Take the Money: Romantic Suspense in Costa Rica

by Lucia Sinn

  “Hola.” He grinned, displaying large straight teeth, faintly yellowed with nicotine stains.

  “Hola,” she answered, surprised he hadn’t said “Hi,” since he seemed to favor North American slang.

  “You’re leaving the hotel?” He asked in English.

  “Yes, I’d rather stay in San Jose.” The bright sun was hot on Julie’s face. She shaded her eyes and saw a large, brownish-orange structure rising in the distance against the tropical blue sky. “What’s that building?” she asked.

  “That’s a shopping mall,” he said in a flat voice.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Shops. Restaurants. A couple of banks.”

  Julie’s feet were swollen in her hiking boots and sweat was running down her legs. She needed a pair of shorts and some sandals. “I’m going over there, I guess,” she said. “Bye.”

  David followed her. “You can’t walk,” he cautioned. “You have to cross the highway, and it’s dangerous.”

  “But other people are crossing,” she said, even though it looked like a hazardous undertaking. There were no stop lights and the speeding traffic seemed endless. Young men and women stood at the side of the road, then made daredevil dashes in front of the oncoming cars.

  “Those kids are fools. If you’re going to the mall, you should get a taxi.”

  “If they can do it, I can.”

  He threw up his hands in mock despair. “Okay, I can’t let you do this alone.”

  Before she could reply, he took her hand and dragged her across the highway. Her heart raced as cars and trucks zoomed toward them; she felt like a drunk staggering across the racetrack during the Indy 500 as David yanked her through an infinitesimal gap between cars. A small van came so close she could see the driver’s dark scowl as her hair flew against its side window. In seconds, they were on the other side, and she stood gasping for air, clutching her stomach.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” she managed to say, although her voice was quavering.

  “Now, will you pay attention to what I tell you?” he asked.

  “Look,” she said, wiping her damp flushed face, “I’ve made you go out of your way. But I’m all right, and I can find my way around, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t mind walking with you,” he said, as though he had all the time in the world.

  They were inside the building now. Unlike U.S. malls where the food courts were off on a side corridor, the first signs Julie saw almost made her laugh. Burger King. Taco Bell. Kentucky Fried Chicken. All North American fast food franchises incongruously manned by dark-haired, Spanish speaking Ticos. As they neared the end of the court, she stopped for a moment in front of the great, gold merry go-round that dominated the middle of the ground floor. Next to it, a steep escalator curved upward toward a brilliant skylight.

  “Is that a bank up there?” she asked

  “Yes. But you can get money changed anywhere.”

  Changing money wasn’t what Julie had in mind. She had to find a safe spot for her cash, and she certainly didn’t want David tagging along. She tried a new approach. “I’m shopping for some personal items,” she said. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I’ll be more comfortable by myself.”

  Color appeared in his cheeks and he ducked his head. “Of course, I understand. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Julie touched his arm. “You’ve been a great help, David. I appreciate it. Really. But I’ll be fine now.” She backed away and accelerated her pace, even though he seemed reluctant to let her out of his sight.

  “Where are you staying?” he called.

  “Downtown.” She stepped on the rapidly moving escalator and was halfway up to the second floor before she yelled down to his upturned face. “Bye! Thanks for everything.” She wanted to believe he was only interested in being helpful, but in the back of her mind, she knew that friendly strangers were probably best avoided.

  Two security guards barred her entry at the bank door. They wore dark blue pants, crisp white shirts, and lethal-looking pistols in holsters at their waists.

  “What is your business here, Senorita?” one of them asked. He was strikingly attractive with a glossy mustache, slick black hair, and olive skin. But he was not in a flirtatious mood.

  “I wish to make a deposit, open an account,” she said.

  The man seemed as friendly as a hungry Rottweiler. “We’ll need to see your passport.”

  “Of course.” She fished it out of her pocket, feeling the weight of his steady gaze. Did she look suspicious, or was this routine?

