Planet Willie

by Josh Shoemake

  “I had a misfire,” he says, speaking from a dream. “A big one blew my mortar.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I say. “But look at these people. You think they put something in the punch?”

  Billy giggles a bit. “The pheromones,” he says. “I guess they really work. When the mortar blew, it took my briefcase with it.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” I say, my eyes starting to wander all on their own towards anything fleshy that moves.

  “Did you get the painting?” Billy says.

  “I have no idea,” I say. “And at this moment I can’t honestly say I care. You see that girl?” She’s walking by, swaying like a hypnotist. Billy nods to her rhythm and gives me a wink.

  “Wow,” I say. “In any case, to answer your question, I figure we’ve got a one in five chance. What is that? Twenty percent? Hell, better odds than Kafka and Lulu ever got at a poker table. Also, I’ve already had a gun pulled on me, so we better get out of here.”

  “I’m not finished yet,” Billy says, now watching a cute blond shimmy by. The blond turns out to be Fernanda. She sees Billy, Billy sees her, and they fall into each other’s arms. Pheromones. It’s the wave of the future.

  “I’ll give you five minutes, Billy,” I say. “I’m heading for the truck so as not to get shot. It’s a little phobia of mine. Take her Madonna if you can.”

  So I start walking back towards the entrance, through scenes you just can’t believe. There’s Bella again, who’s about the last person I want to see, but she’s occupied with the Professor now, who’s stumbling around with his hands over his eyes. When I ask if I can do anything to help, Bella gives me a dirty look and tells me he was standing close when the explosion hit, and the flash may have damaged his eyes. She’s stroking his hair and clearly doesn’t want me there, so I move on. It’s chaos. Los Blancos are firing their guns in the air. I guess romance is a new sensation, and they’re a bit lost. There’s Lulu too. She may or may not be fondling herself. She’s not the only one. Love is in the air, and I mean literally. I stand there with a grin on my face just taking it all in, and the grin goes even bigger, if such a thing is possible, when I see the Americans in cheap suits flood in with guns drawn. “F.B.I.!” one of them calls out, and within seconds Queso is in handcuffs and under arrest for the kidnapping of Alberto Pasha.

  25

  Sunshine fills my hotel room, awaking me in bed. I open my eyes and see strange clothing scattered across the floor, which I can’t begin to explain. I’m still in my suit, and I’m alone. The last thing I remember is standing in Queso’s garden, and my lady acquaintance in leopard skin coming at me like mating season. I’m assuming that some time afterwards, I got away. There’s a Madonna rolled up on the bedside table. I can’t say if she’s the right one, but from what I remember of the evening’s proceedings, nobody can say who got the right one except Harry Shore and Professor Barry Farsinelli, who’s first on the agenda.

  Also on the agenda, like it or not, is high-tailing it out of Acapulco before too many more people figure out what we’ve been up to. I make a move to call Billy’s room before realizing that his room was my room, and Billy’s most definitely not present. I sit up in bed and study the clothing on the floor. Must have been quite an experience. I just wish I could remember it. No signs of a half-burned light blue suit, however, or a bolo for that matter, and I’m hoping Billy made it out alright. Did he drive us back down into town in the truck? I honestly have no idea, and for once that’s not alcohol. No sir, that’s quite simply pheromones.

  What is clear, however, is that I could use some breakfast. I look over at the clock on the bedside table. Eleven o’clock, it says, so I hop down to the floor for a brave run of pushups, even adding in a few sit ups to atone for whatever sins I may have committed under the influence. Then I shake out the suit the best I can, pocket my thirty-eight in case of emergency, and head for the lobby. I wish I’d thought of the thirty-eight a little sooner. It might have come in handy during the library showdown, which I remember all too well.

  In the Luna Lounge I eat a full spread of pancakes and sausage, and it tastes good, but honestly not near as nice as Pete’s in South Texas. I tip the waitress a Hidalgo, figuring I’ve got pesos to burn, and may be still feeling a bit romantic. She’s got perfect white teeth and calls me jefe, which is hard to resist. She offers me her number, but that will have to wait for another Mexico at another time. I thank her kindly and head out poolside to see if my partner’s around.

