Trouble Down Mexico Way

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “Oh, you’d love her.” Blanche grinned. She leaned forward. “Haas, just one more look-see? Maybe that’ll do it.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “No,” said Haasi, her hands at ten and two. Eyes on the road.

  “Why not?”

  “Bang.” They were flying down Highway 57. Haasi shook her head. She was smiling. “Oh, well, you know already what I’m gonna say …”

  u

  It was hot. And dark. Except for slivers of light that shined through the cracks in the walls. He guessed he was in a storage shed of some sort. It smelled of pigs. And grease, like that used in mowers and leaf blowers. And chain saws. Even as hot as he was, he shivered.

  He’d been here for days, or hours. He didn’t know. He’d been drugged. No question about that. They were short men who had grabbed him on either side, and he was strong. He remembered at the time he couldn’t resist. He’d tried to reach out to Blanche and Haasi, but he couldn’t do it. It was almost as if he collapsed. He couldn’t give in. That wasn’t him. Emilio Sierra Del Real.

  The door creaked open. A man stood against the backdrop of light. A dark shape, skinny legs, and shrunken frame in a long jacket. Emilio saw a stranger but knew this man was after him; that made him less of a stranger. He wanted something from Emilio, and Emilio had not a clue what that could be.

  “Qué tal.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand, and the stranger came closer to Emilio, his boots scuffing the dirt floor of the shed.

  “What do you want.” Emilio was not asking either. He wanted answers. To know why he was stuck in this filthy shed that smelled like pigs. It was inconceivable he’d been kidnapped for his little side trip to the lab with the women, but maybe not. Now he was being held against his will. For days? And for what? But who was he kidding? This was Mexico. Shit happened. He was surprised he wasn’t dead. His pulse started racing; his mind was running to keep up. If I’m not dead, then why not?

  This realization hit him with a jolt. He should be dead, and the fact that he wasn’t was a certain clue to this whole business. They wanted something from him, but what could they possibly want? He was a poor medical student with no real means. His family had not been wealthy. Indeed, his parents were both dead, his relatives scattered all over Mexico. He knew very little about the cartels and their seedy network. He liked to keep his distance and do the work of a doctor. The work. The medical training. That was all he had, the sum total of his worth. Was there a connection between the work and this bunch of goons?

  He was just a doctor. He’d play along for now; he had no other choice.

  The man drew closer, reached for a string above Emilio’s head, and turned on a light bulb hanging from a rafter. Emilio’s eyes, long accustomed to the dark, slowly adjusted, and he raised his head to look into the gaunt face of his captor. He pulled on his goatee. Emilio had never seen him before.

  “Lo siento, doctor.”

  “Sorry for what?” Emilio could barely hold his head up.

  “For the accommodation.” The old man pulled a stool from the corner and sat on the edge. He crossed his arms. “You should be coming to by now. After all it was such a small dose. …”

  “Dose of what?” His head swung back and forth. It was difficult to focus.

  “A cocktail? La rocha, perhaps?”

  “¡Hijo de puta!” Emilio tried to stand. “Son of a bitch!” he repeated. He wanted to grab the scrawny neck, throw him down, and stomp on him. But that was not going to happen. Besides, he could hardly move, and what sense would that make? He’d be dead in a second. He fell back. He felt a wave of nausea and disorientation.

  “Tranquilo. It should be wearing off about now. You won’t remember a thing.”

  “What things?”

  “Such things.” The man resumed stroking his pitiable beard. “We need to talk.”

  Emilio had a hard time imagining how he was going to talk. He was sinking after some brief moments of lucidity. He couldn’t hold his head up, much less stand. He stumbled to a bucket in the corner and back to the dirty cot pushed against a wall. “Let me rest.”

  That was the last he remembered.