  A muscle quivered in the guard’s cheek as he checked the passport, studying the pages stamped with the symbols of every foreign country she’d been through in the past two years. His eyes darted back and forth, comparing her picture to her face. “Very well,” he said, nodding at his partner to move aside. “You may enter.”

  It appeared to be a branch bank with a small waiting area and only one service window. Another customer was getting money exchanged, so Julie had a few minutes to look behind the counter. A man and a woman—both dressed in navy blue suits —sat at desks, working with calculators. Julie had expected to see bright colors and flowered shirts everywhere, but it seemed that serious business people wore dark tailored clothes.

  The cashier, a young woman with a round face and hair pulled back severely in a bun, looked at her with a bored expression.

  “I’d like to open a checking account,” Julie said.

  “Open an account?” The woman’s eyes drifted down, taking in Julie’s T-shirt and jeans. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not authorized. One of my superiors will help you.”

  “Fine.”

  The cashier summoned a man who stared at Julie with eagle-like intensity, then opened a gate admitting her to the inner sanctum. As he did so, he cocked his head toward the front door. The guard who’d checked her passport stepped inside quickly, his hand on his gun. Did they think she was a bank robber? How could they possibly imagine anyone would have the guts to try and overpower such militant surveillance?

  The officer introduced himself as Mr. Ortega. Julie ran her tongue over dry lips as she reached inside her bag for the stacks she’d sorted out before she left this morning. She tried to appear calm, clenching her fists to keep her icy fingers from quivering. No one spoke. The only sounds were the brassy strains of the calliope from the merry-go-round drifting upstairs. Three pairs of eyes were on her. She took a deep breath, drew out the packet and laid it on the table. “I believe you’ll find fifty-seven thousand American dollars there,” she said

  Ortega adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses across the beak of his nose. With the impassive look of a professional gambler, he picked up the packet and began counting.

  No one moved. When he’d finished, he put the money back down and tented his hands, looking first at Julie, then at the guard.

  “Excuse me please. I need to check these bills.” Ortega disappeared into a back room. The guard stood blocking the gate, the pistol on his left hip inches away from Julie’s nose.

  She could feel the blood draining from her face, and her stomach was in knots. If the money was counterfeit, she’d end up in a Costa Rican jail, or maybe they’d send her back to the U.S. Why had she been so foolish? According to her watch, only ten minutes had passed when Ortega returned, during which time Julie had pictured herself growing old and gray as she languished in prison.

  But Ortega was extending a talon-like hand for her to clasp in a feeble attempt at a handshake. In an oily voice, he said, “We welcome you as a customer, Senorita. Now, your passport please, so that we can fill out the forms.”

  Feeling like the top of her head was about to explode, Julie gripped the side of her chair to keep from pitching forward. They had taken the money. She now had $57,000 under her own name.

  The atmosphere was buoyant, as if helium-filled balloons had been released from their mooring. Everyone in the bank was smiling so much that
Julie half expected someone to produce a bottle of champagne and propose a toast. The guards bowed as she left, her bankbook comfortably tucked inside her money belt, along with her passport.

  “Que te vaya bien!”

  “Gracias.”

  The backpack wasn’t noticeably lighter, but Julie’s spirits soared to think she’d gotten rid of most the money. She’d kept some cash in case she needed to make a quick getaway. South America, maybe. Right now, she needed to get her bearings and try to determine whether or not she was being followed.

  She found a pair of cotton slacks, a short sleeved T-shirt and sandals in the shops beside the bank, then changed in the public restroom. Her hiking boots and jeans were filthy and made her bag heavy, but she decided to keep them. She could lighten her load as soon as she found a room in San Jose. Feeling elated and finally unafraid for the first time since she’d arrived, she found her way to the escalator and impatiently skipped steps as she hurried down, alighting next to the merry-go-round. Anxious to get out of the noisy mall with its overpowering smell of burned grease coming from the food stands, she decided to splurge on a taxi when she spotted David standing next to the front door.