  Water aerobics have finished for the morning. Now they’re doing aquatic yoga, which doesn’t look like much fun. I stroll around the pool past the lounge chairs, past the same girls in bikinis I watched tanning a couple of days ago, just a few shades darker. At the far end of the pool, I spot Mister Pyrotechnics. He’s deserved the name and more besides. Fernanda is stretched out beside him, one hand extended to play with his chest hair. They’re talking a language that’s not English and not Spanish, but something that sounds like birds chirping and probably only makes sense to them. Fernanda feels my shadow and turns up to look at me.

  “Isn’t he just wonderful, Willie,” she says, apparently willing to forget the library. “He knows so many interesting things, and he’s just so cute.”

  Billy makes some bird noises back at her, and if he’s noticed me, he’s not showing any sign of it.

  “We’re wanted men, Billy,” I say. “Probably Fernanda too. We’d better get out of here.”

  “Queso never saw me,” Billy says, rolling onto his back to grin up at me.

  “We’re getting married,” Fernanda says. “We’re starting over, the both of us. For once I’m going to do it right.”

  “Where do you go for the honeymoon when you’re starting in Acapulco?” I say with a grin. “It’s a question I’ve heard discussed.”

  “We’ve been talking about that,” Billy says. “We were thinking of maybe combining business and pleasure. I’ve got an important concern in Wisconsin interested in pheromone technology, so we were talking about going up there and doing the Great Lakes.”

  “And you?” I say to Fernanda. “Don’t tell me you’re giving up the life of crime.”

  “I’ve finally found a man that suits me, Willie,” she says. “So maybe crime doesn’t pay anymore.”

  “It never did where you were concerned, sweetheart,” I say, and though I was never too worried for her soul, I’m figuring I can now officially call it saved.

  “That’s right,” she says. “I was never bad enough. At least not until I met Billy.”

  They giggle a bit and do some more bird talk until I start feeling like some other species. “Then I don’t guess you’ll mind if I take your painting,” I say to her. “Increase my odds, so to speak.”

  “I left it for you at reception,” she says. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

  “Well I appreciate it. I guess your father will too.”

  “Goodbye Willie,” Billy says.

  “Adios Pyrotechnics, and use sunscreen,” I say, and then as much as I hate goodbyes, especially these days, sometimes they’re the only thing left, so I turn and walk away. Hell, maybe I’ll catch ol’ Billy down the road sometime. The world’s a big place, but it’s not so big when you keep moving, and like it or not, I’ve still got moving to do.

  In the lobby I recuperate Fernanda’s Madonna, which ups my chances to forty percent if my calculations are right, but the chances of knowing anything certain take a hit when I meet the Farsinellis over by the concierge. They’ve got their suitcases beside them, and the Professor’s eyes are covered in bandages. Bella’s holding a bottle of water to his mouth with more tenderness than I imagine she’s shown him in years. I walk over and say hello.

  “I lost my painting,” Bella says, “so don’t even ask. When Barry got hurt, all I could think about was getting us to a doctor.”

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “He’s always had bad eyesight,” she says. “The doctors here say he may
never see again. We have an appointment tomorrow morning with a specialist in Denver, and I hope he’ll know something more.”

  “Is that Mister Lee?” the Professor says, moving his head around like he’s trying to sense me there.

  “It is, sweetie,” Bella says. “He came down for Mister Queso’s party too. He was just saying goodbye.”

  “Well I’ll be,” the Professor says. “Best of luck to you then, Willie.”

  “You too, Professor,” I say. “Doctors work wonders these days.”

  “We’ll be all right,” Bella says, and who knows, maybe they will. A taxi arrives, and the concierge picks up their bags for them. Bella takes the world’s foremost Botticelli expert tightly by the arm and leads him down to the taxi, one step at a time. And if forty percent were my odds, now it’s just a crapshoot. At which point it occurs to me that an ex-gambler named Kafka still languishes in a Mexican jail.

