"I cannot take your money, senor, unless I earn it. If you will allow me to make myself more presentable, I would welcome the opportunity to entertain your customers." De Leon smile returned.
"What is your name, little man?"
"Eduardo. Most people call me Eddie."
"You may stay, Eddie. Use the dressing room to clean yourself. All profit that you make, you can keep."
"Thank you, but the sight of me undressed usually offends. Perhaps I could bathe elsewhere and return later."
"That is not necessary. I will have the door guarded to protect your privacy. If you are provided with the implements, can you sew?"
"Yes, senor."
"Good. We will dress you in a cook's uniform. I may call upon you to serve a special guest or two, as a diversion."
"I would be delighted to do so."
"Excellent!" De Leon said, clapping his hands together.
"Come to my table when you are ready."
"Gladly, senor," Eddie replied. *** Eddie wanted desperately to stand under the shower until the ache in his back went away. He didn't dare do it for fear that the guard at the door would get impatient and come in to hurry him along. He washed quickly, grateful to at least feel clean, then put on the artificial hump, tightened the harness, and dressed in the cook's uniform. It hung loosely on his frame, so he undressed, tacked the sleeves and cuffs with a needle and thread, put it back on, tucked in the shirt, and inspected himself in the mirror. He looked comical but not disreputable. The cook's helper guarding the dressing-room door took Eddie to the kitchen, where the staff teased him good-naturedly about his costume. He gladly accepted the order of tamales, frijoles, and strong Mexican coffee, eating the meal with a gusto that pleased the cooks. He stayed with them until the bartender came to tell him De Leon was waiting. His entrance into the casino caused quite a stir. Wearing a chefs hat provided by the chief cook, he paraded behind the waiters, mimicking their movements. Two small children, sitting with their parents in the dining area, giggled at the charade. They came running up when he finished, clutching coins to give him. Eddie let them rub the hump and promised they would have good fortune. He got a round of applause from guests in the mezzanine and gamblers at the tables. He picked up the coins from the floor and went to De Leon bowing formally.
"Senor? I am respectable now, que no?" he asked. De Leon sat at his private table at the end of the bar next to a small dance floor and bandstand. De Leon laugh was hearty.
"Yes. Very much so. You are a very amusing jorobado. I may have to give you a job. You make my place a carnival. I could use you in the evenings and perhaps even later, after hours."
"I could stay for a few days," Eddie countered, "until I must leave to be with my family again."
"You have a wife?" De Leon inquired.
"No woman would have me," he answered.
"I live with my brother and his family."
"And where do you live, Eduardo?"
"Piedras Negras."
"Your home is a far distance."
"It is a poor place with few opportunities. I must travel to earn a living." Eddie turned his palms up to signify resignation to his lot in life. De Leon toyed with the cellular phone on the table, his eyes reflective.
"You must let me decide what is best for you, Eduardo. Consider seriously my offer of a job." Eddie kept smiling, but he heard the warning in De Leon velvet words. There was only one response he could make.
"I am at your disposal, patron."
"Good." The cellular telephone rang. De Leon dismissed the jorobado with a wave of his hand. "We will talk later about the terms of your employment." Eddie thanked De Leon for his kindness and was sent back to provide more entertainment for the customers. He worked the gambling tables and the bar with all the peppiness he could muster, wondering what in the hell he'd gotten himself into. Enrique Deleon stood on the freight dock behind the Little Turtle watching the off-loading of a panel truck of computer electronics. It was a special order of single inline memory modules, expansion boards, and microprocessors, hijacked from a semitrailer on a highway outside of Phoenix. The driver had been paid well to orchestrate a breakdown and leave the truck unattended. The electronic components would go to a Mexican assembly plant and ultimately wind up in cut-price computers shipped back to the United States. Besides the money he would make, De Leon enjoyed the knowledge that he was helping Americans cut their economic throats. The current trade agreement with the United States was nothing more than exploitation of Mexican businesses. Most of the profits flowed north. He checked the paperwork brought to him by the warehouse foreman.
