The Last Girl

by Danny Lopez

  “Maya—” Ernesto turned to me. “What is last name of girl you like?”

  “I don’t like her. I’m just trying to find her.”

  “Okay. And the last name?”

  “Zavala.”

  Ernesto glanced at the brujo. “Zavala.”

  The brujo nodded. He mumbled a few words to himself and moved the rocks and herbs around the desk. He wrote something on a piece of paper and raised his hand and chanted something. Then he looked down and seemed to meditate for a long time. Ernesto bumped me on the side with his elbow and winked. Maybe something was happening for him, but it sure as hell wasn’t happening for me.

  After a moment the brujo raised his head and addressed Ernesto: “Van a ser cuatrocientos pesos.”

  Ernesto turned to me. “It’s four hundred pesos.”

  “You said three fifty.”

  He shrugged. “That was the price six months ago.”

  I counted out four hundred peso bills and gave them to Ernesto who gave them to the brujo. He folded the bills with great care and eased the money into his pocket. Then he motioned for me to follow him into another room.

  This was more like it. There were dozens of candles and photos on a table in the corner of the room. On the other side was a set of shelves with plates and pots, arrangements with feathers and beads and two bowls burning with resin incense that smelled like a Catholic Mass.

  He gestured for me to sit on a chair in the center of the room.

  He walked circles around me, first quietly, then chanting in a language I didn’t know. It certainly wasn’t Spanish. He lit a cigar and blew smoke at me. He swept my arms and back with a bouquet of herbs and then tossed them on the floor at the foot of the table with the candles. There were no real dramatics, no skulls or smoking cauldrons. He just chanted and blew more smoke on me and then gave me two black river stones and three little beads to hold in my right hand. Then he led me to the table and motioned for me to place the stones and beads in a little pile next to an unlit candle.

  He handed me a match and pointed to the candle. When I lit the candle, I noticed the small piece of paper where the brujo had written Maya’s name. He had spelled her last name: San Bala.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE FOLLOWING DAY I was lost. I had no idea what to do next. It didn’t make any sense to return to Xochimilco. I would just be going around in circles wasting time and money. It was like looking for a needle in a field of haystacks. In retrospect, it would have been easier and less expensive to search for Tiffany back in Sarasota.

  Still, I kept telling myself Maya was the better bet. She knew her father. She would know his friends, his enemies. Besides, Maya would have good reason to help me. Her father had been murdered. She’d want to find the killer. Get justice.

  I told myself to be patient. Things would play themselves out. They always did. I had to wait and see what Toni might turn up.

  I opened my Maya document and added a few notes and ideas. But I had nothing concrete. The big question that kept gnawing at the back of my head was money. If Nick had been sending Maya money, what was she going to do now? And who was going to inherit his fortune?

  Later in the morning I left the hotel and walked across Reforma Avenue toward the center of town. There was no point in sitting around, waiting for the phone to ring.

  Mexico City’s quite the place, a blend of old and new, big city and small village. There was something very human about this city.

  I ducked into Café La Habana on Bucareli Street for a bite to eat. The place was a throwback from the ’50s. Even the waitresses and patrons looked as if they belonged in a different era. I sat by the large pane windows that faced the street and ordered enchiladas suizas and coffee.

  I watched the people hustling up and down the street and tried to imagine Maya walking around here: her tall elegant figure, her thin arms swinging in the air, her high heels clicking against the pavement. From the photograph I had of her, she didn’t seem like someone who would dive into the polluted waters of Xochimilco in search of a slimy amphibian. I couldn’t see it. But what did I know? I couldn’t just dismiss what Dr. Tabor at New College had said. He’d been very clear. Maya Zavala was ambitious.

  I kept wondering about Nick. He never told me much about Maya. When it came down to it, I had very little information. I should have asked more questions. But then again, I didn’t know he was going to be killed. That day at his house, it all seemed straightforward.

  Almost too easy.

  Why did Maya disconnect from her father? Maybe Nick was controlling, although he didn’t come across that way to me. But who knew how people behaved with their own family. Maybe Maya was upset with him. Maybe she didn’t like it that he let young girls like Tiffany into their home. What was up with that?

  Nick had said Tiffany was a neighbor’s daughter. Now that I had met her in person, I was pretty sure it was a lie. Tiffany didn’t look or act like she came from a wealthy family. Not from a family that could afford a house in Sapphire Shores. And she didn’t have the vocabulary of a college student. She was just plain, tough—like someone who’d been through some shit in her life. Maybe she was his dealer. Maybe that was the “stuff” she was after that day after Nick was killed.

  Maybe.

  I finished my meal and wandered. I was angry at myself for getting mixed up in all of this. It had been stupid and irresponsible. I knew nothing of what I was doing. I was a reporter not a detective. But it had been the money. The truth was that even if Nick had offered me a grand, I would have taken it.

  I’d been seduced into this mess by Nick, by the money. But also by Maya. She was beautiful, mysterious. In the photograph she looked like the kind of person who would never give me the time of day, like a movie star, like someone who belonged in New York or Paris.

