by Howard Upton
The thought of taking another human life began to creep into his mind, but he steadfastly pushed it away. He sometimes thought about his time spent in various war zones when he was younger and the pain he had inflicted; there would be time for self-incrimination later. Right now he had to focus.
His watch told him it was 4:22 p.m. It was time to get back to the hotel, get his car and drive to his meet. Barring no traffic issues, he should make it in time. He paid his bill, left a respectable tip and walked out. A couple more switchbacks and a run around his hotel then he was off to his car and driving to meet his contact. He plugged the address into the rented GPS and listened as a British voice directed him through Mexico City’s streets.
Roper drove over an hour through some seedy neighborhoods and on a couple of busy highways. His GPS mapped the “shortest route” but not the preferable one. Mexico City’s poor walked the sidewalks. He saw in their eyes the same desperate look he had seen the world over.
Stucco homes and apartments were covered in gang graffiti. Cars that had outlived their engines sat idle, some with broken windows and most with the wheels stripped leaving only shells behind. He heard a gunshot in the distance and knew some other poor person had been robbed or killed, and their meager treasured possessions taken. It’s the same everywhere, he thought.
At long last he arrived at Tamazula. The smell of fried Mexican food floated in the air. His stomach grumbled reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in quite some time and the two beers that had temporarily filled his belly were now only distant memories. Taking a human life had a strange way of bringing on hunger pangs after the adrenaline receded to normal levels.
He stepped inside the tiny restaurant and saw that there were only two tables available for dining, both were empty. A twenty-something young man stood behind the counter eyeing him suspiciously. “Si, Señor?” the young man asked. His question did not escape Roper, for he knew he asked both what he would like to eat and what the hell a white man was doing in this store in this neighborhood.
“Hablas Ingles?”
“Yes,” replied Twenty-something, his one word response full of edginess.
“I’d like two tortas and a bottle of water. A friend of mine tells me the tortas are very good.”
“Yes sir. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I need to see Javier. He’s expecting me. Is he here?”
“Javier? I don’t know Javier.”
“Look, can we dispense with the pleasantries? He’s expecting me. Tell him our friend sent me here to talk to him. Okay?” As he eyed the young man, he reached into his pocket and produced two hundred pesos and handed them to him. The young man considered the money then walked through a door, presumably to find Javier...and hopefully place his order. Famished would have been an understatement of monumental proportions.
The young man soon reappeared with an older Mexican gentleman. “You are Señor Roper?” the man asked.
“Yes, I am. We have a mutual friend who told me to meet Javier. Are you Javier?”
“Si. Follow me to the back.”
“Perfect. I appreciate it. I hope my tortas are back there. I could eat the ass end out of a rag doll through a park bench right now.”
“Como? What does that mean, señor?”
“It means I’m real damned hungry, sir.”
Javier howled with laughter at Roper’s explanation of the old southern euphemism before leading him to the back of the restaurant.
“Pablo, bring Mr. Roper’s food back here, por favor,” he called out to the young waiter.
“Thank you, Javier. I certainly appreciate it,” Roper said with all the sincerity he could muster.
They walked through the kitchen area where Javier pushed back a ragged blue and red striped curtain revealing a small office. The office had an ancient computer and an even older monitor with tons of paperwork piled haphazardly around them. Javier sat in one of the two chairs in the compact room. From between the desk and the wall, he pulled out a small black duffle bag and handed it to Roper.
Roper unzipped the bag and checked its contents. He stared at the money, identification and other things he had requested before leaving for Mexico. At the bottom of the bag he saw the pistol, a Colt 1911, and the sound suppressor next to it. A grin crept across his face.
Pablo brought the food and water to him as he zipped the bag. He thought his stomach was going to revolt on him when he smelled the incredibly delicious plate. After thanking both Pablo and Javier, he devoured the meal like it was his first and last.
“You are one hungry gringo, Mr. Roper,” said Javier with a thick Mexican accent and a smirk on his face.
“You got that shit right, Javier. This has to be the best food to ever land in my mouth and I have you to thank for it.”
“Ha! Thank me all you want, but you still have to pay for it,” he laughed.
“I really appreciate you getting these supplies for me, Javier. I’m in your debt,” he told the old man as he prepared to leave.
“Our mutual friend made it worth my while. You be careful on these streets, Señor,” Javier replied as he patted Roper on the back.
Roper nodded his head and walked back to his car. He needed to make a trip to the museum so he could begin tracking down the cartouche, but that would have to wait until morning. Right now he needed to get to a computer and do some research.
Saltillo, Mexico
July 15, 2013 8:02 P.M.
Rafael’s life revolved around cheap hotel rooms and his rental car of late. He pulled back the curtain covering the one window in his room at the Hotel Premier and, in the waning sunlight, looked at his car. All of Mexico’s dirt and dust appeared to have covered the blue Toyota Corolla. He scanned the rest of the parking lot to see if any new vehicles had parked since his arrival; there were not. The nice thing about a hundred and fifty peso hotel room was the lack of customers. Apparently, few had the stomach for an occasional roach invader. Only hookers and dregs stayed in those rooms.
