Mariachi Meddler

by D. R. Ransdell

  “They took her away just like that?”

  “It was a white Honda Accord. I didn’t even glance at the license plates. I feel so naïve.”

  “Why would you be suspicious? You’ve never dealt with such a thing.”

  “They lied to me from the moment they started talking. I should have picked up on something.”

  “What did these men look like?”

  “Inexperienced. Young. That’s all.”

  “What about their accents?”

  “Locals.” For the sixth time, I swirled the contents of my glass without tasting it. “I know Yiolanda wouldn’t want me to tell you this.”

  Rolando’s ears twitched. “But you feel you have to.”

  “Yes. In case it helps.”

  Rolando sat without moving. “Well, then. Tell me.”

  I hesitated. All day long, I’d been planning the conversation in my mind, having it, erasing it, and planning it again. I’d argued with myself that if people wanted to hide things from the past they should have the right to do so, but the circumstances had changed the rules. I lowered my voice despite the fact that we were alone. “She mentioned she had some kind of debt.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’d been jumpy ever since you left. When I pressed her, she said she owed money.”

  “What for?”

  “She wouldn’t say, and I can’t guess how much. She claimed she’d paid part of it back and they wanted more.”

  “So ‘they’ could have been the ones who broke in and robbed the cash register, trying to make things even, and then came after her when they didn’t find enough cash?”

  “I guess.”

  “A debt.” Rolando tapped the end of his nose. “Yiolanda never tells me about her time in Vegas. There’s a gap of a decade she never mentions as if she were in a black hole the entire time. Oh, she might refer to a root canal or something, but nothing personal.”

  “She wasn’t married before?”

  “She says she wasn’t. I don’t have a reason to disbelieve her.”

  “School loans?” It sounded silly even as I said it.

  “Yiolanda went to a junior college for a couple of years, but she lost interest and dropped out. No, I don’t think it’s from school. She might have needed psychiatric counseling, but I don’t think she had that either.” He sighed deeply, and for the first time, I felt the years that separated us. “Perhaps she gambles, but I don’t see why she wouldn’t have asked me for the money, no matter the amount.”

  “Too embarrassed?”

  Rolando’s eyebrows rose and fell. “Possible, but unlikely. For all I know, she could be skimming off the top every night. She does most of the accounting herself.”

  Even without a debt, I could imagine Yiolanda sneaking away with part of the gross. She made it obvious that she didn’t care about Noche Azul. If she didn’t care about Rolando either, the temptation to help herself to some extra cash would have been overwhelming.

  “Some tough guys,” Rolando said. “You’d think they would come after me rather than kidnap her.”

  “Maybe they’ll call about a ransom.”

  “That’s what Innis said. He gave me three of his business cards so that I couldn’t lose his cell phone number.”

  Rolando drained his glass. “You spoke with Yiolanda while I was gone. What’s she been saying about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No complaints?”

  I shook my head.

  For the first time, I heard the clock ticking on the wall.

  Slowly, as if his arm hurt, Rolando stretched to reach the bottle and poured himself another drop. “She didn’t mention me at all, did she?”

  Again I heard the clock tick. I’d never heard Rolando sound so sad, but I couldn’t think of any honest words of comfort to offer him. “We didn’t talk much.”

  “Right.”

  I focused on the wall behind Rolando’s head where a picture calendar displayed a view of Acapulco. June showed a vividly colored sunset from a white-washed balcony, but by now we were well into July.

  “Yiolanda loves drama. Those men may have been friends of hers,” Rolando said.

  “So you think—”

  “I’m trying not to think.” He lit another cigarette and took a long drag. “How did everything else go while I was gone?”

  “The usual. Birthday celebrations. Tourists.”

  “Anniversaries?”

  “Three last night.”

  He scooted, chair and all, to the door and pointed to a shiny handle. “It’s new. Any ideas on that?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember if it appeared before or after the robbery?”

  “No. Maybe the police should investigate it?”

  “Bah. They’re not even concerned about a kidnapping. Why should they let a detail rouse them from their newspapers?”

  “The sergeant seemed clever enough. Did he have any suggestions about Yiolanda?”

  “He told me to be patient and not to worry.”

  “That’s stupid! How could you not worry?”

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to be patient either. Well, I’m sure he tells the husband of every lost woman the same thing. Maybe he’ll have more advice for me by the morning. I have to return to the police station to study more photographs. He’s hoping I’ll recognize someone who’s been hanging about.”

  “He’s not looking for Yiolanda?”

  “She hasn’t been gone long enough. Innis says most people disappear because they want to. It’s no great secret that Yiolanda was restless or that she liked young men. Or any men. Maybe she wanted out.” He took a full last drag. “Maybe I wouldn’t blame her.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more cautious.”

  He made a wide sweep with his hand. “You did what I requested. You watched Yiolanda leave the restaurant, and when she ran into trouble, you tried to help. I couldn’t ask for more than that.” He folded his hands back together. “The staff thinks she went downtown to answer routine questions, right?”

