Trouble Down Mexico Way

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  A pen!

  OMG. Thank you, God.

  The pen is mightier than the sword.

  It better be today.

  She grasped the pen. It was a beautiful Cross, a sterling silver classic ballpoint, that Cap had given her when she got her first newspaper job. Reporter at Large. Which was pretty funny considering she weighed a hundred pounds and the newspaper had a circulation of less than five thousand. But she loved the job, and Cap. Oh, thank you, dear Cap, once again. He’d always looked out for her, especially after Gran died. He was a grandfather, mentor, cook, confidant, support, darling of her life. Now maybe he would save her life. She felt a surge of hope. It was better than nothing. It wasn’t a flimsy, plastic version of a pen. This was a fine slim weapon of a pen. A good five inches of silver self-defense.

  She held the pen point up. The idea of stabbing someone with it made her throat constrict. But what’s the alternative? He was going to kill her, and if he didn’t, she didn’t want to think of what he might do before he dumped her in no-man’s land. That had already happened one time too many. She’d been lucky once, but she wasn’t counting on luck repeating itself.

  She’d once practiced knife-throwing with Haasi—Haasi was a whiz with a knife. Modern grip, point up. Medieval down—more for grappling. Blanche was not in the mood to grapple. She wanted to end it quickly, and she would only have one chance. She’d have to be one very modern girl. Point up, and done. The pen was hardly a Bowie knife, but it was something, and it was all she had. She kept talking herself into it. Out loud, so she could hear herself think. Her heart was racing.

  The truck stopped after a bumpy turn or two. Blanche couldn’t imagine where they were. Not a sound. She figured her timing needed to be perfect; she had to move on the exact second, or she was toast. She focused like a madwoman, and she was plenty mad. She crouched on the floor of the truck, barefoot. She’d kicked the sandals off and once again cursed herself for her choice of footwear. When was she going to learn to wear combat boots, and like them?

  She was small but strong as a coiled wire, and she was in a good position. She stared at the door in the dark, just a foot or two away, gauging, guessing when he’d open that door. She gathered her strength. Put the what-if’s out of mind. She positioned her left fist under her right hand gripping the base of the pen and waited.

  What the hell is he doing?

  The extra seconds she waited sent adrenaline churning through her limbs, to her brain. She was ready.

  The door popped open. It was dark outside, except for ambient light from the distant city. Or the moon. She could pick out his silhouette; she got a whiff of his greasy, mean presence. She never thought he’d have a weapon, and that was a good thing. Fear of that possibility didn’t diminish her intent. He started to lean toward her, his bulk filling the opening, one hand on the roof of the truck.

  “¿Donde estás?”

  “Estoy right here.” She let him lean in a bit more. He was off balance, and that was good; hers was perfect. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. He was wide open. She sprang at him. At the soft part under his chin. It wasn’t a clean hit, but the pen stuck. At least she thought it did. She felt the point stick him, like stabbing a piece of raw meat. He fell back, stunned, and screamed. He was writhing on the ground when she jumped out the door and into the front seat of the truck. He’d even left the motor running!

  How convenient! Thank you, God, again!

  She had no idea where she was, but she drove. She pushed the accelerator toward the moving dots of light, back over the bumpy road, and onto the highway. She was blessed with a sense of direction, but she hardly needed to guess which way to go. Mexico City shined like a rare pulsing jellyfish on the bottom of an ocean of stars in the black night. She drove and drove.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  HOT SAUCE

  Blanche used her sense of direction and good eyes. She eventually found her way to the Zocalo, and to the hotel, fueled by adrenaline, relief, and sweat. It was evening and traffic was light, and, fortunately, there were signs. She slammed into an alleyway near the hotel, and jumped out. She didn’t care if she ever saw that truck again. Cardenal would have to deal with it. She dropped the keys, like they were on fire, into her bag, and bent over to catch her breath. She tried not to vomit. Her legs were like rubber; her sleeve was streaked with blood. But she was alive. She stood up, revived, and thankful. She wanted to scream and dance and announce to the world that she was still alive, but instead she ran. Through the hotel lobby and up to the hotel room. Haasi wasn’t there.

