Cleopatra Gold

by William Caunitz

  From his perch Che-Che Morales looked down at the entertainer, and something resembling a smile crossed his lips. Then he turned and huddled with his Oriental guests.

  Alejandro’s hand rose up over his head and crashed down at the same instant the band behind him broke into “Cuidado Amor.” His body began to sway, weaving in and out of the illumination of the single spotlight, caressing the darkness, his eyes closed. His light baritone was agreeable, but it was not his musical talent that had earned him a lead role at Environment. It was his ability to captivate his audience, the way he made every woman believe that he was singing only to her, the way his body and his eyes caused women to unleash secret fantasies, and, above all, because he and Che-Che Morales were compañeros.

  For fifty minutes he sang to a rapt audience, concluding with his theme song, “Quierame Mucho”—“Love Me a Lot”—a song whose words he hoped to sing someday for an audience of one. Running off stage, he snapped a towel off a nail and dried himself, smiling contently at the sound of his audience’s stamping feet, at the demands of “Encore! Encore!” He looked out at the marimba player, who gave him a thumbs-up.

  The lights went up, and Alejandro ran on stage to his audience’s thunderous approval. He moved about the stage throwing kisses, applauding his admirers downstairs and up in the balcony. He sang two encore songs and ran off stage into his makeshift dressing room made of five shower curtains strung across a corner of the rear stage. Inside, he took off his soaked shirt, dried himself with a towel, tugged on a clean T-shirt, and left, heading for the backstage exit with his audience still demanding, “Alejandro!”

  Out in the muggy night, he walked across the tiny parking lot behind the club, motioning to the three bodyguard types protecting the cars that favored guests were allowed to park in the lot. One of the big men returned his wave and pulled back the steel gate that opened on the street.

  Alejandro squeezed down into the black Porsche Turbo-charge, turned the ignition, roaring the engine to life, and drove out into the unsleeping night.

  He parked on Second Avenue, switched on the hidden toggle switch that killed the car’s electrical system, and walked down Fifty-fifth to a five-story walk-up on the north side of the street. The building he entered was in the middle of the block, and its facade faced a glass tower cooperative with a curving driveway and a majestic fountain arching water into an ornate stone recycling pool.

  He let himself into the vestibule with his key and climbed the steps to the third floor, where he rounded the banister and went up to the front apartment with a nameplate that read “J. McMahon.”

  He admitted himself with the key and stepped inside. Walking into the living room, Alejandro said to the man looking out the window, “It must be mucho important for you to make contact that way.”

  Seaver went over to the bar and poured in more Johnny Black. Looking at Alejandro, he asked, “How’s your mother?”

  “She opened a restaurant on La Playa Ropa, directly down from Martha’s.”

  A warm glow of remembrance flowed over Seaver’s face. “That’s nice,” he said, coming over and sitting next to him. “Would you like us to resurface you?”

  Alejandro looked at him, astonished. He could sense that “Mother Hen” was stalling, wrestling with some inner conflict. He got up and went over to the bar, began tossing ice cubes into a rock glass. Pouring in scotch, he asked, “What kind of a question is that? You know I’m not going to finish until it’s finished.” He scoffed, “Can’t you just see me being a cop, walking a beat or doing whatever it is that they do?”

  “When we put you under all those years ago, we thought making you a singer in the cuchifrito joints was a perfect cover. We never thought that one day you’d be the new sensation. You have talent, you could break through into the big times, maybe. Have a good life, a family.”

  “Why you breaking my balls, Andy? I’m not going anyplace and you know it. As far as me being the next Julio, forget it. I was singing in rice-and-bean joints until Che-Che saw me and took an interest. We’re both Indians from the same area. He’s my friend. He trusts me.”

  “And you’re working him for us, remember?” Seaver said with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  Sipping at his drink, Alejandro said bitterly, “In case you’ve forgotten, yes, that’s what I do.”

  Regarding him sadly, Seaver said, “You’ve changed, Al. You’re like a clenched fist. Hey, man, it’s me. Lighten up.”