He walked back to the little table nestled in the corner of his small room and sat down to a dinner of pasta and salad. His fork swirled around in the baked ziti noodles but his mind wasn’t focused on putting any of it in his mouth. He lifted his eyes to the back of the table and saw the cartouche lying there – he thought he could feel it calling to him.
His fork fell into the Styrofoam box, and his hand reached for the ancient relic. It talked to him in an unheard and unknown voice…a foreign language that didn’t seem foreign at all. None of this appeared strange to Rafael, and as his fingers grasped the cartouche, the jewel began its low vibratory thrum. He closed his eyes and tried to will additional knowledge about its origins into his mind.
He saw a splash of liquid red in his mind’s eye and his heart rate accelerated as he heard a scream and a moan. In a trance, he could see a headless body fall to its death, the shocked look on the face of the decapitated was frozen forever. The bodiless head’s eyes fluttered and the jaw moved, soundless words forming on its lips. Blood from the lifeless body spilled to the ground, a pool forming as the heart continued to beat, sending its life’s liquid to soak through sand.
The cartouche gifted him an array of emotions that ravaged his body and mind. Rage, extreme sadness and pain played an unholy game of tug-of-war with his heart. For a few seconds, he would be seething with anger, the next he would cry, followed by hurt that could only be understood by one who has lost a loved one.
In the distance of his mind, he could see strong, tall mountains covered by lush green trees. Most amazingly were the Asian faces he saw around him. Who are these strange people he asked himself? Why am I seeing this?
Images flashed through his brain of hands forging the cartouche and strange hieroglyphs etched and formed on the jewel. Fresh vegetation surrounded the ornament and Rafael could almost smell the magnificent earthiness of it all. He could hear strange chanting in the room where the cartouche lay.
These images plodded through his mind for what
seemed like hours, but no sooner had the inexplicable story begun to reveal itself when it suddenly stopped. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, struck by what he had just seen.
He pushed the jewel into his pants pocket, the hold it had on him releasing. Jesus Christ he thought to himself in English, his legs wobbly as he stood and walked to the bathroom. He turned on the cold water and splashed some on his face not caring that it ran down his chin and chest.
Rafael looked at himself in the mirror and studied the bags under his eyes and the crow’s feet, both more pronounced than they were two weeks prior. He grabbed a hand towel and wiped the water from his face, turned toward the toilet and stood there taking care of his business. This thing...this thing Haden wants...it has power. It has shown me strange things in distant lands. I suspect it has a powerful purpose, but to what end I do not know.
Even though his instincts told him better, he wanted to go for a walk. Fresh air would do him some good and unless he had been followed from Zacatecas, he figured he should be able to walk in the shadows relatively uninhibited. He got dressed, put on a pair of sneakers and decided a short walk around the streets of Saltillo would make him feel like a new man. He felt the reassuring vibration of the cartouche in his pocket as he stepped through the door.
Saltillo was not the typical Mexican city. While some crime did exist, it was mostly a quiet town forgotten by the drug cartels and crime lords that infected the metropolitan areas of the country. Nestled between mountains in every direction, with only a few mountain passes allowing for car travel, the city provided a perfect escape for someone not wanting to be in the spotlight, especially if that someone happened to have stolen a potentially priceless artifact that had an ability to show the possessor scenes from its past.
Of course, the cartouche might not have any power at all; on the contrary, Rafael may actually have been pushed over the edge, his brain finally falling culprit to all the beer and tequila he’d consumed over the years. He wondered to himself if that was the case.
He stepped into the warm evening air. A Latin form of music known as Bolero boomed from a nearby bar. Bolero was Cuban in origin but had been modified by musicians in Mexico, which meant beautiful ballads with a little salsa. Rafael loved the sound.
He paused outside the bar and stood under an awning with his back to the wall. A cigarette appeared from a pack of smokes along with a refillable lighter whose engraving told him it was made in China. A two inch flame shot from the top of the lighter after he rolled the wheel. Rafael inhaled the unfiltered Camel deeply, another luxury he sometimes enjoyed, especially when he was moderately stressed.
As he drew in another cloud of smoke, his cell phone rang. The quiet ring tone startled him since few people knew his number and fewer still actually called him. His finger hovered over the green button that would connect him to his caller. The number was blocked, but he was certain he knew who it was.
“Bueno,” Rafael said.
“Hello, Rafael,” replied Haden. “We haven’t spoken in a few days and I wanted to make sure you were taking care of our pearl.”
Rafael’s eyes darted left and right and his head spun quickly to see who might be within earshot of his conversation. He walked down the clean sidewalk and found an area without people loitering about, leaned against a wall so he could see in both directions and began speaking.
“Si, Mr. Haden. I have our little…pearl. It is safe.” He allowed his right hand to drift to his pocket and touch the cartouche. Immediately, the thrumming began again, and he had to fight his own mind to remain focused on the conversation.
“And where are you now, Rafael? I’ve been concerned since you haven’t checked in with me. I was praying for your safe arrival to...our meeting destination.”