  Blanche found her on the patio, the phone pinned to her ear, pacing up and down. Blanche ran to her and threw her arms around her. Haasi dropped the phone. Blanche had never seen tears in Haasi’s eyes, but she figured there was a first time for everything. Haasi didn’t let go, sobs racked her. Blanche patted her back until they both calmed down.

  “I’m back; I’m all right.”

  “Enough with the damn kidnapping,” Haasi said. “We have to figure out how to avoid this sort of thing. Once and for all.”

  Blanche held her by the shoulders and looked at her. “How did you know?”

  “I got your note. I went over there. To that bitch’s clinic. She was so vague, so sketchy. I knew something was up. She said you’d been there but wouldn’t say when or anything.”

  Blanche pulled Haasi over to a bench and they collapsed. “She ordered that guy to pick me up and dump me off the highway, I’m sure of it. He grabbed me right outside the clinic.”

  “I know; I ran up and down that street asking if anyone had seen you. I finally found an old man. A man sitting in his doorway on a rickety chair. The neighborhood watcher, you’d call him. He saw it all. I called Cardenal, and we’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’ve got to call him. He needs to go pick up that thug. If they can find him. They’ll have to get directions from Doctor Flórez. I’m sure she’ll sing like a vulture.”

  u

  They found El Jefe wandering down the grassy embankment of Highway 57, blood streaming down his shirt front. He’d live. He was in a hospital and in police custody, and he would remain there. With the old-man witness, and Blanche’s testimony, and the truck that had evidence of her capture, the bag, her sandals, a few notes the kidnapper had scribbled about directions to the drop sight, Blanche was off the hook on grounds of self-defense. The Cross pen was never recovered.

  Doctor Oleantha claimed she had no idea about any “apparent kidnapping.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” Blanche had barely come down from high anxiety after escaping her captor, and she wanted some answers.

  Detective Cardenal stood on the patio, patting the top of his head when he wasn’t shaking it. “We are relieved you are back, and you appear to be all right, but, Señorita Blanche, you should be in a hospital. Under observation. That is a terrible experience, and the repercussions could be devastating.”

  “I’m fine. My upbringing may’ve been simple, and peaceful, but my granny once lashed us to an upright during a hurricane. I guess I can weather this, too.”

  The detective’s eyebrows shot up. “¡Dios mío! You gringas. You eat nails for breakfast.”

  “Well, no, that is not particularly appealing,” said Haasi, who had tasted half of Mexico City. “Blanche is safe now, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Yes, that, and getting those bastards,” said Blanche. Haasi and the detective exchanged looks.

  “At least this El Jefe won’t be picking people up and riding them out of town. He’s locked up until further notice,” said Cardenal.

  “Goody. Where does that leave us with this so-called doctor?”

  “Blanche, we have nothing to connect her to your, er, detainment. She wouldn’t even acknowledge she knew this El Jefe. She’s clean.”

  “Like a garbage dump, or the bottom of a sewer.”

  “You could be right. We have our eye on her.”

  “I do, too.”

  u
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  Blanche and Haasi walked into the Cruz restaurant at the market and sat down at one of the tables covered in oilcloth. A bottle of Valentino hot sauce and plastic flowers in a foil-covered Coke bottle were tucked off to the side. Blanche scooted the white plastic chair closer. The place was packed, humming with the vitality of good eating and laughing and families.

  “Rosabella at the tourist office said this place is good for fish,” said Haasi. “Let’s go fishing.”

  Most of the specials were written on a blackboard near the door. The restaurant didn’t have walls. A blue tarp overhead served as the ceiling, and the restaurant was open to the bustling market of stalls of vegetables, baskets, clothing, and herbs. Two indigenous women in brilliant skirts sat on the ground near the entrance cleaning the spines off cactus; a vendor had set up a dozen bird cages, and the singing was frantic and high-pitched, and so was the riot of color all around them.

  “Mojarra frita, por favor. Dos,” said Blanche to the waiter, who smiled and quickly returned with two bottles of beer, a bowl of cut limes, and a huge basket of tortillas.