  Alejandro gulped his drink. “I’ve got another show to do, and Che-Che wants to party later, so why don’t you tell me why you’ve come?”

  “We’ve discovered a new network we want you to infiltrate.”

  “What about Che-Che? Do I drop him? He’s a major player. Through him I might be able to work my way up to some of the top Colombians.”

  “This network is responsible for killing three Narcotics undercovers.”

  “So let Narcotics insert another undercover.”

  “Their entire unit might have been compromised.”

  “Andy, you know damn well Mexico is a major processing and distribution point for the cartels, and Che-Che controls a big piece of it. He’s been giving up important information to me because we’re both Tarascan Indians, and he considers us blood brothers. A few months back I introduced him to an Agency clown posing as a banker from the British Virgins. And now Che-Che is happily laundering some of his money through an Agency bank in Road Town.” Pointing his glass at Seaver, he added, “They’re giving us their money, and you want me to drop him? Get real, Andy, have the DEA insert one of theirs into this new network.”

  A mirthless laugh came from Seaver. “Federal Drug Enforcement no longer employs undercovers to infiltrate. The suits in Washington say it’s too dangerous. So now they subcontract that work to informers. You should pardon the expression, but they actually call these guys ‘subagents.’ They’re out there peddling their own shit and giving up the competition to the DEA.”

  “What about the big seizures I’ve been reading about?”

  “They’re angeling off, allowing the drugs into the States, then following them to their destination and arresting the schmucks who come to pick them up. It’s great PR.”

  “That’s really cozy,” Alejandro said. “The DEA and the Agency ‘angeled off’ Noriega for years. Scarface would give up the competition’s stuff coming into the States.”

  “It’s great for the DEA stats. Keeps the old budget funded.”

  Seaver’s eyes fell to his glass. “What makes this new network so important?”

  Andy Seaver slid his hand into his sports coat, brought out a dime bag, and placed it on the cushion next to him.

  Alejandro picked it up and examined the logo, the thin golden stripes behind what looked like an ancient etching of a beautiful woman with a jutting chin. As he lowered himself to the sofa, his face hardened, his mind flashing back involuntarily to unbearable memories. His hand contracted into a white-knuckled fist, crushing the envelope and sprinkling ten dollars’ worth of heroin over his leg.

  Sweat ringing his hairline, Alejandro took one more sweeping bow, threw out his last kiss, and ran off stage to the echoing demands for “More! More!”

  Once back in his makeshift dressing room, he pulled off his shirt, tossed it into his overnight bag, and went over to the cruddy sink on the backstage wall. He turned on the tap and watched a steady trickle of rusty water turn clear, then soaked a washcloth and wiped the perspiration off his face and torso. Ever since leaving the safe house earlier that evening his mind had kept running continuously down the same worn highway. Cleopatra was not going to escape this time. Turning, he angrily threw the wet cloth on top of his crumpled shirt. He put on a clean paisley sport shirt, patted on some after-shave, combed his hair, and stepped outside the curtains. Alejandro moved easily, unrecognized, across the now pitch-dark dance floor, going over to the stone steps leading up to the loft. The flashing lights showed snapshots of frantic and indifferent faces.

&n
bsp; Che-Che and his noisy entourage had turned their part of the balcony into their private playpen. Some of the cocktail tables had been pushed aside to enlarge the dance floor, where one of the dopers mambo-reggaed with his clinging girlfriend. Che-Che sat alone impassively, watching, his snakelike eyes taking it all in while bodyguards slouched nearby.

  Alejandro was greeted with applause when he reached the balcony. Men rushed forward to shake his hands, pat his shoulder, while many of the women clutched him in an adoring embrace, some of them whispering in his ear.

  Che-Che flashed a welcoming smile at the singer and with a flick of fingers ordered people next to him to make room for Alejandro. Dopers squeezed out, making room for him on the banquette. Sliding in next to Che-Che, Alejandro pulled a champagne bottle out of one of the buckets and poured himself a glass of the sparkling wine. Turning to face Che-Che, he toasted him: “Salud.”

  Slipping easily into the dialect of the Tarascan Indians, a mixture of Tarascan and pidgin Spanish, Che-Che said, “You were great tonight.”