Everything was in order. The mordidas he paid to make the shipment legal and untraceable were minor compared to the profits. Delivery to the assembly plant was scheduled for the morning. Enrique employed a Japanese style of management. He stocked no unnecessary inventory and shipped only at the point of need. It made his business even more profitable by cutting the overhead for labor and storage. He walked through the warehouse, greeting the few employees on duty. Aside from the computer consignment, the only other scheduled delivery for the next day was VCR components to another large American company operating in Juarez. He used the old mercantile storeroom only for small, highly valuable commodities. It was made of hand-cut stone, three feet thick, and supported by huge timber beams. His other facilities, sprinkled throughout the city, were much larger but held no charm. He admired the old stone walls, the floor paving bricks, and the rough cut beams in the building. The restoration was expensive but the results were splendid.
He must do more with old buildings. When the hacienda was rebuilt, he would look around for another project. It gave him a feeling of fulfillment to preserve the heritage and history of the city. De Leon had decided to add one of the swords and scabbards from the missile range shipment to his collection of antiques. He would hang it over the fireplace at the hacienda. He also decided to keep Eduardo, the jorobado. The hunchback seemed intelligent. He would house him in the old cantina with Duffy until he was sure Eddie was trustworthy. If it worked out, Eduardo could do small, useful errands for De Leon when he wasn't entertaining customers. De Leon liked his decision. Now that the Little Turtle was fully revived and profitable, the hunchback would add good fortune to the casino. *** Major Tom Curry felt particularly good. His daily session at the piano had been a resounding success. Finally he could approximate the unique lefthanded roll of Erroll Gamer. He was so pleased with himself he ran through five renditions of "I'll Remember April" before his wife told him it was time to get dressed and go to work.
He entered Sara Brannon's office humming the bridge to the melody. She swiveled her chair away from the desk and stood up, her expression guarded.
"Relax, Sara," Curry said. "I'm not here to chew you out again."
"Major…" Tom cut her off with a wave of his hand. One apology was sufficient.
"It's a new day, Sara. Let's leave it at that. I have news for you. Our sister service, the Navy, has just informed me that Petty Officer Yardman turned himself in to the San Diego shore patrol a week ago. Your analysis was right on. It seems he went on quite a crime spree in Mexico to support his gambling habit. The police chased him from Juarez to Tijuana before he crossed the border. Nice of the Navy to let us know so promptly, wouldn't you say?"
"That is good news," Sara said, her voice brightening. She sat down at her desk and changed the subject.
"Agent Johnson called and gave me his preliminary findings."
"Did your story hold water?"
"So far. But there's more I need to tell you." Curry sat down in the chair in front of Sara's desk, his good mood evaporating.
"What is it?" he asked tersely. Sara took a deep breath and started talking. She held nothing back about Kerney's discovery of Gutierrez's inventory, his theory of the source of the treasure, and his decision to try to find the pipeline into Mexico. After the briefing. Curry left Sara's office feeling relieved and damn glad that this Kerney fellow was in Juarez, and
not Sara. If what she said was true, and he had no reason to doubt her, the value of the treasure, historically and monetarily, was astounding. If artifacts of such importance vanished from the missile range, he would have to explain it to some very unhappy people with stars on their collars. And it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference that nobody knew about the treasure until it was stolen. The case was either a career-maker or career breaker for Sara. Failure to solve a case of such importance would dampen Curry's retirement party, which was not that far off. Curry didn't like that thought; it would be much better to go out on a high note. He went back to Sara's office and told her he wanted all available investigators assigned to the Yazzi homicide, and every piece of evidence, every interview, and every report gone over with a fine-tooth comb.
"Keep Tapia in Juarez," he ordered.
"Tell him to back up that sheriff's officer, if he can find him. And not a word to anybody about the treasure, Sara," he cautioned. "Keep it under wraps."
