by Dan Ames
“Oh my!” she said, her face turning a slight tinge of red. I smiled inwardly. So she wasn’t that good at flirting. I took a secret pleasure in out-flirting her.
I stuck out my hand. “John Rockne,” I said.
She shook it, a nice firm handshake that lingered a bit. “Alice Cooper,” she said. “Not the rock star.”
“Too bad, I could’ve been one of your groupies,” I said.
She laughed again and looked at me. “I’m starting to like you,” she said. “What are you doing in Mexico?”
“Plastics,” I said.
“Like in The Graduate?” Alice said. “Wasn’t that a line from the movie? ‘Plastics. There’s a great future in plastics. Think about it.’”
“You’re right,” I replied. “Great movie.”
“Yes,” Alice said. “There’s a lot to be said for that older woman, younger man dynamic. Very sexy.”
I think I actually blushed at that one.
“So what, do you sell plastic?” she asked.
“Sort of,” I replied. “I represent a company who supplies different kinds of plastic to the automotive industry. There’s a lot of plastic in cars these days.”
“Cars and Beverly Hills housewives,” Alice said.
“True,” I replied. “What are you going to Mexico for?”
“Vacation. I’m a professional masseuse back in Los Angeles. Where are you staying in Mexico? I’d love to get you on the table. First session is on the house.”
Holy cow. This woman was something else.
“Um, I’m not sure,” I said, then felt bad when I saw her reaction. She thought I was lying. I dug through my briefcase/backpack and found my itinerary.
“Casa Pacifica,” I said. “It’s a Marriott Hotel, I guess. How about you?”
“I think it’s the Westin,” she said. “Downtown.”
“Oh, I’m downtown, too. If we bump into each other, I’ll buy you a margarita.”
She patted my hand and let hers linger on mine for a moment.
“That sounds like a plan, John. And remember,” she said knowingly, making direct eye contact.
“What happens in Mexico, stays in Mexico.”
She then actually winked at me.
Chapter Twenty-One
The spirit of a man ain’t too hard to tell
Show him the door to heaven
Then kick him down to hell.
-Cracker Man (by Groovy Train)
Mary found Alice waiting for her after deboarding the plane. Kurt and Jason were sitting even further back than Mary. Mary had been sitting behind Alice.
“Jesus Christ, why didn’t you just rip your clothes off and throw yourself at the poor man?” Mary said. She’d overheard Alice’s flirtatious conversation with the man in the seat next to her. Mary had felt a mixture of embarrassment and appreciation for the show. It had been more entertaining than the in-flight movie.
Alice shrugged her shoulders. “We had a nice conversation,” she said. “There was definitely a spark. I can’t help it if my natural pheromones send out a signal and men come knocking. Happens all the time.”
“It wasn’t your pheromones, my dear,” Mary said. “It was your mouth that never knows when to stay quiet. Didn’t I tell you I was on a case? To lay low? Don’t make a scene?”
“’Lay’ being the operative word here,” Alice said, smirking at Mary. “Besides, you sound kind of jealous. Did you see what a hottie this John is?”
“I’m not sure I would call him a hottie,” Mary said. She had watched him stand up after they’d landed, out of curiosity after hearing the salacious conversation. “He’s kind of cute in a domesticated, suburban way.”
“Well, I think you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” Mary said. “I’m working. You need to remember that.”
Kurt and Jason finally caught up with them.
Kurt stretched out his arms. “Fucking A that flight sucked!” A few people in the terminal turned and looked at him.
Mary wondered why she’d even bothered to scold Alice. There was no way this group was ever going to lay low. They were a traveling circus.
“Someone was dropping ass the whole time,” Jason muttered.
“That was me,” Kurt said. “I had a ton of bean dip last night in preparation for the trip,” he said with a voice chock full of pride. “Sorry, but I had to let loose. That kind of trapped gas is dangerous.” He seemed to reconsider that idea, though. “Then again, the pilot said we had a nice tailwind that got us here sooner,” Kurt added. “That was no tailwind. That was my ass.”
“Too much information, Kurt,” Alice said.
“Is that really true?” Jason asked.
“Who says Americans aren’t classy?” Mary said. “Come on, let’s go through Customs and get our stuff.”
It took them two hours to get through it all, but eventually, they found their way downtown to the hotel. The ride had been uneventful, the four of them packed into a creaking minivan. They’d passed a lot of old cars, people on ancient motorcycles without helmets. Occasionally they’d gotten glimpses of the Pacific and on the horizon, glimpses of the mountains.
The hotel was, in fact, a Westin. And it was downtown. Mary and Alice were sharing a room. Their window looked out toward the ocean.
“Great view,” Alice said.
“Yeah, it’s a nice place for you to get away from your day job of being a masseuse, right?” Mary said. She still couldn’t believe Alice had uttered that whopper.
“That’s not really a lie,” Alice said. “My massages are so good, people think I’m a pro. John won’t know the difference.” She cracked her knuckles.
“Why don’t you go get us a drink downstairs while I get some work done?” Mary said.
