by Otto Penzler
At ten p.m., he decided to retire early. He washed and walked into his large bedroom, thinking again of The Old Curiosity Shop he would receive tomorrow. This buoyed his spirits. He dressed in pajamas and glanced at his bedside table.
What should he read now, he wondered, to lull him to sleep?
He decided he would continue with War and Peace, a title that, he thought wryly, perfectly described a businessman’s life in Mexico.
In the living room of the apartment with the complicated ownership, P.Z. Evans was hunched over his improvised workbench, carefully constructing the bomb.
The care wasn’t necessary because he risked getting turned into red vapor, not yet, in any event; it was simply that the circuits and wiring were very small and he had big hands. In the old days he would have been soldering the connections. But now improvised explosive devices were plug and play. He was pressing the circuits into sheets of especially powerful plastic explosive, which he’d packed into the leather cover after slicing it open with a surgeon’s scalpel.
It was eleven p.m. and the agents had not had a moment’s respite today. They’d spent the past twelve hours acquiring the key items to the project, like the surgeon’s instruments, electronics and a leather-bound edition of the play The Robbers by Friedrich Schiller, which their new partner—book dealer Señor Davila—had suggested because Cuchillo liked the German author.
Through a jeweler’s loupe over his right eye, Evans examined his handiwork and made some small adjustments.
Outside their door they could hear infectious norteño in a nearby square. An accordion was prominent. The windows were open because the evening air teased that it was heading toward the bearable, and the A.C. was off. Evans had convinced himself he had a moldinduced cough.
Alejo Díaz sat nearby, not saying anything and seemingly uneasy. This was not because of the bomb, but because he’d apparently found the task of becoming an expert on book collecting and Charles Dickens daunting, to say the least.
Still, Díaz would occasionally look up from Joseph Connolly’s Collecting Modern First Editions, his eyes on the bomb. Evans thought about diving to the floor, shouting, “Oh, shit! Five … four … three …” But while the Mexican agent had a sense of humor, that might be over the line.
A half hour later he was gluing the leather into place. “Okay, that’s it. Done.”
Díaz eyed his handicraft. “Is small.”
“Bombs are, yes. That’s what makes them so nice.”
“It will get the job done?”
A brief laugh. “Oh, yeah.”
“Nice,” Díaz repeated uneasily.
Evans’s phone buzzed with an encrypted text. He read it.
“Bait’s here.”
A moment later there was a knock on the door and, even though the text he’d just received had included all the proper codes, both men drew their weapons.
But the delivery man was just who he purported to be—a man attached to the Economic Development Council for the U.S. consulate in northern Mexico. Evans had worked with him before. With a nod the man handed Evans a small package and turned and left.
Evans opened it and extracted the copy of Charles Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop. Six hours ago it had been sitting in a famed book dealer’s store on Warren Street in New York City. It had been bought with cash by the man who had just delivered it, and its journey to Sonora had been via chartered jet.
Killing bad guys is not only dangerous, it’s expensive.
The American wrapped the book back up.
Díaz asked, “So, what are the next steps?”
“Well, you—you just keep on reading.” A nod toward the book in his hands. “And when you’re through with that, you might want to brush up on the history of English literature in general. You never know what subject might come up.”
Díaz rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair, stretching. “And while I’m stuck in school, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going out and getting drunk.”
“That is not so fair,” Díaz pointed out.
“And it’s even less fair when I’m thinking I may get laid, too.”
THURSDAY
The latter part of his plans did not happen, though Evans had come close.
But Carmella, the gorgeous young woman he met at a nearby bar, was a little too eager, which set off warning bells that she probably had designs to land a good-looking and apparently employed American husband.
In any event, tequila had intervened big time and the dance of your-place-or-mine never occurred.
It was now ten in the morning and, natch, hot as searing iron. No A.C., but Evans’s cough was gone.
Díaz examined his partner. “You look awful. Hey, you know that many of Charles Dickens’ most popular novels were first published serially and that he wrote in a style influenced by gothic popular novels of the Victorian era, but with a whimsical touch?”
“You’re fucked if you go in talking like that.”
“I going to read one of his books. Is Dickens translated into Spanish?”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
Evans opened an attach case he’d bought yesterday and had rigged with a false compartment. Into this narrow space he added the Schiller he’d doctored last night and sealed it. Then he added receipts, price guides, scraps of paper—everything that a book dealer would carry with him to a meeting with a collector. The Dickens, too, which was packed in bubble wrap. Evans then tested the communications app on the iPad that Díaz would have with him—it would appear to be in sleep mode, but a hypersensitive microphone would be picking up all the conversation between Cuchillo and Díaz. The system worked fine.
“Okay.” Evans then checked his 9mm Beretta. He slipped it into his waistband. “Diversion’s ready, device is ready. Let’s do it.”