  The man turned to the door and snapped his fingers. Another figure appeared. “I think our doctor needs another shot, but lightly. He’s in no mood to talk just yet, but I need him to. Soon.”

  u

  Emilio woke up with a start. Disoriented. The awful smell, the scratchy cot disgusted him. He threw the raggedy blanket onto the dirt. He’d heard banging. Or was it some kind of nightmare? But, no, he was sure someone had been slamming doors, or drawers. Punctuating his unconscious, pounding on his brain. There’d been another, and another. He tried to rise up on his elbows. He tried to find his voice, but it was somewhere down a deep dark hole. He couldn’t reach it. He lifted his arms and they were as useless as dead branches. He lay down again on the cot, and he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  BRING ME THE HEAD OF A GOAT

  Oleantha Flórez de Losada was in the middle of putting in a few hours at her alternative medicine clinic, La Hierba del Cielo. She opened a crate of vials and lifted them out, one by one, and checked them off in her inventory. The purples, the pinks, the yellows. She opened a purple one and took a whiff. “Ah, lavanda.” She closed her eyes. The lovely smell of lavender brought her back instantly to her grandmother’s bedroom, to the pressed and tatted white linens, the little dog seated on an embroidered cushion. The view of the orchard from the window, cherimoya and apricot, plum and fig trees. It was paradise there, playing at her dressing table with her beautiful silver combs and mirrors and brushes.

  The hacienda in Hidalgo was gone. The cartels had taken it long ago. Her grandmother was dead.

  But the memories are not gone. She peered into the mirror behind a wall of glass shelves. She was happy with what she saw. The sheen of her black hair. The striking blue eyes—the gift of a Viking forebear who had landed on the Spanish coast. She was a special mestiza, and she liked that. She liked being different, set apart. She’d worked hard at it.

  She went to the desk, a Louis XV marble-topped work of art with beech marquetry and gilded shell, doves, and dolphins, supposedly left over from the ill-fated French occupation of the mid-nineteenth century. She felt like a queen seated at that desk. The armchair fit nicely under the secret pull-out drawer where she’d found that dagger, such a priceless jewel. It was pure beaten silver, inlaid with mother-of-pearl on the hilt, not bigger than her palm. She often wondered who had used it, who had hidden it in the folds of her voluminous silk gown, who had stuck the thing in some idiota who had tried to take advantage of her. Oleantha fingered the dagger now, always close at hand, and felt like she channeled that spirit, wherever she was—in heaven or hell. It was all the same to Oleantha; there was just one place for her, and that was here.

  She took the ledger out of the drawer. This one had records of the legitimate herbs and oils, vitamins and healing lotions that Oleantha sold in her clinic. The herbs and grasses and teas were moneymakers, not that she gave a hoot how much she made from chicura, cholla, or palo bobo, and batamote, whose various leaves and barks and seeds treated everything from asthma and diarrhea to madness, foot odor, and scorpion bite. She had the Aztecs to thank for their catalogue of thousands of plants and trees that provided relief in times of disease and discomfort. The ancients were noted for their impressive codices, and so was she. Irrepressible. She flipped through the pages, satisfied with her work.

  If any government bureau or department demanded to snoop around in her business, for tax reasons, or, God forbid, worse, Oleantha had it all right here. Her other ledgers, well, that was another matter. She didn’t want the police getting to any of those. All of the books were under lock and key. She clicked the pen madly on the desktop. Except for that one ledger she left out in the lab … El Jefe had graciously reminded her of that slip-up when he caught those snoops. Well, one little slip-up.

  Here s
he was, doing a tremendous service, dispensing herbs and alternative medicines. Practicing medicine in all its many, er, ramifications. She was carrying on her country’s valuable tradition and doing a booming business. She had it all, and she was prepared. She never knew what they’d ask for. Bullet extractions? Cauterizing amputations? In the herb clinic, relief for labor pains? Gonorrhea? Boils? Every once in a while, she prescribed mata ratón for killing rats; it was also used for fever and stomach conditions, but she often wondered if her clients followed all the directions and only killed rats. She didn’t want to know. Some of these medicinal ingredients had side effects.

  She sighed. She couldn’t control everything. Several herbs with lovely yellow flowers bloomed in pots in the front window, along with a miniature hibiscus, widely used for cholesterol control and digestion. Her patients and clients believed in her and the prescriptions and advice, and, after all, she was a doctor.

  She had the world in her talons. She loved the work. The herb clinic was perfect, and it complemented her other business. Working for the mob, assisting in art theft, and making mummies.

