by Dan Ames
Jesus, Mary thought.
Although, she had to admit, that did sound kind of nice. And there was at least some small amount of truth in what Alice was saying.
“You’re just going to get in my way,” Mary said. “Plus, it could be fairly dangerous, between my case and Mexico itself. You know, narco terrorists, gangs.”
Alice cackled. “Dangerous? Honey, my middle name is Dangerous.”
“I thought it was Gretchen.”
“Gretchen or Dangerous, I forget,” Alice said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m coming with you. I haven’t been on a trip out of the country since I went to Canada for cheap Viagra for Walter.”
“Who’s Walter?”
“Oh, honey. Walter was a love machine. Until his ticker gave out. We were doing reverse cowboy and I felt him go stiff. You know, his body, not his-”
“Enough!” Mary chastised herself for not being quicker to cut off her aunt when she got too graphic. Which was pretty much all the time.
“When is our flight?” Alice asked, not missing a beat.
On the one hand, she knew it was a terrible idea. On the other hand, she knew Alice spent a lot of time in her house, alone. Especially since yoga instructor sex god Sanjay had taken off.
Knowing it was a mistake, Mary gave her the information and they agreed to share a cab to LAX.
She finished packing and rolled her suitcase out to the front door.
Next, she went into her office and packed up her small laptop, power cords for both the computer and her cellphone and some notepads and pens.
Next, her passport and plenty of cash, also from the gun safe.
Mary’s last stop was to her bathroom. She hunted through various drawers and shelves until she found a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol and some leftover antibiotics. She made a mental note to remind herself not to even brush her teeth with tap water. She’d heard it could be that bad.
Finally, she was good to go. She used her Uber app to order a car, first to pick up Alice and within a half hour her phone buzzed to tell her that her ride was ready.
She locked the condo, went downstairs and saw a guy with a minivan waiting at the curb.
He got out and popped the rear door and Mary hoisted her bag inside. She kept her backpack with the laptop and her identification with her.
Mary slid into the middle seat and Alice patted her on the shoulder.
“Hola, Gringa,” she said.
Mary rolled her eyes.
Alice held up a miniature paperback whose cover stated it was a collection of Spanish expressions.
“You better learn some of these,” Alice said. “You know, like ‘please don’t hurt me’ and ‘help.’”
Mary ignored her but for the bulk of the ride to the airport Alice read aloud a variety of expressions that she felt would be useful for both of them.
-Kiss me there.
-More lime, less salt.
-Let yourself out in the morning.
-My groin hurts.
-Nice ass, sailor boy.
Mercifully, they finally pulled up at the departures area and they got their bags and went inside. They found the place to print off their boarding passes and once they had them, they turned toward the security line.
“Hey, wait for us!” A voice that sounded sickeningly familiar to Mary shouted at her.
She turned and saw Uncle Kurt and her cousin Jason hurrying toward them.
Mary looked at Alice who suddenly had a sheepish expression on her face.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Mary said. “You told them we were going to Mexico? You invited them?”
“Watch your mouth,” Alice snapped. “And yes, I did. I felt bad, but it just kind of slipped out.”
Kurt and Jason stopped in front of them and Kurt high-fived Alice. “This is going to be a friggin’ riot,” Jason said. “I’ve always wanted to do some gigs in Mexico. Then I can call myself an international sensation!”
“How are you paying for this?” Mary said. “Because I’m not footing the bill.”
“Jeez, what do you think I am, some kind of goddamn leech?” Kurt said. “Hell no. Jason here hit it big with Algae, they’ve got a number one song!”
Mary and Alice both looked at Jason, their faces registering no small amount of skepticism.
But Jason shook his head.
“No hits,” he said. “Other than our tour bus. Someone ran into us and each of us got two grand if we promised not to go to the cops.”
“You’ve always got your music,” Mary said.
“Get it?” Kurt said. “A big hit?”
He looked from Mary to Alice, who simply looked back at him.
“Christ, I hope the audiences are friendlier in Mexico.”
“Don’t count on it,” Alice said.
Mary turned and began walking to the security line.
Mexico.
With Alice, Kurt and Jason.
Suddenly, the thought of a Mexican prison didn’t seem so bad.
Chapter Eighteen
Take me down to Rio
Where the girls love me hard
Take me down to Austin
I’ll play my final card.
-Wicked Nylon (by Groovy Train)
There was no doubt in my mind I was going to have a date with Bulldog in Mexico. Which sounded like a really bad idea or a movie starring Sandra Bullock.
But I weighed my options.
Zack’s last known whereabouts was Mexico. Specifically, the Puerto Vallarta area. I could spend more time in Los Angeles gathering background, but time is of the essence in missing persons cases and the trail might already be cold. If I waited any longer, it would just get colder. Maybe even downright frigid.