They walked down to the parking lot. Evans went to a huge old Mercury—yes, a real Mercury, in sun-faded Mercury brown, with an untraceable registration. Díaz’s car was a midnight blue Lincoln registered to Davila Collectable Books, which Señor Davila had quickly, almost tearfully, agreed to let them borrow.
According to the unwritten rules of times like these, the start of a mission, when either or both might be dead within the hour, they said nothing of luck, hope, or the pleasure of working together. Much less did they shake hands.
“See you later.”
“Sí.”
They climbed in, fired up the engines and hurried out of the lot.
As he drove to Cuchillo’s compound, Alejo Díaz could not help but think of the bus.
The people tomorrow, the tourists, who would be trapped and burned to death by this butcher. He recalled P.Z. Evans’s words yesterday and reflected that these people were also—to Cuchillo—acceptable sacrifices.
Díaz was suddenly swept with fury at what people like this were doing to his country. Yes, the place was hot and dusty and the economy staggered and it dwelt forever in the shadow of that behemoth to the north—the country that Mexicans both loved and hated.
But this land is our home, he thought. And home, however flawed, deserves respect.
People like Alonso María Cuchillo treated Mexico with nothing but contempt.
Of course, Díaz would have to keep his revulsion deeply hidden when he met Cuchillo. He was just a shopkeeper’s assistant; the drug lord was just another rich businessman with a love of books.
If he screwed that up, then many people—himself included—were going to die.
Then he was at the compound. He was admitted through a gate that swung open slowly and he parked near the modest front door. A swarthy, squat man who clearly was carrying a pistol greeted him pleasantly and asked him to step to a table in the entryway. Another guard gently but thoroughly frisked him.
Then the briefcase was searched.
Díaz regarded the operation with surprising detachment, he decided, considering he might be one minute away from being shot.
The detachment vanished and his heart thu
dded fiercely when the man frowned and dug into the case.
Jesus …
The man gazed at Díaz with wide eyes. Then he grinned. “Is this the new iPad?” He pulled it out and displayed it to the other guard.
His breathing stuttering in and out, Díaz nodded and wondered if his question had burst Evans’s eardrum.
“Four-G?”
“If there’s a server.”
“How many gig?”
“Thirty-two,” the Mexican agent managed to say.
“My son has that, too. His is nearly filled. Music videos.” He man replaced it and handed the briefcase back. The Schiller novel remained undiscovered.
Struggling to control his breathing, Díaz said, “I don’t have many videos. I use it mostly for work.”
A few minutes later he was led into the living room. He declined water or any other beverage. Alone, the Mexican agent sat with the briefcase on his lap. He opened it again and smoothly freed the Schiller and slipped it into his waistband, absently thinking about the explosive two inches from his penis. The open lid obscured prying eyes or cameras if there were any. He extracted the Dickens and closed the case.
A moment later a shadow spread on the floor and Díaz looked up to see Cuchillo walking steadily forward on quiet feet.
The Knife. The slaughterer of hundreds, perhaps thousands.
The stocky man strode forward, smiling. He seemed pleasant enough, if a bit distracted.
“Señor Abrossa,” he said—the cover name Davila had given when he’d called yesterday. Díaz now presented a business card they’d had printed yesterday. “Good day. Delighted to meet you.”
“And I’m pleased to meet such an illustrious client of Señor Davila.”
“And how is he? I thought he might come himself.”
“He sends his regards. He’s getting ready for the auction of eighteenth century Bibles.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. One of the few books I don’t collect. Which is a shame. I understand that the plot is very compelling.”
Díaz laughed. “The characters, too.”
“Ah, the Dickens.”
Taking it reverently, the man unwrapped the bubble plastic and examined the volume and flipped through it. “It is thrilling to know that Dickens himself held this very book.”
Cuchillo was lost in the book, a gaze of admiration and respect. Not lust or possessiveness.
And in the silence, Díaz looked around and noted that this house was filled with much art and sculpture. All tasteful and subdued. This was not the house of a gaudy drug lord. He had been inside those. Filled with excess—and usually brimming with beautiful and marginally clad women.
It was then that a sudden and difficult thought came to Díaz. Was it at all possible that they’d made a mistake? Was this subdued, cultured man not the vicious dog they’d been led to believe? After all, there’d never been any hard proof that Cuchillo was the drug lord many believed him to be. Just because one was rich and tough didn’t mean he was a criminal.
Where exactly had the intelligence assigning guilt come from? How reliable was it?
He realized Cuchillo was looking at him with curiosity. “Now, Señor Abrossa, are you sure you’re the book dealer I’ve been led to believe?”
Using all his willpower, Díaz kept a smile on his face and dipped a brow in curiosity.
The man laughed hard. “You’ve forgotten to ask for the money.”
“Ah, sometimes I get so caught up in the books themselves that, you’re right, I do forget it’s a business. I personally would give books away to people who appreciate them.”
“I most certainly won’t tell your employer you said that.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a thick envelop. “There is the fifty-five thousand. U.S. “Díaz handed him the receipt on Davila’s letterhead and signed “V. Abrossa.”