  She balled up her fist and pounded the open ledger. These bursts of anger flared up suddenly, but they passed, especially when she thought of her “projects.” They needed to go off without a hitch, and she was most proud—and worried—about the outcomes of her latest for El Patrón. Just thinking about it began to calm her. In fact, she reveled in thinking about it.

  u

  She’d dressed for the occasion. She always did, whether she was retrieving bullets from a gang member’s torso or making a mummy. She wore her gold leather, four-inch heels with wide T-straps. Always the straps. They gave her footing should she slip. The floor tended to get slick where she worked.

  The Day of the Mummy, she’d shrugged into a starched white lab coat over a pink tweed Chanel skirt and pink silk blouse. She’d removed the Tiffany bracelet, but she rarely took the peanut-size diamonds out of her earlobes. She felt better when she looked like a million dollars. Literally. She checked her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the lab wall over the sink, and she was happy with what she saw.

  For this project, Oleantha bustled about putting tools in order: scalpel and suctions, scrapers and jars and tape and tweezers and sponges. She had it covered although this was a new recipe, as far as she knew, and she feared she’d have to wing it at some point. She’d studied up on the procedure and come up with her own method. She hoped it worked—there was a new condo riding on it.

  She was about to get after it when that idiota had appeared in the doorway:

  “You can come in, you know, for a minute or so,” she’d said. “Our girl won’t bite.”

  “Muy graciosa.” He had his hands in his pockets and disgust on his face. “That her?”

  “Who else would it be? Once again, meet Lalia Solis Iglesia.” Lalia, very dead, rested on a bed of ceramic cylinders, her lips blue, her dark hair cascading from this makeshift platform, feet slightly elevated.

  He grimaced. “You got it?”

  “Sí.” Oleantha wanted him gone. She preferred not to have visitors while she worked.

  “¿Cuándo?”

  “When I say.”

  He hunched his shoulders. “El Patrón says, the sooner the better. But you’re the boss lady. La Jefa.” He smiled at his little joke. Nervously. “I’ll be back soon.”

  She’d had no idea how soon she’d be able to cook this mummy. How hard could it be? She knew the human body. Fiddling with it was nothing more than acting as a glorified mechanic, although the comparison gave her sensibilities pause. She had graduated from medical school, but she hadn’t quite made it over the hump. The licensure required a stint of social service in the pueblos, and she demurred. She was a city girl. Born and bred, mostly, in Mexico City. The dust and poverty and endless slap of tortillas on the comal out in the countryside were not to her liking. She’d also failed to go all the way to licensure because she didn’t have the patience for testing and the pesky board requirements, though she’d taken a run at it. She had to admit, she’d run afoul of it, after offering the board a bribe and getting a reprimand in return from a particularly chaste number of uptight officials. She intended to practice medicine (if that’s what one would call it) her own way.

  El Jefe had brought her the body of this woman. Maybe in her thirties. Maybe strangled. She had a thin red line around her neck. She hadn’t been dead more than eight hours. Oleantha had insisted on a more or less fresh corpse for the procedure. She felt a twinge of guilt, but not much. What they were paying her to conduct this little experiment would put her in Rolexes for every day of the week and buy her a condo overlooking the Paseo near the Four Seasons. It was the practice of medicine. Sort of. It was a dead body. She didn’t kill the woman; she’d only ordered the body. Besides, mummification was seen as “a miracle, a direct intervention from the gods,” she’d read in one of the manuals on ancient history that she consulted. She was performing a miracle. Even if she did have to move the process along a bit to suit the bottom line.

  Still, she had that twinge of guilt. It was fleeting; Oleantha didn’t have time to dwell on it. She had work to do. Her recipe: “A mixture of arsenic, alcohol, and conifer resin. Formalin and salicylic acid to kill bacteria and fungi and preserve tissue.” Some of the ingredients she stole from a five-thousand-year-old practice. Back many years, they used honey for its antibacterial properties; she dispensed with that and went to chemicals.

  The thugs had placed the body on a contraption of Oleantha’s design—a bed of ceramic tubes that alleviated pressure on the underside of the body so the blood would flow. (Ceramics wiped nice and clean, she figured.) The “bed” was elevated slightly in the leg region to encourage action.