I checked my phone and saw that my former high school friend and current travel agent, Claire Hutchins, had put me on a flight to Puerto Vallarta and booked me into a hotel there, too, per my request. I had plenty of time to get to LAX but I am chronically early to airports. So I turned the rental car for the airport and put my Bluetooth device around my ear and voice dialed the number for Zack Hatter’s son, Ringo. Sunny had told me about the kids she and Zack had, then went an extra step and gave me their contact information. Since Ringo lived in Oregon, I figured any information he might have would be limited, but I had time so I figured I might as well make use of it.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end of line asked. It was a great voice. Deep, just a little bit of an edge to it. The son of a singer, of course.
“Is this Ringo Hatter?”
“Yea.”
“My name is John Rockne and I’ve been hired by your mother–”
“Don’t know where he is, don’t give a shit,” Ringo said, cutting me off.
To the point, I liked that.
“Wait, your mother said you live in Oregon?”
It was a quick question to stop him from hanging up on me, which is what it sounded like he was about to do.
It worked.
“Yep, Portland,” Ringo said. “It’s far enough away from all the LA bullshit.” He sighed. “Listen, I work for a living. Do you need something from me?”
“Just wanted to know if you’ve heard from your…Zack.”
He laughed softly. “I haven’t heard from that deadbeat in years. What’s wrong, is everyone worried he finally OD’d?”
I thought I detected a hint of caring in the question, even though he phrased it to sound like he didn’t care.
“More like people just don’t know where he is,” I said. It was hard to tell if Ringo was actually this cynical and jaded, or if he was trying too hard.
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“You’re not going to call my sister, are you?” he asked.
“Um…” It was the next call on my list but I didn’t want to admit it. Bette Hatter. A math professor in Seattle according to my notes.
“Please don’t. We’ve put up with all
of this shit all of our fucking lives,” Ringo said. “People finding out who we are, wanting interviews, or stories or memorabilia hunters. And every time it happens, we get pissed off at having to be reminded of our absentee father.”
I narrowly avoided a school bus that suddenly veered in front of me on the freeway. Why was a school bus on the freeway, and why was its driver acting like a NASCAR fan?
Only in LA.
“Believe me, you’ll get the exact same answers from her that you just got from me,” Ringo continued. “With maybe a few more expletives.”
“OK, well, I’m on my way to the airport. I’m flying to Mexico to see if I can track Zack down. I’m sure you won’t think of anything, but if you do, please feel free to call me at this number.”
“You’re right, I’m sure I won’t think of anything. Be careful in Mexico, though. A buddy of mine just got back from there. He was stung by a scorpion and picked up herpes. Not from the scorpion. At least, I hope not.
“On that note,” I said. “Thanks for chatting with me.”
We disconnected and I immediately voice dialed the number for Bette Hatter. I figured Ringo was telling the truth, but the stone unturned was sometimes hiding the key.
The stone unturned. I like that.
If I found Zack, I would give him that line as the start of a song idea. I would make millions.
Bette Hatter answered, and Ringo was right. She reiterated a startling lack of desire to discuss the father she hardly knew. And tossed in a few curse words.
The call ended just as I pulled into the rental car return lot. I grabbed my bag and made it to the departure area via a shuttle bus. Inside, I printed off my boarding pass, breezed through security and arrived at my gate with nearly an hour to spare.
I took a seat and thought about calling Anna to let her know I was about to fly to Mexico. I got out my phone and started to call her.
A scent tickled my nose and I recognized the unmistakable presence of marijuana. I glanced at the young man a few seats away from me. He had long hair, was lanky, and sported a T-shirt with what I guessed was a band name on the front.
Algae.
Chapter Nineteen
Playgrounds and booby traps
Trippin’ on the hour.
She aint’ been over here
Since that mornin’ shower.
-Jill (by Groovy Train)
Rutger arrived in New York rested and ready thanks to the business class ticket provided by his employer. Clearly, this was going to be a big job, but he already knew that as double his normal fee had been guaranteed.
He wasn’t in the least bit fatigued from the long flight. He’d flown business class, stretched out in a lounge seat, thoroughly satisfied by what he’d done both professionally and personally in Bangkok. If someone had indeed once said it was a bad idea to mix business and pleasure, well, that person was a moron. Rutger had thoroughly enjoyed taking out the Canadian, and then having his way with the girl.
Now, back in the United States, Rutger felt a mixture of comfort and boredom. He liked traveling overseas and while it was good to be back, he already missed the sense of adventure. Oh, well. He knew that boredom wouldn’t last.
This was going to be a big job.
He caught a cab to a nondescript cinder block building in Brooklyn. Its front door was glass, coated with black film to prevent prying eyes. The steel frame looked extra sturdy.
Rutger pushed the recessed button to the right of the door and waited. Above him, he heard an electronic pulse as the security camera looked him over.
The door buzzed, he opened it and stepped inside.
The biggest Asian man Rutger had ever seen stood before him. He had exotic tattoos around his neck and face, but in the dim light Rutger couldn’t make out what they were.
With a nod of his giant, square ahead, the man indicated he wanted Rutger to lift his arms for a search.
Rutger complied.
He wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the size and demeanor of the giant in front of him. In his experience, the adage that the bigger they are the harder they fall was certainly true. Guys like this had rarely been tested. Their skills were minimal and usually quite rusty.