“Thank you …?” Cuchillo asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Victor.” Díaz put the money in the attach case and closed it. He looked around. “Your home, it is very lovely. I’ve always wondered about the houses in this neighborhood.”
“Thank you. Would you like to see the place?”
“Please. And your collection, too, if possible.”
“Of course.”
Cuchillo then lead him on a tour of the house, which was, like the living room, filled with understated elegance. Pictures of youngsters—his nieces and nephews who lived in Mexico City and Chihuahua, he explained. He seemed proud of them.
Díaz couldn’t help wondering again: Was this a mistake?
“Now, come to my library. As a booklover, I hope you will be impressed.”
They walked through the kitchen, where Cuchillo paused and asked the housekeeper how her ailing mother was doing. He nodded as she answered. He told her to take any time off she needed. His eyes were narrow with genuine sympathy.
A mistake …?
They walked out the back door and through the shade of twin brick walls, the ones protecting him from sniper shots, and then into the library.
Even as a non-book lover, Díaz was impressed. More than impressed.
The place astonished him. He knew the size from the drone images, but he hadn’t imagined it would be filled as completely as it was. Everywhere, books. It seemed the walls were made of them, like rich tiles in all different sizes and colors and textures.
“I don’t know what to say, sir.”
They walked slowly through the cool room and Cuchillo talked about some of the highlights in the collection. “My superstars,” he said. He pointed out some as they walked.
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Conan Doyle, Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T.E. Lawrence, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, Brighton Rock by Graham Greene, The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett, Night and Day by Virginia Woolf, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce, A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu by Marcel Proust, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by Frank Baum, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling, The Bridge by Hart Crane, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan, The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie, Casino Royale by Ian Fleming.
“And our nation’s writers too, of course—that whole wall there. I love all books, but it’s important for us in Mexico to be aware of our people’s voice.” He strode forward and displayed a few. “Salvador Novo, Jos Gorostiza, Xavier Villaurrutia, and the incomparable Octavio Paz. Whom you’ve read, of course.”
“Of course,” Díaz said, praying that Cuchillo would not ask for the name of one of Paz’s books, much less a plot or protagonist.
Díaz noted a book near the man’s plush armchair. It was in a display case, James Joyce’s Ulysses. He happened to have read about the title last night on a rare book website. “Is that the original 1922 edition?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It’s worth about $150,000.”
Cuchillo smiled. “No. It’s worth nothing.”
“Nothing?”
His arm swept in a slow circle, indicating the room. “This entire collection is worth nothing.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Something has value only to the extent the owner is willing to sell. I would never sell a single volume. Most book collectors feel this way, more so than about paintings or cars or sculpture.”
The businessman picked up The Maltese Falcon. “You are perhaps surprised I have in my collection spy and detective stories?”
The agent recited a fact he’d read. “Of course, popular commercial fiction is usually more valuable than literature.” He hoped he’d got this straight.
He must have. Cuchillo was nodding. “But I enjoy them for their substance as well as their collectability.”
This was interesting. The agent said, “I suppose crime is an art form in a way.”
Cuchillo’s head cocked and he seemed confused. Díaz’s hear
t beat faster.
The collector said, “I don’t mean that. I mean that crime and popular novelists are often better craftspeople than so-called literary writers. The readers know this; they appreciate good storytelling over pretentious artifice. Take that book I just bought, The Old Curiosity Shop. When it first came out, serialized in weekly parts, people in New York and Boston would wait on the docks when the latest installment was due to arrive from England. They’d shout to the sailors, ‘Tell us, is Little Nell dead?’” He glanced at the display case. “I suspect not so many people did that for Ulysses. Don’t you agree?”
“I do, sir, yes.” Then he frowned. “But wasn’t Curiosity Shop serialized in monthly parts?”
After a moment Cuchillo smiled. “Ah, right you are. I don’t collect periodicals, so I’m always getting that confused.”
Was this a test, or a legitimate error?
Díaz could not tell.
He glanced past Cuchillo and pointed to a shelf. “Is that a Mark Twain?”
When the man turned Díaz quickly withdrew the doctored Schiller and slipped it onto a shelf just above Ulysses, near the drug baron’s armchair.
He lowered his arm just as Cuchillo turned back. “No, not there. But I have several. You’ve read Huckleberry Finn?”
“No. I just know it as a collector’s item.”
“Some people consider it the greatest American novel. I consider it perhaps the greatest novel of the New World. It has lessons for us as well.” A shake of the head. “And the Lord knows we need some lessons in this poor country of ours.”
They returned to the living room and Díaz dug the iPad from the case. “Let me show you some new titles that Señor Davila has just gotten in.” He supposed P.Z. Evans was relieved to hear his voice and learn that he had not been discovered and spirited off to a grave in the graceless Sonora desert.
He called up Safari and went to the website. “Now, we have—”