"Yes, sir." When Curry left, Sara almost whooped with delight as she reached for the phone. *** After midnight, the clientele at the Little Turtle changed, this time dramatically. The bohemians, young couples, families, and run-of-the-mill gamblers were gone, replaced by fashionable men and sleek ladies, some with bodyguards. The women were as elegant as any Eddie had seen in the fashion magazines Isabel brought home from the grocery store. The men were dressed in suits that cost more than Eddie made in three months, and sported watches of thick gold and jewels. The women favored diamond necklaces, pins, and earrings. De Leon had assigned a watchdog to Eddie, a middle-aged thug named Carlos. His face was pockmarked, his breath smelled of garlic, and he had an upper plate of false teeth that he constantly adjusted with his thumb. A bushy mustache completely covered Carlos's upper lip, and a low forehead gave him the appearance of a permanent frown. Eddie was told to greet arriving guests at the entrance. Carlos stayed with him, twitching his fingers at the hem of his suit coat to keep the shoulder holster under his armpit hidden. By two in the morning the Little Turtle resembled a commodities market for smugglers, drug wholesalers, and politicians.
Deals were being made by men throughout the room, in person and on cellular telephones, while the women gambled, drank, and socialized in small groups. Eddie made good money at the door, by Mexican standards, most of it in American dollars. Carlos, as a payment for his attentiveness, took half of it off the top. Enrique De Leon moved among his guests, occasionally glancing at the door to watch the jorobado, who seemed to be a popular attraction. De Leon wore a white linen banded collar shirt under a black linen jacket, with dark gray trousers. At his side, the director for cultural affairs solicited a donation.
"You know how important the Garcia Mansion is to the people of Juarez. And so close to the mayor's residence. We cannot allow it to be razed,"
Ramon Olivares said. De Leon looked down at him. Olivares, short, pudgy, and sweating, smiled up at him.
"It would be a tragedy," Enrique said.
"Have you plans for the building?"
"A fine arts museum. The mayor supports it."
De Leon nodded approvingly. "Have you a sum in mind?"
"We're asking one hundred thousand dollars from benefactors," Olivares replied.
"Of course, I'll participate," De Leon said, knowing Olivares would pocket 10 percent of the donations, "but Ramon, I'll want something more than my name on a plaque."
Ramon's smile turned into a knowing grin.
"As always. I have a Spanish Colonial wardrobe from the seventeenth century in storage. A modest piece, but significant. I had planned to consign it for auction. It would look perfectly at home in your hacienda, once the renovation is complete."
"What was to be the minimum bid?" De Leon asked.
"Five thousand dollars," Ramon replied, "but if it catches your eye, I would gladly present it to you as a gift." De Leon laughed and patted Olivares on the shoulder.
"You must show it to me. Do you like my jorobado?"
"He's wonderful." By the time Eddie was relieved of duty it was four in the morning and the crowd was rapidly thinning out. Carlos took him into the cantina and shackled his leg to the steel frame of the empty cot. Duffy, also chained for the night, was sprawled on his rack and snoring in spurts through an open mouth. Eddie, exhausted, tried to stay awake. He loosened the harness slightly to reduce the pain in his shoulders and stretched his muscles as much as he dared. He covered himself with a sheet to hide the hump and rolled on his side. One more day in the disguise was all he would chance. But with Carlos as his jailer, he would need to figure a way to escape. His eyes were heavy.
Just a catnap, he said to himself as he drifted off to sleep. Sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen at the back of the cantina woke Eddie. He lay motionless, eyes shut, angry at himself for falling asleep. He couldn't feel the hump between his shoulders. The device had slipped out of place, and the sheet no longer covered him. He heard breathing and felt a slight movement next to his face. He opened one eye and saw Duffy kneeling, looking him squarely in the face.
"You ain't no fucking hunchback, are you?" Duffy hissed. His long, stringy hair and beard hid his face, except for the revengeful smile.
"Just another wetback hustler, ain't you, Eddie? Too bad you don't talk English. I don't know if I should fuck you up myself or let De Leon do it. He doesn't like bogus beggars. I think he'd hurt you pretty bad. Comprende?"
"Que?" Eddie said, staying very still.