But Rutger showed none of this as the man searched him.
Satisfied, the Asian hulk turned and led Rutger into a large space divided into several rooms by colorful silk screens and dark wood frames.
The music overhead was an acoustic guitar, bluesy, seeming in stark contrast to the décor.
Eventually, they arrived in the middle of the labyrinth where there was a large, open area and an Asian man wearing dark slacks, a billowy white shirt and a fedora hat. His hair was combed straight back, but with a little wave like the start of a pompadour. His small black eyes were set close together and his narrow, wide mouth looked like a crease in his face.
In his hands was a guitar and Rutger realized the music wasn’t coming from a sound system, but from the instrument in the man’s hands.
They stopped, and Rutger heard the giant leave behind him and the partition was slid shut.
The guitar player in front of him finished his playing with a flourish and set the guitar in its stand.
He looked up at Rutger and smiled, revealing brown, crooked teeth. They looked like opium teeth, Rutger thought.
“It’s a 1930 Martin OM-45 Deluxe,” the man said. His voice was heavily accented, singsongy, underscored with a strange penchant for inconsistent volume.
“Very, very rare,” the man continued. “Only six of them were ever made. I own three of them, hmm?”
Rutger wasn’t sure if the ‘hmm’ was an actual question or a verbal tic.
“Do you play all of them at once?” Rutger asked.
The man smiled at him, but no humor showed on his face.
“I’ve made a fortune getting what I want in life, Mr. Rutger,” he said. “What is that expression Americans love? ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way?’ So true, hmm!”
Vocal tic, Rutger decided. Since it seemed like the man wasn’t going to give him his name, he decided to call him Mr. Hmm.
“In the right hands, a great guitar is like a surgical instrument,” Mr. Hmm said. “Precise. Crystalline. Of course, not all musicians are capable of realizing its true potential. For those, anything will do because they may as well be banging their hands on a bongo, hmm.”
He giggled, revealing even more crooked buck teeth.
“My associate, the large fellow who showed you in? He is effective, but not overly precise. The project I’m giving to you requires deftness of touch, hmm?”
Rutger nodded.
“There is a man who either has, or knows where, a certain item is located. I need you to find that man and hold him for me so that I can question him in person. I do not need him killed right away. But after I have what I want, then you may kill him. But only then.”
That was not the kind of job Rutger enjoyed.
“Not exactly my specialty,” Rutger answered. “I’m known for eliminating problems. Not babysitting them.”
Another high-pitched giggle. “Babysitter! Hmm! That’s why I’ve doubled your fee, Mr. Rutger.”
The door behind him slid open and a woman appeared, also Asian, dressed in a slim black suit. She had a slim leather folio and handed it to Rutger.
“You’ll find everything you need in there,” Mr. Hmm said. “Your best bet is to start in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Travel has been arranged. Once you have found him, there are instructions in your folio for how to contact me. Until then, there will be no communication between us, hmm.”
Mr. Hmm picked up his guitar and began plucking at the strings.
Rutger turned and walked out. As he did, the melody of the song playing triggered something in his mind. He recognized the tune. Who was it by?
It took him a moment, but he remembered the name of the band.
Groovy Train.
Chapter Twenty
Don’t tell me that you love me<
br />
when your face is full of lies.
Don’t tell me that you love me
when your face is full of lies.
I’ll take you out behind the Caddy
and feed you to the spies.
-Morning Glory Blues (by Groovy Train)
I buckled in and tried to relax. The flight would be a short one, a little more than two hours and I planned to spend most of the time playing chess on my new app I’d installed on my phone. It was great. You could play a game and then afterward the app analyzes your play. It seemed to be especially fond of counting my “blunders,” which was an actual term the game analysis provided. Humiliating, but there you go.
When the app was done examining my poor play, I got out my notes on the Hatter case and read through them again. Unlike most of my cases where the subjects were fairly ordinary, Zack Hatter’s background made for highly entertaining reading. I soon found myself reading for pleasure, especially about the legendary brawl in an after-hours bar in Paris. Zack had ended up being secretly driven across the border into Spain as authorities in France wanted to arrest him.
My life suddenly seemed super boring
“Do you go to Mexico often?” a voice to my left asked me. I had gotten the window seat, as requested, and I had barely noticed who was sitting next to me. Now, I turned.
It was an older woman, with a pleasant, attractive face. She was smiling at me and I immediately liked the mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“No, first time,” I said.
“So you’re a Mexican virgin?”
I raised an eyebrow at her but I could tell she was having fun with me.
“I guess you could say that,” I replied.
“Me too,” she said. “Looks like we’ll be losing our virginity together.”
This time I outright laughed. This woman was flirting with me, I was fairly sure. I was kind of flattered, too. She was an attractive woman for her age, and back in the day I imagined she’d been a hottie.
“Whenever I imagined losing my Mexican virginity, I always pictured it being with someone just like you,” I said. Hey, I can flirt with the best of ‘em.