Castro Directive

by Mertz, Stephen

  Next to the pet shop was a store with a sign in the window that read: GUNS, GUNS GUNS. Tina had once told him to get a gun. Miami was dangerous, she said. He'd laughed and told her he was brave. He took on Miami unarmed. But now, he thought, maybe he should take Andrews's advice. After all, Loften's killer was still loose, and if Pierce kept stirring the embers, he could get burned.

  He sipped his espresso and argued the pros and cons with himself. Owning a gun was protection. But it also might lead to situations where its use would be required. A tossup. A gun could save your ass, and it could get you killed. But now the overriding factor in this case was the skull. He'd witnessed a murder, and he was looking for the killer. That left him vulnerable. Andrews was right. He needed protection.

  A few minutes later, he paid his bill and walked over to the gun shop. Handguns and rifles were displayed under glass and on the wall behind the counter. He listened to the clerk talking to a man about a Russian AK-47. He was explaining the particular value of assault rifles for boat owners who frequented the Caribbean.

  "In case of trouble on the high seas, it's a show of power, really, and as you know, anything can happen today in those waters." The clerk, who looked like a fullback and wore a T-shirt that said: GUNS ARE US, glanced toward Pierce as if looking for support of his argument, then asked how he could help him.

  "I need a gun."

  "Good. Be right with you." The boater left, and the clerk moved over to Pierce. "Something for protection?"

  "Yeah. I'm a private investigator, and . . . well, what do you recommend?"

  The clerk reached under a glass shelf, pulled out an automatic. "Take a look at this one. It's a Sig Sauer P two twenty-six, the ultimate nine millimeter combat pistol, made for people in law enforcement and defense assignments. It sells for seven hundred eighty dollars."

  Pierce didn't take it from him. He wished he hadn't said anything about being an investigator. "That's a little steep for me."

  "Okay. Got the perfect solution for you." He put the Sig Sauer back and pulled out another automatic pistol. "This is the Glock seventeen. A fine weapon. Again used by police departments all over the country. It retails for six forty-three $643, but I'm overstocked. I can give it to you for $499, plus tax."

  Pierce took the weapon in his hand, turned it over. "Nice, but what about the standard issue Smith & Wesson thirty-eight?"

  The clerk leaned over the counter. "That's like asking a computer salesman about a manual typewriter. Thirty-eights are no longer considered front-line personal protection devices."

  "Yeah, I suppose. But if all you do is type a few invoices now and then, a manual works just fine. My kind of investigations usually aren't dangerous."

  The clerk got the message. He nodded, gave him a disappointed look. "Okay, it's up to you." He showed Pierce a Smith & Wesson .38 Chief's Special and a Walther P-38. After a superficial examination, Pierce chose the Smith & Wesson.

  "That's a hell of a nice gun with a real tradition. But when you're ready to move up to an automatic, let me know."

  "Is there a waiting period?"

  "Sure. About five minutes." The clerk grinned. "Fill out this form and pay me."

  When Pierce left, he put the gun and ammunition in the trunk and headed for Miami Beach and his office. Armed to kill, he thought. A fighting machine. Sure, that was him. GUNS, GUNS, GUNS.

  Chapter 9

  The Miami skyline reflected off the bay as Pierce crossed the MacArthur Causeway en route to Coconut Grove. No matter how many times he crossed the bay, he never tired of the dramatic view. He felt its scintillating vitality, its seduction. Despite the racial tension, big-city crime, and the nonstop influx of refugees, the city never looked weary, especially at night. On the contrary, it pulsed with a vision of itself that spliced together the intrigue of Casablanca with the allure of the Caribbean and the guts of Latin America.

  Pierce was on his way to see Elise Simms again, but this evening was going to be different from the last one. When he'd called and said he wanted to see her, she'd invited him for dinner.

  "How about lunch tomorrow? I'm going to jai alai tonight."

  "Jai alai? I'll go with you," she'd impulsively answered. "I've never been to jai alai."