“I am safe, Señor. Now, at least, I am safe,” responded Rafael with significant indignation.
“That’s good to know. I realize we are planning on meeting on the twenty-second of the month, but I’d like to move that date up to the seventeenth. So, I’ll see you then. Same meeting place, same time.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Señor Haden. I’m certain I’m being tailed and want to…how do you say…lay low for a few more days. It was odd that shortly after I had acquired our…pearl, that someone followed me. I questioned who had hired him,” Rafael responded but didn’t elaborate, anxious to see how Haden would follow up.
“What the fuck do you mean that won’t be possible?” asked Haden. “And what are you inferring when you say someone is following you? How would anyone know who you are or what you had? What did this guy tell you when you questioned him?”
“What I mean, Haden,” he said, as he defaulted to the curt form of address, “is that I’m not meeting you until the designated time, date and place. I’m inferring nothing. I’m simply telling you I was followed the other night and was forced to question the man pursuing me. That’s what I mean!” he finished.
“What did he tell you, dammit? I want to know what the son of a bitch said!” screamed Haden, no longer able to contain his anger.
“Why are you so anxious to know what he said to me?” Rafael asked. It appeared that Haden had lost some of his composure. Interestingly, it seemed that he no longer held the high hand.
“Don’t play fucking games with me, son. I only want to know what he said so we can figure out who he was working for and how he found out about you,” he replied gaining some of the composure he had lost a moment before hand.
Rafael considered answering him, but thought better of it. What Haden didn’t know was definitely an advantage for Rafael, and he planned on using it. Hardball was a game he was used to playing but not with someone as powerful and well-connected as Haden. Rafael would have to tread carefully. He took a couple of long breaths, both allowing him time to gather himself and think through his response. The wait would also make Haden antsy Rafael figured.
“He told me someone sent him to follow me. I’m hoping you can help me identify who that ‘someone’ is Mr. Haden. I can think of no other reason for a person to be following me around than the pearl,” his voice trailed off as he completed the sentence.
“How would I know who sent him or who he was? Are you implying that I had something to do with this, amigo? Because I certainly hope for your sake that’s not what you mean,” Haden responded.
“I’ve implied nothing, only asked a question. As I said, I’m hopeful you can help track down who sent this man. I have a hard time believing he was merely following me because he thought I had money or some such. Either way, it could have resulted in my losing the pearl,” he responded.
Rafael heard Haden take a deep breath of his own before he replied.
“I’ll see what I can find out, but I would really like to have that thing sooner rather than later. The twenty-second is too long.”
“Mr. Haden, I would like to accommodate your request, but I’m afraid it will have to wait until the proscribed time. I don’t want to risk another run-in with someone, so I think it’s smart if I just take it easy for a while,” Rafael quickly responded to Haden.
“I think it’s high time you remember who is paying your bills and who has helped your spic ass along the way, amigo,” Haden retorted. “If you try to fuck with me, I promise, you won’t enjoy it!”
“I understand, Mr. Haden,” Rafael replied as a smile touched his eyes. “And I think you should understand that right now I have no desire to be fucked, amigo.” He used amigo for the first time ever in any conversation he’d had with Haden. He realized the game he was playing was deadly, but it was one he needed to mete out before he dropped the cartouche with his benefactor…if he dropped the cartouche with his benefactor.
Haden paused for a couple of minutes, his breathing audible through the phone. Rather than become unnerved and say something he might later regret, Rafael remained silent. He heard Haden gather himself, heard him despite being a country apart.
Haden laughed. Then he laughed
a little louder. “You fucking wetback. That’s why you’re my man. Those balls you wheel around in a dump truck make you a good operator. I’ll agree to the twenty-second, but I want to know exactly what that other spic fucker said to you, capiche?”
Rafael shook his head, trying to control his temper after Haden’s racial epithets. He took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts then played his card. It was time to take the upper hand in this situation and let Haden know he wasn’t merely a pawn in a game of chess played by two mentally challenged children.
“Mr. Haden, here’s what I know: I was followed by another Latino who I had never met before. I managed to get to him before he could get to me. Now, I will tell you that he told me he was working for a white man, Mr. Haden. The common denominator appears to be you, Mr. Haden. I don’t associate with many white people and certainly no white man knew my whereabouts since being in Valladolid, except you.
So, Mr. Haden, here’s what I’m telling you – if you are responsible for this vato following me and attempting to get your pearl returned to you without paying me the money, or if you’re worried that I might know why you want this thing so badly, then you are making a mistake. Should I be followed again, I will disappear with your cartouche,” Rafael said with no regard for the unsecured line, “and find someone else who might be interested in acquiring it.”
Before Haden had a chance to reply, Rafael hit the end button on his phone, took the back off of it, removed the SIM card and snapped it into quarters. He then threw the phone on the sidewalk and crushed it with his heel. Finally, he kicked the phone into a storm drain and walked away dropping one piece of the SIM card at each corner until he reached his hotel. Having memorized the only four phone numbers he needed, he alleviated any chance that he was being tracked through the device, which he suspected was how it had happened three nights prior.