  And yet there was something more. In a sense, Maya was no different from me. She was ambitious. She was making choices that the people close to her found selfish and egotistical: to become independent, to prove herself to her father, to search for the axolotl on her own, to make her own discovery, get the attention and praise. In many ways, Maya and I were cut from the same cloth.

  I got lost in the back streets and emerged at a small park with a craft market. I wandered through the booths. I bought an embroidered dress for Zoe. But I didn’t know her size. I was suddenly paralyzed in that little stall, staring at all the colorful dresses. The market lady showed me different items one after another, asking: “This one? How about this one?”

  I knew nothing of my daughter. Did she even like flowers?

  I ducked into another stall and paid a few good dollars for a fancy silver pendant from Taxco: a butterfly with turquoise and opal wings. Holly was going to love it.

  Yes, Holly. She wouldn’t leave my mind. I had to clear myself of this Nick and Maya business and try and get back together with her. She’d been the best thing for me when we were together. And the last few days had been wonderful. Could it be love?

  Sure, why not?

  * * *

  When I finally walked into the lobby of the hotel, it was late afternoon. I checked in with the desk. Then I heard a woman’s voice call my name: “Dexter Vega?”

  It took me a moment to recognize Flor without the wet suit, the muddy face, the wet hair. She looked great in an embroidered cotton skirt like the one I’d bought for Zoe at the market and a black blouse. She wore her black shoulder-length hair combed neatly to the side.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “Can we talk?”

  “Of course.” We went across the patio and sat on the chairs outside the bar. Julio brought us a couple of beers—Victorias because that was what Flor asked for.

  “A couple of days ago, when you came to our field station, I couldn’t talk honestly with you,” Flor said, her eyes moving around the garden apologetically. “The students working with me are very protective of the axolotl and the work we are doing. They are very passionate about what this little animal means t
o us, to Mexico. They … I’m not sure how to put this … They do not want foreigners meddling with something they feel is uniquely Mexican.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “I hope I didn’t rub anyone the wrong way. And if I did, please, I apologize.”

  “No, no.” She smiled and touched my arm. “You were fine. It has nothing to do with you. But I didn’t feel at liberty to discuss the woman you’re searching for.”

  “Maya?”

  She nodded and took a short sip of beer. “I couldn’t talk to you about her in front of the students.”

  “You know her?”

  “I’m the team leader for the search. I work directly with my professors at the university. I’m responsible for the work we do in the field. We spend all day together six days a week. We are a very tight group.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  She leaned forward and stared at me. “I don’t think you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we were organizing the team at the start of the semester, I received an e-mail from Maya, the woman in your photograph. But her last name was not the one you mentioned, the Italian name—”

  “Zavala?”

  “Yes, it was Edwards. Maya Edwards.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same person?”

  She nodded. “She looked very much like the person in the photograph. And she was attending a college in Florida.”

  “New College?”

  “Yes, I believe so. She had a very strong letter of recommendation from one of her professors—”

  “Dr. Tabor.”

  “Yes, Dr. Albert Tabor. That was why my professor put her in contact with me. They wanted me to include her in the team.”

  “And she used the last name Edwards?”

  She took a long drink of beer and leaned back on her chair and looked at me as if she were waiting for some comment or comeback from me. But I was dumbfounded. It wasn’t adding up. Unless it was her mother’s last name. Which was a strong possibility. Too many things were possible. What I didn’t get was why Nick hadn’t told me that. Also, if Dr. Tabor was her professor, he would have written the letter with her real name. And he never even mentioned Edwards. I was totally lost.

  “So what happened?” I asked. I didn’t know where to go with this.

  “I did what my professors told me,” she said. “I was not pleased with the arrangement. I had been promised autonomy to run the search. I’m the one who wrote the grant proposal. It is my grant. I wanted it to be my team.”

  “But the professors rule the class.”

  She smiled. “I’m only a graduate student. I accepted her, but I was reluctant. The others in the team were furious that a gringa was coming to help them find something that belonged to us.”

  “They didn’t want her getting the credit.”

  “It always happens that way. If ten Mexicans are working on a project with one American, the American will get all the press.”

  “And the credit?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “So there’s some serious backstabbing going on.”

  “We wanted to protect what is ours. And the team, they’re young, idealistic. The axolotl—”

  “I know, it’s a symbol of national pride.”

  “It’s more than that. For years we’ve had foreigners come here and explore, discover, extract. The axolotl is a very unique animal. There are thousands of them in captivity, but having a population in the wild is important because the breeding in captivity can alter the genetic makeup of the animal in the long term. We need them in the wild to keep them pure, the way they’ve been for centuries.”

  “I understand. And Maya was only interested in getting credit for the find so she could get into UC Davis or some other hotshot school.”

  Flor laughed, her hand over her mouth, her dark eyes squinting at me. “That was the same sense I had from her.”

  “So she worked with you?”