"This shitty disguise," Duffy responded, reaching across Eddie to shake the loose hump, "is what I'm talking about. Plus you fucked me with De Leon I had to kiss your little Mexican ass. I got enough trouble without you giving me grief."
"Donde es Senor De Leon Eddie replied, looking as confused as possible.
Early-morning sun seeped through the cracks of the plywood-covered windows. The light from the kitchen spilled across the floor between the partitions to the sleeping area. The sounds from the kitchen continued. Maybe two cooks at work preparing food for the vendors, Eddie figured.
No more.
"He ain't here, asshole, that's for certain." Duffy's smile turned wicked.
"And I ain't gonna wait to tell him about you." Duffy's right hand, out of sight at the side of the cot, came up fast. He slashed with a knife at Eddie's throat. Eddie blocked the path of the knife with his right forearm and took a deep cut below the elbow. He gouged Duffy's eye with his left thumb. Duffy pulled back, yelped in pain, and stabbed again, missing completely. Eddie flung himself at Duffy. The leg iron kept him chained to the cot. He sank the edge of his left palm into Duffy's throat, driving the blow as deeply as possible. Duffy choked and recoiled, rocked back on his knees, and pulled Eddie with him. Fighting to keep his leverage, Eddie reached up, grabbed Duffy's chin with both hands, and snapped Duffy's head with all his strength. Their faces were inches apart. He heard a distinct crack and let go. Duffy, still on his knees, fell over, gurgling through his shattered larynx, his eyes fixed on Eddie. Eddie fell on top of him. He could hear Duffy's death rattle.
He pushed himself off the body and crawled backward until he was able to get on the cot. His heart pounded in his chest and his ears were ringing. Reaching back with his wounded arm, he tried to tighten the harness under his shirt. The movement brought tears to his eyes. The knife wound hurt like hell. He used his left hand to fix the hump and pulled his shirt down. There was blood soaking through his sleeve and onto the sheet. He heard footsteps. An old man wearing a splattered apron came around the partition. His wrinkled face was weary and dull-looking.
"What have you done to Duffy?" the man asked, looking from the body to Eddie. His voice was agitated.
"He tried to kill me. Call the patron." The old man's mustache twitched.
"You are bleeding."
"Yes," Eddie answered through clenched teeth.
"The gringo tried to kill me," he repeated. The old man didn't move. His expression was heavy with confusion.
"Are you also dying?"
"No. Get me a towel to stop the blood and call De Leon Eddie snarled through clenched teeth. The man slowly took a filthy hand towel from his back pocket and handed it to Eddie.
"I must call the patron," the old man announced.
"Do that, by all means."
"Jose," the old man called out to his partner.
"The gringo Duffy is dead and the hunchback is much wounded. We will have no help in the kitchen this morning." Jose rushed in to see for himself. The men muttered, shook their heads, and said the patron would not be happy. Eddie listened to their jabbering as they debated what should be said and who would speak on the telephone to De Leon After an agreement was reached, the cooks left to make the call. Eddie bound the wound with the towel, tying it off with his good hand and his teeth.
When he finished, he looked at Duffy. He had never killed a man before. It was not pleasant. He couldn't tell Isabel about this, he thought. She would have him lighting candles for Duffy's soul for the rest of his life. He wondered what Captain Brannon would think. He decided she would not like it at all. One dead man at his feet, no leads on Lieutenant Kerney, and he was chained to a frigging bed with no way to get help. He could not risk discovery as an imposter. He worked on a story he could use with De Leon It took a long time before the two cooks ushered De Leon and Carlos to his cot. De Leon took in the scene without comment.
His face was harsh. Carlos, arms folded across his chest, adjusted his false teeth with his thumb and said nothing. The two cooks stayed back, out of De Leon range.
"Explain," De Leon finally said to Eddie.
"I cannot. I awoke to find Duffy kneeling at the side of my bed. He spoke in English. He was angry about something. He had a knife. He attacked me."
"You understood nothing?" Enrique queried. His eyes searched Eddie's face.
"He said your name several times," Eddie answered. "I think he blamed me for getting him in trouble with you."
"How did the attack take place?"
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