“You read my mind,” Alice said. She left the room and Mary took the opportunity to set up her laptop on the hotel desk, connect to the Wi-Fi and check her messages. Nothing urgent.
What was urgent was finding Bulldog, and hopefully getting a solid lead on the whereabouts of Mr. Zack Hatter. The Mad Hatter. All Sly had told her was that if she asked around Puerto Vallarta, she was bound to find someone who knew where Bulldog lived, or at least where he hung out and how to find him. Sly had implied that Bulldog wasn’t very good at keeping a low profile. Something he shared in common with Mary’s current entourage.
Mary fired up her Internet browser and searched venues for live rock music in Puerto Vallarta. There were several shows tonight, all clustered around the downtown area.
Perfect.
She could hit all of them and ask around, hopefully get a lead on Bulldog.
But first, she was going to go down to the bar and join Alice.
See what all this fuss about Mexican tequila was about.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Came into New York with a belly full of blues
Coasted into Denver with a mouth full of fumes.
-Smoke ‘em Out (by Groovy Train)
From one high-rise to the next.
Rutger liked the new digs.
Mr. Hmm’s assistant had booked him into a private penthouse condo with scads of room and a balcony that ran the entire length of the place. The inside was painted a mixture of beach-themed pastels, seafoam green being the color used most liberally.
Everywhere were reminders he was in a tropical beach paradise. Ceiling fans featuring blades that looked like palm leaves, seashells embedded into the tile floors, and artwork featuring depictions of colorful ocean fish.
It suited Rutger very much.
His operating budget for this job was indeed quite large and he wasn’t surprised his accommodations were so luxurious. But even if the client pushed back which Rutger knew he wouldn't do, he would take care of the cost himself out of his fee. For double his ordinary charge, it would be more than enough to cover this extravagance.
And Rutger liked to go first class all the way.
There was a knock at the door and Rutger spoke out loud to himse
lf. "Must be the hooker."
Still, he brought his pistol out from behind his waistband and held it as he took a quick peek through the peephole. Never a good idea to take a lingering look through it, in case an assassin like him had his muzzle directly against the peephole and was waiting for the light to change and shoot.
Rutger himself had killed people using that very method, on more than one occasion.
He approached the door from the side, careful to not let his shadow show under the doorframe. He also took care to not make any noise in case the person on the other side was waiting for some sign that the room’s occupant was standing right in front of them.
Rutger had waited outside a hotel room many a time, waiting for the slightest noise or change in light to tell him his quarry was on the other side of the door.
He opened the door to a stunning Mexican beauty with no tattoos per his request. Rutger stepped back and put the gun behind him underneath his shirt and inside his waistband.
No need to terrify her from the very beginning. That could come later.
She walked in and Rutger looked at her ass as she went past him.
Very nice.
She had a small handbag which he was positive had a gun inside along with some dope.
Almost immediately after checking into the condo, he had ordered some female companionship. A lengthy tryst upon landing in a foreign country always helped settle him, helped his focus.
This time, he had requested a 420 friendly from the escort service. 420 was slang for pot and Rutger hoped she had brought it and that it was snuggled up against the pistol in her bag. He would retrieve both at the same time.
She did a slight turn in the room and Rutger noted it was performed with the express intent of giving him a nice view of her body and to make sure he approved of the merchandise before any activity began.
He did.
The merchandise was quite splendid.
"Why don't you hop in the shower?" Rutger nodded his head toward the bathroom.
He hated dirty hookers. Which is why he always ordered the top shelf escorts. He was rarely disappointed. And if one had the nerve to show up at Rutger’s hotel room less than clean, well, she would pay the price, not him.
The hooker took her little bag with her into the bathroom and Rutger heard the door lock.
Which was fine because it allowed him to take his gun and put it near in the night table’s drawer next to the Bible.
She could theoretically come out with her gun and try to rob him as was done quite often with the gringos in Mexico. But Rutger was confident that he could get the gun away from her and break her neck without too much trouble. She had laid a big joint on the table with a lighter per his request so he fired it up and took a deep hit.
The cost of the marijuana would be added to his final bill and he was sure that a 200% markup would occur. But he just smiled and took a deep lungful of marijuana. Having the prostitute bring the drugs was better than him going out onto the street and trying to score some. The idea of getting busted for some pissant pot buy and missing a contract like this one would be a disaster.
He took another hit from the joint and felt its acrid taste work its way down his throat and into his lungs.
He generally avoided drugs. Certainly the hard stuff when he was working but nothing wrong with a little toke now and then.
Rutger checked his phone and reread the message from his employer with the address of Bulldog’s apartment. Apparently ol’ Bulldog was having a big party that night at his swanky digs in the ritzy part of Puerto Vallarta.
With his ample amount of cash on hand Rutger figured it would be no problem to crash the fiesta, especially if he brought along this hot little hooker to help him gain access to the party without any problems. Men trying to get into a party alone sometimes could be difficult even when hefty cash bribes were offered. But beautiful women were always welcome, and this one was quite spectacular.