  Damn. What was it with him? Couldn’t he find a girlfriend among all of the luscious Costa Rican girls who meandered through the shops with skintight jeans, spiked heels and spaghetti-strapped tank tops that accentuated their melon breasts?

  So far Julie hadn’t seen a single woman with breasts as small as her own. By Costa Rican standards, she was a skinny, lanky spinster. So wake up, girl, she said to herself. He wants something besides your body. She searched for another exit and found one behind the KFC outlet, then ran to the driveway and got into a waiting taxicab.

  “How much for a ride into San Jose?” she asked.

  The driver gave her a quizzical look, so she repeated her question in Spanish and he answered rapidly. “Seven dollars, one way.”

  Julie had no idea whether this was fair. She’d never navigated in a foreign country without first absorbing everything she could read from Lonely Planet or Fodor. But ditching David was more important than haggling over a few dollars, so she told the driver to take her into the city. It was an old cab with cracked windows, littered floor and a lumpy back seat covered with bright floral slipcovers overlaid with clear plastic. A wifely touch, no doubt.

  Julie heard a chirping sound coming from the front seat. “What’s that I hear?” she asked.

  “Oh, I hope you don’t mind.” The driver turned to look at her with doleful eyes. “Just some chickens for my children.”

  “You must live outside the city.”

  “No, we have a house up north.”

  “But you have a yard for the chickens?”

  “A small yard. But the chickens will stay in the house. After the children tire of them, they will provide food.”

  Julie tried to imagine what it would be like to eat a pet, but since she’d had two strips of bacon at breakfast, who was she to judge?

  “I’m looking for a hotel downtown,” she said, still avoiding English. “Any recommendations?”

  “Many good American hotels. Holiday Inn. Mariott.”

  It obviously didn’t occur to him that she might want to stay in a Costa Rican establishment. “Just take me to the center of town,” she said. “Then, I’ll have a look around.”

  “You should be careful,” he cautioned. “Many Nicaraguans in the square. Hang onto your bag. Let me take you to the Gran Hotel.”

  “Seems like I’ve heard of that place.”

  “Yes. It’s been pictured in some movies. It’s very famous.” They were coming into the city now: noisy, tumultuous, with cars and trucks belching diesel fumes that filled the skies with an eye-stinging haze. The architecture was a disappointment. Most of the flat, box-like buildings had a North American appearance that gave no hint of ancient history or culture.

  Julie studied the people on the streets, trying to figure out the best way to blend in. There was no hope of looking like a Costa Rican, since she was tall and her skin— although darker than her mother’s—was certainly not the lovely hue of the Spanish descendants who inhabited the city. Most everyone wore black leather shoes or sandals. Even tennis shoes were black with white trim. If she’d been wearing white Reeboks, she might as well have been wearing a badge that proclaimed Made in the USA.

  The Gran Hotel was the focal point of the city, overlooking the Plaza de Cultura and in full view of the rococo National Theater. The driver pulled into a circular drive leading to a five-story, ocher building with white-canopied windows and rounded archways. Before reaching the entrance they went through a courtyard filled with white umbrella tables and tall palm trees. At this hour of the morning, the chairs were empty. Several uniformed doormen rushed forward to open the taxi door and look for her bags.

  Julie said, “No, I have no luggage,” then stepped up to a veranda where food was being served at small rattan tables. Beyond was a registration desk and another casino—this one larger than the one at the Cariari—full of customers who seemed to prefer gaming tables and neon lights in a darkened room to basking in the sunlight.

  She decided against registering for a room and went back outside, knowing she could order a drink and nurse it for hours in this laid-back environment. She chose a corner seat and parked the precious backpack under the table where she could use it as a footrest.