  She’d washed down the body in white vinegar—the perfect ingredient to start. It had so many uses, for getting rid of soap residue in her hair, and the maid used it in the laundry and on the kitchen floor. She hesitated over the removal of the internal organs, but that was done as part of the “miracle,” so she would conform. She grabbed a scalpel and went to work. She used a hook to extract brain tissue through the nose. She pondered whether or not to leave the eyes and then decided she’d let them be. For now. They were the windows to the soul, and if one were still in there, Oleantha damn well didn’t want to disturb it any further.

  She attached the tubing at the carotid artery and in the legs and started the pump. So far, so good. Most of the bodily fluids drained away, the chemicals were doing the job and leaving the skin like fresh leather. It took most of the day. The body had had a creamy brown hue, but now it grew paler.

  She fixed that. Gave her a nice tan. Overhead, a sunlamp with equator-like strength began shining down on the remains. In no time she was shriveled beyond recognition, taken back a thousand years to her forebears. At least in appearance.

  u

  Oleantha was still dreaming at her desk, off in mummy land, when she looked up to see a young blonde woman standing outside, staring into the clinic. Her face was alive with interest and animation as she peered through the window at a wall of flowering plants on a tall wrought iron rack. She was definitely a foreigner. Generally speaking, these visitors annoyed Oleantha; they always had so many questions. As if Mexico invented herbs and how to use them and Oleantha knew everything about them. Even so, she loved their dollars.

  The door swung open. The blonde walked into the clinic. A wig, no doubt, but an expensive one. And her clothes were understated, even tasteful. A norteamericana, maybe a celebrity. They did have a way of thinking they were disguised, but Oleantha could spot bling and glitz and je ne sais quoi a mile away. Oleantha straightened up.

  “Buenas,” the blonde said, and stopped at the cojón de toro, an intricate plant whose fruit looked like castanets but was named for the testicles of a bull.

  The blonde turned and came toward the desk. “Hola, soy Blanche.” She smiled and stuck out her hand.

  Oleantha extended limp fingers
and nodded, “Buenas, Oleantha Flórez.” She waved at the interior of the clinic. “Por favor.”

  Blanche meandered past the shelves with a look of amazement. Oleantha had to admit the array of tubers, roots, seeds, and leaves, the watercolors of plantain, larrea, and allium, the painting of an Aztec marketplace made up a spectacular display. It gave the place a modern boutique feeling with old-world appeal. She folded her hands under her chin and waited while Blanche, the yanqui, made the rounds.

  Definitely an American. Oleantha came around the desk. “What can I do for you, señorita?” She prided herself on her command of English, courtesy of a pre-med scholarship to a Texas university, plus the fact she’d studied the language since primary, some of it in London. She’d finished the undergrad and couldn’t wait to get out of there and back to civilization in Mexico City. It gave her a shiver of regret that her grade point hadn’t been quite up to par, which was the real reason she was back in “civilization.” Yet, she fondly told anyone who would listen that her work was here. El Patrón had listened. He needed her.

  Oleantha smiled, a frigid ear-to-ear that revealed large white teeth.

  “I just love your shop!” Her gaze spun from one end to the other. “Could you tell me a bit about all these herbs and things?” Her smile was radiant, the green eyes earnest.

  Oleantha fiddled with a pamphlet. Caramba. I’m not going to give the inventory of three thousand herbs. “Certainly.”

  “These are so beautiful.” Blanche picked up a packet of magnolia leaves and another of sunflower leaves with glossy pictures of the flowers.

  “Most people don’t know all the uses of our many flowers. The sunflower—besides its value for dye, flour, and feed— also has properties for headache, anxiety, and scabs!”

  Blanche tilted her head. “Really! All those fields and fields of sunflowers! Gorgeous.”

  Oleantha couldn’t help melting a little. She really had little social contact, except with grumpy wounded gangsters. Dead people didn’t count. Now she felt herself warming to the small friendly chica. She was busy going from shelf to shelf, reading labels, sniffing packets of leaves and seeds, and oohing and ahhing.