  26

  At the station I am only too pleased to find the Chief in his office. Adding to that pleasure is that fact that my old friend Rodrigo is on duty at the front desk and sees me greeted by the Chief with the sort of bear hug that makes me wonder whether he’s still got pheromones in his system. Makes me sort of wish Saint Chief Mahoney could get down here sooner for a training seminar. Might really improve morale in our department.

  “I love the whole world!” the Chief shouts to nobody in particular. He may even pinch Rodrigo’s rear as we pass. I wouldn’t want to say.

  In his office we have a seat, and I explain my predicament. I tell him he’s holding a friend of mine named Mister Kis, who I’m hoping he might see his way to releasing for good behavior and pesos if necessary.

  “Mister Kiss,” he says. “I like that.”

  “I like it a whole lot, Chief. That’s why I hate to see him in here.”

  The Chief shakes his head like he’s just devastated and tells me that if he’d known they we’re holding an amigo of mine, he never would have let that amigo sleep a night in his jail. Any amigo of mine is an amigo of his. “I love the whole world!” he shouts again, then gets to chuckling a bit, which eventually I feel the need to interrupt.

  “So about Mister Kis,” I say.

  “He is as free as a bird,” the Chief says.

  “I’d like to compensate the department for their troubles if I can,” I say.

  “Do not talk to me about compensation,” the Chief says. “But I would like to introduce you to my sister. You will love her.”

  “I’m sure I will Chief, but I wasn’t really planning on sticking around much longer in your fine city, and certainly not in a romantic capacity.”

  “Perfect,” the Chief says, “because Rosa wants to go to America. Ever since she was a girl, she has loved the show tunes. She is made to be a singer, Willie. In America, I am certain she will find her chance.”

  “I’m sure she will, Chief,” I say, “but unfortunately I’m not too well connected in the show tunes industry.” The Chief doesn’t appear to hear this, however, considering he’s launched into his own rendition of I Loves You Porgy. I let him get through a verse before breaking in with some applause. Then he takes a ring of keys from his desk and leads me back to the cell block. As we walk, he pulls me close and whispers that he’s a very happy man.

  “I gathered as much, Chief,” I say. “That was some party, wasn’t it?”

  “Some party!” he roars. “I’ve been waiting for a party like that for years!”

  “Surely a man of your stature doesn’t lack for entertainment,” I say.

  “But oh, Willie,” he whispers. “Nothing like the entertainment of seeing Ricardo Queso put in handcuffs by your Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have been trying to get out from under that man for years, and now I am free! They say he kidnapped an American and won’t be leaving prison for decades.”

  So Lady Eralda and Alberto Pasha will be reunited, I’m thinking, a grin spreading across my face as the Chief unlocks Kafka’s cell and shouts, “You are as free as a bird, Mister Kiss.” Kafka just about falls into my arms.

  “Let’s get out of here, kid,” I say. “The sooner the better, if you know what I mean.”

  “I will have Rosa here waiting for you in a hour,” the Chief says. “She will ride with you to Nuevo Laredo, where there is a man who will take her across the border. A coyote, we call them. I will be forever in your debt, Willie.”

  “Much obliged, Chief,” I say, as I drag Kafka out past Rodrigo’s desk to freedom, never intending to see the Chief again, much less his sister Rosa.

  “Where’s Twiggy?” Kafka asks, blinking in the sunlight.

  “Nevermind, kid,” I say. “We’ve got to pack up Che and get out of here.”

  “I have to see her,” he says.

  “Then I imagine you’ll find her over at Santa Pulcheria, likely in a habit. I’ll give you half an hour, then we all meet back in my room.”

  I watch him walk off towards the plaza. Then I head for the hotel, where packing doesn’t take more than a minute or two, which leaves time to put in a quick call to Jimbo James in the hopes getting a handle on Rock Lightford’s fate and whatever else awaits me in South Texas. When he picks up the phone, I tell him I think I’ve spotted Lightford down in Mexico, where my own high diving career is really taking off. Jimbo has so few occasions to demonstrate his intelligence that I’m counting on him not missing the opportunity I’ve presented. Naturally Jimbo obliges.

  “That wasn’t Rock Lightford,” he says, barking it out real serious like he’s talking to his chief over the radio, “because three days ago he was found stark naked at the bottom of an empty swimming pool across the bay in Texas City.”