  The crowd seemed more cosmopolitan than the bunch at the Cariari. She picked up snatches of conversations in German and French, in addition to Asian dialects and languages she couldn’t decipher. Many of the patrons lingered over late breakfasts accompanied by tall glasses of dark beer or frosty pina colodas. From the gray stone piazza came the wail of ocarinas being peddled by wandering Nicaraguans. Tourists and old ladies sat on stainless steel circular benches watching the midday promenade while dodging pigeon droppings.

  “Hello, again.” Julie heard a familiar voice and saw Bud sitting in the shadows of a palm tree at the table across the aisle.

  ‘Whoa,” she said, “what are you doing here? Why aren’t you on the golf course at the Cariari?”

  “Time enough for that,” he said. “It’s always fun to come here and people watch. Care if I join you?”

  She did, actually. If he asked her name, she’d have to decide whether she was Julie Lawson or Stephanie Talbot, and she was new to the practice of deception. “Of course not,” she lied.

  When the waiter came, Bud ordered an Amstel Light, and she surprised herself by joining him. The beer tasted bitter against her tongue, but went down smoothly as she sat back and enjoyed its gentle buzz. The headache pounding in her temples began to ease.

  “Now tell me the truth,” Bud said, lowering his head and looking directly into her eyes. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  Again Julie found herself trying to assess his strange combination of features. He was a large man with a square, compact body that veered toward overweight, yet he wasn’t flabby. His dress was still casual and unaffected: faded yellow cotton golf shirt, wrinkled chinos, and brown leather sandals.

  Julie looked out across the square, avoiding his scrutiny. “I told you before, I’m on a vacation.”

  “Alone?”

  “Sure. What’s so strange about that?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s just that a lone female in this country is viewed with a little skepticism. Women’s roles are more traditional here.”

  “I can see that, so many young girls with babies in their arms. They’re everywhere.”

  “It’s a Catholic country, Planned Parenthood isn’t exactly flourishing. Half the births are illegitimate, and a third of the kids haven’t a clue who Daddy is.”

  “It sounds like you’ve been here before,” she said. “Do you come often?”

  “Actually, yes. I do business down here.”

  “What business?”

  A street vendor interrupted their conversation. A rail-thin man stopped at their table a
nd crouched low, producing a thin wooden box. “Cuban cigars?” he asked, his eyes shifting from left to right.

  “Quanto?”

  “Cinco.”

  Bud hesitated, then looked up at Julie. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Not while we’re here, outside.”

  Bud paid the man, lit the cigar, leaned against the wall and inhaled.

  Julie said, “Your Spanish is excellent, but you sound like a Hoosier when you speak English. What’s the deal?”

  “The deal is that I’m a half-breed,” he said, carefully blowing a cloud of smoke that drifted across the empty tables outside. Julie wasn’t sure whether she detected bitterness or amusement in his narrowed eyes. Perhaps a bit of both.

  “A half breed? That sounds rather quaint. Also, harsh.”

  “It’s a harsh thing to be.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t appear to have suffered. Anyway, I think ‘mixed race’ is the modern term.”

  “Try growing up in Indianapolis with a name like Armando Jiminez. But it doesn’t matter. In the end, I’ve benefited from dual citizenship.”

  “Your folks live in Indy?”

  He leaned forward, seeming to choke on something. “Folks? I don’t have folks.”

  “Well, what do you have then?”

  “I have a father in Mexico who’s on his third wife. I have a mother who lives in a group home on the north side in Indy.”

  “Why a group home?”

  “I believe the euphemism for her condition is referred to as chemical imbalance. Is there anything else you need to know about my pedigree?” His joking manner belied the pained expression on his face.

  “Welcome to the club,” Julie said, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “My dad has the same problem.”

  Bud took a swallow of beer. “I take it your parents are split?”

  “Yeah. My dad’s bumming around in Florida, and my mom got herself a new husband.”

  “How do you fit in?”

  “Not too well, actually. I made the mistake of thinking I could go home again and hang out until I decided what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Jed—that’s my stepfather—decided I was some kind of slacker. Insisted I get a job.”