  Answering in kind, Alejandro said, “Thank you, my friend.” He sipped wine, taking in the revelers, then added, “Why do you come to places like this? You hate them.”

  “To make sure my people don’t get stupid on me.”

  “You can’t be with them all twenty-four hours a day.”

  Che-Che’s lips tugged slowly into a quick smile, then snapped back into their placid state. “My punishment for stupidity is swift and painful.”

  Alejandro grimaced disgust. “Yeah. I heard.”

  “You’ll have to meet my pet one day.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Che-Che reached down and picked up an envelope from the cushion, slipped it onto Alejandro’s lap. “A gift for your help with the banker.”

  Alejandro discreetly let his hand fall to his lap and slid the envelope inside his shirt, tucking it into his waistband.

  “You should come with us, you’d make a lot of money.”

  Sipping wine, Alejandro said, “When I was a kid peddling trinkets to the turistas on La Playa Ropa, I dreamed one day I’d be a famous singer and that my mother and sisters would no longer have to spend their days hawking jewelry on the hot sand of Zihuatanejo’s beaches, playing the dumb Indians to a bunch of gringos getting off on trying to talk their lousy Spanish. I was going to buy them houses in San Angel or Coyoácan. I still have that dream.”

  “When I was fifteen I started pimping for tourists in Ixtapa.” Che-Che sipped his wine. “Do you remember the tale about who Las Gatas was named for?”

  Alejandro smiled. “For the sharks that used to swim in the waters. They were supposed to have whiskers and be as playful as cats. And our King Caltzontzin, lord of innumerable people, ordered a stone barrier built out in the bay, so he and his daughter could enjoy the crystal waters without sharks. And today the great barrier remains, but the sharks are all gone.”

  “You remember well, my friend.”

  “My mother used to tell us many wonderful stories about our people, and their greatness before Cortez and the Mexican secretary of tourism discovered our beaches.”

  “And your father? You seldom talk about him,” Che-Che said thoughtfully, watching the ribbon of bubbles in his champagne glass.

  “As you know, he was a gringo who was murdered by agents of the Federal Judicial Police.”

  “Yes, those devils. Did you ever find out why they had him killed?”

  “No. He was retired U.S. Army, no threat to anyone in Mexico.” Alejandro yanked the dripping bottle out of its bucket and poured wine into their glasses. After plunging the bottle back into the crackling ice, he turned to Che-Che and whispered, “When I’m a big star, I’m going to buy a jet to fly from concert to concert, and I’ll let you load your coke and money, and I’ll fly it all over the world for you. No gringo cop would ever think an international singing star was a dope courier for some Indian who still says ‘Itzi Nejo.’”

  Che-Che roared with laughter at Alejandro’s use of the Indian name for Zihuatanejo. “That’s a great idea; only problem is, coke isn’t the great investment it used to be. Operating expenses have gotten out of hand.” He leaned close to his friend to confide, “Heroin is making a big comeback. I think it’s the drug of the future.”

  “Heroin means dealing with the pinky-rings.”

  Che-Che grinned his deadly grin. “The Chinese have taken over the heroin trade. They kicked out the Italians. The Wiseguys weren’t so wise. They thought it was smart diluting the shit out of the dope, greedy bastards. They never learned that greater purity gives a better high—that insures loyal customers.”

  Staring out at the dancers, Alejandro asked, “What’s caused coke’s expenses to go up?”

  “A lot of things. For example, two weeks ago a Delta Force strike team took out a processing plant in Bolivia that was producing over fifteen tons a week, and grabbed a lot of our people, turning them over to the locals. We had to bribe them all free, and build another plant. Very expensive. Our profit margin is dropping.”

  Alejandro shrugged, absentmindedly peeling the wet label off a champagne bottle. “If I were in your business, I’d play ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ with Washington.”

  Che-Che fixed his eyes on a woman’s very shapely gyrating ass, which seemed to have a mind of its own. “How would you do that?”

  “The Medellin and Calí control the world’s source of cocaine, and you’re one of their major movers.…”

  Che-Che’s eyes turned cold; he sipped wine and did not respond.

