “Oh, that.” Okay, maybe I’m not cute, but she didn’t have to twitch her nose at me. “Will Percy be helping you?”

  “Of course I will, my dear.” Percy plopped his bowler on his head at a jaunty angle, grinned, and received a glorious smile in return.

  The whole thing was ridiculous. Percy hadn’t chatted with a live woman since hoop skirts went out of style. Still, he might help me reel in a customer even if she was a nut.

  “Sure.” I forced a smile. “Percy’s in, so what’s your problem?”

  Coral sighed. “My father’s treasure chest was stolen, so I swam up rivers, through some cold lakes and finally found myself here in Chicago. The thieves are here, Dick.”

  “Upon my word,” Percy muttered.

  I wasn’t buying any of it, but maybe I could pick up a few bucks. Withdrawing a legal pad from my desk drawer, I began taking notes. “What’s your father’s name?”

  “Marvin.”

  “Marvin?”

  “That’s right. What did you expect?”