  He'd thought a moment. The jai alai fronton was the one place he knew he would find Fuego, and that was the main reason for his visit. He had a job for him. But taking Simms wasn't a bad idea. He knew from his experiences with travel groups that getting people away from their routines and familiar environments could bring out their best and their worst traits. Thoughts and feelings that might otherwise remain hidden sometimes erupted to the surface. Some thrived; others regressed to childlike behavior. One evening of foreign sport might not be enough, but then again he just might uncover what Elise Simms was all about.

  "Sure. Why not," he'd told her. "See you about eight."

  He hadn't mentioned anything about Fuego. He also hadn't told her that he'd talked to Ray Andrews and had set up a meeting with him for tomorrow afternoon. Whatever happened tonight might well determine just what he would say to Andrews.

  He arrived at her house a couple of minutes early, and she answered the door dressed in a robe. Her hair was wet. "Oops," he said, "guess I'm a little—"

  "No, I'm running behind. C'mon in. I'll just be a minute," she said, and retreated up the staircase.

  Pierce wandered from the living room to the dining room. Her books were neatly arranged. They weren't stacked one on top of the other, or in double rows with one hiding the other, and they were divided by category: popular fiction, nonfiction, academic tomes. He paused by a collection of frogs on a shelf in the dining room. Some were stone, others were made of ceramic, brass, or seashells. One upright frog carried a surfboard under its arm, another wore a cap and had a bag of golf clubs over its frog shoulder. All of them surrounded a foot-high frog who sat in a Buddha-like meditative pose. This fellow was obviously the spiritual leader.

  He walked over to the fireplace and was examining the circular piece of wood with Mayan glyphs when Elise descended the stairs. She was dressed in black slacks that accented her slender figure, and a pale violet blouse that matched her eyes. Her hair seemed softer, more lustrous than the last time he'd seen her. He liked what he saw, but reminded himself that he was working on a case and she was a suspect. Elise Simms might look soft and touchable, but so did panthers.

  "Sorry it took me so long," she said, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

  "No problem." He pointed above the mantel. "I was reading some Mayan."

  "Good for you."

  "Got stuck on the first word, though. What's it say?"

  As she moved across the room toward him, he was struck by her grace. "Let's go," she said, a distracted look on her face. "We can talk about the Tzolkin later."

  "The what?"

  She repeated the odd word, then added: "It's also called - the Mayan Calendar Round, or the sacred calendar. It happens to be my forte."

  "Really. I'm impressed, I think." Pierce remembered that Redington had mentioned the sacred calendar, and the prediction concerning the reunion of the crystal skulls.

  They walked out to the car and he unlocked the passenger door, opened it, and she slid inside, the faint scent of her perfume tugging at him. By the time he reached the other side, she'd already unlocked his door. He got in, started the car, backed out of the driveway. "Off to the fronton."

  She didn't say anything. As he turned onto U.S. 1 a couple of minutes later, he broke the silence. "You're not much of a chatterer."

  "Is that the kind of woman you like?"

  He shrugged. "Look, if you don't want to do this, just say so. Don't feel like I'm forcing jai alai on you."

  "Hey, I'm sorry. It's not you. I've just got a lot on my mind. It's right near the end of the quarter, and I've got a ton of things to finish up."

  "You want to go back?"

  "No, of course not."

  The silence settled in around them again, until he
finally reminded her that she was going to tell him about the Mayan calendar.

  She brushed her hair back with her hand; it stirred the fragrance of her perfume again.

  "They actually have two of them, a 365-day solar calendar and a sacred calendar of 260 days. The Tzolkin."

  He glanced over at her. "Your forte."

  "Right."

  "I knew the Mayans were good astronomers and mathematicians, and that they had a written language, but I don't think I could tell a calendar round from a calendar square."

  She laughed and her mood seemed to lighten. "Most people have no idea that there was an advanced civilization in the Americas well over a thousand years before Columbus was born, or that it produced a hierarchy of mythical figures comparable to the Greek, Roman, Egyptian, or Norse gods. That really annoyed my father. He. . ."

  Her expression was pained; she seemed to be in conflict with herself.

  "What did he do?" Pierce asked.