  “Right. After I accompanied the sergeant to the station last night, I went home. I didn’t talk to anyone about what happened, and tonight no one asked.”

  “It’s just as well. I don’t want the staff to be any more alarmed than necessary. But I want to ask you one more favor.”

  Rolando sounded so forlorn that I didn't hesitate. “What's that?”

  “Act as if nothing happened. If you’re calm, the others will be too.”

  I spread my fingers out along the table. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.”

  ***

  I waited with Rolando while he locked up, and then I waved as he drove off. But I was too agitated to go home, too aware that Squid Bay itself should answer my questions. I walked down Adeline Lane, watching for anything out of the ordinary.

  I tried to remember everything I could about the fake policemen, but little came to mind. I hadn’t noticed jewelry or distinguishing features or unusual speech patterns. I alternated between feeling irritated at my lack of observation and relief that Rolando was equally unobservant. Otherwise he would have looked at me and realized that I knew more about what had happened at the restaurant than I let on.

  I passed Hat’s Off Restaurant on Miller as a few stragglers left.

  “Andy!” It was their guitar player, an “Andy” himself. We’d gone to middle school together many years previously. For the last several seasons, he’d had a steady gig at Hat’s Off, where a three-piece group played mostly jazz with a little Latin thrown in to attract an eclectic crowd. “How’s it going?”

  “Rough night.”

  Andy brushed his shoulder-length hair behind his ear. “Girlfriend problems?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How do you avoid them?”

  “No girlfriends!”

  “That’s different.” He’d married a few years before and was appalled to find that children were expensive. “What direction
are you going? We can walk together.”

  We descended Flower Street, exchanging small talk.

  “What’s the matter?” he finally asked.

  “It’s my fault,” I lied. “I accidentally set my wallet down on the bar counter tonight, and of course it disappeared.”

  “I would be seeing red myself. Do you have any ideas who took it?”

  “I don’t know. There were a couple of hot shots who came in tonight that I’d never seen before. Didn’t really fit in. Short haircuts and tailor-made blue suits. Seen any guys like that?”

  “Hispanic or Anglo?”

  “Anglo, I think.”

  Andy checked his mental inventory. “Not tonight. Were you carrying much money?”

  “Only a twenty, but they got my driver’s license and a credit card.”

  “Cancel the card right away. Don’t wait.”

  “I won’t.”

  “There’s probably a 24-hour number.”

  “I’ll check as soon as I get home.”

  We reached the bottom of Flower. “I’ll keep an eye out,” Andy told me. “If I see any guys like that at Hat’s Off, I’ll call you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Want to come over for a drink?” He only lived a few blocks away.

  “I’ll pass for a time when I’m in a better mood.”

  “Yes, I prefer if you do that! Good night!”

  “Night.”

  I turned and retraced my steps. I’d spotted a white Honda Accord.

  Before walking closer, I memorized the license plate number: BZ 54724. It was an older model but well-kept and recently washed. Through the windows, I could see striped cushions and a carefully fitted dash cover, but no trash or papers that might tell me anything. The most personal item was a small foam surfboard that hung over the rearview mirror. Hundreds of cars in Southern California boasted the same one.

  I receded into the doorway where I could calculate possibilities from the semi-shadows. Several bars and two hotels were in sight, but Squid Bay parking was so tight that the car’s owners might have walked several blocks to their destination.

  I ducked into the closest bar. Corner Talk was a holdover from the 1960s that tried to promote a hippie atmosphere. The customers were from the 1960s too, middle-aged men hoping to regain their lost youth by acting like their children, and snowbirds so happy to get away from colder climes that they needed to drink themselves into unawareness that their relief was temporary.

  The bartender fit in; he had a blond ponytail tied neatly behind his head. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Nothing, really. I was passing by outside and noticed a Honda Accord with the lights on. Maybe a patron?”

  “Anybody here with a Honda Accord?” he asked loudly. The customers paused long enough to process the question, then resumed their conversations.

  “I guess not,” the bartender said. “But thanks for stopping in. Drink on the house?”

  “Another time.”

  I went down the block to the Paris Rose, an upscale bar decorated to resemble Montmartre, replete with French café scenes painted on the wall. The bar had a large counter area and round tables filled with a range of customers. Some were dressed for nightclubs; others would have been more comfortable at Corner Talk.

  I repeated the story about the Honda and the lights to the bartender. After he asked what I wanted to drink for the third time, I disappointed him by requesting mineral water. The tables were full, so I asked a couple if I could sit with them. Since their focus was on one another, they didn’t mind.

  The bar was crowded with a few young women and twice as many men, most as clean cut as Dexter and Rockford. But the customers weren’t business people finagling deals or gamblers financing debts. The men were watching the women and vice versa, and once in a while, on a trek from one end of the bar to the other, they’d stop and strike up mundane conversations about the piped-in music winding in from dust-covered speakers.

  The scene was overly familiar. Now that Stefani was off my list, soon I’d be desperate enough to find myself in a similar bar, asking similarly mundane questions. The image depressed me.