  “Terrible news,” I say. “I’ll have to call Caroline to offer my condolences. If you don’t mind me asking, what was the cause of death?”

  “Cause of death was diving stark naked into the bottom of an empty swimming pool. Or at least that’s what it seemed.” Of course I’m expecting him to jump right in and start asking me for an alibi, but astonishingly Jimbo doesn’t say another word.

  “Seems like a funny way for a professional diver to go,” I say after a moment. “Sounds pretty suspicious to me. You boys suspect foul play?” More silence, which I’m beginning to find near fascinating. “You got something else you want to tell me, Jimbo?”

  “Yeah, we suspect foul play,” Jimbo sighs. “Head was bashed in, and his neck was broken. In the back of this foreclosed house. I mentioned that he was stark naked, and I mean completely, not even a swimsuit. The funny thing is, his truck was parked out on the street, but we didn’t find any clothes anywhere. A guy drives naked over to an empty house to jump into a drained pool? No, I don’t think so. Then we searched his house. That’s where we found his clothes.”

  “Stroke of genius, Jimbo,” I say. “I’m guessing they were in the closet, but you’ve really got me on pins and needles here. Do tell.”

  “I’m referring to the clothes the victim was murdered in. They were covered in blood.”

  “Okay, so whoever did it killed him at home, then drove him over to the abandoned house. Is that what you’re figuring? Sounds like a lot of trouble to me. Easier to just dump the body in the bay, don’t you think? Somebody trying to send a message about our ex-diver?”

  “Looks that way,” he says, and against my better judgment I’m actually beginning to respect ol’ Jimbo. Give him a murder case every day, and over time he might even become personable.

  “From the way you’re panting into the telephone, Jimbo, I’m guessing there’s even more.”

  “The clothes, Willie. The bloodstained shirt. I think you’re gonna find this interesting. It was pink paisley.”

  “Damn,” I sigh, somehow disappointed. Was I really killed by a professional diver named Rock Lightford? “You think it was him?”

  “We don’t know yet. Maybe we’ll know something more once we get the shirt back from the lab. We didn’t find a gun, but we’re looking at all his past associations.”


  “Caroline?”

  “Yeah, we’re looking at her too, and you know better than anyone how much she likes to be looked at. It’s funny, though. For once she seems genuinely upset.”

  “I doubt that,” I say, “but who knows. What about Susan?”

  “Richard Susan couldn’t be better. His wife’s probable lover is dead, and he just beat out every other contractor in the region for the new sanctuary at Second Baptist. Can’t figure out how he gets all these big projects. Hell, you could probably build a better sanctuary than Richard Susan, and that’s not intended as a compliment.”

  “I’ll go ahead and take it as one anyway, Jimbo,” I say. “You think Susan’s crooked?”

  “That’s enough questions for now, Willie,” he says. “Meanwhile you owe me a bottle of Wild Turkey. Make it the twelve-year-old premium.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Jimbo,” I say. “And one more thing before I leave you. Remember that Alberto Pasha you were after? Turns out he was kidnapped and brought down here to Acapulco. Long story, but the F.B.I. raided a place last night and found him there. Looks like the cocaine in his car was a plant, but anyway, figured you might want to know. Get a little jump on the local investigation, so to speak.”

  After hanging up, I sit there for a long while trying to make sense of it all. If Lightford shot me, I doubt it was on his own initiative. Even if he loved Caroline, she sure as hell didn’t love me anymore, so he wouldn’t have been jealous. Then Caroline? Or is Susan in the mix again? Did he know Lightford before Caroline developed her diving fetish? Does Caroline still have a diving fetish, and is she familiar with the cliffs of Acapulco? I wish I knew, and I wish I had more time.

  Then I start wondering what the odds are I’ll run into Lightford on some cloud once they zap me back up, although if he murdered yours truly, he’s probably getting sent down to hell. Then again, nobody up there has ever been able to tell me with any certainty whether hell exists, so a showdown on Cloud Nine might be a possibility. It’s all so complicated that a man could go crazy thinking it through, which is why I’m particularly grateful to discover that the minibar has been restocked with mini-bottles.