  "Oh, nothing . . ." Her voice tapered off, the internal turmoil abated—or buried for the time being.

  Her archaeologist father was a sore point. He wondered why. And more importantly, he wondered if the problem was related to the crystal skull.

  "Andrews and the Mayans have something in common," Elise suddenly blurted.

  "Oh, what's that?"

  "An obsession with time."

  He mulled over the comment. "I know Ray's got a lot of clocks. What's that have to do with the Mayans?"

  "The Mayans have the Tzolkin. It's like a clock wound up to run for five thousand years, and it's still ticking."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It started in the year 3113 B.C. and ends in 2012."

  "Strange clock."

  "It's a four-dimensional clock. It foretells future events."

  "Tell me more," he said, wondering if she'd mention the prediction concerning the reunion of the crystal skulls.

  "Okay." She shifted in her seat so her back was to the door. He was glad she seemed to be loosening up. A talkative suspect was always a bonus. "The Mayans predicted the return of Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent, as a bearded, white-skinned god in 1519. Hernando Cortés arrived in Mexico on Good Friday, the exact calendar day the event was foretold."

  He wanted to ask about the skulls, but decided he'd wait to see what she offered on her own. "How could Quetzalcoatl be both a plumed serpent and a bearded white man?"

  "There's a historical Quetzalcoatl and a mythological one. Actually, there have been several historical ones."

  "Cortés wasn't much of a savior. Hell, he opened the door to the final destruction of their culture, didn't he?"

  "He came in the guise of Quetzalcoatl, but he was actually Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror."

  He stopped at a red light. "Run that by me again."

  "In Mayan mythology, he's the deceiver, a god of war and destruction who hides under the cloak of peace. He's both the brother and enemy of the Plumed Serpent, the true god of peace and the arts."

  "I don't suppose Corteg knew any of this."

  "Cortés played at being Quetzalcoatl because that was who the Mayans and Aztecs wanted him to be. But, of course, he was deceiving them. His true role was the Smoking Mirror, the lord of darkness, death, and destruction. He didn't think of it in those terms, but that's what he brought."

  "So the prophecy wasn't exactly right."

  Elise shrugged. "Yes and no. The same priests who predicted the return of Quetzalcoatl also said his reappearance in 1519 would mark the beginning of nine 52-year cycles of descending doom. Not exactly a promising future."

  "Why 52-year cycles?" Pierce turned onto 36th Street, a couple of miles from the fronton.

  "When you match day one of the 260-day calendar with day one of the solar calendar, it takes 52 years before the two day ones coincide again."

  "Nine 52-year cycles starting in 1519," Pierce said. "Nine times 52 is what?"

  "It's 468 years. The cycles of descending doom ends next week, August 16-17. It's known as the Harmonic Convergence. Have you heard about it?"

  "Yeah, I heard that lots of people are going to be gathering on Miami Beach at sunrise for some kind of convergence.

  "Miami Beach, Machu Picchu, the pyramids of Egypt, mountaintops, all around the world."

  "I'll probably miss it. I don't like getting up that early." He turned into the fronton's vast parking lot and slowed to a crawl. He wanted to see what else he could get out of her while she was still talkative. "So what's all this have to do with Andrews and his clocks, anyhow?"

  "I don't know about his clocks. But I do know that he's obsessed with the next prediction of the Tzolkin, the reunion of the crystal skulls."

  Pierce stopped about a hundred yards from the fronton entrance and considered what she'd said. "That doesn't make him a criminal."

  "No, it doesn't."

  They locked the car and headed toward the main entrance. The lot was well lit and several faint shadows grew from their feet, stretching in different directions. "So tell me about jai alai," she said, changing the subject from Andrews.

  He'd heard enough about the Mayans and their timekeeping and her accusations about Andrews. Jai alai would be a relief. For the moment. "What do you want to know?"

  "Do you bet on the games?"

  "Sure. That's a big part of it. Gives you a reason to root for one Eskualdunak over another."

  "What?"

  "Most of the players are Eskualdunaks. They come from Eskual-Herria, and they speak Euskera. In fact, jai alai is an Euskera word."