  “Want some ‘fruit punch’?” asked a thin teen who’d no doubt entered with a fake ID that boosted his age to twenty-one. Between his torn T-shirt and five piercings, I couldn’t take him seriously. I’d have to ask Sergio what kind of drug “fruit punch” was.

  “Not tonight.”

  He didn’t protest; he asked the couple across from me the same question before moving on.

  When the DJ finally cut into a break between songs with an announcement about the white Honda Accord, I watched the door carefully, but the first person to exit was the teen; he’d already made his rounds. He had nothing to do with my world. None of these people did. They were merely going about their lives.

  The customers’ conversations over the music faded into a buzz. Everyone and everything had settled into slow motion. The world had calmed down but swept Yiolanda away with it.

  When I went back outside the Honda was gone, so I shuffled back to my apartment. The dead, windless air made it stuffy. I was brushing the dirt off my balcony chair when the phone interrupted my routine. I snatched it before it could ring a second time.

  “Thank God!” whispered a voice.

  Unmistakably, it was Yiolanda’s.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Where are you?” I couldn’t believe I was hearing her voice.

  “They’ve got me in Purple Hills,” she whispered.

  I’d rarely had occasion to visit the residential section that was a mile or so east, but I knew where it was. “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Never mind that! I’ve called you five times already. Come for me!”

  For a split second I was confused as to how she’d managed to use the phone; then I visualized it strapped to her thigh.

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “Come quietly on your own. They’ll kill me otherwise!”

  “I’ll get Rolando.”

  “Don’t you see? They’re watching him and waiting for him to make a move. Come alone and help me escape.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Find the park across from the school stadium. I don’t know the name. From there go two blocks north and one west. I’m in a two-story building on the corner in a room that faces east. To my left is a house that’s only one story. Outside my window is a balcony with a green awning—that’s how you can recognize it.”

  “You expect me to find green in the dark?”

  “Never mind. I will be looking for you.”

  “And then what?”

  “The house is not high. Bring a rope.”

  “Do you think I can buy one at this hour?”

  “Bring some sheets! I don’t dare talk any more.”

  Click.

  I took my only sheet off the bed and pointed my motor scooter towards Purple Hills, where perfect middle-class residential homes were lined up in rows. Yiolanda’s directions were inaccurate, so I wasted time watching the wrong house and trying to distinguish green from gray, but when I detected no signs of movement, I meandered instead. When I reached the next block north, I spotted a Honda Accord, license BZ 54724. Then I noticed Yiolanda beside the balcony door of a second-story bedroom. As soon as she saw me, she slipped outside. She waved with both hands.

  While she silently protested, I studied the stucco building. Below the balcony, four dark windows stood sentinel over a solid patch of grass. I backed across the street. Even if Yiolanda could crawl over the balcony and drop from the lowest point, she’d still have to fall ten feet. Even if I could break the fall, which I gave fifty-fifty odds for, we were bound to get hurt. The idea of crawling down a sheet was worse; I don’t know why I’d listened when she’d suggested it.

  I retraced my steps. “I can’t get you down,” I whispered. “I’ll have to call the police.”

  “No time!” She crawled atop the railing, hug
ging it like a lover as she struggled to balance. “Catch me!”

  She rolled off the rail.

  She fell into my arms, but the impact was so great that we banged into the wall, making a great thud before tumbling to the ground. We looked at each other, startled, as lights went on in the house.

  I wanted to ask if she could stand, but she was already heading towards the scooter, her skirt bunched up around her waist. She barely waited for me to sit before jumping behind me.

  When I turned the key and hit the pedal, the motor did not react.

  “What the fuck!” she hissed.

  “It’s nothing.” I pointed west. “Start running. I’ll catch up.”

  “Your fucking motor scooter!”

  “Go!”

  While Yiolanda pounded the street, I tried the motor several more times before abandoning the scooter and running myself.

  “Stop!” yelled Rockford.

  My knees worked like pistons.

  “I have a gun, you idiot!”

  I screeched to a halt as fast as a cartoon character. I didn’t protest as Rockford dragged me inside the house by my shirt collar. He threw me into a chair in a sparsely furnished room that contained only a dining room table and other chairs. He waved his gun wildly.

  Dexter joined us.

  “You heard something all right,” Rockford told his partner. “Can I shoot him?”

  “Don’t waste the metal.”

  Rockford handcuffed me to the chair so tightly I could barely feel my wrists, then slapped my face so hard my ears rang.

  “It’s not friendly to wake people in the middle of the night, you asshole,” said Rockford. “You can get shot for a lot less than that. And how the hell did you find us?”

  “I saw your car on Flower Street. Then I waited.”

  Dexter paced around me. “Followed us, then waited until we fell asleep. Good strategy.”

  “Did the bitch get away?” asked Rockford.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got her purse. She doesn’t have any money on her. It’ll take her until tomorrow to walk home, and let’s see how she explains her absence.”

  “Enough games.” Rockford stood directly before me, so I had to crane my neck to see his face.

  “Why did she do it?”

  “Do what?”