  “Aw, don’t you love this place?” said Haasi, her fingers tented under her chin. She had that contented expression when she was anywhere near food. “Fried fish, salad, and rice—for about three dollars!”

  “Sounds better than thirty pesos,” said Blanche, who sipped at the Tecate and smiled. “I thought you wanted to get out of here.”

  “Well, sometimes I do. First the new mummy and that business at the Palacio, and then you get kidnapped.” Haasi grabbed Blanche’s fingers. “Let’s not do that again. Swear.”

  “Swear on thirty Bibles.”

  The fish arrived—whole fish with beady eyes and lovely, crusty fried coats on them—and Haasi and Blanche looked at each other and burst out laughing

  “Gonna need more than a fishing pole,” said Haasi.

  “You’re good with a knife.”

  They were poised for the attack with knife and fork when the waiter appeared. “¿Con permiso?” He slit the fish stem to stern and cut the head off in one swipe, lifted off the top filet, and extracted the skeleton of bones in one piece. He inclined his head and smiled.

  “Did you see that? He bowed!” Blanche squeezed lime on the fish.

  “So darn nice. Don’t think we’d get that at the Peel ’n Eat.”

  “No kidding,” said Blanche. “Mind the bones, Haas.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind at all.”

  Haasi had already devoured one half of the top fillet. Blanche glanced quickly at her cousin happily savoring the fish. Blanche hesitated, gauging the best time to spring it on her. She knew Haasi was at her most approachable with food in front of her. They thought alike, but Haasi was more prudent, more inclined to keep a low profile, which never seemed to be the outcome between the two of them. It was always something.

  “So.” Blanche put down her fork, perhaps a bit too emphatically.

  Haasi looked up.

  “Now, don’t get in a knot about this.” A ridiculous notion since Haasi was one calm cookie, and Blanche was happy for that blessing.

  “You’re about to ruin my lunch.”

  “Nothing could ruin your lunch. Want a second helping?”

  Haasi eyed Blanche’s rice, and she shoved it toward her. Haasi doused it with hot sauce, rolled up a tortilla, and dug in. Blanche sighed. “Why don’t you weigh two hundred pounds?”

  “Dunno.” She smiled. The tortilla suspended. “OK, let me have it. You have something on your mind. It’s written all over your face.”

  “Well, good. Then you already know that I’m going to see Blussberg at the Palacio.” Blanche finished the beer and waved and smiled for another.

  “Bang. Does it never stop?”

  “No, listen. It’s all aboveboard. Oleantha told me to go see him.”

  “What? There’s a red flag right there. We shouldn’t have anything to do with any of them. Especially her!” Haasi splashed more hot sauce over everything. “Blussberg’s probably as crooked as they come.”

  “But don’t you see? Blussberg wasn’t at that art fiesta. I think they’re in cahoots to some extent but working separately on some of these projects, for their own nefarious reasons. This might be to our advantage. I don’t think Blussberg knows all of the doctor’s comings and goings, except for when he needs a mummy.”

  “I don’t know what makes you say that, Bang.”

  “I don’t either. Exactly.”

  “What about El Patrón?”

  “He’s at the top, but I think he’s spreading it out, keeping distance between them. Divide and conquer, so to speak. He’s putting money on this art project, no doubt. I just want to dig around a little.” Blanche could see she was losing Haasi on this caper, so it was time to deflect. “I want to see who killed that poor woman. Amparo’s daughter, Lalia.”

  “For Amparo?”

  “Yes, for the mother of the young woman who became the new mummy. She must be out of her mind with misery.” At this, Blanche shivered. She clenched her fist on the tabletop.

  “Now that I think about it ...” Haasi frowned. Her face was scrunched into deep thought. “I guess there’s no harm in interviewing Blussberg. In his office at the Palacio with people around. I don’t think you’ll get anywhere, but what the heck.”

  “Yeah, what the heck. And I have a perfectly legitimate reason to visit him. You see, I’m an art student and a journalist and I’m writing this travel article…”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  PANIC IN THE PALACIO

  Sarloff Blussberg sat at his desk, his small hands folded, his bloated face plastered with a smile. His peculiar Elvis do looked especially brassy today; his eyes were puffy with blue bags under them. “Ah, so we meet again. I’m always happy to talk to the press, Señorita Blanche. What can I do for you?”