  She shook her head, crossed her legs, and leaned forward, both arms on the table. “She came to Mexico, and I met her at the Librería Gandhi in Bellas Artes, downtown. We had a long and very productive conversation. She was well acquainted with the axolotl. But she wanted to work alone.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I told her she had wasted her time and money. You can’t do this kind of work alone. You can’t dive into those canals without someone on the surface. And you need the maps and a detailed plan to work methodically one half acre at a time.”

  “She really thought she could do it?”

  “I don’t know what she was thinking. I only know my team of thirteen has been at it for eight months. We’ve covered over half the lakes and canals and we have found nothing.”

  I waved at Julio, gestured for another round. “Dr. Tabor told me she was very ambitious,” I said.

  “And stupid.”

  I was pissed and confused. Maya whatever-her-last-name was falling from grace pretty damn quick. But so was Nick. There was a lot of information he could have given me, but didn’t. But I won’t lie. I was curious as hell about Maya.

  “You have any idea what might have happened to her?” I said.

  Julio brought the beers. Flor wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle and laughed. “The cold beer is good after a day in the canals of Xochimilco.”

  “A cold beer is good anytime.”

  She smiled, tossed her head to the side. Her short black hair followed like a shiny wave. “Tell me, Dexter Vega, how do you fit into all this. Why are you looking for Maya?”

  “Call me Dexter,” I said. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  She had a sweet laugh. It was honest, from the gut. I liked that. “Dexter Vega. Are you Spanish?”

  “My grandfather was from here.”

  “Really? You speak Spanish?”

  “Un poquito,” I said. “Enough to order beer, find the bathroom, and ask for help.”

  She laughed again. Probably getting a little buzzed, but I didn’t mind. Not one bit.

  “You know.” She waved a finger at me. “I knew you had Mexican in you. I could tell.”

  “How’s that?”

  She shrugged. “I can just tell. I could see it in your eyes. In the way you moved.”

  “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  “You should.”

  I smiled and took a long sip of beer without taking my eyes off of her. She had not answered my question. But I didn’t care. Fuck Maya Zavala or Edwards or whatever.

  “We should get some dinner,” she said, looking up at the red and black sky. In Mexico City there were no stars.

  “Sure. They’ve got a restaurant—”

  “No, hombre. I’ll take you out. I’ll show you a little hip corner of our city.”

  We took a taxi. The two of us in the backseat real close, her hand on my arm in a way that was friendly and then some. I leaned toward her.

  We buzzed through the streets of the city. Traffic was light. The air was cool and surprisingly clean. After about twenty minutes, Flor leaned forward, her arm over the backrest of the front seat, and pointed to a street corner and said, “Aqui.”

  We stepped out of the taxi. She laced her arm around mine, and we walked the crowded sidewalk of the neighborhood called La Condesa. She said it was like the SoHo of the city. We ducked into a small bistro on the corner where we sat at a sidewalk table and where the waiter knew her by name.

  She ordered the special for both of us. And more beer. Then she leaned over the table and locked her beautiful brown eyes with mine. “So, Dexter Vega. How do you like our city?”

  “I like it a lot more now that I’m seeing it with you.”

  She smiled. She took compliments well. Not a bit shy.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “What is the real reason you are so interested in finding Maya?”

  I was surprised by the question. I had given
her the lowdown in Xochimilco. Why didn’t she believe it? “I told you. Her father hired me to find her.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “I don’t—Because he hadn’t heard from her in months. He was worried.”

  “You know he sent her money.”

  “I imagine he did.”

  “She was spoiled, but hated being that way.”

  The waiter brought the beers and an appetizer of escargots with a Bourguignonne sauce, which I had never tasted before. But what the hell.

  “Why would she hate it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Pride. Or maybe she felt guilty. I think sometimes people who have it all don’t know how to appreciate what they have.”

  We sucked down the appetizers.

  “Be careful,” she said and pointed at me with her fork. “They’re a powerful aphrodisiac.”

  “What about you?” She had a great appetite. I leaned back on my chair and gave her my best sideways smile. “You never told me what happened to her.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t?”

  I nodded.

  She looked down at her plate. “She went at it on her own.”

  “What, looking for the salamander?”

  “It’s not a salamander.”

  “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

  “Please,” she said, “treat it with respect. It deserves at least that, no?”

  The waiter brought the food. Huachinango Veracruz style. Mighty tasty red snapper.

  “I saw her a couple of times in Xochimilco. Once she passed by our location on a launch. She looked at us but didn’t wave or acknowledge us. Just moved on, looking at us like we were cattle feeding on the side of the canal.”

  “And then?”

  She pointed at me with her fork. “You are a very impatient man, Dexter Vega.”

  “Jesus, Flor. Can you call me Dexter?”

  “No. I like Dexter Vega. Dexter is too small, too gringo.”

  I laughed. “Okay, go on.”

  “I saw her again about three months ago at the food market in Xochimilco. She was sitting alone at a table eating tacos. She didn’t see me, and I didn’t approach her.”