She must have read his mind because just then the door to the bathroom opened and she stood there in all her glory. Black stockings, garters, black bra and a big smile. Her long black hair flowed down her shoulders and Rutger noticed she was clean-shaven all over.
He put down the phone, stood up, pointed to the floor and began to unbuckle his pants.
His instructions to the hooker were brief and to the point.
“Get on your knees."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bleedin’ like an angel
Cryin’ like a liar
Flyin’ like a lion
Dyin’ on the fire.
-Hotel Yucatan (by Groovy Train)
My hotel room was nice albeit modest. I had certainly stayed in worse places than the Casa Pacifica.
At the same time, it wasn't a mega-fancy resort hotel with sweeping views of the ocean. In fact, my view consisted of the ugly-ass end of another building.
But that was fine. I wasn’t here to sightsee. I was here to find The Mad Fricking Hatter.
I actually felt sluggish after the flight and the idea of a nap crossed my mind but I quickly ruled it out. Caffeine would be a better solution. Besides, I didn’t want to start off my investigation in Mexico by snoozing. That’s not exactly what my clients were paying me to do.
So I set up shop in my room. I hung up my clothes, got my electronics organized, which meant chargers and laptop power cords hooked up and running.
I also made a mental note to exchange some of my American dollars for pesos. I had programmed Roger Goldman’s cell phone contact information into my phone. He was the writer for newsletters catering to the gay community about how to vacation in Mexico and more specifically Puerto Vallarta. His name had been given to me by my friend Nate back in Grosse Pointe.
I punched in the numbers and waited. After about the seventh ring a voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is this Roger?" I asked.
"Yes sir, how can I help you?"
Roger Goldman had a great radio voice. Smooth and very cultured.
“Nate Becker is a friend of mine and he recommended I contact you,” I explained. “I'm a private investigator looking into the disappearance of someone here in Puerto Vallarta."
"A lotta people disappear here,” he pointed out. “How is Nate, by the way?"
“Nate is hungry,” I said.
Roger laughed. “I hope he’s taking care of himself, though. He’s a good guy. Smart. Talented. Hate to see him go too young.”
I had thought the same thing many times, but Nate had told me to back off, so I had.
“Well, Nate is Nate and no one is going to tell him otherwise,” I pointed out.
“That’s the guy I remember,” Roger said. “So how can I help you?”
“Well, I’m looking for someone and apparently the trail is going to run through someone called Bulldog. A music–”
“Yep, I know him. Has a place on the ocean. A penthouse. I was there once a few years back, but I can’t say I remember much about it. Everyone knows someone who knows him, though. He’s kind of a legend around here.”
“Do you have an address or a phone number for him?”
Roger laughed. “No, that’s a well-kept secret here in PV. His parties are highly exclusive, everyone wants to go because he has a lot of celebrities, most of them music-related but some not. Justin Bieber was down here awhile back.”
“The Bieber?”
“Indeed. Lamborghinis racing up and down the streets all hours of the night. Look,” Roger paused. “Do you have cash? An expense account? You said you’re a private investigator, right?”
“Yes to the private investigator question, no to the cash question.”
“Shoot. You could always go to a club and throw enough money around, you might get invited to one of Bulldog’s parties.”
“Even if I had some cash, it probably wouldn’t be enough.”
“Tell you what,” Roger said. “Since you’re a friend of Nate’s, I might be able to help. I have a friend
of a friend of a friend who has some connections to the music biz down here. He might be able to get you an invite. Let me make some calls and pull in some favors.”
“I appreciate it,” I said. “I’ll do what I can to compensate you for your time.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
We disconnected and I let out a sigh. I really didn’t want to put all of my eggs in Roger’s basket. Oh, that sounded a little weird. I didn’t want to rely only on Roger’s good faith to get me in to see Bulldog. There had to be another way.
Maybe I would find it in the bar.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I wanna hear you say
Wanna hear you say
Wanna see you pay
For every yesterday.
-No, No, Not Today (by Groovy Train)
Mary changed her mind. When she saw Alice, Kurt and Jason sitting at the hotel bar, she sneaked past them and out the door. She was here to work. Besides, if she stopped and had a drink with them, they would probably want to come along. And that was definitely not going to happen.
Even more accurately, Mary knew all about Mexican tequila from not-so-distant wild youth.
Now, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and debated about whether to drive, but one of the clubs was only a few blocks away so she figured she would get some exercise while she was at it. So she struck out on foot, feeling the power of the Mexican sun on her shoulders.
The air was humid and the sun seemed to get hotter with each block she walked. This wasn’t southern California sun. This was the real deal.
Mary didn’t speak Spanish, so the street names started to blend together. Calle this. Calle that. Eventually, she found her way to a club called The Hot Rooster.
Hmm, she thought. Lots of ways to have fun with that one.
There was a cover charge of one hundred and fifty pesos, which Mary paid and went inside. The music, which hadn’t been terribly audible outside the club, immediately announced itself with a thumping bass line and some horrible guitar noises.