  Blanche had so many ideas about what he could do for her. In particular, lead me to the art theft and the creator of the fake mummy.

  Instead, she smiled demurely. She was definitely going to have to wing it—with Haasi’s help and dramatic skills and trickery. Blanche was dressed to play her part. Professionally. Curls tamed, sensible shirtwaist dress from the secondhand shop. (She’d had to toss the daisy-dotted chambray.) Her heart was racing, but she stuffed it down and concentrated on the moment.

  “I want to thank you so much for meeting me. The other day, I guess I should have told you about the purpose of our visit to Mexico City.” She chuckled, deciding to avoid the details. “I know it’s short notice, but I have some questions about this fabulous Mayan exhibit.”

  “Yes, you’ve seen it, and, ahem, I believe you’ve gotten some impressions.”

  They both danced around the unfortunate discovery of the “new” mummy and the demise of Lalia Solis Iglesia. She was sure Blussberg knew about the identification of the poor young woman. He should be on the hot seat for that one, but Cardenal had not made his move. The wheels of justice were creaky on this machine.

  “Aracelli at the tourist office has been helpful. With background and such. I’m wondering about the future plans for the exhibit. It’s going to Paris next? What’s involved in moving such priceless treasure?”

  A buzzer sounded on his desk. An intercom. Insistent and annoying.

  Blanche was ecstatic. Perfect. This just might work.

  She put on her most studious expression, pen poised. And she waited, the essence of patience, head tilted just so.

  Blussberg pressed a button. “Yes, what is it? What?”

  The voice boomed from the box on his desk: “Pick up the phone, please.”

  He grabbed the receiver and fifteen seconds later his face took on an unhealthy hue of exasperation. “Why can’t you handle it? Yes, yes. I’ll be right there.” He stood up, half turned toward an adjacent office, its door open a crack. He called out. “Señor López? I have to go down to the floor. Will you help Señorita Blanche with the details of the exhibit?” No answer. “Verdammt. He’s not here, but he
’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Will you excuse me for just a minute? Something is occurring on the exhibit floor, and they are calling me. I’ll be right back.”

  Blanche nodded pleasantly, barely suppressing a smile.

  Yes, it is working.

  u

  Haasi had to be talked into this one and fed amply—a couple of sugar buns from Alegría helped. But Blanche didn’t have to do that much talking. The thing that got to Haasi was the death of that young woman, sacrificed to the god of mummies. It wasn’t fair, and if Blanche had an idea about how to find out who did it, Haasi was game.

  Before the interview with Blussberg, they had walked all over the city looking for a pet shop, and they found one near the market where they’d had lunch. The window of the shop was full of fish in bowls and tanks, two puppies in a cage curled up into a ball, and one striped cat who slept in a sunbeam. The place looked well-run. A family with two little boys was discussing the cat—or so Haasi and Blanche guessed. One of them kept crying, “Sí, el gatito.” And the papi was smiling.

  “Where there is cat, there is mouse,” said Haasi, not cracking a smile.

  They browsed the shop and found what they were looking for. Mice. Half a dozen fat little mice. Haasi waffled, but Blanche said, “They’ll love living in the Palacio! Who wouldn’t want to live in a palace?”

  Haasi had looked skeptical. “Well, I’m going to buy a bag of mouse food. Just in case.”

  “You’re so humane, Haas. Or should I say, mouse-mane? I don’t know.”

  u

  Blanche watched Blussberg waddle out of his office. He was off to see “about the confusion on the exhibit floor.” Blanche figured she had a good ten minutes, fifteen, if she was lucky. She zipped around his desk and peeked into López’s office. Still out. She shut the door quietly. She poked at Blussberg’s desk, lifting this, shoving that, but the man was a neat freak. A near-empty paper tray, blotter, pen in a holder, phone, a legal pad. She opened a drawer, same thing, all the accoutrements of running a business from the desk—more pads, paper clips, pens. She opened the narrow middle drawer, recessed under the desktop. It was empty except for a neat calendar agenda, the squares filled in with precise printing in German and English.