  “What I’d do is ask Washington for a farm subsidy, you know, just like they pay the farmers here not to grow crops. Say a billion or so a year for both cartels. In return they’d agree to halt all production. No cocaine problem, and Uncle Sam saves a fortune on enforcement, and is able to use that money to pay off the national debt. That way the cartels get what they want most, respectability, and living long, safe lives, free from the fear of being kidnapped to the States.”

  Che-Che toyed with his glass. “Medellin and Calí hate each other. They’d never sit at the same table.”

  Peeling off the rest of the label, Alejandro said, “That’s why they would need someone great to put the deal together, someone who would walk away with a commission that would allow him to live the rest of his life like Caltzontzin—to swim where there are no sharks.”

  “I’d miss the excitement. Look, compañero, you’re talking illusions, fairy stories.”

  Alejandro poured more sparkling wine, plunged the bottle back, and looked up to see a beautiful young woman making her way over to them. He marveled at how her lithe body slunk effortlessly through the crowd. She was wearing a plain white dress and was braless, and her only jewelry was a pair of earrings with jade drops dangling at the end of gold ropes. Alejandro’s attention fixed on her eyes, large emerald pools, and they were riveted on him.

  “Here comes one of your fans,” Che-Che whispered. She stopped about a foot or so from their table and, staring directly into Alejandro’s eyes, slid her hands up under her dress and slowly worked down her underpants. Stepping out of them, she tossed the skimpy undergarment on the table in front of the singer.

  Alejandro picked them up, caressing the silk with his lips, his molten eyes fixed on hers.

  Her lips parted, and her breasts rose with each audible breath.

  He kissed the underpants and slid them into his shirt right next to Che-Che’s envelope. She turned and walked back into the crowd, casting a single glance over her shoulder in time to see Alejandro sliding out of the banquette.

  Her Fifth Avenue apartment’s bedroom overlooked Central Park.

  They stood by her bed, looking at each other, kissing, touching, each time longer, their tongues exploring. He unzipped her dress. She shrugged it free and pushed it off her shoulders, allowing it to gather at her feet. She was breathing hard, her face flushed, nipples hard. He undressed quickly, struggling out of his tight black jeans. They fell into an embrace, toppling
onto the bed, kissing, touching, savoring foreplay. He wanted her because she wanted him, needed him, lusted for him. It was at these moments that he felt free, complete, only when he was working toward that shared magical moment, not hurrying, being considerate, aware of her rhythm, her need for him, and his need for her.

  She broke away from him, moving downward, licking, kissing, taking his toes into her mouth and sucking them. He groaned, stirred by the erotic pleasure she was giving him. Her tongue delicately swept the back of his toes, and he loved her. After moving up, kissing him all over, she spread her legs over his face, straddling him, commanding him to take her into his mouth, and as he did he loved her for the pleasure he was giving her.

  Her spent body collapsed on top of him, her long brown hair fanned across his face. She moved her mouth down to his ear, licked it, and commanded softly, “Fuck me, Alejandro.” He rolled her onto her stomach. She pushed her knees up and stuck up her rump, and he mounted her, thrusting himself deep inside of her. She spread out her arms and grabbed the headboard.

  After, they lay in each other’s arms, savoring the warm afterglow, catching their breath. “Whew,” she sighed.

  He leaned over and kissed her softly.

  “Oh, by the way, my name is Ann.”

  They both laughed. “Hello, Ann.”

  She rolled onto her elbows and looked down into his eyes. “I hope you believe that I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve always wanted to, but never had the nerve. When I saw you on stage tonight, I wanted you. I had to have you.”

  “I’ve always wanted to do something like that, too, but I could never muster the courage.”

  “What’s your fantasy?” she asked, kissing his forehead.

  “Seeing a beautiful woman walking down the street and going up to her and sliding my hand up her dress, and having her look at me and say, ‘Thank you.’”

  She laughed. “I don’t suggest you ever try that.” Her hand began roaming his body, and they made love again. After, they lay quietly in each other’s arms, intimate yet distant.