  She looked baffled. "What're you talking about?"

  Pierce laughed. The tide had shifted. Now he was the knowledgeable one. Jai alai was probably as obscure to her as the Tzolkin was to him. "I'm talking about the Basques. Most of the players came from the Basque region or Eskual-Herria, as they call it, near the French-Spanish border. That's where the game originated."

  They climbed the steps to the entrance. "I knew it was a Basque game. But how come you know so much about the Basques?"

  "I led a tour there a few years ago. Once I memorize my material, I don't forget it." He smiled at her and had an urge to take her hand. Bad idea, he told himself, and opened the door for her.

  "Tell me something else from your well of material on the Basques." They stopped at the end of the line at the ticket window.

  "They're a mysterious people, like your Mayans. Euskera is one of the oldest languages. Of the more than four thousand dialects spoken in the world, it's the only one that's unrelated to any other language. Now, don't I sound like a tour guide?"

  "I bet you made a good one."

  Pierce took out his money clip to pay for the tickets. "So what does jai alai mean in Euskera?" Elise asked. "Merry festival."

  He stepped up to the window, bought two box seats and a program, and found out the third game had just started. "The third game? Are we late?" she asked.

  "Don't worry. There're thirteen games."

  A moment later, they entered the side door of the arena. A couple of hundred people lined a low wall, watching the action. "This is the general admission area. Let's wait here until this game's over."

  From where they stood, they could only see the two players closest to the front wall. Elise watched in mystification as the ball whizzed back and forth—front court to back court to front court.

  Her court, my court, Pierce thought. When they talked about the Mayans, it was her game. Now, jai alai was his game, his court. His eyes pursued the ball.

  "How many players are there?"

  "Two on each team. Eight teams in each game."

  "Eight teams play at once?"

  "No, only two teams. It's a round-robin rotation," he said, adding that the winner got the point and stayed on the court to take on the next team. The loser went to the end of the rotation. The first team that scored seven points won. Pierce glanced around, spotted Fuego near the betting counter and nodded to him. He opened his program and studied a table of names and numbe
rs. "It looks complicated," Elise said. "What is it?"

  "The records of the players for the season. I'm trying to figure out who has the best chance of winning the next game."

  "Need some help?"

  He turned and smiled. "Evening, Fuego. I want you to meet Elise Simms."

  Fuego nodded; his cheek twitched. "How are you?" he said, without mentioning that he'd met her briefly as Monica.

  "You good at betting, Fuego?" she asked.

  "Sometimes. I know all the players. I don't have to look at their records."

  Just then the game ended. "C'mon, I'm going to place a bet," Pierce said. "Then we'll find our seats." He glanced at Fuego. "You going to be around for a while?"

  "Until it's over."

  They stepped over to the end of the queue, and when it was Pierce's turn, he bet six dollars on a quiniela box, Two, Five, and Seven.

  "Not in a million years," Fuego said from behind him. You should have gone One, Two, and Six."

  "We'll see," Pierce answered.

  Elise glanced from one to the other, fascinated.

  Just as the players were coming out for the new game, Pierce ushered Elise into the arena and toward a row of box seats close to the court.

  "Wasn't Fuego the one you were with at that awful bar?" she asked as they sat down.

  "Please, that's the famous Jack of Clubs." He laughed. "You're right. He was there."

  Her mention of their first meeting brought home that this wasn't any ordinary outing. They both had reasons for being with the other that had nothing to do with companionship. He knew what his were; he wasn't at all certain about hers.

  "Okay, tell me what I'm watching. I'm lost already," Elise said, peering toward the court where the game had begun.

  "Well, they catch and throw the ball with those baskets."

  "I know that much, for God's sake."

  "The baskets are called cestas. Did you know that?" She shook her head.

  "Okay, I'll tell you about them." He glanced down at his program and told her the cestas were made of Spanish chestnut and reeds from the Pyrenees Mountains. The ball consisted of two layers of goat skin over nylon thread. It was covered with tightly wound strands of virgin rubber.